I know I said this would be something I would do on the side and I didn't want to write anything for YOI until the series was over, but unless one of them dies next episode I fail to see how this could clash with canon, given how far in the future it's set. To be honest, the reason it's done so fast is because my drawing laptop decided one sketch was enough and decided to overheat. It better be working tomorrow since there's only ten days til Christmas and I have so much shit to do. It's been a long and stressful week so I'm just going to take it out on my beautiful OTP and just generally cheese off the rest of the fandom. Because I can. Also there's a side order of YuriBek, because I also can.
This is set about sixty years after the current events of YOI. I tried to be far less melodramatic than usual with my sad works, but I don't know if it worked. I really like tragedy but damn I get so melodramatic when I try to describe anything in detail.
Warning for overt references to dementia. Yeah, I'm really sorry about this...
...
He had so many memories woven into the very fabric of this place, every drop in the ocean and grain of sand on the shore serenely on the brink of exploding with times long gone that he simply couldn't focus on one for more than a moment. A lifetime of fleeting, blissful joys. The sun was setting here, like he'd seen so many times before, warm and welcoming as the breeze on his face, throwing bands and droplets of bright gold out across the ocean; on a hand hanging limply by his side, his engagement ring shone with them.
Fearful anticipation bubbled within him. He used to love wiling away the hours watching sunset after sunset with his husband, a habit spanning decades, but now the coming dusk only made him anxious, more so than he'd ever been.
Hatsetsu's ocean always looked beautiful, but in the winter it sparkled like an icy spell had been cast over it, like the water was liquid crystal tumbling and cascading in its race to the shore.
Sometimes he wanted to sail away and he didn't care where. Above or below the waterline, just away from this reality. Not that he'd ever really leave. He'd made a promise stay with Viktor forever and even if his husband couldn't keep his end of the deal that didn't mean Yuuri was going anywhere.
Yuuri Katsuki-Nikiforov had tried all this before, and more often than not it had worked. After all, if he was spoilt for memories here, even someone who had next to none left could recall something, right? Even when his voice and smile and kisses no longer did a thing to stir any recognition.
Then again, even the beautiful city of St Petersburg that he called his home and- other- true love was completely unfamiliar to Viktor Nikiforov-Katsuki now. They'd visited last year- at some reluctance on Viktor's part- and he had been fascinated by the place. Why hadn't they'd ever visited before? He'd refused to believe he was from there, and had become somewhat aggravated the more Yuuri insisted.
Well maybe if he hadn't spent so long hiding that he had a problem in the first place, he wouldn't be this ill.
The wind had picked up ever so slightly now, and Yuuri shivered. Even his larger form was too frail and old to keep out the chill nowadays, and the engagement ring was quickly hidden in a coat pocket. Why hadn't he thought to bring gloves? He'd made sure Viktor was wrapped up warm.
His other hand, he decided, would just have to brave the cold, firmly entwined with Viktor's. The other didn't protest for once, and Yuuri was determined to make the most of this time.
A gaggle of schoolchildren darted past, screeching and cheering as they paddled in the shallows before they were on their way once more, a large dog bounding ahead across the sand. Viktor shrank back at the sight. He hated leaving the house now, but Yuuri still made him; Viktor couldn't just stay cooped up fearing the outside world until he died.
That was what Viktor himself had taught him.
Viktor had truly saved him over the years; they'd saved each other, but now Yuuri wanted to well and truly repay him for everything he'd done. He knew Viktor would hate such a thought, insist there was no possible need for such a thing, but Viktor wasn't here so what could he do about it?
He'd not cut his hair since retiring, letting it tumble in a silver waterfall down his back, although it was incredibly thin on top. Viktor had remained beautiful even now, when he was well into his eighties, tall and- oh he was no longer graceful. He couldn't walk on solid ground, let alone the ice. Yuuri had tried, to jog memories and who knew? Maybe he'd remember how to move once on the ice? All he'd done was nearly break his husband's bones and made sure Viktor would become utterly terrified of going near an ice rink.
So he could remember that, it seemed.
He was still utterly beautiful though, even in living death.
There was nothing of the old Viktor left now, but close to twenty years of alzheimer's would do that to a person. Viktor could go days without speaking, except to cry out in his sleep. Yuuri knew he hadn't had a full night's rest in weeks: it kept him awake too, mostly with worry. Nowadays he was a toddler trapped in a corpse. Viktor was thinner than he'd ever been, even as a teen figure skater, to the point of being skeletal. He couldn't eat properly. He'd forgotten how to. His greying face was completely black around the eyes, and even though Yuuri was relieved at whatever sleep he could steal, he feared for the day Viktor would no longer wake up. It was going to happen soon, right?
