Victor was vaguely aware that Yakov was shouting at him. He probably should have been paying attention. He hadn't performed very well tonight, after all. The scolding was to be expected.
Every time he blinked, the glare of the spotlights waited for him behind the darkness of his eyelids, casting his shadow long, proud, and magnificent over Iceberg Skating Palace's rink. He felt the harsh impact of the ice, heard the crowd's cheers turn to gasps. He'd never fallen during a Triple Axel in competition. He was better than this.
Why wasn't he better than this?
"Oi, he gets it already. Lay off." That voice snapped Victor back to himself, blinking blearily at the black hood that had moved to block the lower peripheral of his vision. Yuri arguing with Yakov was nothing new. But Yuri getting protective? Just how bad did Victor look right now that Yuri couldn't even be bothered to put up a pretense of not caring?
Yakov was quick to round on his new target, rant switching trajectories with a practiced ease that only came from years of coaching. Even as out of it as he felt, Victor caught the moments where he should have been interjecting. He knew the critique Yuri needed to improve his step sequence, could see Yuri's movements drowning out his own (too rushed, not enough feeling, where is the grace in your Ina Bauer, Yuri?). And then Victor was hitting the ice again and who was he to give advice to anyone, now of all times?
"I won gold, didn't I? Are you ever going to be happy with anything I do?"
"You're moving up to the senior division next year, Yuri. If you keep up this attitude, this will be the last gold you win."
"Are you trying to say I'm not good enough?"
"The other skaters will have more experience. If you don't care to improve yourself beyond this, then, no, you won't be."
Even so, he could say something, stop the argument before it became too much. They were making a scene and everyone was watching them now so Victor should cut in. He knew he should laugh, light and airy and just convincing enough, and chide Yakov for being too harsh after a win. Yuri would light up at his praise even as he bristled from his affections, secretly glad to have Victor as an ally. Yakov would be angry, but not so much as he would pretend. Yakov would be proud of Yuri underneath everything; he would want Victor to intervene. Yuri would expect him to. He should.
"Bathroom," was the only word that came out of his mouth. He didn't even wait to see if Yuri and Yakov had heard him, kind of hoped that they hadn't (selfish).
He kept his head down the entire way to the bathroom, almost afraid of seeing someone he recognized before he had a chance to steady himself - to put his smile back in place so that he could face the people who expected him to break without worrying about where the cracks were. It was no surprise, then, that he didn't notice the bathroom door opening until someone bumped into his shoulder (the audience was so loud in the rink and where had the music gone) and a nervous male voice was mumbling "sorry" as the owner moved past him. Victor's eyes widened and his head snapped around, wanting verification for what his heart, thundering his chest now, had already assumed. It would be so easy to dismiss the unassuming Japanese man with the hunched posture as someone else, but Victor had had posters of that profile hanging on his wall when he was sixteen.
"Yuuri," he called out before he could think better of it. Yuuri Katsuki stopped abruptly before turning to regard Victor over his shoulder. The world around them seemed to fade, like someone had turned the volume down, and Victor couldn't help hyper focusing on the small details. Yuuri's eyes behind his glasses, just a little too wide and glassy. The raw skin at the corner of his lip like it had been bitten. The blotchy, red hue of his cheeks. Has he been crying?
"Um, do you need something?" Yuuri asked, no recognition in his face, and the world around them was full of motion and noise once again. Victor had just stopped a skating legend in the hallway and to say what exactly?
"Oh, a photo!" It was the only thing he could think of, but he seized on the idea, patting his jacket pockets in search of his cellphone. Victor realized with dismay that he had left his phone with Yakov, but maybe someone was nearby, Mila or Georgi, who could send it to him later if he only -
"Sorry," Yuuri said again and then he was walking away.
Victor watched his retreating back and tried very, very hard to feel nothing at all.
He was still standing there when Yuri found him, clearly still fuming from his argument with Yakov. "Are you an idiot?" he asked, snatching up Victor's sleeve in a tight fist, as if Victor might disappear again given the chance.
"Yes," Victor said and smiled because he must have been. He'd forgotten that Yuuri Katsuki never took photos with fans. How stupid.
Yuri helped Victor bypass the reporters, not even acknowledging their attempts to get their attention. Yakov was waiting for them at the door and Victor expected another lecture because public relations were important too, but he just took his place at Victor's side in silence, another buffer between Victor and the world. That was almost worse and Victor bit harshly at the inside of his cheek to keep himself from thinking about it too much.
The car ride was a blur and Victor spent most of it crowded against the passenger window, pretending to sleep. When Yakov shook his shoulder and Victor realized that the car was idling outside of his apartment building, he was so relieved that he could have kissed the man.
"Vitya," Yakov said and then nothing else. Yakov wasn't a man who was at a loss for words often and Victor knew that whatever was coming wouldn't be something he'd want to hear. Not now.
"See you at practice tomorrow," Victor said - bright, cheerful and already clambering out of the car.
Yakov sighed, but seemed to come a decision. At least he kept his peace for the time being. "Don't be late." He drove off and left Victor standing in the snow, alone for the first time in what felt like too long.
Well. That was that, then.
Victor made his way to his apartment quietly, mindful of the late hour, but when he slid the key into the lock and heard Makkachin's muffled bark from behind the door, he could only smile.
"Ma-kka-chin. Did you miss me?" His only answer was an armful of excited poodle, nearly bowling him over in the doorway. He laughed and it was real. It felt good. "Thank you for looking after the place, as always." Tomorrow, he'd buy his neighbour a bottle of wine for taking care of the feeding and walking while he was away.
He kicked off his boots and left them where they fell, enjoying a bit of spiteful pleasure when one smacked against the wall. Who was going to care if Victor Nikiforov didn't keep his apartment immaculate? No one.
He sighed gratefully as he sank to the floor, back resting against the seat of the couch. Makkachin immediately moved to assume his usual cuddling position, receiving generous ear skritches for his trouble. "I've had the worst day Makkachin. I can't believe I came in sixth. Michele scored higher than I did." Makkachin panted in sympathy and Victor scratched more vigorously. "I know, right? Unbelievable."
"And then, I met Yuuri Katsuki. We weren't in any of the same events so this was my first time really skating against him, I was so nervous! But I didn't even see him until after the competition and you know what I did, Makkachin? I asked him to take a selfie. A selfie." Victor punctuated the reveal by burying his face in Makkachin's fur and wailing dramatically. "It's so embarrassing, Makkachin, I feel like I'm going to die."
He closed his eyes and instead of spotlights all he saw was the black and blue of Yuuri Katsuki's jacket, getting further away from him. "He probably didn't even realize I was a skater," Victor said and that should have been a relief because certainly tonight hadn't been a performance that he wanted to be remembered for. His breath hitched alarmingly and no, no, no, Victor was not going to sit on the floor and weep like a child. Except that it seemed that he didn't have any say in the matter because his eyes were prickling and his fists clenched, apparently squeezing Makkachin too much because the dog wiggled in discomfort. Victor let him go, drawing his knees to his chest and hugging those instead.
I worked so hard. He hadn't cried in so long. Maybe it was okay, just for tonight.
He didn't move for a long time.
