Viktor was not really afraid of dying, even as old age and disease clawed at him furiously.
Death was natural; it was inevitable. This he knew ever since he had been but a child, watching his grandparents disappear one by one, then his parents. He had not been confused then; he had understood what was happening. There was horror, and grief, but there had been understanding too, even then. Yet, oh how far death had seemed back then!
As often recently, it struck him again how short his life had been, yet how much he'd achieved in those few dozens of years: it was not just his legacy in the skating world – he had been loved, and he had loved. He had at least cherished life, and tried to live it to its fullest. He had no regrets.
Death was threatening, of course. Death was this huge void opening before him, seemingly endless. But death was also a welcomed invitation, a gentle hand that would lead him to all the ones he'd lost over the years. He would join his parents and grandparents, long gone. He would join Yakov. He would join Makkachin.
He would join Yuuri, his beloved Yuuri, the Yuuri who had left him desperate and terribly, terribly alone.
It was good he would be with Yuuri. He had never truly believed in God, or Paradise, though he had been raised in an Orthodox family, but at least for now he could comfort his conscience with that beautiful dream. Perhaps if he thought and believed it hard enough, he would die truly in peace, with a small smile on his face. That would be nice for Yuri and Otabek, he thought. It would be great for the people that remain alive, to see he did not die suffering too much. It would also be nice for himself. He wanted his last thought, his last 'sight' to be Yuuri, his Yuuri, his love, his dead husband. It was a good end, he decided. He had had a good life, as good a life as he had ever wished for. No matter what his mind could tell him, he had enjoyed and cherished over fifty years with the one he'd loved – the one he loves. Death had separated them once. Death would unite them now.
But though he was not afraid of dying, Viktor still fought to live. Partly because he still felt a responsibility towards the living and the present – there were people who needed him by their sides. Partly because of his own instincts to survive and wake up the following day. There was curiosity too: he was too interested in the future to relinquish his right to see it that easily. But most importantly, he wanted to hold on to Yuuri as long as possible – the Yuuri he saw every time he closed his eyes; the Yuuri that appeared to him every time he dreamed. The Yuuri of memories, the Yuuri of photographs, the Yuuri that lived in the anecdotes that would be told and retold, the Yuuri in his heart. It was selfish, and almost delusional. He'd been asked to move on, to stop living in the past. But there was no life without Yuuri for him; there hadn't been one since he was
twenty-seven. So people could call him a nostalgic fool, or an overly attached geezer. He did not give a shit.
Yuri and Otabek visited him often, and lit up his little house for a few precious hours. They would talk about little nothings that added up to everything, they would gossip about Evgeniya, the little girl they had adopted, and who had grown up and become independent already. Sometimes, they would spend time reminiscing past events, confess a few truths never told, cry together for the ones they'd lost. It was good to have them.
Mostly, though, Viktor lived alone, with nothing much to do. He had been very active in coaching until a year ago, his focus on his students' success and his passion for skating having helped him surpass Yuuri's death. But as his body's conditions deteriorated, he had to stop. He had turned to writing for a while, mainly on past memories, and the stories of his youth with Yuuri, their love. It had been published, and gained much success in the skating milieu as well as LGBT communities, but success hadn't been his aim. Originally it had been a secret, self-centred project to express his longing and grief, but after he'd let Yuri and Evgeniya read it, he decided to publicise it. The money was not really needed: Yuuri and his fame had enriched them more than they could possibly need, but it felt necessary to lay out his thoughts and feelings bare to the world, like final words. The final words about him in this world would be his book, and a few obituaries online once he'd die.
That was enough, he told himself.
He slowly closed his eyes, and started dreaming again.