In matters like this, he had gone to Yuri Plisetsky-Altin. His husband died over a decade ago- motorbike accident, Otabek would've refused to go any other way- and since then Yurio had filled the loneliness in the company of his cats, and their daughter and her children. He knew how to handle bereavement well. It had taken a while, but he'd learnt to cope.
Yuuri and Viktor had never become parents; there had never been any time, in the end. First there'd been Yuuri's figure skating career, then Makkachin had died [at a surprisingly old age for a dog] and Viktor had been distraught. He'd refused to consider adoption for a good while after that, fearing it would feel like a half-hearted attempt to replace his beloved pet. And from there on it was one thing after another. A family death, health issues, money problems, it never seemed to end. And then, by the time they were finally able to settle down with the adoption forms, then in their sixties, Viktor had struggled to even answer the most basic of questions and after three days Yuuri was more interested in making Viktor see a doctor than filling out paperwork.
It had gone downhill from there, the light in Viktor's eyes dimming like a far off sunset.
"Vitya," he tried, "isn't the view beautiful?"
Viktor didn't reply. He didn't even seem to have heard.
Yuuri used to find Viktor's forgetfulness endearing, if a little irritating, back in their youth. At times he'd assume his other half was simply being selective, and other times both would blame Viktor's numerous hangovers. Had it been a early warning sign? Could Yuuri have done something if he'd just paid attention?
"Come on," he sighed, "let's just go." When he- ever so gently- tugged on the other's hand, he was met with feeble resistance.
"No," came a thick, strangled reply. Viktor used to know several languages, including conversational Japanese; now all he could manage was the most basic of Russian, and even his native tongue was a great struggle.
Yuuri, on the other hand, still had some memory of the Russian he'd learnt as a boy in the hopes of one day meeting and speaking to his idol, and that was all Viktor seemed to understand anymore. "It's okay, Vitya. It's me. Yuuri. Your husband."
Viktor didn't seem convinced in the slightest, and tried to wrench his hand away, stumbling in the soft sand. Yuuri held on, for fear of what Viktor would try to do once free.
"Please," he rasped, "let go- I don't-" It was the most he'd said in a month now, Yuuri realised through his panic. He thought he'd know what to do by now, but his mind was a blank. After everything Viktor had done, he couldn't even help him through this?
When Viktor had started forgetting who Yuuri was, every anxiety, every negative thing he thought about himself had been given free reign of his mind. He was a mess. He couldn't look after Viktor and everyone knew it, but there was no way he was letting himself be convinced to give the man up, let someone else take care of him instead, even if that was the sensible choice. He was sticking with Viktor until the bitter end.
"Leave me alone!" Yuuri let go and Viktor fell back, back smacking against the concrete of the promenade before he crumpled into the sand.
"Viktor!" Yuuri dropped to his knees as fast as his creaking joints would allow. Viktor was curled up on his side, trembling and shivering and shaking with ugly tears as his wrinkled face creased with fright. Dull eyes shone for the first time in years, though this time wet with panic rather than love or joy or those other feelings he made his own. A purple kiss of a bruise had sprouted on his temple, barely hidden under clumps of soggy sand.
"Dear? Vitya? Oh please, I'm so sorry!" He tried to rest a hand on Viktor's, but the man tensed and shrank back, eyes still unseeing. His lips moved, but not a word came out. The wind picked up to a howl around them, and Yuuri didn't know what sort of injuries now lay hidden under his thick coat, but he wouldn't be able to examine them until Viktor was home and warm and safe. Or should they go to the hospital? What if Viktor had broken something?
Taking him out was a mistake.
Yuuri was swiftly running out of options here.
"Viktor," he begged, "please listen. Can you walk?"
Viktor glanced up, eyes brimming with humiliation and panic. Anger was there too, but Yuuri didn't know if it was aimed at himself or his forgotten husband.
"Go away," he muttered, "leave me alone."
"I am your husband and I am taking you home," Yuuri insisted, "come on. I know you don't know who I am, but you have to trust me, okay? You always did..." Was he crying now? Oh, this wasn't helping. Viktor was the one forgetting to walk. His mind was the tiny, empty room with no door. Yuuri was fine.
As Viktor stared back, blank and emotionless, he wondered why he was still crying. He'd had twenty years to get used to this, after all. How had he not accepted this was Viktor now? What was wrong with him?
"Please," he muttered, "let's just go home. There's nothing left for you here." There's nothing left of you here.