Six days.
Six days since the championship finals, since his loss had brought all of Biovolt's plans to a halt.
Six days since he'd spent the longest and coldest nights of his life locked in a dark isolation cell as punishment, staring out at the stars through a small barred window.
Six whole days since he'd seen Boris' limp, bleeding and half-conscious form carried away from him on his forced march down to the cells.
Boris had lifted his head a minute fraction, just enough to stare up at Yuri through the eye that wasn't swollen shut. Blood flecked his face and stained his silvery-grey hair a dull red. Yuri hadn't been able to work out whatever his friend was trying to convey through that single glance, only able to focus on the fact that Boris' punishment had been a lot more severe than he'd ever expected, until a sharp pain seared across his shoulders and he was ordered to look away. If anything, he'd sincerely doubted that Boris would be up and moving any time soon.
If he ever would be able to move again. Nobody disobeyed a direct order, especially not when there was so much at risk.
Valkov spent hours upon hours shouting vile curses in his ear, insulting and humiliating him as if Yuri alone were the cause of every single misery in the world. Shoving him to the ground only to yank him back up, crushing him with the wicked metal baton, blow upon blow that left Yuri's body feeling stiff and numb until he collapsed to his knees. Every attack was an attempt to draw a cry or a shout of pain from him, something Yuri was fully aware of, but he was determined not to allow Valkov the pleasure.
Yuri was surprised, shocked even, when the violence suddenly stopped just as quickly as it had come and he was escorted swiftly and silently back to his room by Levitsky, his door slamming behind him. He sat awake for the entire night, knees pulled against his chest under sheets that did nothing to protect him from the cold, nursing his wounds with a damp towel.
It didn't make sense; Boris had lost his match as well, and his punishment had brought him to the very brink of exhaustion and flung him over the edge. In comparison, Yuri had been scolded like a child and let off with barely a mark. Even when he considered that Boris' loss had been deliberate, something that he knew, in Valkov's eyes at least, deserved a fate close to death, it had been down to Yuri and Yuri alone to bring Biovolt the win. Boris hadn't lost Valkov the championship, Yuri had.
The memory, or lack thereof, of the third round in the finals plagued him almost constantly, both in every waking moment and in his nightmares. Perhaps Valkov had seen that his loss hadn't been deliberate, saving him from the same fate Boris had suffered? Perhaps there had been something, perhaps Valkov had seen something in his final match, something Yuri couldn't remember, that had convinced the man to relax his punishment?
Yuri refused to believe that his previous position as Valkov's favourite had any influence on the reduced punishment; the very second Valkov realised that his ridiculous ambitions were lost thanks to him, Yuri was sure that his standing had faded to nothing.
But life continued as if nothing had happened, just as it always had, and Yuri was almost certain that Biovolt hadn't risked everything on the championship, that they must have had a contingency plan, just in case. There was no other explanation for why he and the other boys were still being kept under lock and key, after all.
Training was just as regular, just as intense, and Yuri was still booked for sessions that lasted well over five hours stood in front of automated beyblade launchers, firing Wolborg again and again, over and over, forcing himself to ignore the way his shoulder and his battered ribs protested against the constant movement and begged for rest.
His newly redesigned blade blasted through his mechanical opponents, shrapnel flew from the dish, scratching at his face and hands and tearing into his training uniform, but he kept going. To give up would only incite Valkov's wrath once again, and Yuri couldn't afford to be locked away when Boris was finally released. He was allowed for meals only at set times and only for a set time, his schedule ran from dawn to dusk, every second accounted for with scarcely a spare moment to breathe. When he was unable to train with his blade, he was forced on a punishing circuit around the gymnasium, when he wasn't booked for circuits, he underwent medical after medical in the labs. But he kept going. It was as difficult as any of the vigorous training regimes Valkov had submitted him to in the past.
He'd managed it before, knew he could manage it again. Levitsky stood still and silent, dark eyes watching over him like a hawk.
Over a week since he'd last seen his friend, Yuri had started to wonder whether he would ever be seeing Boris' face again. Any other boy in the Abbey would be kicked out the very second they failed to hit a target or meet Biovolt's demanding standards. Boris' failure, the way he'd taken the result of the match into his own hands, made his own decision and acted as he wanted, was worse than merely failing to reach a set target. Much worse. Yuri barely managed to sleep at night, steadily becoming more and more worried that Boris would end up as another forgotten face in the endless sea of new recruits and disappearing outcasts, nothing more.
Until one dark, cold morning, when Yuri was so overwhelmed with fear for Boris' life that he was suffocating under it, unable to even think about touching his breakfast, Boris finally appeared beside Sergei in the food hall. Yuri was so elated to see him that he nearly forgot himself and jumped up from his seat with joy.
