Victor had read plenty of romance novels in his life. He would even say he enjoyed them quite a bit. And in those novels, he'd seen all sorts of love stories unfold. People falling in love at first sight, knowing since the moment their eyes first met that they had just found their fated other half. Stories of subtle love and slowly falling in love day by day, interest growing to affection and escalating to devotion. He'd read of people jumping from the most intense of hatreds to the most passionate of loves in an incomprehensible flurry of emotions and wonderful mistakes that led to ultimate bliss.
For Victor though, falling in love with Yuuri hadn't been like any of those stories. It had been all and none of them at once. He had fallen hard and fast, burning and all-consuming, with the man on the ice, the fearless creature who would sweep him off his feet on the dance floor with passion in his alcohol-hazed brown eyes and the ugliest necktie Victor had ever seen. He'd fallen for the subtle vulnerability of his moves and the eroticism of his steps as he'd glided on the ice, a mimicry of Victor's program that somehow managed to outdo his own performance. Ever since that fateful dance-off at the banquet and that daring Youtube video, Yuuri had taken over his mind, the musicality of his body and the lingering burn of his touch filling his every thought. Then he had fallen slow, and soft, and tender for the man off the ice, all self-confidence buried beneath a pair of glasses, overblown anxiety and oversized coats, and he'd come to love the quivering of his voice, the unguarded smile on his lips, the courage in his heart, the gentleness of his hands when they carded through Makkachin's fur. With every passing day, he'd felt more bits and pieces of his heart chipping away just so Yuuri could come and reside within him until slowly, but surely he'd taken over Victor completely. And on top of all that there had been all the mistakes, all the impulsive decisions, all the moments of incontrollable exhilaration: a turbulence of emotions, the most beautiful and the most painful, an overflow of yearning and passion, and he had fallen, fallen, still felt himself fall in love all over again every time Yuuri looked at him, smiled at him, called his name, until he had nothing left to offer because he'd surrendered everything to Yuuri.
But loving Yuuri was forbidden. Yuuri who in spite of everything had never felt the touch of a lover. Yuuri who looked at him with reverent adoration, like he had painted all the constellations with his fingers, like he had invented the whiteness of the snow and the sparkle of the ice. Yuuri who still kept posters of him under his bed, who still, in spite of everything, thought of him as a much better man than he actually was. Yuuri whose career would burn to ashes if anyone so much as caught any hint of Victor's infatuation. It wasn't hard to imagine the headlines, the whispers, the rumors "in the end it wasn't about Katsuki's talent, Victor just wanted in his pants.", "surely Victor pulled some strings to have his dirty mistress win", words so false and so revolting they made Victor sick to his stomach.
Yuuri didn't deserve that. Yuuri had given his life -his heart, his body, his very soul- to the ice, and the ice loved him back and made him beautiful and ethereal. He didn't deserve to have such devoted love tarnished by the media's thirst for scandal. Victor would never allow that, and if that meant having to bury his feelings in the deepest corner of his heart, he'd do it without hesitation. As fickle as people perceived him to be, self-control was in fact, one of his greatest strengths.
Or so he thought.
Then came Yuuri's free program in the Grand Prix Final, and even though he'd seen it countless times already, this one was different, it was new, and it shattered Victor's world to smithereens. And Yuuri probably knew that too because he glided off the ice with the brightest smile Victor had ever seen on him and he jumped into Victor's arms, his warm laughter caressing Victor's neck and he lost the self-control altogether, laughed with him, hugged his waist tight and spun him around, his chest swelling with pride and love. And when they were both out of breathe he let Yuuri's feet touch the ground again, but Yuuri's arms were still around his neck, fingers absentmindedly grazing the loose hairs at his nape, and his hands were still on Yuuri's waist, drawing small circles with his thumbs over the sparkle of his costume, and they were still laughing, their foreheads almost touching, and Yuuri was radiant and so, so close that in the rush of adrenaline Victor decided he wanted to taste that laughter.
The light of camera flashes on the corner of his eyes yanked him back to reality, luckily before he was able to do anything he'd forever regret. He pulled away from the embrace, pushing Yuuri as far as his arms would let him (and ignored the immediate cold that constricted his heart), put on his public image mask (it was hard to remember it now, he never had to wear it with Yuuri, he'd lost practice), and assured the reporters that Yuuri was tired and nervous and they really needed to get to the Kiss & Cry and that he would answer their questions after the competition was over.
Not an hour later, Victor watched Yuuri vibrate as he climbed on the winner's podium, his cheeks flushed red, his eyes sparkling with joy and pride and confidence, and he knew what he had to do now.
For the first time, he put on his mask when Yuuri came back to his side, gold shining from his neck, and Victor smiled back at him (and once again he ignored how his heart suffocated in his chest).
The trip back to Hasetsu was eerily quiet, as if Yuuri could already sense that something had changed, as if he could see right through Victor's mask (he probably could).
They went back to their usual training regime as if nothing had happened, but as much as Victor tried to act naturally, there was a different tension in the air. The first night, Makkachin had whined at him and scratched at his bedroom door, his black eyes asking 'why aren't we asking Yuuri to sleep with us tonight?' (Yuuri had never said 'yes', but a certain fondness had grown in his voice every time he said 'no, Victor, go back to bed', a fondness Victor treasured). They didn't spend much time together outside of the ice, didn't talk much if it was not in relation to Yuuri's practice. Yuuko once asked him what was going on, and he'd dismissively said they were just focusing for the Nationals-Four Continents-World Championship series, and she hadn't asked anymore. Minako and Yuuri's mother sent him inquiring glances from time to time, but they never said anything. And worst of it all, sometimes Yuuri looked at him, a shadow of confusion and sadness in his brown eyes, and it was as if he already knew.
"I'm going back to Russia after Worlds."
He let it drop as if it was casual, meaningless, as if his throat hadn't constricted around the words, trying to keep them from being spoken.
Yuuri choked on an inhale, his eyes wide and hurt; opened his mouth "Ah—" as if he was about to say something, to protest, to demand an explanation, to yell at him, force him to stay. And Victor begged to any god that would hear him, that Yuuri wouldn't say that, because if he did, he wouldn't possibly be able to refuse him (and for that same reason, his heart pleaded that Yuuri would say it).
"Okay." Was the only thing Yuuri said instead, after the longest heartbeat of silence.
Victor wanted to say something else, 'it's not you, Yuuri, I swear, you haven't disappointed me, you never could' and he fought against the creeping fear that Yuuri would feel insecure again, inadequate, unworthy, when he was everything but, that his forbidden feelings and his inability to fight them had still managed to hinder Yuuri's glory. But Yuuri got back up and did one more run of his short program as if nothing ever happened.
The next time Yuuri called his name, all the fondness was gone from his voice, and if he said anything else afterwards, Victor couldn't hear it over the loud crack of his heart.
Victor had never had problems finding the right words to encourage Yuuri before a performance. Not at least until the World Championship. As Yuuri took a deep breath and approached the rink for his short program, Victor found himself at a loss. 'I love katsudon' he'd told him the first time he'd performed Eros. 'Seduce me with all your might', he'd said before the Chuu-Shikoku-Kyuushuu regionals, as if he hadn't been long seduced, helplessly so. But this time, he couldn't think of something to say, nothing that was sincere without betraying the dread already coiling in his gut.
Yuuri looked at him, expectantly. With his skates on, he was as tall as Victor and could look him in the eye without tilting his head, a fact Victor had never found as uncomfortable as he did now. He swallowed hard and ran away from Yuuri's gaze, his eyes searching for something in the crowd.
