Neither Can the Floods Drown It

by Roderica Edelstein

Phichit Chulanont doesn't hate many things, but he hates this sickness, hates the way it takes something as beautiful and vital as love and turns it against him. Hanahaki AU. CW for blood, vomiting and mild body horror.

2. The Results of this Deception

Trundling his suitcase along behind him, Phichit pulls out his phone. He didn't sleep at all on the long journey, and he feels groggy and disgusting. Bangkok in April is far too hot for the beanie pulled down around his ears, but his hair is a mess; he didn't even bother with the usual airport selfie, too exhausted for his online persona, for the grooming it demands. He would usually find solace in it, but right now he can't spare the energy. He tries not to dwell on the reason fatigue drags him a little further down every day.

He's scrolling through Twitter when he sees the video. His heart thuds against his ribs as he recognises Yuuri's face on the screen. There's a tell-tale prickling at the back of his throat, but the cough never comes. He stops dead in the middle of the pavement. Yuuri… He knows the starting pose, even without music; it wasn't long ago he was watching Victor skate this at Worlds. What're you trying to do, Yuuri?

Heart hammering, he watches as Yuuri unfolds into the first sequence. Yuuri's face is drawn, his eyes dark with exhaustion, and Phichit is terrified he's going to fall. Is that why the video's so popular? He can't read the Japanese tweet that accompanies it, can't tell if he's about to witness some terrible humiliation. But who would have filmed – He sees Chris has retweeted it, and relaxes a little, guilt twisting in his gut. Have more faith in him.

As Yuuri moves into a flawless spin, something in Phichit begins to lift and lighten. Yuuri's movements are so fluid, so graceful, but more than that, they're alive. If they're less technically accomplished than Victor's, Phichit neither notices nor cares. Victor could skate this in his sleep, but Yuuri – Yuuri is pouring everything he has, everything he is, into this skate.

Although Yuuri is skating in silence, Phichit can hear music in every sweeping curve, every searing glide, and his heart swells with it. Yuuri is dancing again. The last time Phichit saw him skate, it was like he was fighting the ice; now it yields to him, soft and gracious, and sends him skywards again.

Yuuri no longer looks tired, although sweat glistens on his brow. There is a fierce determination in his eyes, keen as the blades beneath him, and Phichit cannot suppress a cry of delight when he recognises it.

"Yuuri!" He hasn't seen that look – pure determination, without self-loathing, without fear – in what feels like forever, and a current of mingled joy and relief shoots through him at the sight.

Oh, Yuuri, it's so good to have you back.

…

The call comes through just as his practice session is ending, and when he sees Yuuri's name on the screen, he almost drops the phone in his excitement. He hasn't heard from Yuuri in what feels like forever; he tried to call him after the Stammi Vicino video, but Yuuri didn't answer, and he knew better than to pressure him. But now he can't hit 'Accept' fast enough.

"Sawatdee kap!"

Phichit can't decide what's more miraculous – the sound of his voice, familiar Thai inflections accurate but unmistakeably Yuuri, or seeing Yuuri's face again. Not an amateur video copy but the real Yuuri, his Yuuri.

"It's been a while," he smiles back, and instantly wonders if that sounds too confrontational, if Yuuri will hear blame where none was intended. "How've you been?"

But Yuuri only grins, as excited to see Phichit as Phichit is to see him. "You're practising back in Thailand, huh?"

Phichit nods. "Detroit's boring now that you're gone." There are a hundred words more fitting than boring, but it wouldn't be fair to tell Yuuri honestly how flat and dead the city feels without him. He forces himself back into airy cheerfulness before regret can take hold. "You should come to Bangkok. I'll show you around."

Yuuri's laugh is like rain in a drought. "Khop khun kap." Simple words, but so special coming from Yuuri. "Hey, Phichit, do you remember how I had that music demo made?"

As if I would've forgotten. But he can tell that's not Yuuri's real question. It's time to start working on their new programmes and choosing music; Yuuri's too cautious to ask, but he wants to know if Ketty would write him another piece.

"I'll put out feelers to see where she is." As he says that, Phichit realises he misses her. Back in Detroit, it was rare for a day to pass without one of them at least texting the other, but since the imagined falling-out between her and Yuuri they've lost the habit. "I'm sure she's not mad or anything." It's difficult to imagine Ketty being mad at anyone, but Yuuri has a very active imagination.