Sergei sat down first, taking the seat next to Boris' usual spot, and set down his own tray as well as Boris'. The older boy looked tired, which Yuri found odd as Sergei was never anything but at his best. It didn't make sense, until in the fluorescent lights that hung above them, Yuri took a long, painful look at Boris himself and had to tear his eyes away. He looked no livelier than a corpse.
Yuri was hit by a sudden realisation that made his heart drop to his stomach, his previous happiness shattered, and he prayed to whoever would listen that he was wrong. After nine long, torturous years, it looked as if Boris had finally been broken.
Every inch of sallow skin was decorated with poorly healing cuts, dirty scratches and blotchy, yellowing bruises. Boris held his right arm close to his side; hand zipped into his jacket pocket in the closest he could get to a make-shift sling. His left hand rested on the table, and it was clear to Yuri that Boris had put up a struggle, knuckles red-raw and cracked. Boris swallowed thickly, seeming to find it hard to force his throat into action, and even with his jacket zipped up to his chin, Yuri could spot the edges of bruising there as well.
He made the mistake of catching Boris' eyes in a fleeting glance, his own breath hitching when he failed to spot the fire—the anger—he was so used to seeing, staring only into dull green that he refused to believe belonged to his friend. It was all so wrong. Boris was a fighter, had been since the moment he stepped into the Abbey. Stubborn, headstrong and arrogant, he questioned authority at every turn, spoke his mind even when he should have been silent, and refused to back down even when the odds were undeniably stacked against him.
Perhaps that was the problem; if only he had surrendered, just this once, perhaps he wouldn't have suffered so badly.
"Hello, Borya," Yuri tried quietly, hoping the sound of a familiar voice would make Boris lift his head. It didn't work.
"I wouldn't bother, he hasn't said a word since they brought him back." Sergei's voice was flat, indifferent, and Yuri wanted to read more into it but found nothing. Sergei had taught himself a long time ago to be unaffected by even the most severe punishments in the Abbey—keep your head down and ignore it and you kept yourself out of trouble—something Yuri had never quite mastered, Boris even less so.
"When?"
"Two nights ago," Sergei said, picking around in his bowl with his spoon and only eating small mouthfuls. Boris hadn't even moved his hands to his tray yet. "Danil came to get me in the middle of the night—thought he was dead."
Danil was two years younger than Boris, a short, wiry boy who was afraid of his own shadow, and had been moved into room 212 just a few months ago. After only days together, Boris had become immensely irritated and was itching for the chance to get rid of him just as Danil was praying to swap rooms with anyone else. Yuri was thankful Danil at least had the common sense to stay awake long enough to check Boris was still breathing.
"Has he been for a medical?" Yuri asked, unable to take his eyes off his friend and finding it strange to be talking about him as if he wasn't even there.
"They gave him a code four and patched up the worst of it."
Code four meant no badly broken bone, but certainly not fit for full training. Not that Valkov cared, training only stopped when the diagnosis was two or lower; severe breaks and fractures that required a cast or a potential fatality. At code zero it didn't matter either way. A shiver rattled through Yuri's spine and he had to push his breakfast away as nausea struck.
He wanted to ask what Boris had been thinking when he'd stepped up to the dish and made one of the most reckless decisions of his life. Surely the boy knew what the end result would be? He may have been beaten, but he was lucky to still be in the Abbey and not trapped outside in the snow. He wanted to ask why Boris hadn't even thought to mention the idea before, if only so Yuri could have tried to talk him out of it.
Anger surged through him, unwanted and unnecessary, and Yuri struggled to force it away. He didn't get the chance to say another word though, as Boris suddenly got to his feet with a barely disguised grimace and limped his way across the hall to the door leading to toilet cubicles. His food was untouched, leading Yuri to wonder how much he'd been allowed to eat since his return.
Sergei sighed, closed his eyes, and ran a shaky hand through his hair before blankness fell over his face yet again. It was rare enough for Sergei to show such an obvious sign of concern in the first place, rarer still to show it so openly, and it only set the niggling worry in Yuri's gut alight.
The intercom crackled and spat white noise and Yuri recognised his room number before it barked that he was to return to the training centre immediately. The fact that they still called his name didn't make sense as he no longer shared his room with anyone. He sighed, casting one final, longing glance at the door Boris still hadn't returned from. His uniform-clad shadow stepped away from the wall and disappeared into the corridor.
"I'll look out for him, Yura."
Sergei's voice, in a gentle tone Yuri hadn't heard for so long now, caught him off-guard and he stumbled in pulling his leg over the bench seat. Sergei held his gaze for a tense moment and Yuri only looked away once he was certain he saw nothing but pure, honest concern in Sergei's eyes. He nodded once, conveying only a simple acceptance of Sergei's promise, and left without another word.
He knew Sergei would keep to his word, but as strong as the older boy was, and as capable as he was of picking them up when they fell, Yuri was only too aware that Sergei couldn't protect them from everything.