"Yuuri," Viktor calls from the kitchen. Yuuri mumbles a distracted response as he focuses on his fifteenth attempt at writing his resolution. He stares at a blank sheet of plain gold cardstock traditionally used by his family on New Year's. As usual, he isn't in Hasetsu to celebrate with them, but he likes to travel with whatever pieces of home he can carry.
"Yuuri," Viktor calls again. His voice comes from behind Yuuri's shoulder, accompanied by a pair of arms circling his waist. "Everyone's here."
Yuuri scrutinizes his handiwork, unsatisfied by the inconsistent angles and the sloppy way his letters trespass the guidelines he'd carefully drawn in light pencil. He's about to crumple it up and toss it at the pile of paper balls growing in the trash can, but a hand closes around his wrist.
"What's wrong with it?" Viktor asks, tilting his head and attempting to decode the mysterious arrangement of brush strokes. Japanese is a difficult language, especially in its written forms, and Viktor doesn't feel as pressured to learn it since Yuuri's moved to St. Petersburg.
Yuuri frowns.
"It looks fine to me," Viktor says. In broken Japanese, he reads, "Com... comp?" He glances at Yuuri, who doesn't seem to be in the mood to indulge him. "Come on. They're waiting," Viktor says instead.
Yuuri nods, raising a finger and reaching for another sheet of paper with his other hand.
Viktor reaches over to peck Yuuri, who leans into the kiss and mumbles something unintelligible, already lost in his writing. Viktor smiles against Yuuri's cheek, a little tired but mostly fond.
Compromise, Yuuri writes. His work tends to be better when Viktor's around. This one is no exception.
He's always liked posting things on his walls. In the past, he'd plastered countless photos of Viktor skating, posing for magazines, paparazzi shots catching him beautifully unawares. Yuuri's wish had come true against all odds, and as he pins his resolution to the wall he hopes it'll come true once more. To listen more, notice more, appreciate more. Outside, another firework lights up the night sky, catching the gold ring adorning Viktor's finger. They enter the dining room hand in hand and are greeted by a bark from a shaking Makkachin.
"I love you," Viktor whispers into Yuuri's ear before he drops to calm Makkachin. "And I love you," he chirps adoringly in baby-talk.
Yurio grumbles something vaguely celebratory into his pirozhki, Otabek exists quietly next to him, Georgi is stalking his ex on Instagram and loudly resolving to win her back with his next (terrifying) seductive performance, Mila has a finger on her lips and a thumb scrolling appreciatively through the gallery of the ex's handsome and non-terrifying boyfriend, Yakov is drunk and growling angry Russian consolingly into Georgi's ear like he's making a declaration of war. Yuuri understands enough to know that Yakov is simultaneously deriding and pining love and the institution of marriage. There is no utility in love except for human reproduction, which requires only one's sex organs. The only benefit to marriage is filing joint taxes. It's not worth it. Everything ends. You're bound to get hurt, he says.
Yuuri disagrees. Quietly, of course, because no sane person would dare challenge Yakov on vodka. He disagrees because his fiancé—fiancé—is making wild gesticulations with his hands and nudging Yuuri excitedly as he shovels katsudon into his mouth like it's been years since he's eaten. There's a piece of rice stuck on Viktor's cheek that goes unremarked because Yuuri is too busy admiring his fiancé's face. He disagrees because he spies Makkachin's head on Viktor's lap, comforted by the presence of her owner. He disagrees because Viktor meets his eye, reaches for his hand under the table, and smiles with that piece of rice still stuck to his cheek.
But I haven't won anything, Yuuri had said to his mother over the phone when he'd received her care package.
Vicchan, had been her simple reply.
He sits beside his fiancé (he doesn't think he'll ever get used to that), momentarily stunned that this is his life, that this is their life. The clock strikes midnight and when their lips meet, Yuuri can't deny that he is pleased by the way Yurio splutters and drowns out Yakov's pessimism with a torrent of curses in Russian, Japanese, English, and finally gibberish. The following silence is a little concerning, and Yuuri cracks an eye open to see Otabek politely shoving more pirozhki into Yurio's foul mouth and Georgi sobbing something about the beauty of gay eros into Mila's shoulder as Yakov downs more vodka with a fuzzy scowl.
"Happy New Year. What's your resolution?" Viktor murmurs against Yuuri's lips.
Yuuri smiles and raises a hand to wipe Viktor's cheek, revelling in what Viktor says are the results of a rigorous skincare regimen but what Yuuri believes are simply the results of Viktor being Viktor. He leans back in for another kiss over the sounds of fireworks and champagne popping. He's here in St. Petersburg. He's here with Viktor and their family. And that's a start, he thinks. He won't ask Viktor for any more sacrifices.
Viktor hates Minako.
