A/N: Hey all. The initial thought I had about this story has been floating around in my head for months. It's taken about five different attempted forms like a Victuuri-flavored amoeba, but they've all stemmed from one parent thought: What if Yuuri never skated「ARIA - そばにいて」and Victor didn't leave competition for a season?
Let's tug on one of these threads for a bit and see what different tapestry we can weave, hm?
Disclaimer - I don't own Yuuri on Ice. This is all for amusement and entertainment.
A crushing defeat at Sochi and the anguish of finally having his idol - no, his God - offer to take a photo with him, probably out of pity, only to walk away in humiliated anger and self-loathing, brought Katsuki Yuuri to drink into a blackout at the banquet. And the morning after that drove him silently, stewing in his pit of despair, all the way to the airport to board his flight back to Detroit, utterly in shambles.
He could tell Celestino was trying to buck him back up, voicing the usual platitudes, but Yuuri couldn't hear the words over the din of his own blood rushing through his veins. Vicchan had died, he'd blown his first and likely last chance at ever skating the same ice as Victor on a world stage, and he was already almost twenty-three. He still had years ahead of him, but time was most certainly not on his side anymore - his competitive skating days were numbered. He'd spend a lot of time getting to where he was and now he was almost back at square one.
Reporters and fans were already assuming he would retire because of this; he hadn't even said anything of the nature to the media, the JSF or ISU for that matter. That irritated him… made him angry, on top of the anger he always heaped onto himself after a bad or even lukewarm performance. He slammed a balled fist into his right thigh hard, grunting despite trying to keep his silence.
His coach stopped talking then, wrongly-assuming the uncharacteristic motion was a silent bid to say his athlete had had enough, so he took it as such. In truth, it was the athlete trying not to damage the tabletop between the chairs or his own face in disgust.
There would be a bruise later.
The last twenty minutes before boarding began were silent between them, Celestino opting to speak with others, resigning Yuuri to his own head. The older man knew he wasn't going to make any progress until they got back to Michigan at this point, so he would just let the younger man be.
An almost inaudible buzzing sound came from the pocket of Yuuri's dark turquoise track jacket and he had half a mind to ignore it, the state the was in. As much of a wreck as he was though, he fished it out in case it was someone back home. When he saw it was Phichit, he suddenly squared his shoulders and checked the faint reflection in the glass to see how he looked, then thumb-tapped to answer the FaceTime call. "Phichit-kun, hey."
"You look like hell," came the blunt but light comment immediately from behind a bright smile. Yuuri's own forced smile twitched at the right corner.
"Yeah," he sighed, letting his face fall.
His friend offered a sympathetic look for a moment, patting the top of the phone off camera, as if he was trying to pat his friend on the shoulder. Then he smiled at him. "I won't ask about it, we can talk when you get here."
"Thanks, I don't think I could take another chat right now," Yuuri mused, his shoulders drooping insignificantly.
His Thai friend nodded in agreement, then the telltale shine of his eyes made the Japanese man suspicious. "I have a couple of ideas I wanna run past you, but I'm still fleshing them out, so we'll talk about them later, too," he waved off. "I mostly wanted to talk to you, just to talk. And put you in suspense, of course," he chortled. "How long until boarding?"
Yuuri's barely-there grin was genuine now. He fished the slightly crumpled boarding pass from his skate bag and looked at it, then at the top of his phone, then over at the booth by the gate. "They're boarding First and Business Class now, so probably ten minutes. Why?"
"Those ideas I mentioned?" said the younger man.
"Yeah?"
"I have one question, but it'll sound random to you. Just go with it though, okay?"
"O…kay?" The cloak and dagger was doing wonders to alleviate his angry and depressed mood, though it didn't pop completely. It never did.
Phichit covered his lips with his fingers and smiled with his eyes. "Do you remember Kate?"
Yuuri's heart spasmed once. Did he remember Kate? Was Phichit serious? "Huh?"
"Trust me, just answer!"
