This was supposed to be no more than 800 words, as you can see, I failed in that endeavor. I blame it on my inability to properly cope with my own feelings. DRUM ROLL FOR THE NEWEST VENT FIC
Warning: Anxiety Attacks, Sensory Overload
Some time ago, when he was a child in fact, he mastered the art of sneaking out without a sound. It's not like he's going off to do anything illegal, and it's easy given that he has a copy of the key, gifted just a handful of years ago.
Having such an item comes in handy when it's two twenty-seven in the morning and the only light to be found is from the half moon hanging in the sky.
With a cursory patdown to make sure he has all he needs, Yuuri leaves his room, steps gentle and quiet.
Following Victor's arrival all those years ago, he'd nearly had a heart attack when Makkachin met him halfway down the hall. His worry had been misplaced, the dog only sniffed at his hand, giving it a lick before returning to Victor's room where the door was partially opened. Now, after having done this numerous times, he's come to expect Makkachin's interception in the hall. There's really only an issue when Yuuri doesn't sleep with Victor; occasionally he needs to be by himself, Victor is understanding, he gives Yuuri a kiss then sends him off down the hall.
An interception via Makkachin doesn't happen tonight, however, and Yuuri soon finds himself outside in the chilly air.
Staying cooped up with his thoughts doesn't do him any good, it never has. Unfortunately, these early morning, ungodly actually, jaunts on the ice are becoming more and more commonplace. It's not that he feels particularly bad, everything just gets jumbled up, and he can't make sense of any of it. It's nothing but a clammering mass of noise and pictures, bright colors flashing, phantom scents assaulting his nose while the cloying air in his imagination slowly suffocates him.
It's not pleasant.
Moving on autopilot, Yuuri soon arrives at Ice Castle and when he blinks, he's stepping into the rink, earbuds already in, his thumb hovering over the play button.
Head turned up, Yuuri pushes away from the wall. He turns the volume down, absently thumbing at the button until only the barest strains of music reach his ears. He keeps his gaze turned towards the ceiling, choosing to focus on that instead of the noise, but he has no fear of crashing. His eyes wander along, taking in every difference of color, every even melding of the light fixtures to the ceiling. Occasionally, he ends up looking directly at the light; he simply continues moving and blinks away the technicolor dots blurring his vision.
In the back of his mind, he keeps track of how far he moves in each direction, creating a rough estimate of where he is on the ice.
Clearing his head takes time, and Yuuri tries to dissociate himself from the process.
That's part of the problem.
Internal conflict is something he's familiar with. He performs bandaid solutions, sweeping the thoughts under the metaphorical rug. He allows them to build up and grow until they become debilitating and deafening. When that happens, all he wants to do is cry, it's not all that special of a time given that he'll cry even when it's quiet. He's done enough crying, though his eyes apparently seem to disagree with him on that matter. But he lets everything accumulate, bears it on the ice, but removes himself like that will somehow help.
If he can just forget about them for a little while, he'll be okay for a short stretch of time.
It's all noise tonight, a cutting cacophony of voices and the clicks of cameras. Blades gliding across the ice, coming to a short stop. Feet slapping the floor in a dead sprint. Thunderous applause while the hundreds of voices meld together until they become one unified wave of sound. A stray comment, a mellow laugh, an audible smile, the dull thud of a hand on his shoulder. Heaving sobs, rapid breaths, tears splashing near silent on the tile. Heavy knocking on his bedroom door, the rumble of a car down the road, the easy slide of scissors through packaging tape followed by the tear of cardboard.
It overlaps, echoes, doubles. Some are louder than others.
He does his best.
Perform.
Reflect.
Repeat.
Yuuri comes to a stop nearly dead center of the rink. He doesn't bother checking the time, already estimating more than an hour spent drifting around the ice. He takes off his skates, and puts on his glasses.