Right. The crowd.
"Seduce them one more time." He finally said, patting Yuuri's shoulder in a gesture that felt more forced than encouraging, and a part of him desperately wanted to pull Yuuri into an embrace (it wouldn't be weird, they did it for every competition, no one would bat an eye), but he didn't because he didn't trust himself to be able to let go. Yuuri's pupils shrank, his shoulders sagged for just a moment (disappointment, evidently, he'd been hoping for something else), but he recovered immediately and glided to the center of the rink as the announcer called his name and the crowd cheered.
The music began and Yuuri started moving. He tilted his face towards Victor, like he always did at the start. And he smirked at him, like always, enticing, challenging, but there was something else underneath this time. It was sensual and alluring, yes, but it was also raw and desperate, and it tugged at Victor's heart viciously, as if saying 'I won't let you go'.
He wondered if the audience would notice the change. Just a few months ago, Yuuri had been the most beautiful lady in town, confident and passionate, ensnaring the unsuspecting playboy with her irresistible womanly charms. But today she was different. She knew he was leaving, and with her body was telling him 'you would be a fool to leave. You'll regret it for the rest of your life.' (and Victor knew he was, and he would). And underneath all that, underneath her voice, there was also Yuuri, that tiny piece of him that hadn't completely turned into Eros: 'please, please don't leave me.'
When he left the rink, his cheeks were flushed, his breathing labored with the exhaustion, but he immediately sought Victor, his big, expressive eyes inquiring into his soul, asking if he'd understood, if he'd gotten the message.
"You were wonderful, Yuuri."
And although his words were true, his smile wasn't, and Yuuri noticed, and that tiny glimmer of hope vanished from his eyes. The sight of it tore Victor's heart out of his chest. But he bit his lip and endured, because this was for the best, he kept telling himself over and over, while avoiding Yuuri's eyes.
The scores were brilliant, like Yuuri himself had been, like he always was. A new personal best, a new world record. It was hard to get rid of the press and get back to the hotel, harder still with the bitter silence between them. Makkachin was waiting for them in their shared bedroom (a mistake, a terrible mistake) and he yipped happily and jumped on Yuuri to lick his face the moment they walked through the door. It was the first time Victor ever brought Makkachin along for a competition for the sole purpose of making a swifter escape when the time came, because he was already going to leave half of his heart in Hasetsu, Japan, he wasn't going to leave his best friend too, and he was too much a coward to go back to Yu-Topia and then try to run from there.
He couldn't help the fond smile that grew on his lips as Yuuri laughed and hugged Makkachin, warmth fluttering in his stomach seeing how much his two most precious loved each other. Warmth that was immediately shot down with guilt at the thought of having to force them apart.
"Come on, Makkachin, Yuuri's very tired and needs rest for tomorrow." He cooed, patting the dog's hip to nudge him off. Makkachin complied reluctantly and then trotted towards Victor's bed, climbed on top and barked as if he was proud of himself. It was then that the smell reached Victor's nose and he gasped in disbelief. "You're kidding me."
Yuuri got up from the ground and glanced at the bed. His eyebrows rose high with curiosity and then understanding dawned on his features. What Victor wasn't expecting was the snort that came after a second of silence.
"Did Makkachin mark territory on your bed?"
Victor glared at the dog that still was looking way too pleased with himself. "I don't understand, he's never done this before."
Yuuri's snort turned into a soft giggle. "Maybe he was upset that you left him locked in here all day."
Makkachin remained silent and unmoving, and Victor had a feeling that wasn't the case at all. He glanced at his watch. "It's too late to call room service, but I can't just leave that to dry there, can I…?" he mused out loud, frowning.
"We can wash them if you want." Yuuri offered, already shooing Makkachin off the bed and tugging the duvet off. "Ahh, it's all the way into the mattress, you're terrible, Makkachin." He chastised, but there was nothing but affection in his voice and all Victor could think was how much he was going to miss this.
"No, please, don't worry, you should go to sleep, I'll take care of it."
Yuuri cocked his head to the side, folding the stained duvet over his arm. "It'll be faster if I help you." He walked past Victor and into the bathroom. "And no offense but I have experience in this industry and no faith in your housekeeping skills."
Victor almost laughed. Almost. It died in his throat with preemptive longing and the knowledge that this might be the last time he felt like this. Easy and warm and happy. Everything was so easy and real with Yuuri. Even with the lingering tension and the unspoken inevitability of separation, they somehow managed to fall back into something close to a routine, effortless conversation, easy jabs and quiet smiles and something he wanted to hold on to for the rest of his life. Home.
It was the worst possible contradiction, really. He wanted to cherish every moment he had left with Yuuri, treasure every laugh he could draw out of his lips, marvel at every sparkle of his brown eyes, and at the same time, being with Yuuri just reminded Victor of the hopes at happiness he was giving up, how he wished he could exhale every breathe that was left in his body by Yuuri's side, and how painful their imminent parting would be.
The thought constricted his chest as they left the haphazardly washed bedsheets to dry and sprayed some air freshener on the mattress for good measure. He'd have to remember to leave a note and a very generous tip for the staff.
"That's done, so you really need to get to sleep now, Yuuri." He said, his mask carefully placed on his features, even as the taste of that name tugged at his heartstrings.
Yuuri nodded, but then paused. "Hmmm, Victor?"
If saying Yuuri's name pulled at his heartstrings, Yuuri calling his ripped them out of his chest. "Yes?"
"Where are you going to sleep?"
"Why on my bed of course, what a sill—" Ah. The bed that had no sheets and yes had a sizable sample of his dog's pee.
As if on cue, Makkachin woofed and hopped on Yuuri's bed, his tongue lolling out of his snout, and Victor finally understood why he had seemed so pleased with his little urinary mishap that was apparently not an accident at all.
Makkachin was the worst dog ever.
"The…floor I guess?" he offered, in vain hopes of salvaging the situation. Yuuri had insisted they didn't need an expensive suite with a living room and Victor was seriously regretting heeding his request.
"That'd be bad for your bones. This is…" he heard Yuuri swallow thickly, and from the corner of his eye saw him pat the mattress to his side with trembling fingers. "…big enough for two people."
It was a cruel twist of fate that after all these months of jokingly and not-so-jokingly trying to get into Yuuri's bed, he was finally offered the opportunity when he wished he could reject it above all else.
"Okay." He breathed instead.
Yuuri nodded and slipped under the covers, his cheeks flushed like vibrant rubies. Victor waited a little longer, trying and failing to school his own heartbeat. Makkachin barked at him impatiently, already curled at the base of the bed, presumably on top of Yuuri's feet.
'You might think you're helping but it's the complete opposite.' Victor thought to himself, glaring at the dog again. It occurred to him that maybe Makkachin too knew what was going on and his actions were just his bizarre way of trying to prevent it. The thought made the glare go away and he smiled at his friend, just as the guilt clenched around his heart tighter.
He finally sat on the bed and slipped his legs under the covers. He didn't dare look at Yuuri, already feeling his body's warmth too close for comfort. The air got thick with tension, unspoken words and questions and maybe even a plea and a confession that would ruin everything hanging in the air. And then Yuuri sighed (disappointment, again) and lied down on his side, pulling the covers up to his ear and his back facing Victor.
"Good night." He said simply, his voice trembling with something Victor couldn't identify.
Victor sighed and lied down too, his back to Yuuri, and bit his lip. The bed was big enough for two people, but not big enough for him not to feel the warmth radiating from Yuuri's body, not big enough to smother his desire to inch closer. All those months wanting this and it all culminated in the cruelest, most miserable experience of his life; the one thing he wanted more than anything dangling so dangerously close and so out of reach.