"You know I remember Kate," he responded in a whisper, closing his eyes. How long had it been since he'd thought about her? Almost six months now. Yuuri frowned at that thought. Kate, Phichit and himself had been inseparable ever since Phichit had arrived in Detroit - thick as thieves. Celestino had started calling them The Three Stooges and cast Kate as Moe for being the brains behind their trysts of trouble. Over the course of almost two years, they'd been caught sneaking out countless times to go to a club to dance all night, only to wind up punished with drills the next day after no sleep. Naturally they never learned their lesson.
After the accident though, Kate had fallen off the radar and they hadn't heard from her in almost two years. Yuuri winced inwardly. It hadn't been from lack of trying, but Kate had simply ghosted everyone after being relocated out of Detroit to a facility that was better equipped to deal with major sports injuries. There were rumored sightings of her somewhere in California, but nothing substantiated.
"Why do you ask?" Yuuri frowned at Phichit.
The crinkling at the corners of Phichit's eyes became slightly more visible, as the mouth being hidden smiled wider. Yuuri could hear the soft amusement muffled behind his fingers. "Have a safe flight, Yuuri. Tell Ciao-ciao I said hi!" And the screen went dark.
Yuuri stared at the phone perplexed, wondering where in the world his friend's mind was going, until it was time to board the flight.
He stood, hefting his backpack up onto his shoulder and made his way to the back of the lengthy line of passengers, waiting for his chance to board. He took one more look at the time then settled the phone in his back pocket of his jeans, shifting the straps on his shoulders to a more comfortable position.
Celestino walked in line behind his skater, having kept half an eye on him while the exchange took place, his on recollection of the girl flittering through his mind wistfully. He fished his phone out of his coat pocket to look at the new text message.
[How's he look now?]
The brunette unlocked his phone and tapped out a quick response.
[Loads better. What did you do?]
[I gave him a better puzzle to work on.] came the immediate reply, with a pair of devilish purple emojis.
[Well, whatever you did, it looks like it worked for now.]
Phichit grinned again. [Safe flight, Ciao-ciao!] and a smiling emoji with waving hands.
After an hour delay in the plane - customary of Aeroflot flights - the next eighty-four minutes of the two hour and twenty-five minute flight from Sochi International to Sheremetyevo was spent intently trying to figure out just what Phichit had in mind. All other depressions, concerns, anger, resentment and disappointment were put effectively on the backburner.
The ideas by themselves that his mind came up with were innocuous, but when trying to take his friend's flair for the dramatic, the way he thought about entertainment and just the pure Phichit-ness™ of it all, Yuuri couldn't help but dream up a few ideas ranging from amusing to downright crazy. One errant thought might have resulted in a night in jail.
Yuuri shuddered in spite of himself.
The initial thought may have been a reunion between the three. Normal by itself, but it had the potential to be completely over the top, assuming Kate was back to her old self. The skater's hands itched to check his friend's Instagram feed for clues, but he'd have to wait until the short layover for that kind of help.
Another idea had been that Kate was back in town and there was a plan to hit a club. Some of the clubs they'd run off to did things like Ladies Night and happy hour, but they also had discounts for the cover if patrons adhered to the theme of the night. "Tie Night" had been amusing at Motor City Scratch, he remembered with a half smile.
Yuuri admitted that he didn't retain everything of that particular night. He remembered enough and flushed a little embarrassedly at recalling a particularly close encounter with Kate, that was not at all like himself, which he chalked up to having too many jello shooters. He recalled something about hanging on her a little too much after the song set, which also wasn't fine in his mind, even though she had just laughed, smiled wide and bought him another drink before dragging him back to the dorms. He never did say anything coherent that night. But the hangover the next morning was spectacularly bad.
After all this time, Yuuri was still irritated that she seemed to have been unaffected by all the alcohol she'd had; her Irish and German genetics were just as primed for over-drinking as his were.
He put the rest of that night back in it's cubby hole in his memories with a fond sigh, which let the most recent events out of their own box and his mood flipped like a switch. He spent the second half of the flight beating himself up over his free skate and being angry at himself for not being able to compartmentalize like he had that one night.
His mood followed him like a cloud through the terminal towards the connecting flight to JFK, declining Celestino's offer for a quick bite but taking the insisted bottle of water shoved into his sternum. He gulped it down haughtily and jammed the bottle into a nearby trash can, walking away towards the restroom, putting his earbuds back into his ears and checking his phone along the way.