Victor's offered to be a sounding board, he already is for many things, but Yuuri always feels guilty about this. It's nothing Victor has a hand in, not his fault in the slightest, and it's been a while. He shouldn't have an issue telling these things to Victor after so long, surely there wouldn't be an problem?
The walk back home is no less dark, but Yuuri's head is a little quieter.
So it's all right.
No one's awake yet, they never are, but Makkachin's waiting in the hallway, following after Yuuri when he passes by. Yuuri lets one of his hands drop down to pat the poodle's head.
Surprisingly, Makkachin doesn't stop at Victor's door, but goes with Yuuri to his room instead.
Yuuri doesn't question it, he sets his glasses on his desk then removes his shoes. He doesn't spare a thought to his clothes, he didn't even break a sweat, and falls face first onto his bed. A few minutes of squirming gets him half under the covers and he doesn't have much more will than that. Makkachin jumps onto the bed, padding over to lay down next to Yuuri, lying partially on top of him.
The added warmth isn't an issue, and Yuuri isn't going to complain about the comfort of an animal who isn't going to judge him when the tears start slipping out.
It happens soon enough, and the sudden break of tension doesn't faze Makkachin at all.
Yuuri slings one arm around the dog and cries silently.
It's midnight, and Yuuri thinks he's going to pass out if the train wreck in his head gets any worse. It's not so much sound this time as it is visual stimulus. Too bright flashes of a glittering costume from years ago, the sharp contrast between the red clouds surrounding the setting sun and the outreaches where it's still blue. He sees light glinting off the water, unrelenting, too much like the flash of cameras.
There's still a few people up, moving about in their rooms, so Yuuri takes extra care not to be spotted or heard.
He barely makes it past the front door, having to nearly leap through because someone is turning the corner.
It's not a big deal, not really. Anyone who knows him understands the personal trips to Ice Castle. It's more the time that's the problem. Practicing the daylight hours away is one thing, but coming back to repeat the process at night, that could cause concern. Yuuri doesn't want anyone to be worried. He's handled it this long, he can continue to handle it.
Besides, if someone were to inquire further, the added attention and stimulus would tip the scale and Yuuri would be a crying mess on the floor.
No good, best to just go it alone then.
He's a little more aware of himself, he remembers taking off his glasses, setting them on the wall, remembers putting his bag down and picking up his earbuds. The lights are dim, and Yuuri keeps his eyes open as he skates the perimeter with slow, almost lethargic, movements.
At times like these, his skating always seems to straddle the line between lazy and slow-moving grace.
Yuuri can't be bothered to divine which at the moment.
Eventually, he moves away from the wall, skates with his arms extended in a mockery of needed balance. He's waiting for the low burn to start up, it will distract him from the colors currently attempting to strangle his brain.
When the sensation doesn't come quickly enough, Yuuri turns his music up until it drowns everything out, and he closes his eyes.
The pulsing of the music evens out the noise, creates a steady background of color that slowly begins to bleed into everything. Camera flashes and glittering ocean waves fade into something Yuuri can only describe as warm. The other snippets drift towards the colder colors. Yuuri knows they're only hiding there, once the song leaves his head, they'll have free reign once again.
But it's pleasant now, and he doesn't feel like his heart is going to fall through his chest.
He lets his eyes open and gears his focus towards old programs, skating bits and pieces, but never jumping. In this state, he doesn't have the presence of mind to jump properly. An injury would be difficult to explain, to say the least.
The time doesn't catch up to him until his left leg nearly gives out. When he steps off the ice, a shudder runs from his feet to his hips, up along his spine, and he stumbles a little.
He avoids looking at his feet when he takes off his skates, already imagining the bruises decorating his skin. Slowly, and wincing with every step, Yuuri makes his way to the showers. He's quick, just a rinse because there's sweat soaked in his hair, and the warm water keeps the tension away for a little while longer.
Drying off and redressing takes a bit more time, Yuuri spends a few minutes simply sitting on the bench, staring at the ground, but soon enough he's on his way home.
"Yuuri?"