He could be petty and blame his hatred on her enviously close relationship with the love of his life, but that's a little too petty—even for him. For one thing, it's painfully obvious that Yuuri is about as interested in the opposite sex as he is in dissecting stool samples. For another, it's clear that Minako's relationship with Yuuri is purely familial, platonic, whatever. She is to Yuuri what Yakov is to Viktor. That is, an unrelenting disciplinarian ready to analyze the angle and height and speed of every spin until it's perfect. A teacher who has a thousand critiques for every compliment. A mentor who's become something like a parent over the years.
No, Viktor hates Minako for reasons far more sinister. He doesn't even hate her personally. She's a lovely person—both physically and morally. But she's a chronically single performer-turned-alcoholic who'd once been at the top of her game, whose only current claim to her sport—her life—is a small, aging studio in the middle of nowhere sparsely populated by whiny, reluctant brats who'd been forced there by their helicopter parents. He hates her because she represents Viktor's imminent future, and she knows it. He knows she knows it by the way she gives him a wry smile coupled with pitying eyes.
Viktor isn't used to that. Envy, adoration, lust, awe, appreciation, scorn, yes. Even hatred. But pity is unfamiliar and unwelcome and makes him feel insignificant and worthless. Pity makes him want to get on the ice and prove her wrong—prove his youth, vigor, skill, and most importantly, his relevance. But she's right. He can't surprise people anymore. There's a chronic pain in his lower back and every jump echoes in his knees. He'd known, of course, that this was coming. Maybe he'd been too arrogant to accept it, as if every medal he'd won were a lucky charm warding away the inevitable.
Viktor Nikiforov is 28 years old and a growing minority would argue that he has passed his expiration date as a competitive figure skater. He doesn't know what else he's supposed to be. A coach? He has no patience for it. His only talent as a coach is attracting controversy and paparazzi and barking instructions at a student who doesn't need them as much as he needs a therapist. A lover? What good is a lover who isn't wanted? God knows Viktor has tried everything but camp out in Yuuri's bedroom with a ribbon tied around his dick.
Yuuri's cryptic response is that Viktor should be himself. Viktor isn't sure what that means, but feels relieved nonetheless. Something huge and heavy falls from his shoulders. That sad little future he'd seen in Minako's pitying eyes seems less certain now.
"Yes, yes, that's perfect!" Viktor says into the phone. The rest of his conversation devolves into a string of rapid Russian that Yuuri has no hope of understanding.
It's the tailor meeting Viktor's latest demand, and Yuuri sinks further into the couch clutching his stomach. He doesn't feel well. He feels worse when he hears Yakov grumble something aggressive in Russian. Their eyes meet, and Yakov appraises him like the components of his relationship with Viktor can be quantified. Zero points for reproductive capacity. Zero points for communication—neither party speaks native language. Final score: 0.
"I don't oppose marriage," Yakov mutters in accented English for Yuuri's sake, "but it's for people who lack skills. Any talented person ought to cultivate his talents alone rather than squander them on an antiquated institution derived from religious practices." Viktor simply rolls his eyes and migrates around the house as he usually does when he's on the phone.
"But, um, shouldn't it be the other way around?" Yuuri asks timidly. "You know, to keep the talent alive?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Yakov replies. "Talent is born not of talent, but of discipline and practice."
Yurio groans loudly, clenching his eyes shut and plugging his ears with his fingers. Yuuri blushes and shuts up. Playing philosophy with a Russian is too hard, he decides. Besides, his head is spinning with too many conflicting thoughts for him to make any intelligent contribution to the discussion.
I'm hungry. No you're not. You're just stressed out, fatty. I wonder if Viktor's noticed. Why would he? You're so self-centered. He has his own problems to worry about. Like what? Like the fact that he's about to marry you. Why is that a problem? What have you done to deserve him? He flew all the way to Japan to be your coach and you haven't won a single gold medal. You're pathetic. Listen to Yakov. You're making Viktor waste his talent. But he loves me. He said so. Are you sure?
Are you sure?
Are you sure?
"We're leaving, Yakov," Yurio snaps. "I can't stand this bullshit anymore."
They gather their coats and Yuuri follows them out. "Goodnight," he mumbles in whatever language before shutting the door and resting his sweaty forehead against it. He doesn't feel well.
Are you sure?
Yuuri blindly makes his way to Viktor's—their—bedroom, each step feeling heavier and heavier. "Viktor," his throat manages to croak. It doesn't feel like his voice belongs to his body.
Viktor raises his head from the drawers he'd been rummaging through. "Yuuri!" He beams.
"There's still time," Yuuri says, willing away the tremors in his voice and the blurry haze in his eyes. "There's still time."