Two missed calls from his folks, one from Mooroka and a string of random update notifications and tags on his feed, which he cleared without even looking at them. They were probably condolences and well wishes for Nationals in a couple of weeks that he didn't want to think about yet.
He ducked into a stall in the restroom and sat down, taking a few calming breaths. He called his folks back and let them know he was on a short layover but still in Russia, and that he wouldn't be back in the States for another several hours. "[Yeah, I'll call when we touch down at JFK… No, I know you-... It's okay, mom. I'm fine. I gotta go, call you tomorrow]," he rushed out quickly, feeling the tears start to bubble to the top again, not wanting her to hear them.
He took another handful of moments to breathe through the fresh wound opening up when his mother had mentioned Vicchan again. His hands fumbled with the lock on the stall and he stumbled over towards the sinks near the urinals, scraping his eyes with the rough fabric of his sleeve under the rim of his glasses.
The face that stared back at him in the mirror was pathetic and it made him ill to look at. The water in Yuuri's system rebelled; he barely had time to dart back into the stall and give it up, the acidic taste burning the inside of his throat.
He took a few more shaky breaths to make sure he wouldn't dry heave, flushed and exited the stall again. At the sink for round two he didn't look up this time, opting to remove his glasses and fold them gently on the countertop. Unsteady hands passed under the sensors of the sink and cupped to catch some water to splash on his face three times over.
The skater reached blindly for a few paper towels to blot his face dry, then captured some more water from the tap to shove into his mouth to rinse it out. He spit it back into the sink, then wiped his mouth with another paper towel.
Slender wet hands raked through his dark hair, holding it back from his face. He chanced a glance in the mirror this time, his eyes narrowed at the blurry reflection for several moments, determinedly telling himself he would do better at Nationals, and he should just get over it.
For the moment it worked and he let go of his damp locks, most of them spilling back down over his forehead. Yuuri settled his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, decidedly not looking at his now-clear reflection and stepped out of the restroom.
All thoughts of checking Phichit's Instagram feed were left behind.
Celestino waved him over when their eyes met a couple of hundred feet away. When he got close enough his coach looked at him squarely, arms folded over his broad chest and camel-colored peacoat. They started at one another for several silent moments, then the older man nodded his head. "That's a good look in your eyes. You'll get 'em at Nationals, Yuuri."
Translation: You don't look like shit anymore, and that's all I can expect, came a dark comment from somewhere in Yuuri's mind. He nodded once, angling his head downward which caused the lenses on his face to obscure anyone else from seeing his eyes. He reached into a small pocket on the side of his backpack and pulled out a tiny tin of wintergreen Altoids, shoving two into his mouth to crunch down on, then deposited it back into his bag.
The pair walked the rest of the distance to the next leg of their flight in silence, though the brunette could hear the tenor of a voice singing faintly from his student's earbuds over the chatter in the terminal. He couldn't quite make out the whole song, but he could hear enough that it was on repeat, and that it was in Italian.
Aeroflot flights in Economy were brutal enough, but almost 10 hours of it was just like hell.
The last-place skater had done his best to sleep but each time he closed his eyes, the fall during his free skate came, ironically, crashing back into the forefront of his mind. The ice was an unforgiving mistress to all skaters when they weren't solely focused on her and he had been anything but. The pretty good score he'd gotten for his short program never stood a chance at saving him that night.
Vicchan… I'm sorry…
Before the tears came, he slapped his face twice with both hands, startling the nearby sleeping passengers. Some of them shot nasty looks at him and he flushed with embarrassment, nodding his head in apology. He turned then to stare out the half of the window that wasn't obscured by his seatback and watched the the great nothingness of the dead of night beyond. If there had been anything outside to see past the tiny lights and little bit of plane wing he could see, Yuuri's eyes didn't register it.
When he heard the quiet chime over the music in his earbuds, telling him that they were in need of recharging, he fished the phone from his pocket and looked at the time. Still having five hours until arrival, he paused the music and unpaired the buds in order to charge them. An older pair of blue and black wired Skullcandy earbuds were tugged gently from his backpack and plugged into the phone. The buds were settled into his ears and the music unpaused.