Makkachin whined unhappily, as if he didn't understand what had gone wrong.
They didn't speak at all since the morning and until Yuuri was called to the ice for his free program. This time Yuuri didn't glance back at him, he wasn't expecting anything from him anymore. And perhaps Victor should've left it like that, make this easier on them both, but he couldn't. It was a selfish wish no doubt, but he couldn't possibly let Yuuri keep that fake smile and frozen silence as his last memory of their time together.
He grabbed Yuuri's shoulder and tugged lightly, asking him just one last time to look at him. Yuuri did, cautiously, guarded, but Victor squeezed his shoulder to reassure him and let the mask fall off his face, even if he knew he was risking that the prickling feeling at the corners of his eyes would break him. He smiled then, sincere, because Yuuri had come so, so far and he'd been everything Victor ever expected him to be and so much more, more than he could've possibly dreamed. And this time, it wasn't hard to find the right words.
"Yuuri, you're my greatest pride."
There were so many more words he wished to say, but none that he was allowed to. So instead he indulged himself just this once, just once more, I swear I'll let go, just let me have this, and pulled Yuuri into the tightest embrace. The moment he felt Yuuri's heartbeat against his own, arms wrapping around his neck, shaking fingers touching his nape like they'd done so many times before, he knew this had been a mistake and still couldn't bring himself to regret it, drinking in the warmth of the moment, wishing time would come to a halt right there and then so he'd never have to let go.
They breathed deep in each other's arms, inhale, exhale, inhale. Then Yuuri's arms pulled back and nudged him away excruciatingly softly. Victor was sure heartbreak wasn't supposed to be this soft. But maybe it was like tearing off a band-aid, and the fact that it was slow and gentle made it even more painful than if it had been torn hard and fast.
"Thanks." Yuuri muttered quietly and stepped onto the ice.
The music piece Yuuri himself had chosen and named began playing and Victor indulged himself in the magic of the performance one last time.
"Did you change the theme of this piece?"
"Uhm… The theme is… 'On my love'"
"That theme's perfect."
It really was. A piece that told the story of Yuuri's figure skating career, his dedication to the ice, his love for his blades. Affectionate, personal, etched with that beautiful vulnerability that was so Yuuri's, so terribly mesmerizing. But like Eros yesterday, this interpretation was slightly different. It was love, but it was also longing, a ballad for a love lost and the loneliness it left behind. A farewell. And it was so, so heartfelt, so real, Victor could even see the tears pooled at the corners of Yuuri's eyes.
His resolve almost crumbled on the spot. How could he leave Yuuri like this? How could he possibly break Yuuri's heart and make him cry? If Yuuri wanted him to stay, who was he to go away? But he tightened his fist and bit his lip so hard it almost bled to remind himself that Yuuri would be fine. Yuuri was still constantly evolving. His attachment to Victor was mostly the lingering reverence for a lifelong idol. But after this season and all he had accomplished, Yuuri would know this was all his merit, his glory, something he could continue pursuing on his own.
Victor had accomplished what he'd set himself to do. He'd found something precious and raw, and polished it so the world could appreciate its beauty. He'd drawn the music from Yuuri's body, given Yuuri the confidence to prove himself how special and talented he was. Yuuri didn't need him anymore, he had nothing left to teach him. With an ocean separating them again, Yuuri would move on, find another coach (one that didn't dream of kissing him every day, soft on the eyelids every morning and hard on the mouth after every victory), and he'd continue to surprise the world for two or three, perhaps four or even five more years. He'd outgrow his idolizing and stand on top of the world on his own two feet. Perhaps their time together would even become little more than a distant memory that would fade away with the years (for Yuuri at least; never for Victor).
The music finished and Yuuri struck his final pose, his extended arm pointing at Victor, and it felt almost like an accusation and one last, desperate plea.
The crowd exploded in cheers and ovations. Yuuri had laid himself bare on the ice; his love had enthralled everyone who laid eyes on him. Till the last moment he remained beautiful and surprising, a living wonder. This banal world wasn't worthy of him.
Yuuri turned away to bow at the judges, which gave Victor the perfect time to disappear, like the coward he was. If Yuuri came to him now and smiled at him, Victor wasn't sure he'd be able to pull away again. In fact, if he'd turned back and seen Yuuri one more time, he was almost certain he would've lost what little resolve he had. He didn't even wait to see the scores –he didn't need to, no one could possibly doubt who had conquered the ice- and everyone was so captivated by Yuuri they didn't notice him.
He ran away and took a cab to the hotel to grab his suitcase (he'd left it packed this morning, had been steeling his mind all day for this moment). He also picked up Makkachin, who for the first time in thirteen years, fought him back as he tried to put him on a leash, and after he'd finally wrestled it on, dropped on the floor and refused to move.
"Makkachin, please, we have to go." He pleaded, tugging on the leash. "Makkachin, stoyat." He commanded in Russian, but the order went ignored. "Makkachin!" he snapped, angrily, his eyes stinging already, pulling the leash harder than he'd meant to. Makkachin recoiled and growled at him, something he'd never, ever done before. Victor dropped the suitcase and kneeled in front of his friend. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." He hiccupped, his chest already so tight he could hardly breathe. "You stupid, stupid dog." He circled his arms around Makkachin's neck and buried his nose in soft fur. Makkachin whined pitifully, squirming in his embrace, the meaning all too obvious.
"I know, buddy, I know. I love him too."
Later, at the airport, he got a text from Yurio.
"I just found Katsudon crying in the bathroom, maybe be a decent coach for once and go check on him."
Victor dropped his phone and laughed mirthlessly, letting his head lean against the booth's door.
How amazing and cruel. We're doing the exact same thing.
On his first night in St. Petersburg, after he'd shut the door and been hit by the stale smell of his own apartment that he hadn't seen in a year, it really dawned on him that it was over and he'd cried for two hours straight. After he finally felt the onslaught of sadness subside he'd tried to wash his face and eat something. There was of course nothing in his refrigerator, but he found an unopened bag of chips that would probably taste like dust at this point (he didn't bother checking the expiration date).
Halfway through the chips that did indeed seem to be dust-flavored and did nothing for his sense of taste but at least succeeding in filling his empty stomach, he remembered to turn his phone back on, and was immediately greeted with a text from Chris and it just had six words written in English: "That was a real dick move". That was it. Victor kept waiting for a rant, for some display of explosive anger, a barrage of insults flooding his inbox from every single person they knew because Yuuri was so universally beloved, some 'you miserable piece of shit' and 'you never deserved him' (he didn't, of course he didn't). But nothing came. And for some reason just that understated accusation felt more painful than the idea of being told what a worthless piece of human scum he was and he cried himself to sleep, the dusty chips forgotten.
Against his better judgment, he gave himself a full week off after arriving in St. Petersburg. He convinced himself it was perfectly normal to take some time to grieve the love he'd lost (love that had never been his to take), and allowed himself to wallow in misery.
It wasn't that he stayed curled in bed and crying his heart out every waking moment, it was more like riding waves of sadness. They started in the pit of his stomach, making it curl, then climbed up to crush the air out of his lungs and suffocate his heart, further up to pull a sob out of his throat while tying it in a tight knot at the same time, making it hard to breathe, and breaking out from his eyes in the form of tears.
