A/N: the soulmark shows your soulmate's first thoughts about love

Viktor Nikiforov

When he was a child, Viktor had loved his soulmark. He hadn't understood it then, so he was free to interpret whatever meaning from the lines and loops of the kanji he wanted. He always assumed his soulmate would have the same all-encompassing ideas about love that he did, about how it would complete you, fulfill you, transform you into a new and better person. Even in his darkest moments, when he thought about his parents' bitter divorce and doubt crept into his idealistic view of love, he had his untranslated soulmark to convince him no, it wouldn't be like that with them. With them, it would be perfect.

When he went to his first international skating competition he knew there would be skaters there from Japan, but he was in no rush to have his soulmark translated. He told himself it was to keep the mark a special, private thing, just between him and his love, but deep down he was scared. Scared his soulmate wouldn't be who he thought, and when he saw the look on the face of a Japanese skater who accidentally saw it in the locker room, he knew he was right. Still, he vehemently tried to deny what he already knew. Maybe the look had just been shock to see a soulmark in Japanese on a person so obviously not Japanese. Maybe the skater hadn't been thinking about Viktor's mark at all, maybe he was just sick with worry about the competition. Maybe it was any number of other things. Ultimately though, Viktor couldn't mistake what he'd seen. There was no mistaking pity. And since it couldn't be about Viktor's skating performance (he had done amazing, as usual), there was only one reason the man could be pitying him.

So Viktor put the idea of a perfect relationship of soulmates out of his mind and threw himself into skating. At least that was something he could live out his dream in.

Eventually, he did get it translated. It turned out it said, simply, not happening, which Viktor convinced himself was suitably vague for misinterpretation. By that time he was already world famous, and he told himself no matter what he'd be able to convince his soulmate that their love was, in fact, happening.

Otabek Altin

By the time Otabek found out what exactly his soulmark said, his parents had already convinced him not to put much stock in the idea of soulmates. "Ah, they're only an ideal," his mother would say, "you can be happy without yours." His father would always add, "Yes, we were lucky, not everyone even finds theirs, and there's no guarantee you'd get along." Otabek knew they didn't believe it and were only saying it because of what his soulmark said, whatever it was. When his mother had first read it, she had refused to tell him what it said, saying, with an expression carefully controlled to hide her shock, "I don't think your soulmate believes in true love, Beka." So it's not good, he thought, but he wasn't that bothered by it until he heard his parents talking together one night in the tone they always used when they didn't want him to hear them.

"I can't believe someone would say something that terrible about love," his father said.

"Honestly, I hope Beka never finds her," his mother said, "she'd be bad for him, and I'm sure he'd end up heartbroken."

For some reason, what his parents said made him even more determined to be with his soulmate. So she'd be bad for him? Well, he could be bad too. And he'd end up heartbroken? He hardened his heart and told himself it'd never happen. But for all his determination (or, if he was honest, stubbornness), he couldn't shake off what his father had said. The words repeated themselves over and over in his head, something that terrible. He started to question why his parents would never tell him what his soulmark said. What could be that terrible they couldn't even say it out loud?

He was in middle school when he finally figured it out. F*** off, he heard someone say, and he recognized the word he'd spent ages tracing out over its place on his skin. He didn't know quite what it meant, then, but he'd heard the anger in that voice and knew, finally, that his soulmate was swearing at him. F*** that, it read, but to Otabek, it might as well have said, f*** you, f*** our love, I don't want a future together, so he did as his parents advised and forgot about ever having a relationship with his soulmate.

He didn't think about it again until the next year, when he went to Russia for the famous Coach Yakov's ice skating summer camp. He should have assumed that with the training and close contact, someone would have seen his soulmark, but he thought that if anyone did, they would have the usual response, silent shock and pity. What he didn't expect was the reaction he got from the blond boy with soldier eyes.

"Hahaha," the boy (Yuri, his name was Yuri) laughed. "I don't know who this chick is, but I like her already. She couldn't be more right! Love is stupid, soulmates are stupid, why anyone would waste their time with that kind of thing I'll never know."

From that day on Otabek had a quiet thought, and when he saw Yuri again at the Grand Prix Final five years later it was still there in his mind. If it was him, he thought, my soulmark wouldn't be so bad.

Yuuri Katsuki

Yuuri's parents had only ever seen half of his soulmark. That was why they believed he and his soulmate would have a happy relationship, like the one they had. But to Yuuri, the part they saw made him as depressed as the part they didn't.

Everything… or nothing.

It was obvious why he didn't like the nothing part. Nothing was the opposite of what you wanted your soulmate to think of love, of you, of what you could be together. But the everything part got to him too. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't be someone's everything. He just wasn't good enough. No one would ever love a failure like him enough for that.

So he covered it up and hid it from everyone, hid his tears and his nerves, and pretended his skating was the only thing that made anxious and insecure.

And then there was Viktor. Yuuri loved the man from the moment he first saw him skate on TV, swore he'd be just like him. He even let himself dare to dream that one day, they'd skate on the same ice together. But he knew no matter how much he wanted, no matter how much he practiced and prayed for it, Viktor would never be his. Viktor could have whatever he wanted, and what he wanted wouldn't be a nothing like Yuuri.

So when he began his downward spiral at the Grand Prix Final that Viktor won (of course he won, he always won), he didn't say anything to his idol. Even though he'd been waiting for the chance to do it for years, it wasn't right, he wasn't right, wasn't the person he needed to be for Viktor's sake. It was better to say nothing, that way Viktor wouldn't remember what an embarrassment Yuuri was to the world of skating Viktor had made so inspiring.

"You want to get a photo?" Viktor asked when he caught Yuuri staring at him. Internal Yuuri, the brave Yuuri no one ever saw, wanted to say, oh come on Viktor, of course I do, you shouldn't even have to ask, but Yuuri wasn't, would never be brave Yuuri, and he turned and walked away so the Russian couldn't see the depressed look on his face. So he couldn't see Yuuri telling himself that no matter how much he wanted to, he could never be Viktor's anything. He just wasn't good enough to deserve it.

Then Viktor came to Hasetsu, became his coach, set everything in his life aside for Yuuri, and Yuuri knew he should be telling himself not to read too much into it. Of course this was just Viktor trying to surprise everyone again, and it was working. There was no way he actually meant it, it was just another performance. But if he was pretending, he was doing a very good job of it, and at last, Yuuri started to let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he could be Viktor's something.