'Aria' was resumed on repeat, lulling him into a fitful rest finally, creeping into his restless dreams like a ghost.
It started out just like they always did, ever since seeing Victor Nikiforov premiere the free program earlier in the season. The soft clarinets and harp plucking began and the champion looked up forlornly. Delicate hands came up and he spun around slowly, dropping those hands back down after smooth and calm movements. The quiet Italian words started, and Victor kicked off with his left toepick to start gliding across the ice on his signature gold-plated blades. The stadium was so dark that only the ice and rink walls were illuminated around him, as if no one else was watching him from the shadows.
Except for Yuuri.
The younger man was only ever to see himself watching this performance as if he was outside of his own body from above. His hand gripped the wall, enraptured by every swish of gradient mauve to magenta, every clink of thin chains made with each movement, and every minute or purposeful scratch of blades on ice. His dream self imagined indulgently that this man.. this epitome of perfection.. was skating only for him. His cheeks burned at the thought, even in his unconsciousness.
Yuuri felt it even then, especially so in his dreams, that Victor seemed to be missing something. Sure, the movements were beautiful, breathtaking even. His quads and combinations were so good that it both amazed the fan while disgusting the competitor within the younger skater in the same breath. The music seemed to pull at his heartstrings, trying to convey a message that his mind was trying to decipher. It was haunting and enchanting. But it was also empty, if that were possible.
Why did such a perfect performance always leave him feeling heartbroken?
Before Dream Yuuri could start clapping at the end of the performance and call out to his idol, the dream was over just like always. His eyes opened sluggishly to the dim running lights in the plane cabin, noting peripherally that everyone else in eyeshot were asleep. He assumed there was still some time left on the flight and checked his phone again - three hours to go before landing at JFK Airport. That surprised him; somehow he had managed to sleep uninterrupted for almost two hours in the uncomfortable seats. Would wonders never cease?
Movement from the corner of his eye pulled at his attention. Celestino was also checking his phone, writing something in the black moleskin notebook on his fold-out tray. Yuuri left him to his business, turning to his own phone to pull up a downloaded video of the short program from the Grand Prix Finals. As far as the scores had gone, it was one of his best performances to date. The elusive quad Salchow had been pulled off without falling and put him in a respectable position going into the Free Skate, despite his shaky landing. Originally the jump had been a quad toe loop, but he's put all his chips on the table and went for it. And then the news came about Vicchan that night.
With a nearly soundless whimper and barely suppressed tears, Yuuri angrily closed the video app with a brusque double-tap and a swift upswipe.
"Retire already! We don't need two Yuuri's in the same bracket."
That mop of blonde and seething green bore holes into Yuuri's memory. He'd never be able to forget the arrogant gaki even if he'd wanted to. And he didn't want to. He would remember the scathing stare and the biting demand for the rest of his days. It depressed him, certainly. Someone eight years his junior - a world champion in his own right - was demanding his head on a pike. A dark pinprick in the depths of Yuuri's soul smirked.
Threatened people lash out in fear.
That simple notion caused his sour mood to evaporate. Was the Japanese skater threatening? He didn't see how. He was well-known for his step sequences and spins, and that he had stamina to burn even on the worst of days. But he hardly had any real big guns in his technical arsenal. At least not that a newly-minted senior division skater would find threatening.
He shook his head emphatically and dug with gusto into the carryon stowed under the seat. A quick rummage resulted in a five-by-seven composition book and a cheap blue ballpoint pen.
The final two hours of the flight were spend furiously scribbling notes and watching bits and pieces of several other saved programs from other world-class skaters - Victor of course, but also Christophe Giacometti and Otabek Altin. He would never admit it out loud, but Yuuri was also watching JJ's performances. The kid might be a textbook narcissist but he was skilled. Otabek seemed somewhat stiff in his artistry, but he was young, and the older skater had a feeling that he would do great things.
Almost three pages front and back were filled when the lights in the cabin came on fully, and notification in English that the descent was going to begin. Yuuri tucked his comp book onto his lap and slid his phone into his pocket, put the tray back in place and locked it.