He looks up, eyes wide behind his glasses. Victor's leaning out of his room; apparently Yuuri's limp detracts from his stealth.
"Sorry, did I wake you?" Yuuri asks.
"Why aren't you asleep?" Victor looks as though he's been awake for some time, but given the hour Yuuri isn't all that certain.
"I, well, I was having trouble falling asleep, so I went on a little walk. I feel much more relaxed now."
The last bit isn't really a lie, he feels better than he did when he left, mentally anyways, given that his legs are starting to go numb.
"Are you sure?" There's genuine worry in Victor's voice, it's a tone that Yuuri's heard for a while now. It never fails to make him feel just the slightest bit guilty.
"Yes. Sorry, again, for waking you."
Yuuri gives what he hopes is a convincing smile before he starts walking down the hall, despite the fact that he can tell Victor doesn't actually believe him.
If the situation were reversed, Yuuri wouldn't believe Victor.
"Yuuri," Victor calls quietly, holding out his hand.
Curiously, Yuuri takes those few steps and allows Victor to pull him back, just a bit closer. Yuuri is expecting a proper kiss, as is the norm most nights, but it's a pleasant surprise when Victor's lips meet his forehead.
"Would you like some company tonight?"
Victor always asks, he's good like that.
Yuuri considers the offer. He doesn't feel as though he's about to burst into tears, he's feeling kind of hazy, which is preferable to his other options. Stepping closer, he settles his forehead against Victor's shoulder and draws in a breath.
"Yeah. My room though, if that's okay?"
"Of course." Victor presses another kiss to Yuuri's forehead.
They walk down the hall, Makkachin trailing behind. Victor's already dressed in pajamas, and Yuuri has long since stopped turning into a blushing mess whenever he undresses around the other. He has just enough presence of mind to leave his socks on as he changes, knowing that, despite the dim, the bruises will be easy to spot should his socks come off.
Victor's getting comfortable beneath the covers, he opens his arms up and Yuuri lays down in them, turning to face Victor's chest. Makkachin curls up at the foot of the bed, appearing content enough.
The swell of colors in Yuuri's head has yet to grow worse, for once it's remaining in a calm stasis of occasional spikes. He presses closer, a none to subtle hint for Victor to hold him tighter.
They stay like that for some time. Victor presses the occasional kiss to Yuuri's forehead, trailing down to his cheek, or up into his hair. Makkachin eventually decides to join them, laying over their legs, resting his head on Victor's hip.
It's quiet, and the low light eliminates any excess colors, everything is muted.
"Did something happen?" Victor asks after a moment, smoothing one of his hands through Yuuri's hair. His other hand rests against Yuuri's lower back, thumb stroking soothing circles against his skin.
"N-no, why?" Yuuri really doesn't want to lie, but it's not like he has too many options. As the panic swells, so does the color. Already, he can feel it begin to hum, bright flashes and cutting contrast, getting ready to swallow him whole.
"Your hair is damp. Did you go out to skate?"
Shit.
He told Victor he went for a walk, how's he going to explain this? He doubts that Victor will be angry with him, but surely he'll be something. If not angry, then maybe disappointed? Yuuri doesn't think he can handle Victor being disappointed with him.
"Yuuri?"
Too late.
Yuuri's already halfway to shut down. The cogs in his head are spinning, spitting out smoke as they grind together. The colors surge, a stunning flash of white teeth behind red lips, a dazzling haze of sequins reflected against ice, the line where sun bleached sand meets the waves.
Too late.
Yuuri has yet to realize the fact that he's shaking. His head is nothing but a mess of colors all bleeding into one another. He's failed. He should have said no, back in the hallway. Victor would have understood, of course he would have.
"Yuuri, please, look at me."
Victor's pulling back, trying to get a proper look at Yuuri's face. But that's no good. Yuuri clings to him, like some bizarre breed of koala, and hides his face in Victor's chest.