"Time for what?" Viktor asks almost flippantly. His silver fringe drapes attractively over one eye as he tilts his head to examine the mess before him. The visible eye roves over Yuuri's body, deliberately ignoring the taut lines and trembling fists. "Do you need another fitting? You have been looking a little fluffier lately—don't think I haven't noticed the way you've been layering—but it's okay. I still love you." He says it so casually, as if it means nothing to him, like the universe hasn't erred in some way for Viktor Nikiforov to say such a thing to this insignificant, dime a dozen, worthless skater from the small, dinky town of Hasetsu on the brink of financial ruin. "I think you're right," Viktor continues, rising effortlessly to his feet and pulling his phone out of his pocket. "There's still time. I'll call the tailor and—"
"—There's time to call it off, I mean."
There's a terrible silence and the graceful curve of Viktor's back stiffens into a line sharp, rigid, painful. "There's time, Viktor. You don't—" Yuuri chokes on his own words and swallows back something sour. "You don't have to do this if you don't want to."
"And what if I want to?" Viktor asks with a smile, mostly tired, a little fond. The hint of an old challenge rises in his voice.
"I—"
"—Why can't you believe me?" It's not a question as much as it is a simple fact. In a small voice, Viktor adds, "You still haven't unpacked your bag and it's been almost six months since you moved here."
Yuuri chances a guilty look at the lone suitcase loitering near the door, the closets that Viktor had cheerfully and overzealously emptied for him. He's been wearing Viktor's clothes since he hadn't come prepared for winter in Russia and hadn't thought that Viktor actually minded. But of course. He realizes now that Viktor probably hates that Yuuri is stretching out his expensive clothes with unpronounceable designer names.
"Because you're..." Yuuri gestures helplessly at the distance between them.
"I'm what, Yuuri?" Viktor sighs. And just like that, the challenge falls. The smile is gone. He sounds resigned, exhausted even. For the first time, he actually looks his age.
Yuuri swallows, knowing that his next words won't surprise Viktor, but feeling obligated to say them anyway since it seems Viktor is the only one who can forget them. "You're Viktor Nikiforov, five-time World Champion, five-time Grand Prix gold medalist..." He's interrupted by the sound of something dropping and opens his eyes in surprise.
Viktor is sitting on the bed with his head in his hands, something gleaming wetly through the gaps between his fingers. But his voice is surprisingly lucid when he says, "Yes, Yuuri, that's my curriculum vitae," he says, laughing humorlessly, thinking of how he'd always been too busy to go to college. "Thank you for reminding me."
Yuuri doesn't get the joke. He flinches.
Viktor raises his head, looking up at the ceiling and blinking rapidly before meeting Yuuri's eyes. "But what does that have to do with us?" he wonders aloud. His eyes close for a moment, too late to catch his tears.
Yuuri watches them fall with clinical fascination. Suddenly, he remembers how fragile Viktor is. It's such an easy thing to forget: that for all his charm and charisma, Viktor is capable of tears.
"What did you mean when you told me to be myself? Is that it? To be a figure skater. Is that what you meant?"
Yuuri doesn't answer. He doesn't know how. He recalls the moment: the two of them sitting at the beach with Makkachin between them and gulls overhead. He'd been flustered by Viktor's question—do you want me to be your boyfriend—and hadn't known how to respond. Yes, he'd wanted to reply, but that particular fantasy had seemed too perfect, too far-fetched. Love made for the screen. In truth, he'd always known deep down that this—whatever this was—was too good to be true. Be yourself, he'd said. Don't force yourself to be something for me. Don't be burdened by me. Don't let me hold you back. Live your life freely, he thinks. It sounds good. Noble, even.
Whatever he'd meant, it's too late. The window closes. Viktor's spine bends under some invisible weight as his lips curve upwards in a familiar magazine smile that seems so plastic compared to the ones he'd saved for Yuuri. "Okay," he says.
Fight or flight. He's always been a coward and this fight is over.
Yuuri flees. The writing on the wall—compromise—laughs at him behind his back as he gathers his things. Another failed resolution. But this one had been doomed from the beginning. A compromise is meeting halfway. Their relationship had always consisted of Yuuri overreaching and Viktor indulging.
There isn't much to pack. His entire life fits into one suitcase.
One look back: Viktor's apartment is just the way it was, as if Yuuri had never happened.
A disgruntled Yurio opens the door and leads him to a guest bedroom covered in cat hair without a word but with unprecedented concern hidden behind a scowl. On any other day, Yuuri might have blushed and attempted to extract more friendship out of Yurio. But today he just nods vacantly in Yurio's direction, shuts the door, and turns his phone off. There aren't any missed calls or messages anyway. He hears the distant sounds of Yurio yelling angrily at someone or something trickling through the walls, but he's too tired to care.
If there's one thing he's accomplished in St. Petersburg, it's that he's managed to come back to his senses.
The next morning, he's on a plane back home to Hasetsu.
Author's notes: thanks to my beta, WesDunne. If you liked this, keep an eye out for part two.