He found himself falling into a sort of routine: wake up, wash face, eat breakfast, feed dog, turn on the TV for background noise (he liked to watch dog competitions, in his youth had even entertained the idea of making Makkachin into a champion dog and become a pair of champions. Makkachin had turned out to be much more interested in cuddling and playing and Victor hadn't had it in him to actually try to enforce some sort of discipline). Then he'd browse through his social media until he found someone mentioning Yuuri and the next moment, inevitably, he'd be sobbing loud and shameless, hot tears streaming down his cheeks. In the loneliness of his own apartment, he had no need to keep up appearances and was free to scream and wail and cry until he couldn't even keep his eyes open.
There were times in which the waves of sadness were softer. They wouldn't bring him to his knees or draw out painful wails from his throat. Sometimes there was just a little thought at the corner of his mind 'ah, this is just like when Yuuri…' and he'd choke on an inhale and feel the burn of tears behind his eyes, but then they didn't spill, and while the sadness constricted his heart, it didn't overflow. Hours would pass and there's be another thought 'oh, Yuuri would…' and he'd sob breathlessly once, or twice, and feel his nose running and a couple of tears slid down his cheeks, and then it stopped like it had never happened. Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat, over and over, every day.
Sometimes he felt silly, breaking down in tears in the midst of something banal like reading an article about dietary plans for senior dogs (Makkachin, just like himself, wasn't getting any younger, and that was just one of many other thoughts tightening around his heart), only to go back to normal in no more than two minutes, feeling just as silly when he returned to his article as if nothing ever happened. And then an hour later, some subconscious feeling that hadn't even finished forming in his mind had him sobbing dryly for a minute, or two, or five, and then he'd go back to scarfing down whatever unhealthy comfort food he'd chosen for the day, even if it didn't taste much of anything.
Once or twice a day, he'd feel that little wave of sadness, and just when it was about to subside, he'd feed in to it, filling his mind with images of Yuuri and thoughts of I miss you, I miss you so, until it became a giant wave that made his heart hurt so much it might as well have stopped beating, and he let himself collapse and drown in it. He didn't really understand why this happened, but one of the perks of being alone was that no one was there to question his feelings, so he didn't have to do it either.
There was that one day that he'd taken Makkachin out for a walk, and when they'd passed by a newspaper vendor, Makkachin had barked and pounced at a rack of magazines. The salesman shrieked while Victor tried to rein his dog in, newspapers and magazines flying all over the place until finally Makkachin grabbed something in his mouth and sat at Victor's feet, nudging his thigh with his head, proudly presenting him with a teenage fashion magazine covered in drool. Victor grabbed it and froze when he saw Yuuri on the cover, his eyes briefly catching on the tagline 'This year's king of the ice is a cutie! All about the figure skating World Champion Yuuri Katsuki!". Makkachin barked happily. It was so monumentally stupid because why would a fashion magazine run an article on figure skating and why did Yuuri look so breath-taking even in that awfully cropped photo, and how could these people hope to comprehend anything about the real Yuuri, let alone everything, and Victor barely managed to shove all the cash in his wallet on the hysteric salesman's hands, rush back to his apartment where he could fall to his knees to cry, the magazine still clutched tight in his hand. Makkachin had whined at him, nosing at the magazine, but Victor ignored him. He couldn't bring himself to even glance at it again. So he shoved it at the bottom of a drawer full of stuff he never looked at, because he also couldn't bring himself to throw Yuuri's photograph in the trash.
Makkachin didn't take well to Victor's rejection, and since that day he stopped trying to comfort him, wouldn't even hop on the bed at night, and aside from demanding food and bathroom, apparently pretended Victor didn't exist at all. He spent most of his time sulking, whining, or scratching the apartment door, as if he hoped to be set free so he could run all the way back to Hasetsu, with or without his owner. The next time Victor had dragged himself out of bed to walk his dog like a responsible owner should (around the neighborhood, not back to Japan, and that was perhaps the problem), Makkachin had growled, tried to bite his hand and run to hide, thrashing half of the apartment in the process.
Victor mused that he really shouldn't be that surprised that Yuuri had taken over Makkachin's heart so badly over the short span of one year. He himself had been complete and utterly charmed beyond salvation, it was only natural that his dog would be too. There was still something sadly ironic in knowing even his own dog wasn't on his side though.
"What the fuck are you doing here?!"
After a week had passed, he'd finally willed himself to try and regain some sort of normalcy, so he'd showered, grabbed his skates and headed to the ice rink. Yurio (no, just Yuri, there was only one Yuri here, there was no need for distinctions) had already been there, practicing on his own when he'd arrived (and Victor felt a little proud, because just one year ago, one wouldn't possibly dream of seeing Yuri so committed to his practice).
"I came to skate, obviously." He stated, although he knew that wasn't what Yuri meant. But he hadn't come this far to hide away his dangerous feelings only to spill them over to the first person who asked.
"No, I mean why are you here, here. In St. Petersburg. Why aren't you in Japan? Did you bring Katsudon along?"
He doesn't know.
Victor cocked his head, feigning innocence. "No? I'm not Yuuri's coach anymore after all." And he pretended that saying it didn't make his heart clench.
Yuri stumbled on his feet, his eyes widened. "Wait, what?! What the- Why?!"
"Obviously I can't prepare my program for the next season if I'm coaching someone in a different continent, can I?" Yuri didn't respond, but Victor didn't need him to. "It was never meant to be a permanent thing, I just needed my inspiration back, and I got it! I have so many ideas that I want to do now I can hardly process them!"
Not a single of those sentences was true. For one, he'd bought a one-way ticket to Japan and, before his love for Yuuri had become too much for him to handle, he'd fully intended to stay by his side for as long as Yuuri would have him. He hadn't sought Yuuri out to get his inspiration back, Yuuri himself inspired him, but not to make a program for himself, but to see what kind of music he could draw out of his body. And needless to say, he didn't have any ideas, didn't know what he was doing or what he wanted to do. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to try and compete again, but he'd hoped feeling the ice under his skates would help him refocus.
So far it didn't seem to be helping, but he convinced himself that it was just because he'd only been in the rink for five minutes. It would come to him. Soon. Eventually.
Yuri looked like he still had much more left to say, but he bit it back and turned away from Victor.
"Whatever, just don't get in the way of my practice."
Victor hadn't expected the warmest of welcomes. In fact, when Yakov started hollering at him, the rink booming with 'you have the nerve' and 'how dare you show your face', it almost felt like coming back home (except his home was now in a distant seaside town in Japan, and he was never going to find his way back to it, back to him). But he also hadn't expected the looks he got from everyone else. There was Yuri of course, scowling as usual, but underneath that he could see something else, something sadder, something Victor wanted to erase from existence. And Mila had smiled beautiful and graceful, but then had said "I was sure you'd never come back.", and when Victor had parroted that fake story about it being 'temporary since the beginning', she'd shaken her head and said "I'd just never seen you look happier." And she didn't specify what she meant, but it wasn't necessary because he knew, had seen himself in the videos, the interviews, the photos that went viral, the press conferences, and been baffled by his own smiles, had wondered if that was a trick of the camera or if he really was capable of smiling so sincerely, realized it was the latter every time his eyes had found Yuuri's.
Even Georgi quirked an eyebrow at him and said "It's not like I don't think I can beat you this season, but I also don't think this is where you should be right now."
And Victor hated all of them as he bit back another wave of sadness and tears, memories of his true home and the smell of katsudon invading his thoughts, making his knees quiver.
"That step sequence is beautiful, Yuri."
"MY NAME'S NOT Y- Yuri…o?"
"I know."