"No," he says shakily, soft between the erratic breaths he hadn't realized he's been drawing for the past few minutes.
"Yuuri." Victor's voice is equally as quiet, but there's an edge to it, one that commands attention. Out of habit more so than anything else, Yuuri's eyes snap open. His grip on Victor's night shirt doesn't loosen any, but he allows Victor to tilt his head up.
There's nothing but concern etched into Victor's features, and, oh god, Yuuri just wants to curl up under the covers and cry himself out. Anything but having to deal with this now.
"Focus on me, Yuuri, breathe deeply for me."
He tries, of course he tries. But there's too much attention, too much laser focus on him.
And he doesn't like it.
The colors grow more vibrant, until they're painful to imagine. Bleached white clouds against a toxic blue skyline while a dozen blood red balloons drift away. Purple bleeds into black fades to grey turns to white becomes pink and then red like bloodshot eyes after another three in the morning trip to the ice rink. The harsh glint of his blades reflected in dim lighting like razors slicing through the very air around him.
And Yuuri finds he can barely breathe at all.
Faintly, as if it's not actually his own body but some phantom copy, he feels Victor's fingers stroking up and down his back.
New colors slot into place.
A heady blush, red fading pink, against pale skin surrounded by an inky black drop. Second by second, the colors saturate. All at once, it's like someone has turned the exposure up, and Yuuri squints like the colors are real, like they're in front of him.
Victor's blurry face moves closer, he presses their foreheads together. The second their skin touches, Yuuri closes his eyes again.
"Love, I need you to focus on me. Look only at me."
And, hell, those familiar words bring their own colors.
They're softer though, not so intent on turning Yuuri's insides to mush.
Warm blue, he can see different shades of the blanket blurring together. Flickering reds and oranges blend from a fireplace into the evening sky. A beach, at night, dotted with sparklers and the dim colors of company.
Yuuri's still shaking but he can breathe, and doing that much seems to appease Victor.
"Being out on the ice, that's not something you have to hide from me," he says gently, running his free hand through Yuuri's hair.
Victor keeps talking, it's half nonsense and half comfort, but he doesn't shut up until Yuuri comes back to himself and opens his eyes. Makkachin had retreated to the floor at the start of Yuuri's attack, but returns now, lying down behind him.
"Better now?" Victor asks, moving Yuuri's sweat slicked hair away from his face.
Not trusting himself to speak, Yuuri nods.
"Good," Victor says simply.
Yuuri uncurls his hands from Victor's shirt, wincing as his fingers burn. He can feel the exhaustion weaving its way through him, but he forces himself awake. Moving forward, he presses a kiss to Victor's chest, then allows himself to move back a little.
"I'm going to get a wash cloth, will you be okay?" Victor asks.
It would be a silly question under any other circumstance, but Yuuri nods, twisting around so he can hug Makkachin. Victor takes a moment to place a few kisses along Yuuri's jaw before getting up. He disappears through the door and Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut.
"Sorry about all that," he whispers. Makkachin just sneezes, and squirms a little, but Yuuri takes that to mean that his apology has been accepted. Apologizing to Victor will be harder. Mainly because Victor will insist that he doesn't have to apologize, but also because Yuuri doesn't know exactly what he's apologizing for. Panicking? Keeping Victor awake at ungodly hours? Lying about going for a walk? Acting okay despite the fact that he's barely functional?
All of the above?
Victor returns soon enough. He gets back onto the bed, he's somewhat off balanced because both of his hands are clasped together. Yuuri sits up, Makkachin moving to settle in his lap once he's properly upright.
At Victor's gesture, Yuuri closes his eyes. He feels the warmth of the cloth a split second before it touches his face. Victor works quickly, but gently, cleaning Yuuri's face, then running the cloth against his hairline to wipe away the sweat.
"There we are, much better."
Yuuri doesn't open his eyes yet, but he allows himself to lean into the one hand Victor still has on his cheek.
"Yuuri?"