"You looked pretty fired up there for a bit, Yuuri," came the murmured voice of his coach.
"Yeah," he responded noncommittally, opening the book back up to keep scribbling notes while balancing it on his slightly sore thigh.
Celestino watched in silence as his athlete continued to fill up a new page in his notebook and flip to the back of the filled page, but didn't feel the need to try to peek at what was being written. Even if he had, he wouldn't have been able to read most of it; it was a smattered mix of Japanese and English. Yuuri was a private person at best and his coach respected that.
Yuuri wanted to escape into the bustle of New York as soon as they had landed at JFK.
After another quick call to his folks to check in as promised, he spent the following ten minutes pleading and insisting that he needed some air to his coach. With great reluctance, Celestino allowed him to leave the airport, with the insistence that he return in two hours. The layover was four hours and fifty-five minutes, but being alone in New York increased the odds of getting lost. He had no interest in seeing a city he'd been to a dozen and four times. He had some paperwork to catch up on now that he had internet. Twenty minutes later found Yuuri in a cab headed away from the arrival terminal and over towards Central Park.
Once there with a generous tip to the cabbie, he checked the time on his phone and wandered towards one of the hot dog carts. Mustard dog and a Pepsi in hand, he felt a brief reprise from his lingering failures. A bench near the edge of the park became a temporary heaven when a inundated dog walker was pulled along by five fluffle-pups. He couldn't help but chuckle at the spectacle, despite the pang in his chest; one of them was a well-kempt standard poodle.
Absently he finished his late lunch but not actually tasting it, people-watching in quiet introspection. A few more scribbles in his notebook were made while he took pulls from the bottled carbonation. Fresh air did wonders for his soul even through the acrid scent of exhaust that wafted towards him as too many cars passed by. He was still depressed about the past few days, but the liveliness of the Big Apple was strangely acting as a balm, taking the edge off.
He tucked away his notebook and finished the rest of his drink, shoving it into a recycling bin as he made his way back towards the street. Yuuri tugged his phone from his pocket, pulling his beanie closer around his ears. A quick search in his contacts was made, and the phone tucked between the brim and his ear.
"Yuuri!"
"Hey, Phichit," the faint smile in his voice was evident for once.
"You almost here?" his friend posed.
"Yeah, layover for a couple more hours at JFK."
"Oooh, where are you? It sounds busy, but not airport busy!" Leave it to to the social butterfly to know what's happening.
"I ducked out for some air at Central Park."
"PICTURES!"
The Japanese skater snorted a little, then took a selfie at the corner of Fifth Avenue and West One-hundred and Tenth Street, posing with the Duke Ellington statue. He sent it over to his friend.
"Ahhhh, lucky! Ciao-ciao never lets me wander around on layovers!"
Yuuri smiled nervously at his friend, scratching the side of his face. "I'm older than you and I kind of strong-armed him into it. He really didn't want me to wander off, either."
Phichit gave an appreciative whistle. "You never insist! I'd have paid good money to see that!"
The two friend talked for a few minutes about random, light-hearted things before hanging up; they'd see one another in a few hours anyway. Yuuri stepped out near the street to hail a cab to take him back to the airport, taking one last selfie with his back to the busy street, the door to the cab before him, before closing the car door.
Finally back in Detroit after a grueling total of twenty-two hours, the skater and coach were little more than zombies trying to death march to baggage claim. The coach found that he liked flying to Europe less than to Asia. At least they weren't terminally late. "Yuuri, take today and tomorrow off," he winked at the younger man.
"B-but…"
"That flight was a rough end to a rough weekend," he offered a sympathetic but knowing smile. The raven-haired man's face fell. The coach marvelled at the way he was actually seeing the features morph to display his mood. It made him sad, but he knew it wouldn't stay crestfallen for long. "Get some really good rest and catch up with your folks and friends back home. We'll review everything after you reset and grind it out."
Yuuri nodded reflexively, staring at his coach without really seeing him. His eyes had the familiar thousand-mile-stare fixture that Celestino was used to seeing when Yuuri's mind had checked out. He clapped his hand on the shorter man's shoulder and practically led him through the terminal.