Try as he may, he really couldn't think of anything for next season. He found himself just playing bits and pieces of his past programs, or doing compulsory figures trying to create an image in his mind. He had never felt so empty and uninspired in his life, not even when he'd been so desperate for novelty that he'd hopped on the first flight to Japan after watching a Youtube video of some Japanese kid to whom he'd lost an inebriated dance-off.
The idea of taking his love for Yuuri as inspiration crossed his mind more than once. Immediately he could hear the music, feel the story, imagine the steps and the spins. It was truly amazing, how heartbreak stirred the imagination. But just the thought of performing it, of actually bringing it to life, choked his heart.
After many days of fruitless gliding around the rink, waiting for this spin to connect to that step and spark any magic back into his blades, he decided to give his mind a break. Yuri was doing warm-up exercises at the rinkside, and that gave Victor exactly the kind of distraction he needed.
"Say, Yuri." He began, the name bitter on his tongue, his lips outstretched in a smile that was hurting his cheeks "Do you still want me to choreograph you a program for next season?"
Yuri reminded him much of himself when he was younger. Proud and ambitious, too aware of his own talents and eager to devour the world. With an extra layer of anger that made him a tiny bit more volatile. Victor knew how to handle Yuri, and was perfectly prepared for the initial lash out, which would be immediately followed by a reluctant concession.
Except it wasn't.
Yuri looked up at him through golden bangs (that he would defend with his teeth if he had to, no matter how much Yakov insisted he should cut them shorter for a more mature look), and his expression, rather than angry, was unexpectedly blank. Frustrated. Disappointed even.
"Do you really think I need the current you to choreograph anything for me? Don't make me laugh. You can barely stand on the ice as it is."
He stepped into the ice and skated away, never looking back at Victor.
That… hurt way more than it should have.
Victor was an ugly crier.
The public, of course, believed otherwise, because they knew him best for his calculated tears of his second and third Grand Prix, stoically beautiful, barely vulnerable enough to make people believe he'd let the slightest bit of control slip. He hadn't, but the media cared more about a pretty photo to print on the cover than actually understanding the person they photographed.
But when he cried for real, oh, he became truly ugly. The area around his eyes swelled and reddened since the first salty tears left their tracks over his skin, and in minutes his whole face was bright red from rubbing tears and snot away. His mouth contorted downwards and he wailed loudly, showing his teeth, his gums and the very unappealing inside of his mouth. Even the sounds of his cries and bawls were ugly, noisy and piercing like a baby's, not the deep, elegantly restrained sobs expected from a grieving grown man. After he'd been doing it for a while, his skin turned dry and wrinkly and dirty and he looked like he hadn't slept in a month.
(Some people were beautiful criers. Yuuri, for instance. The vision of him standing on top of the podium in Barcelone, tears streaming like liquid pearls down his cheeks and vanishing in the corners of his smile, so beautifully fragile and so joyously alive, was sure to become a source of inspiration for artists for generations.)
Victor was tired of crying, of doing something that made him look so ugly. He was tired of the sting in his eyes, of feeling as if his facial muscles didn't respond to his will, of getting his nose clogged with snot and having to breathe through his mouth, of running through a box of tissues per day. Tired of having a liquid curtain blurring his vision. And when he wiped his eyes to clear his own sight, he'd wonder if this was how Yuuri saw the world without his glasses, and the tears would come back to blind him in less than a heartbeat.
He couldn't land the quad flip. It was his signature move and he couldn't land it.
It started with a barely noticeable misstep, the blades slipping a bit too hard on the ice when he landed. He could've left it at that –probably no one but himself noticed the miss-, but Victor was nothing if not a perfectionist, and this was his specialty, his pride and joy, he had to get it right.
The next time he lost balance for a second and had to bend his knees to keep himself from falling. The third time he lost control of the speed and his hand touched the ice for a moment before he could stand back up. It sent a chill up his spine. How many years had it been since he'd last touched the ice with his hands without meaning to?
Yuri shot him a bewildered look, but said nothing.
It only got worse from there. By the fifth attempt he was unable to bounce back up immediately and instead had to take a second or two before he could regain his footing. On the eighth attempt he under-rotated and crashed on his ass loud and painful. His old bones were in no condition to be taking this kind of punishment. Desperation flooded his bloodstream, his vision turning blurry with anguish. This couldn't be happening. He'd only taken a year off. Just one year (the best of his life). He hadn't slacked off on his own training just because he was overseeing someone else's either. In fact, Yuuri had pushed him to the brink of utter exhaustion almost as often as Yakov did, more than once requesting an exhibition of all the jumps he knew. And Yuuri's eyes would sparkle with joy and excitement when he landed those difficult quads. The first time Yuuri had attempted the quad flip, it had been on Victor's prompting. 'Just an experiment, we're not adding something like that to your program at this point.' (Yuuri, wonderful, endless source of surprises that he was, had obviously decided otherwise). And of course he hadn't landed it and he'd fallen a little hard on his side, but the smile on his lips had been so radiant everything else didn't seem to matter.
His take off was too forceful on the ninth attempt and he slammed against the rink barrier. Not on his face, like Yuuri had back in Chuu-Shikoku-Kyuushu, but his left arm hadn't taken nicely to being crunched between his body-weight and the edge of the rink. He drew a circle with his shoulder to relax the muscles, and felt it pop painfully, but luckily not out of place.
On the tenth attempt, Victor remembered Yuuri's voice and his thrilled smile 'Victor! I did great, didn't I?", and something went horribly wrong mid-air, his skates never found the ice, it all happened so fast he didn't have time to break the fall with his hands and he crashed face first on the ice, and couldn't get back up, period. The world was spinning around him, his body throbbing with pain and he vaguely heard agitated voices calling his name, people crowding around him until they weren't and he blacked out, wondering if maybe Yuuri hadn't stolen the quad flip from him like he'd done with his heart.
His head was still pounding when he woke up, and it took him a moment to realize he was in the resting room, or to even remember why he'd ended up here in the first place.
"I told you, you wouldn't be able to come back if you left."
Victor wanted to protest, 'I have to come back. I'm still good for one season. I have to be.' But no words could pass through the lump in his throat.
"Go back home, Vitya. You're lucky you didn't break anything or get a concussion. Not even a sprain, the ice sure does love bastards like you. Don't show your face around here until you've figured yourself out or you'll get injured for real and then it will truly be over."
He tightened his fists and chewed on his lip. He opened his mouth to say something, but really, what could he say? He'd been nothing short of pathetic ever since he came back, and now he'd even lost his best move. Yuri had been right before: even standing on the rink was difficult. He should've expected it, the ice had been what brought him to Yuuri in the first place. But he'd naïvely hoped that he could hold on to at least one of the things he loved more than anything in the world, even after letting go of the other.
Yakov didn't say anything else whilst Victor dragged his feet outside. Yuri was leaning against the wall and glanced up at him, a deep scowl in his brow. "C'mon, get moving."
Victor opened his mouth to ask, but apparently no one was going to let him speak today, because Yuri cut him off before he could make any sound. "I'm gonna make sure that you actually go back home and that you don't do anything stupid. And that you're actually feeding your stupid dog."
"Makkachin's not stupid." He managed to mumble.
"He has to be. He likes you."
"Aaah, but what does that say about you, Yuri dear."
Yuri clicked his tongue but said nothing else. He buried his hands in his pockets and walked ahead, leading the way. Victor allowed himself the first genuine smile in weeks. He'd only taken his eyes off Yuri for a little while and he'd grown this much. He felt a little bit proud, even if he knew he hadn't done anything to earn that.