He really doesn't want to open his eyes, doesn't want to know what expression is splayed across Victor's features. In the back of his mind, Yuuri knows that it's likely caring and concern, but the moronic voice that sounds off all of his insecurities tells him that he'll see pity, disappointment, maybe even disgust.
Yuuri doesn't want to see that, so he squeezes his eyes shut tighter.
"You don't have to tell me now," Victor says softly, suddenly much closer than Yuuri thought. "In the morning, maybe? If you can manage that much, will you tell me then?"
Yuuri finds himself in a hug, it's tight, but he finds himself breathing easier than he has all night.
The following morning, Victor wakes to a note on the pillow beside his.
Victor,
Went on a run with Makkachin, I promise, should be back before six. I'll call if that changes.
Yuuri
There's a little doodle of Makkachin in the corner, and Victor smiles.
Slowly, he gets up, still half asleep. The digital clock reads five thirty-two, so he's not so worried at the moment.
Last night, or maybe it was technically the early morning, was certainly a surprise. He knew Yuuri went out at night sometimes, he hadn't thought it a big deal until those trips started happening at strange hours, and for so long. But he hadn't pressed. Yuuri isn't competing anymore, it's been a few years, and they always visit this time of year.
Yuuri's always been prone to internalizing his problems, it's something they're working on. For the most part, Yuuri has no issue with telling Victor when something bothers him, he's quite prompt with it as well.
But this is something different.
"You're up early."
Mari's looking the very picture of death, nursing a cup of coffee as she's hunched over the table. Victor doesn't respond until he's got his own cup, and sits himself down opposite her.
"So are you."
"Some of us work here."
Victor laughs at that, taking a sip of his coffee. It's not that he's not friendly with Yuuri's sister, the two of them have a relationship founded on the trade of embarrassing stories about Yuuri, and snarky comments. She's also a wonderful source to ask whenever Victor's worried about Yuuri.
"Ah, so I've noticed," Victor says. He takes one more sip before continuing. "In all seriousness, can I ask something about Yuuri?"
Mari no longer looks like she's going to face plant the table. She lets go of her coffee cup and sits up.
"What happened?"
"I'm not sure, exactly, that's why I'm asking. He went out to skate and didn't come back until after midnight. Then he had a- I don't know, some kind of anxiety attack? He kept his eyes closed for the most part. Has something like this ever happened?"
Judging by the look on Mari's face, this isn't new.
"Yeah, um, when Yuuri was younger he used to have these days- well, I guess you could call them episodes. Anyways, there would be times that he got real sensitive to sounds and sights, touch too sometimes. He'd curl up in a ball and start crying, freaking out, if there was ever a lot of...what'd he call it? Sensory input? Yeah, that was it. They got real bad when he was a teenager, he told me that it was like his brain ran a film reel of old memories, just put everything on repeat. He rebounds pretty quick though, he's a tough kid. You said his eyes were closed? So it was probably sights, for the past few years it's been colors, which is good, he told me he used to get full scenic memories with sharp edges."
"Colors?"
"Colors. They get really bright and stuff, he said they hurt."
Victor chews on his bottom lip.
"Is there anything I can-"
"You two were together last night, staying with him through that helps more often than not, gives him an anchor point. Just talk to him. He's not gonna want to at first, the only reason he talks to me is because I'm the one who usually found him curled up in cupboards. He'd spend a lot of time at Minako's too, then on the ice once he started skating. I'd drag him back and his feet were always black and blue, my god, he was a mess."
Mari downs the rest of her coffee then runs her hand through her hair. She stands up, letting out a sigh.
"Tell Yuuri I can handle things by myself today, don't let him argue." With that, she leaves, and Victor's left with more information than he knows what to do with, and a half empty cup of coffee.
My first contribution to this fandom is angsty anxiety attacks, a.k.a. my entire life.
Okey doke, well, I had to get that out of my system, I'll be getting back to the stuff already in progress.
Fee free to yell at, or with, me on tumblr!
