Written for a friend's prompt on my sneezehq tumblr. I set this at Skate Canada, during the series. Content warning for vomit. I hope you like it!
Yuri arrives in Canada determined to win at all costs. He's trained until he can barely move for months. He's going to win this, get the first gold of his senior debut, then move on to Russia and kick that katsudon back to Japan.
Winning this competition might be a little more difficult than he had originally planned, however. His first obstacle comes in the form of JJ Leroy, a Canadian skater whose ego might actually be larger than Georgi's (Yuri didn't think that was possible). They get off on the wrong foot early on.
Yuri had been making his way over to the ice to practice the day before the competition, when he was nearly flattened by JJ and his entourage. "Look out, pipsqueak, royalty is coming through!"
"Don't call me pipsqueak!" Yuri had growled at his retreating back, along with a litany of curses. He'd made a vow to beat that jerk, but after watching JJ practice, he knew that this was going to be challenging. JJ has four quads in his program, twice as many as Yuri, and he can do them well. Yuri's going to have to skate his heart out in order to win this.
The other obstacle to Yuri performing flawlessly is that he's pretty sure that he's getting sick. He's felt exhausted and out of it since he got off the plane, and yesterday after his practice he felt so dizzy and nauseous that he almost passed out on the ice. He'd hurried to the locker room afterwards and had ended up falling asleep on a bench until Yakov came to find him take him back to the hotel. Yakov had been worried, but Yuri had just waved it off as jet lag.
Fortunately, Yuri feels slightly better the morning of the short program. He's one of the first ones to go, and he forces himself to focus only on agape. He imagines his grandfather, watching him at home in Russia, cheering him on. His skate goes much better than the last time, and he scores a new personal best with a score of 106.73. Relieved and exhausted, Yuri spends the rest of the day napping on a bench in the locker room and trying to fight off the ever-increasing nausea.
It's still not enough. By the end of the day, JJ is in first place with a personal best of 110.95, putting Yuri in second. He's really going to have to nail the free skate if he wants to win this.
It's Lilia's shouting that wakes him the next morning, instead of his alarm. Yuri dazedly realizes that he must have forgotten to set it last night and overslept. He forces himself to sit up and get out of bed, and has to pause for a moment to breathe and pray that he won't puke all over the hotel room floor. The nausea has increased tenfold from the day before, he feels dizzy and shaky, and his limbs are heavy with fatigue. He's clearly unwell, but he forces himself to get ready for the day and eat a small breakfast. The last thing he wants to do is pass out from low blood sugar.
The day drags out endlessly. Every second feels like an eternity to Yuri: he's feeling more nauseous by the minute, he's shivering and sweating, and the room seems to swirl around him. He dozes fitfully backstage. By the time warmups roll around, Yuri is swallowing convulsively. He somehow makes it through the warmup without puking or tripping over his own feet.
Yakov and Lilia seem worried, but Yuri tunes them out as he goes to change into his costume. They're making his headache even worse.
As soon as he puts on his costume for Allegro Apassionado, Yuri realizes that the tight fabric is going to be a problem. The material puts more pressure on his already aching stomach, and there's no way to relieve it. Yuri forces himself to take deep breaths, determined not to throw up. He's not about to lose because of a little stomach bug.
It seems like no time passes at all before it's his turn, and Yuri belatedly realizes that he was sleeping again. He gets in his starting pose, blocking out the noise from the crowd, and focuses only on getting through this.
Yuri puts every bit of energy and determination he has into his routine. Each jump is higher than the one before, and each turn and step sequence is executed to perfection. He finishes his final spin and forces himself to hold the ending pose and not collapse from exhaustion.
As soon as he's done the required amount of time, Yuri collapses to his knees and pants and gasps for air. When the gasps turn into retches, Yuri panics. It turns out that pushing himself like that when he was already sick, plus the tight costume, were too much for his already uneasy stomach. He's going to throw up. In the middle of the rink. In front of everyone.
Horrified, Yuri tries to swallow back the hot liquid making its way up his throat, but it's too late. His stomach gives one last lurch, and he's doubling over, gagging.
He spews all over the ice in front of him, and he feels his knees getting soaked with vomit. There's no time to think or get to privacy before he's retching again, bringing up a thin stream of bile. When he hears someone making their way out onto the ice, Yuri is still dry-heaving, his throat scraped raw from throwing up.
Someone tugs at his arm and helps him to his feet; Yuri doesn't dare open his eyes, knowing that if he does he'll just puke again, and instead focuses on breathing through the intense pain in his stomach. Whoever it is guides him to the exit, where Yakov and Lilia are waiting. They immediately take over and get Yuri over to a bench.
"I hope you feel better!" calls a way too cheerful voice, belonging to none other than Emil Nikola. That must be who just helped him. Yuri would try to thank him, but opening his mouth is not an option right now.
"You really outdid yourself today," scolds Yakov as he unlaces Yuri's skates. "But I'll wait until you're feeling better to lecture you. Let's get you back to the hotel to rest." Yuri mumbles his assent, looking forward to sleeping for a week before he even considers doing anything else.
Skate Canada is over. He may have lost this round, but JJ will get what's coming to him in Russia. He's not about to lose on his home turf!
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