When Yuri had seen the pitiful state of his apartment, he'd forced him to give him his wallet and a copy of his keys. He'd come every day carrying a grocery bag, and would kick Victor out of bed and force him to cook for both of them. Then he'd put Makkachin on a leash and take him on a walk. Surprisingly, Makkachin let him. He'd drag Victor to join them, but Makkachin would growl if Victor so much as tried to grab the leash, so he just walked next to them in silence.
One week into this oddly comforting routine, Yuri dropped the question that had been tensely hanging in the air all along.
"So are you gonna' tell me what happened between you and Katsudon?"
Victor dropped his fork and it clattered against the plate, the food splattering out to the tablecloth. The now too familiar regret squeezed around his heart. It had been a month, but the pain showed no signs of subsiding. He touched a hand to his chest and willed his eyes to stop stinging.
Not in front of Yuri. Not in front of Yuri.
"Nothing happened."
It wasn't really a lie. Nothing had really happened, Victor couldn't have allowed it to.
Yuri clicked his tongue and his face furrowed in disappointment again. "Fine, suit yourself."
Sometimes he willed himself to cry.
He didn't know how to explain the feeling. As the weeks went by, the constant piercing pain turned into a dull ache, yet somehow it felt even worse. He felt no fire, no passion, no drive, just a gaping hole in his chest. Empty. Dead. Then he had these little moments in which he was afraid he'd lost the ability to actually feel. So he forced himself to cry.
It was easy, really. He closed his eyes and thought of Yuuri, of his smiles, the sweet blush on his cheeks, the music in his body that had trapped Victor since day one, the way he called Victor's name, how he grew more and more confident, more and more beautiful with each passing day. He let those happy memories soak him, fill his heart with warmth and pride and love and hope. If Yuuri had asked, just once, with a stutter in his voice and determination in his eyes, if Yuuri had asked…
I would've been his.
Then he opened his eyes and found himself in his cold and empty apartment because Yuuri hadn't (couldn't) and he'd been a coward, he had run away and I lost him. He was my home, my happiness and I lost him.
It worked like a charm. Every time.
Crying was cathartic. Feeling tears pour down his cheeks and letting long and loud sobs tear out of his chest was oddly liberating. It was a strange form of satisfaction that hurt like nothing he had ever experienced and was still more tolerable than the dull nothingness. And once he was done he felt so exhausted he'd go straight to bed and sink into gloriously dreamless sleep.
"It shouldn't be my job to tell you this because you're a grown ass man and I'm not your mother, but you fucking can't go on like this."
Victor rose his eyes from his barely touched meal (he used to love this fast food chain but it was so flavorless right now). "I—"
"No, you shut the fuck up. You're not working out at all and still getting thinner. And your precious hair looks gross. You're a fucking mess. You've been here for way over a month and you're still stuck. If you won't talk about whatever went wrong with Katsudon, then get your shit together on your own and stop being a burden on everyone else."
The words stung more because they were true than because they were harsh. He knew Yuri was right. He wasn't doing anything to help himself but also wasn't letting anyone help him. He just couldn't see it, where he was supposed to go from here. "If you don't have any inspiration left, you're as good as dead", he'd been the one to teach that to Yuri, and it had never felt so true.
"Yuri—"
"And while we're at it –and I really can't believe I'm saying this-, if you're gonna sound like a dying animal every time you say our name, I'd rather you just call me fucking Yurio. Fuck."
He left after that –he muttered 'the food was good', washed his plate and walked out the door-, and it took Victor a minute (or maybe an hour) to regain the strength in his body to stand up. He'd thought that calling Yuri by his actual name was a way to detach himself from the love he'd left behind, to turn back the clock to a time in which that name wasn't connected to half of his soul and the most beautiful feeling in the entire world. Of all the things he'd done since coming back, that was the one that felt closest to an actual step forward, or at least, he'd wanted to believe it was.
Obviously that had been wrong to the point that he'd been hurting Yuri without realizing. His first thought was to plummet into bed and maybe give up on the idea of getting back up altogether. But he shook his head and slapped both of his cheeks with his hands. Whatever else may be going on, putting on such a pitiful show and causing so much trouble for his junior was unacceptable.
After finishing his meal he went to the bathroom and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He hadn't done that in a while, and he was mostly horrified with what he saw. Deep dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, unkempt stubble all over his face, his skin sucked into his cheekbones in a most unattractive way, and his hair, oh his hair was a tragedy. Dirty and messy and full of knots. His undercut was no more and his half-fringe was becoming an ugly mismatched full set of bangs. When had he last gotten a haircut? Or a shower for that matter?
He breathed in and out slowly and splashed water on his face. Yuri was right. He couldn't just waste away like this. He still had no idea of how he was going to do it or what he was going to do, but he had to find a way to move forward.
"Yuri, I want to talk."
Yuri was barely through the door when Victor called to him and he flinched a little. He looked up at him and his eyes widened for a moment. "You don't look like shit." He commented, looking legitimately surprised.
Victor sighed. "Flattery will get you nowhere." He said, trying to force a playful lilt to his voice. It didn't really work. "I just got tired of looking like I was at death's door." He'd taken a good long shower, shaved the awful stubble and even hauled his ass to the hair salon to get his mop fixed. And he'd eaten his first proper breakfast in weeks. At least he was feeling physically stronger, and that was a start.
"Whatever, so talk."
Victor plopped down on his couch. Makkachin, who was curled on the opposite side of it, blinked at him and hopped off. "No beating around the bush with you, eh?"
Yuri sat on the spot where Makkachin used to be, leaning his elbow on the armrest and his chin on the palm of his hand. "You've been beating around the fucking bush since April."
"I guess that's true."
"HAH?!"
Yuri shot him the most bewildered look Victor had ever seen on him, which was a rather notable accomplishment considering how little restraint he had with his facial expressions.
"It's like I said before. Nothing really happened. I… I left so it wouldn't."
From the corner of his eye, he saw Yuri shoot off the couch to stand above him, towering over him, his nostrils flaring. Victor inhaled and prepared himself to hear Yuri lash out about his gross and ridiculous feelings and 'you just can't keep it in your pants' like he'd done before, when he'd had that short-lived crush on that sadly heterosexual Brazilian skier, back in Sochi. "That is the single stupidest thing I've ever heard."
Eh?
"I already imagined it was gonna' be mind-numbingly stupid, but I guess going above people's expectations is your thing so I shouldn't be surprised."
Victor blinked, repeatedly and briefly wondered if Yuri had suddenly started speaking in a different language, because he couldn't make any sense of what he was saying now. Yuri didn't give him the chance to ask though, and continued ranting instead, his face contorted in anger and disbelief.
"I thought that maybe you'd been too gross and scared Katsudon away, or that he was boring in bed or something like that but it's way worse than I imagined, fuck."
Ignoring how weird and unsettling it was to have Yuri comment on his sex life –or lack thereof- and the absolutely no good images that the notion of Yuuri in bed (and how definitely not-boring that would be) sent to his head and his groin, he finally collected himself to object. "It's not stupid." He protested. "His career would've been ruined, media loves that kind of thing. I couldn't do that to him." He hugged his knees to his chest. "He's so talented, Yuri." So beautiful, so special, he could've gone on, and on and on. His breathe hitched just remembering the way the music hugged Yuuri's body when he skated, how it loved him. "And he worked so hard to get this far and to regain his confidence. And those… people they'd… they wouldn't think twice to destroy him and tear his entire life apart with lies and baseless accusations if that meant selling more superfluous magazines or getting more clicks on their websites."
