Sirens wail, bystanders chatter – all around, the inescapable rush of noise only grow louder and louder as crowds draw to the scene.
Despite all this, however, Yuuri hears nothing. The world is eerily silent except for the loud, constant thumping of his heart in his ears. His limb tingle with unburnt magic roaring through his veins, and it is a visible effort to keep his breathing calm and constant as he tries to hold in his lashing emotions.
His eyes blur, his throat chokes.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Yuuri wonders if this still would have happened if he hadn't talked Yuri into walking to the rink with him from Viktor's (and his) apartment.
He recalls squealing tires, an incoming car, and a blaring horn that stretched on far too long like the call of impending death. He recalls hearing Yuri shout, only to react too late, and be greeted with the sight of the Russian Punk thrown backwards through the air.
He'd flopped so limply on the ground, like an abandoned ragdoll, that Yuuri feels sick to the stomach. He never wants to witness it again. He can still hear Yuri's cry, torn involuntarily through pale, clammy lips. He can still smell the coppery scent of blood oozing from Yuri' bent leg. He can still see the pavement painted a stomach curling shade of red, growing larger and larger in size.
Static hums in the air.
"-tsudon. Katsudon!"
Yuuri jolts from the call. His magic pulses, but he furiously reins it in before it can do any harm, because they've relocated in a hospital – somehow – and this is an even worse place to let his magic run rampant; Yuuri has a track record for destructive accidental magic.
Yuuri takes in the surrounding, head still in a daze.
The journey in between had been a complete and utter blur. Currently, Yuri is situated on a bed, fingers clawed into Yuuri's hand for support (or perhaps something to break in aggravation) while a doctor is speaking incomprehensible Russian to them.
"I'm sorry, what was that?" Yuuri asks.
The doctor repeats his words. Yuuri's meager knowledge in the language finally makes out "unlikely chance of a full recovery to skate on a competitive level again," sees the insecurity and rage in Yuri's face, and that's all he needs to know.
It's injustice; Yuri stretches, Yuri rests, Yuri does lengthy warm ups and (occasionally) follows his coach's orders to refrain from Quads, all to keep on competing as long as possible – only for a freak accident to throw it all away. Yuri has only just stepped into the Senior Division, after dedicating his entire life to the sport; he's not prepared to retire so soon.
Yuri's hand is trembling in his own, the only sign of his weakness. Yuuri swallows and pulls the younger man into an unwilling hug.
"Do you trust me?" he says suddenly, gently.
It's wrong how quiet and timid the Russian Punk is, and the thought only strengthens his resolution. When Yuri nods into his shoulder, Yuuri silently slips out his wand from within his sleeves. He casts obliviate and confundo towards the doctor in quick succession. Two seconds later, the doctor is gone, believing he'd just given his patient a diagnosis of a minor sprain.
Yuri is staring suspiciously when Yuuri pockets his wand. He's wary but not fearful, because this is Katsudon, the man who always suffers his abuse wordlessly, and is too nice for his own good. Plus, Yuri promised to trust him, and his Grandfather taught him better than to go back on his word.
"Well then," Yuuri says softly, smile on his lips at the sight of the teen's unflinching form. He holds out his hand. "Let's go."
"Go where?" Yuri demands.
"Somewhere that will let you keep competing," he says, and then with a resounding crack, the two disappear from the room.
.
.
.
Yuuri lets out a long-suffering sigh. "Listen to the Healer and drink the potion, Yura."
"The fuck I will," Yuri refuses, holding the vial an arm's length away, nose scrunched in disgust.
"You said you trusted me?"
The teen glares at both the potion and man alike. "That was before I knew you were trying to poison me."
"It's not poison, I promise."
"Sure smells like it," Yuri utters skeptically. He gives the flask another sniff, visibly gagging once more. "The hell's in this shit?"
Yuuri shifts nervously, twisting his fingers. "Well…" he says hesitantly, "If you really want to know, I think, flobberworm mucus, chomping cabbages, and scarab beetles, are a few of the ingredients."
Yuri spits out the tentatively mouthful he took. "What?" he snarls, scrubbing his tongue.
"Uh, it's best if you don't think about it," Yuuri offers (un)helpfully. Yuri glares. "Don't you want to keep skating?" the wizard tries at last. The words leave a bad taste in Yuuri's mouth because it feels like he's exploiting Yuri's fears, but thankfully the persuasion works in the end.
With a growl, Yuri pinches his nose and throws his head back. "There, happy?" Yuri snaps, pressing a hand to his mouth to hold back from retching.
"Great," Yuuri says with a smile, then turns to retrieve several more vials from the nearby Healer. "Only two more to go."
"I hate you. This is the last time I trust you," Yuri hisses, face green. (They both know that's a lie – especially when Yuri is deemed fit to continue skating competitively again, with no lasting damage, just a little over a month later.)
A/N: And that's that. This one got a little longer than I anticipated since I was planning for drabble length of around 500 words, haha.
(Yuuri to Oblivators: He keeps his memories. Yura is my son! Fight me.)