In a figurative sense, Vikttor Nikiforov was dead. No soul, no purpose, no meaning. He was existing just because he could (and even then, it didn't feel like he was existing. He knew he was here, surrounded by those that loved him, basked in complete prestige, but he was not here. And perhaps he never really was.). Years go by slowly just to mess with him - a slow, repetitive dance that he is so, so tired of dancing. There's no music anymore; just the shuffling of his feet and the slow beating of his heart.
Viktor Nikiforov was dead.
It'd be a while before he found someone that could bring him back to life.
It wouldn't be long before that very same person put him back right where he started.
Viktor hid his feelings well. Masked the tired look and the slight repulsion with a fake smile and cheerful demeanor. It was necessary. Don't let them see how lost you are. Don't let them see how tired you are. Don't let them look into your eyes and see a broken man. Viktor Nikiforov lived on the top of the world. Act like it.
It was really easy to say "I'm fine."
It wasn't that easy to believe the words.
He is beautiful, so beautiful.
He is graceful, so graceful.
They believe he is the physical embodiment of the art of figure skating. He does not simply skate - he dances. He dances as if the music is infused in his soul. He is the music.
He is beloved, so beloved.
He is cherished, so cherished.
He is lonely, so lonely.
Viktor couldn't sleep. At two in the morning, his mind was still frantic and high-strung. His heart longed to be touched by him again, to dance with him again, to just be with again. He wishes to be with the boy that has swept him up and whisked him away, only to leave him behind as a hazy mess that craves for more.
He yearns for that boy, the boy that was dripping with eros.
For that one night, Viktor felt the air rush into him, a genuine smile creep onto his face. He felt like he was actually here.
In a figurative sense, Viktor Nikiforov was alive.
"Be my coach, Viktor."
Viktor breathed shakily. He could see the whiteness of his breath in the somber darkness.
If they were to meet again, he'll be much more than a coach.
No one couldn't quite understand why Viktor wanted to be alone on his twenty-seventh birthday. No one couldn't quite understand Viktor in general. Hell, Viktor couldn't even understand himself. He was a conundrum that he gave up on figuring out. He was already exhausted; no need in tiring himself out any further.
The cold air was more bitter than usual on that Christmas night. A bottle of vodka gave him temporary warmth.
For the fifth night, Viktor dreamt about him.
There were some people who considered Viktor Nikiforov a fucking idiot, and, well, Viktor couldn't blame them for thinking that way. After all, the five-time figure skating champion just abandoned everything to coach...who was he again? That Japanese boy that lost horribly at the Grand Prix Final in Sochi? What was his name?
Yuuri Katsuki - that's his name. Yeah.
Viktor Nikiforov just up and left everything to coach Yuuri Katsuki and no one understood why. No one except Viktor, who couldn't resist the urge to see this boy again. A chance was presented to him, and he took it. No hesitation, no thinking it through - there was no need to. Yuuri Katsuki called out to him - he could hear the plea of Viktor, come to me, please - and Viktor eagerly responded. He packed up a few belongings and Makkachin and left without a single goodbye.
(He wasn't quite sure how to even be a coach, but it was something he assumed would come to him overtime.)
The Yuuri Katsuki of now was not the Yuuri Katsuki of the banquet, Viktor soon came to realize. The wild sense of raw seduction and freedom he saw in those dangerous sexy brown eyes could not be found in the embodiment of shyness and fragility.
This Yuuri Katsuki had his own self-imposed restrictions. He had his doubts, his anxiety, his imperfections. He did not have the free, lust-filled nature that washed over Viktor like a flood.
And Viktor also came to realize that this unexpected difference was okay. The Yuuri Katsuki of the present meant as much to him as the Yuuri Katsuki of the past. They both captured his heart, lit it aflame. They both gave him purpose and meaning.
Yuuri Katsuki gave him the ability to feel.
It would be safe to say that Viktor Nikiforov fell in love all over again.
Yuuri snored lightly next to him. His hand rested upon Viktor's chest. Surely if he was awake, he would feel that fast beats of the Russian's heart.
Viktor gently grabbed Yuuri's hand and held it close to his lips. He kissed the golden engagement ring and thought about their future.
Yuuri didn't win gold, but that was alright. Just seeing the smile on his face was enough for Viktor. Just being able to be with Yuuri was enough for him. Viktor's life and love belonged to Yuuri and vice versa. The thought of losing him was impossible.
Yuuri hugged Viktor. His voice was muffled, but Viktor could clearly hear the soft whisper of "I love you."
A single tear rolled down his face.
Viktor Nikiforov will be with Yuuri Katsuki forever.
Both Yuuri and Yurio did not feel like exploring St. Petersburg, but Viktor made them anyway. He knew that Yuuri would eventually get used to the cold of his home (of their home).
A flock of seagulls flew overhead, specks of white on a grayscale canvas. Yurio cursed the birds' incessant noises, but Viktor simply looked toward Yuuri. And the meeting of their eyes said what words could never describe.
He left a trail of kisses down the Japanese boy's neck and across his collarbone, eliciting a soft moan for each soft touch. Viktor allowed slender fingers to be intertwined in his silver hair.
Tonight, Viktor Nikiforov will become one with Yuuri Katsuki.
The Christmas morning wasn't as cold as it should've been. It was unusual for this particular day, for it to feel this warm. Viktor wished that it was freezing to the point where he felt numb. That'd be a welcome respite, numbness. The inability to feel.
That'd be a welcomed respite.
Makkachin trotted by his side. The dog mimicked the look of his owner: tired and forlorn.
Viktor held a bouquet of blue roses - twenty-eight of them to be exact. Yuuri told him that Viktor would receive twenty-eight blue roses on his twenty-eighth birthday. Viktor laughed and gave Yuuri a smile and small kiss.
"Sure," he said. "I'd love that."
Yurio frowned, thus giving Viktor and Yuuri more incentive to give each other another kiss.
Viktor Nikiforov found himself standing in a sea of gray. This is not where he should be. He looked down upon the tombstone that said "Katsuki Yuuri".
The dog started whining.
This is not where he should be.
He kneeled down placed the bouquet down, smiling.
"It's my birthday, Yuuri," he whispered, tears welling in his eyes. "I love my present."
In a figurative sense, Viktor Nikiforov was dead.
(and perhaps in a literal sense, as well)
ugh. i wanted to post this on the day of viktor's birthday, but my idiot self was fucking sick and i didn't get a chance to start writing until eleven-something. now it's about to be two in the morning. sorry vitya.
apparently i am incapable of writing anything happy. wtf me. forgive me plz next year i'll have viktor get drunk off his ass on his b-day while yuuri records the whole thing. that sounds like a fun and happy thing to write lol.
i'll try to write something pleasant for yurio's birthday. i'll try to actually have his birthday story posted the day of. emphasis on try.
happy (belated) birthday, vitya. love ya, old man.