He'd seen it happen far too many times, talented people with bright and promising futures crumbling under the stress, the pressure, the backlash, collapsing in tears to the light of paparazzi and self-destructing after one too many hateful comment on Facebook. And he'd also seen what that kind of negativity could do to Yuuri's state of mind. Yuuri was strong and confident on the ice, but off of it, it was as if his heart was made of glass, precious but fragile, and Victor would never allow anyone to break it.
Yuri huffed in annoyance, his arms crossed over his chest. "I don't know where you've been looking at this whole year, but that little pig of yours isn't the delicate rose petal you seem to think he is. Do you really think he'd mind any of that shit? Every time someone doubted him, he proved his worth a thousand times over. Maybe a year ago he would've been shaken by the tiniest fucking scandal, but the way he is now? No way in hell."
Victor couldn't suppress the small smile when he remembered just how much Yuuri had indeed changed over a year; from quivering and stuttering and unable to even hold Victor's gaze, to standing strong and proud on that podium, knowing he deserved the gold hanging from his neck and that anyone who doubted it was a fool.
"You sound quite smitten by him, Yuri. How unexpected."
Not surprisingly, Yuri growled. "Am not. But I'm neither stupid nor immature to not know when I've been bested." He sighed dug his hands into his pockets, looking up at the ceiling. "I understood why you chose him since that Onsen on Ice shit, and then he just kept getting better. Anyone with a pair of eyes could see it."
It was hard to think of a good answer because Yuri was right, Yuuri had grown so fierce and powerful in the last year he was almost unrecognizable, sometimes more like an unbreakable marble statue rather than a fragile porcelain figure. But facing an overblown media scandal wasn't necessarily a matter of strength. People were cruel and quick to forget. The smallest rumor could blow up and then the transcendence of Yuuri's performances would be erased from the public memory to be replaced with vicious tales and false accusations that would be accepted as truths, probably even get added on a "Controversy" section on his Wikipedia article, his legacy forever tarnished.
"Yuri, I can't-"
"Oh, stuff it!" he kicked the coffee table with his heel, making the cups on it clatter and bounce dangerously. "You've convinced yourself with this 'I'm just doing it for him' crap, but the truth is you're just a fucking coward. You thought you had perfect control over your own stupid feelings and when you didn't, you ran away. It's always safer to be the heartbreaker than the heartbroken, isn't it?"
Victor gaped at him, forgetting every word he had ever learned in every language he knew, astounded beyond what should be possible. Yuri didn't stop there.
"If you were seriously so concerned about him you wouldn't fucking be here making everyone fucking miserable with this shit! Even your stupid dog is miserable, god damn it!"
"Makkachin is not stupid!"
"Definitely not as stupid as you, for sure! At least he knows what you should be doing now!"
Thick silence hung over their heads. Yuri was still towering over him, fuming. Victor tried to hold his gaze, but failed miserably and instead turned to glance at Makkachin, who was once again scratching at the door.
A terrifying thought rushed to the front of his mind.
Did I make a mistake?
"You claim to do everything for him but you didn't bother actually asking what he wanted."
What… Yuuri wanted?
He knew what Yuuri wanted. He'd wanted to win the Grand Prix and make up for last year's humiliation, erase his regrets and achieve his true potential. Show the world what he was truly capable of.
Was that what he really wanted?
Was it not Victor's own desire of showing off the beauty and shine of the diamond he'd found, the one everyone else had mistaken for charcoal? Had he projected his wish, his drive to make Yuuri himself see how wonderful, how awe-inspiring he was? Why had Yuuri been crying in the bathroom after crowning himself World Champion? Had he missed on the actual bigger picture?
Just stay by my side and never leave!
Victor was not blind, nor foolish. Over a decade under the spotlight had made him all too aware of what being wanted felt like. He knew Yuuri wanted him. He'd proclaimed it live on national TV too. The memory still made Victor's heart skip a beat in the most wonderful way possible. But Yuuri wanted him for his talents, his experience. What Yuuri wanted from him was advice and support, knowing that there was someone who believed in him more than he believed in himself. Perhaps he wanted his body too, at least a little, if the way Yuuri occasionally struggled to keep his eyes on Victor's face when they bathed in the onsen was any indication.
But for sure, Yuuri didn't want the storm of emotions and passions that Victor could hardly contain within his own body; definitely didn't need this all-consuming desire in which he wasn't sure whether he wanted to devour Yuuri whole or to relinquish his entire existence and let it dissipate in Yuuri's arms, or if it was possible to have both at the same time; nor the love that was so intense Victor wanted to cry, and laugh, and fall apart and touch heaven every time he lay eyes on Yuuri. His feelings were too much of everything, even for him, and if Yuuri had known of them, he wouldn't have wanted them.
Victor buried his head in his bent knees. With a twinge to his chest that was as painful as it was relieving, he reaffirmed himself that yes, he had made the right choice, for Yuuri's career and his heart, and that was really all that mattered.
"Fucking be like that then, I don't know why I even fucking bother." Yuri spat after a long silence.
He didn't look up, and only heard Yuri stomp to the door, growl at Makkachin 'your stupid puppy eyes don't work on me, you know, I'm not taking you back to fucking Japan', and slam the door on his way out.
Victor tightened his fingers around his knees, Yuri's words ringing in his head.
You wouldn't fucking be here making everyone fucking miserable with this—
Yuuri… Yuuri couldn't possibly be unhappy, right?
Yuri kept coming every day for the following week, but he didn't really speak to Victor. He would drop a bag of groceries on the table, growl "You better have eaten that when I'm back." And took Makkachin for a walk. Victor didn't really dare contradict him and, so he obeyed without protesting, even if the meals themselves continued to do nothing for his sense of taste. He didn't try striking up conversation with Yuri either, not really knowing how to pick up from their last argument. He was afraid of asking about Yuuri. The thought that Yuuri might still be hurting and that he'd done all this for nothing tormented him, so he ran away from it as far as he could. Being a coward was kind of his specialty, and apparently the only thing he was good at that he hadn't left behind in Japan.
At the end of May, he got a text message from Yuri that included an attached video.
Angry kitten: Just watch this
Angry kitten: VIDEO: [Katsuki Yuuri]…
Victor felt a pang of pain in his chest and tossed the phone away. Was this Yuri's cruel way of getting back at him? The video's title was cut short due to the format, but Victor had looked at those exact words all too many times to not know exactly what video that was. He'd already watched that video more times than he could count, and Yuri knew that, the whole world knew that, had talked about it endlessly over a year ago. He was trying to move forward in some way, so why did Yuri insist on pulling him back to the past?
He cleared his head off it and went back to scrolling through the news. At the back of his mind, the memory of the pure, unadultered awe he'd felt when he'd first watched that video surged forward and he let go of a breathy sob.
His door was slammed open five hours later, and Yuri stomped to the living room, fuming. Victor noticed he wasn't carrying groceries today
"Why didn't you watch it!"
It was supposed to be a question –probably-, but it sounded more like a misphrased command.
"I have watched it." Victor replied nonchalantly, fighting away the burn at the back of his eyes, his gaze locked on a series of pictures of Chris's cat on Instagram. Chris hadn't texted him at all since Worlds. No one really had.
"No you fucking haven't. If you'd watched it you would be fucking doing something about it."
Yuri snatched his phone away and tapped a couple of times, his eyebrows scrunched in a deep scowl. Victor felt something other than hurt and loneliness curling in his gut, dark and bitter.
"I did watch it, Yuri, you know it! I even took a damned plane to Japan because of it!"
