The day had been gloomy already—the icy April rain fell in cold, bone-chilling sheets that dropped idly to the streets of Saint Petersburg below our fifth-story apartment.
That didn't really help with the emptiness coursing through my body.
My anxiety always had a habit of hitting when I least expected it; when I had woken up this morning to the cold rain outside and Viktor on the pillow beside me, I had been elated to spend the day curled up in bed with a good book and a hot cup of coffee, reading to my dorky little heart's content while Viktor worked on his coach training with Yakov.
That had been at nine o'clock this morning.
It was currently five in the evening. I had spent most of the day doing just as I had pleased—I had willed myself out of bed long enough to do the dishes (that Viktor had 'accidentally' left in the sink from the previous night, I might add), cook my husband a quick breakfast, then usher him over the threshold of our apartment with a (probably excessively long) goodbye kiss. I had taken the time to straighten up our little flat (or, make it look like I had, anyway) before collapsing back into the bed and burying myself under the downy comforter, my copy of A Dance with Dragons in hand, a cup of hazelnut coffee on my nightstand, and Makkachin sleeping soundly at my feet. It had been nice to recharge. After all, competitive skating could be completely draining as an introvert. Interacting with so many people could really get to you after the season ends—especially after the hubbub of the wedding and the honeymoon. That had been three weeks ago, now, and today had been the first day that I had really gotten some alone time since the beginning of the skating season.
Everything was going so well.
And then my anxiety had to swoop in and shatter it to pieces.
I didn't have the energy to feel human. I just sat cross-legged on the mattress, gazing out at the endless rain blurring the darkening Russian skyline. I couldn't read. The words on the pages couldn't keep my interest. I couldn't watch television. The pictures on the screen couldn't capture my attention. I didn't want to breathe, let alone function properly. Makkachin still slept soundly on the foot of the bed.
Everything felt empty, like there was no purpose to it. The thoughts that flowed relentlessly through my head echoed in the silence encasing my being. No purpose? they inquired, almost in a taunting tone. Of course, there isn't a purpose to your stupid little life. What purpose do you serve, Yuuri? Yeah, you figure skate, but what purpose is there to what you're doing? What do you have to offer to the world? To your fans? To your husband?
I tried to shake the thoughts away. But I couldn't. I never could. I was never strong enough.
They would course in circles, like horses on carousels, their haunting, monotonous melody protruding my train of thought, taking over my consciousness.
I closed my eyes when I felt the tears coming. No. No, no, no. You're such a damn crybaby. You're a man. Suck it up.
I never could do that, either.
And so, the tears came.
It was one of those instances where the tears come, but you make no effort to stop them. You don't wipe them away angrily, or bury your face in your hands, or cry out in pain. You just sit there, numb to the world around you, too stunned by your own ignorance to speak or try and clean yourself up. You just sit there, and let the tears spill off your eyelashes and roll down your cheeks.
And that's how Viktor found me—silently sitting cross-legged on our bed, facing the off-grey satin-framed window as the rain fell from both my eyes and the sky above, my back to him.
He could always sense my moods before he saw my face. After three years of living together, studying each other's thoughts and actions, foretelling my moods came easy to him. I wish I could say the same. I was still shit at it.
"Love, are you feeling all right?" I could tell from the sound of his voice and the rustling behind me that he was performing his usual coming-home routine—slip off his trenchcoat, hang it on the peg on the back of the bedroom door. Unwrap his scarf from around his neck, drape it over the coat. His shoes were already off. I could tell by the padding of his feet. He must have removed them at the door. He knew it annoyed me when people wore shoes beyond the entrance hall. One of my Japanese quirks, he called it. My traditional Japanese customs still ruled my now-Russian way of life. I suspected that they always would.
I just dropped my head a bit. I didn't want to talk.
He rounded the foot of the bed anyway and sat down next to me. The mattress shifted slightly under his weight. His arm wrapped around my shoulder. It's okay, that familiar gesture said. You're having a bad moment, and I know you are. I'm here for you. I've always been here for you. I love you.
Well, I was tired of having bad moments. I was tired of having my good days ruined by my stupid anxiety attacks, tired of having decent moments ravaged by my recurring dark thoughts, tired of being afraid and blubbering like a child, tired of hindering Viktor of a decent night's sleep because I couldn't stop hyperventilating, tired of this, tired of that, tired of my anxiety. I was angry. I could feel the rage bubbling in my stomach. But I was still empty. And I still couldn't bring myself to address the issue.
His thumb wiped away a stray tear that rolled down my chin as he kissed away another on my cheek. "Would you feel better if I made some tea for you?"
I slowly shook my head. "I just… It's been a day."
That sentence alone seemed to suck the energy right out of me.
"Has the whole day been this bad?"
I shook my head again. "No, it was… it was going pretty well, and…."
He squeezed my shoulder gently. He understood. I didn't have to say any more.
We were silent for a few moments, his head resting on my shoulder as we both watched the gray rain fade into blackness.
"I feel like I don't have a purpose."
He stood abruptly, then knelt in front of me, his fingers lacing together with mine as his eyes gazed up at me. "Don't have a purpose," he repeated stonily. He let out a chuckle. "You really have no idea, do you?"
"No idea of what?" I was annoyed now.
"Of exactly what you are to me. You say you don't have a purpose. Allow me to elaborate our dilemma." He caressed my cheek with the palm of his free hand. "Yuuri, before I met you, I had been neglecting life and love for nearly three decades. I lived my life of glamour, of excitement. It was an endless cycle. Train, win gold, party, return to an empty apartment, repeat. For fifteen years, I repeated that same vicious cycle, over and over, year after year, day after day. There was no passion in me. No desire. No love. I felt like a shell, like the empty husk of a human. I was living my dream, but I had no purpose. No reason for really living. I had no family—you know the story, my parents kicked me out at fifteen because I came out to them—and no close friends. But then…. Then, I met you."
I felt my eyelids flicker. I inhaled deeply. Where was he going with this?
"It wasn't long before I realized what I was missing. I was missing someone. Someone who would show me what it was like to have passion, what it was like to be close to someone. You showed me that. You gave me hope; you showed me what it was like to love again. You gave me purpose, Yuuri Katsuki-Nikiforov. You gave me an entirely new purpose that I never knew I could have."
"And what would that be?"
"To be with you."
All I could do was stare at him. I was completely taken aback. "Viktor—"
"I'm not done. You said you don't think you have a purpose. Yuuri, your purpose is to keep me going. You're the only thing keeping me afloat. You're the one who keeps me grounded, who shows me how to live my life to the best of my ability. You've given me a true reason for living, for loving. You inspire me, captivate me. Before I met you, it's like the world was a vacuum that sucked the very being out of me. But now, because of you, I can see the light. You're my purpose—and your purpose is keep me afloat, if nothing else. You're my life raft, Yuuri. You have a greater purpose than you could ever imagine. Please, don't ever think anything less. Understand?"
I nodded slowly. I felt like I was going to cry again. He always knew exactly what to say. It made me weak. "Yes. I… I'm sorry."
He chuckled good-naturedly and stood, kissing my forehead. "Don't be sorry. Just please remember that. If you ever feel like you don't have a purpose, then just look at me. I'm still living, still breathing, and it's all because of you."
I pulled him down by the shirt of his collar and pressed my lips to his, holding him there for a moment before I let him go. "Thank you, Vitya."
He smiled. "Any time. I love you, Yuuri."
"Ya lyublyu tebya," I replied, smiling back at him.
He shuddered slightly, then laughed. "You never cease to amaze me."
"And you never fail to love me." I forced a smile before resting my head on his shoulder. "Even when I can't love myself."