Bags collected, they got into a cab and headed back to Yuuri and Phichit's dorm, where the latter was waiting on the stoop for them.
Yuuri felt himself ushered inside and into the apartment, before being deposited onto the couch. Phichit stared at his friend quietly, the gears in his head working. "I have leftover pizza from lunch if you're hungry. I forgot to go grocery shopping," he offered with an exaggerated sigh and shoulder shrug.
"I think… I just wanna sleep... " Yuuri mumbled out, struggling to pull himself off of the couch and towards his bedroom, dragging his bags and his ass like a man reluctant to trudge to the guillotine for his well-deserved beheading.
"Sure, we'll catch up tomorrow," he heard from behind him, just before he closed his door.
Yuuri dumped his backpack unceremoniously on the floor and let go of the handle of his rolling suitcase, managing to unzip his team jacket and under-jacket before face-planting on to his mattress and into his pillows.
I'm a failure.
His conscious and subconscious fought an epic battle while he half-dozed. Cities raised and burned to the ground; palaces crumbled into nothing; the ocean tidal-waved and destroyed an imaginary coast. The end result was a sudden lurch to his feet and a frantic digging into his suitcase. The weekend's costumes were yanked out and thrown on the bed like they were the greatest offense.
A cropped sequined tuxedo jacket in varying shades of blue and white with lace cuffs, and a simple pair of black pants; a one-piece lycra number with a high neckline that he had to zip himself into, done all in midnight blue with a few wisps of silver around his left leg and right arm, silver trim around the cuffs and neckline.
A shaking hand gripped the glittering jacket, anger blazing behind unshed tears. His other hand came up to pull the garment shoulders taught.
Do it.
The grips tightened and the material was stretched further.
This is the manifestation of your failure, do it!
A stitch in the shoulder seam gave. A trio of sequins fell to the carpet.
Yuuri opted to throw the offending thing against his closed closet door, grunting from the effort. As angry as he was, he couldn't physically bring himself to ruin an expensive costume. It wasn't the jacket's fault he had gone down in flames. The jacket didn't screw up his Free Skate. I still need it for Nationals, came as an afterthought.
The last-place participant of the Grand Prix Finals threw himself back onto the bed and screamed his heart out into his pillows, finally allowing himself to let everything out. The sobs wouldn't subside for almost half an hour, until his body, mind and soul succumbed to exhaustion.
The almost-twenty year old pulled himself from his leaning position on the other side of the closed door, unfolding his crossed arms. Padding away silently, Phichit resolved himself to the deliciously insane plan he was going to propose to his broken friend. Now was not the time, of course, but soon. Once Yuuri had pulled himself up and out of the pit of despair that he'd fallen into.
[I'll make sure he comes to practice, but…]
[Can you give me an extra day?]
Phichit set the phone down and stuck his head into the fridge, dragging the pizza box out. His phone chirped.
[One extra day is fine. Japanese Nationals are in 2 weeks though.]
Phichit smirked, responding with one hand while shoving a plate with a slice of pepperoni into the microwave.
[Roger!] He tapped the send button, then locked his phone and set it in his rear pocket. The microwave beeped shrilly.
Pizza in hand, he made his way towards his own bedroom, chittered at his hamsters and sat down at his laptop. Opening the lid, he stared at his plan that he'd been working on ever since seeing Yuuri fall in his Free Skate. His plan was amazing, if he did say so himself. If it worked out, he would be even more of a genius than he already was.
This was going to be his magnum opus. His chef-d'oeuvre*. His P̄hl ngān chînxek*.
Phichit started to laugh, but almost choked on the bite of pizza that tried to slide down his windpipe.
* chef-d'oeuvre - Masterpiece (French)
* P̄hl ngān chînxek - Masterpiece (Thai, romanized)
(thanks, Google!)
A/N: Everything that happens before the beginning of this first chapter is cemented into my story's universal law. That means the initial Grand Prix Final, the Sochi Banquet, and all the sordid little details therein. I'm also sorry ahead of time for characters that seem out of character, because they will be. Par for the course of a series of drastic circumstantial changes.