Yuri stopped whatever he was doing on his phone and looked at him with wide eyes. He dragged his palm over his face, clearly exasperated, and shoved the phone back on Victor's hands. Victor glanced at the screen against his better judgment and sure there was Yuuri, as beautiful as he remembered him, but he wasn't wearing his navy blue shirt from last year's viral video, but his Team Japan jacket instead. He looked down at the title that read "[Katsuki Yuuri] Prepares new mysterious program", and his eyes widened in realization.
"IT'S NOT. THE SAME. FUCKING. VIDEO." Yuri snapped, in case all the other signs hadn't been enough.
Victor's thumb hovered over the image, hesitant. Should he do this? He could feel curiosity buzzing in his head. What kind of music would Yuuri be creating with his body this time? Could he possibly look even more beautiful than he had at the Grand Prix? Maybe if he watched this he could convince himself that Yuuri was indeed moving forward so he could begin to do the same thing?
He shut the phone down.
"I can't."
Yuri snarled at him. "Watch it. You fucking watch it right now."
"But Yuri-"
"I don't want to hear anymore garbage, you're gonna fucking watch that shit, I'm not leaving until you do."
Victor glanced at the phone, his finger twitching. He wanted to watch it. He always wanted to watch Yuuri skate, but he hadn't done it in nearly two months because it was too painful. He shook his head and got up from the couch, hoping to get some water from the kitchen to clear his head and figure out what to do about Yuri's stubborn insistence on making him feel as bad as possible.
Suddenly, Makkachin barked and Victor heard him softly padding through the apartment before standing next to him and nudging his thigh. It was the first time Makkachin approached him in weeks. He looked down and found the dog holding his phone in his mouth. Victor snatched it away instinctively and wiped the drool away, checking for any marks or cracks, then unlocked the screen to make sure it was still working.
The video of Yuuri was still on full screen, and he frowned. Makkachin barked proudly, like when he'd peed on Victor's hotel bed.
"Makkachin, we've—"
'I guess a part of me was kind of hoping he'd watch it.'
The voice that interrupted him didn't belong to Yuri –not the Yuri standing physically there-, and although it was distorted through the other phone's speakers, it still shook him to the core and punched all the air out of his lungs. His knees almost gave out on him.
"Yuuri…" he breathed , before he could stop himself, and the name left his mouth tasting of katsudon and honey and metal and loneliness. He looked up at Yuri, his eyes hazy with confusion. "How…?"
"It's the 21st Century, old man, we can in fact record other people speaking." He responded flatly, waving his own phone at him.
Yuri hadn't told his rival that he was recording him. He'd watched the video, chewed on it for a few hours, then called him on Skype without bothering to think about timezones.
"Yurio?"
"Oi, Katsudon, what the fuck's up with that video?!"
When color rose to the other Yuri's face, he decided this might become useful in his so far fruitless quest to make Victor stop acting stupid, so he clicked on the record button and waited.
"A-ahh… God, that wasn't supposed to go online, this is the worst kind of déjá vú…" he flailed, covering his face with his hands. "I even asked Yuu-chan to leave me alone for a bit, but I guess I underestimated the triplets yet again, ahhh…"
Yuri scowled. "I don't care about that, what's with that choreo."
Japanese Yuuri finally let his hands fall to his lap, his expression turned serious. "I don't really know, that's just… it just came to me one day. I wasn't even trying to put a program together or anything, it just happened."
"Then why does it look like that."
The other Yuuri blushed again, and a sad, yet fond smile appeared on his lips. "It just… that's how it came to me. I can't really explain it." He paused, looked down at his hands, then back at the camera, but his eyes were so intense it didn't really feel there were thousands of miles and a computer screen between them. "Yurio, do you know if…" he paused again and shook his head. "No, nevermind."
Yuri was about to comment on how sick he was of people being stupid around him and how much he wanted to barf talking to either of them, but the other Yuuri spoke again. "You know, I… I didn't intend for it to be recorded, let alone go viral again but… once it did I couldn't help it… I guess a part of me was kind of hoping he'd watch it." He chuckled, and even through the grainy video resolution, Yuri could tell his stupidly big brown eyes were watery. So carelessly transparent. "It's silly, isn't it? But I thought that… well, this was how he first came to me so… maybe it might work again this time…"
Yuri really hated them both.
"He wants you to watch it. You owe him at least that much after you fucking left him crying in the bathroom at Worlds."
Victor swallowed, his hand shaking with the phone in it. Makkachin barked for emphasis. He bit his lip, his heart twisting painfully in his chest. Yuuri should've never been locked in a bathroom crying after becoming World Champion. Had his selfishness and lack of control over his own feelings ruined what should've been the greatest moment of Yuuri's career? His thumb hovered over the 'play' button again, his eyes already hot with tears. Hadn't he reestablished his resolve just a few days ago? Hadn't he decided, after careful thought and analysis, that he had made the right choice?
Makkachin barked again and hopped to bop his head against the back of Victor's hand, almost making him drop the phone. In his scramble to keep it from falling, his thumb swiped over the screen
The video started playing, and Victor knew he was doomed, because he could never take his eyes away once Yuuri started skating.
The opening choreography was very similar to "Yuri on Ice", as if Yuuri had once again tried to portray the feeling of being insecure and fighting alone without believing in himself. Unlike that one though, in this he seemed to limit his movements to the right side of the rink, as if something was physically preventing him to cross over to the other side. His steps were sorrowful and slow, every breathe painstakingly pulled from his lungs, life itself leaving his body when he spun. He was mesmerizing, and so, so beautiful, Victor's heart ached.
There was no music, but it wasn't necessary, Victor could almost touch the melodies being born from Yuuri's every step. As he picked up momentum, he took off in quad Salchow, landed it beautifully, then glided backwards, his arms open wide like wings, and when he reached the center of the rink, his whole body went limp, collapsed as if he had fainted, but his arms were still spread, as if expecting to be caught. There was no one there, though, so he fell roughly on his behind, but he picked himself back up, unfazed, spun around to look at the invisible person that had failed to catch him, and there was no grudge or reproach to be found on his expression, only gentle affection as his hands rose to cup a face that wasn't there.
Ah.
Victor's knees finally gave out, and he kneeled on the ground, the phone clutched tight in his hands. The image on the video was turning blurry through his tears, that started streaming down his cheeks, and he choked on a sob.
"Yuuri…" he whimpered pathetically, his fingers ghosting over Yuuri's pixelated image.
Just stay by my side and never leave!
"Yuuri…" he wept, two tears splashing on the screen, making the image even blurrier. It didn't matter. His heart was beating frantically in his chest, blood rushing through his body and making him feel warm for the first time in weeks. He understood now.
To be continued
This was supposed to be a one-shot, but at some point it was going over 24 thousand words, so I decided to split it in two parts. I decided to post this now because the show validated all my Pining Victor dreams, thank our goddess Kubo Mitsurou for her gracious gifts.
If it's not obvious, the fact that Victor explicitly sees music when Yuuri skates is very important to me. Also, Victor's Stammi Vicino and the parking lot scene are also terribly important to me. Victuri is very important to me.
Most of this first chapter was written in the weeks after hearing my cat's illness was terminal shortly followed by her passing, so I poured a lot of my own grief into it. Maybe that's made the crying scenes exaggerated or over the top –yet I feel I barely scraped the surface of it-, maybe even unnecessary, but it was something that allowed me to explore my own mourning process in a different way and it turned out to be quite cathartic, I hope it doesn't hinder your enjoyment of this.
As might be obvious, part 2 will have joy and disgusting romance to compensate for all the heartbreak and crying in this first part. I'm almost done writing that one, so I hope to put it out for Victor's birthday.
I'll be waiting to hear your thoughts on this, I really hope you enjoy it.