There's so much more he wants to say. He wants to know everything Yuuri has been up to since leaving Detroit; he's greedy for the little details he once took for granted, the everyday moments he misses more intensely than he can articulate. What is the first thing Yuuri does when he wakes up? What meals does his mother cook? Does he have water fights with his sister when they're doing the washing-up, or is that something only he and Yuuri did? He wants to let Yuuri in on his life, too, to tell him how the khao phat puu his parents cooked for him on his first night back was the best thing he's ever tasted, that this is the longest he's ever gone without arguing with Somchai.

That a new bud opens in his lungs every morning he wakes up to realise he's back in Bangkok, and Yuuri is all the way across the sea in Hasetsu.

His heart is so full he's afraid the petals will overflow, and it's almost a relief to hear Celestino calling the end of break, to let Yuuri go. Almost, but not quite.

…

That evening, just as he is about to email Ketty, Yuuri texts him again.

I have to tell you something but I need you to promise you won't be mad at me.

Would I ever, he thinks, but all he texts back is 'sup'. If he doesn't text back immediately, that will give Yuuri even more time to think himself in knots.

I realised Ketty would have to know this so the piece can reflect it, and I should have told you ages ago anyway. But I was so unsure, and then I announced it at the press conference and now it's all a bit of a mess and I'm sorry.

yuuri slow down u still havent said what it is yet

Yuuri types like he talks, either hesitantly or everything at once, as if he can't hold on to all the words he needs to say.

Oh. Right.

A pause, just long enough for Phichit to feel uneasy, then another text. All it says is 'Um', but there's a picture attached, and it takes Phichit's brain a long time to process what he is seeing.

Victor Nikiforov. The Victor Nikiforov. Grinning at the camera, sitting up in bed in Yuuri's parents' inn, Yuuri's laptop perched on his legs.

wow yuuri didn't know u were so good at photoshop

That's the only explanation. The real Victor Nikiforov can't be sitting in Yuuri's bed, looking as comfortable and relaxed as if it were his own.

I'm not! That's really him. This is going to sound mad, but I promise I'm telling the truth. He's agreed to coach me for this season.

Phichit waits for the rush of excitement to hit, but something nags at him, holding back the joy he should feel for Yuuri. He types 'congrats!', then deletes it and goes back to scrutinising the photo of Victor. Victor, almost unrecognisable from the glossy posters, his hair tousled and his eyes a little bleary but his smile radiant, no trace of the aloof ice prince in his face. Victor, smiling like a devoted dog reunited with its beloved owner. Victor in Yuuri's bed. He tries to fit that image to the word 'coach', and fails.

coach? so ur relationship is only professional huh

He tries to bite back the unjustified anger rising in his chest. He's never actually seen Yuuri's bed, although the thought brings with it a stab of longing so sharp he doubles over and spits out a handful of bloodied yellow rose petals. If he's coaching Yuuri, it makes sense that he'd stay at Yuutopia. That's all it is. But that does nothing to quiet the dread in his stomach, and neither does Yuuri's reply.

That's kind of the thing I was meaning to talk to you about.

what do u mean, he texts, feeling hope running through his fingers like water.

My theme for this season is love, and he's a big part of that. I told you once that I wasn't in love with him – I meant it then, but I think that might have changed. I still don't really know yet. But I'm absolutely certain that he loves me, and that I want to be with him.

The Japanese press already knows, but I don't think the news has spread yet, and I'd rather keep it that way for a bit if I can. You won't tell anyone except Ketty, will you?

For a long, strange moment, he feels as empty as the shore before a tsunami hits, and in that moment he is able to type out a message.

sure, just like u didn't tell me

And then the wave breaks over his him. Tears of rage and betrayal fill his eyes, and his stomach lurches cruelly as he doubles over, bringing up a clump of yellow rose petals, and then another and another.

His phone buzzes with Yuuri's reply. He snatches the phone up and raises his arm to hurl it against the wall, but before he can, it buzzes again twice in quick succession. He lets it fall onto his duvet, and sinks down next to his bed, sobbing into his hands.

It's only been a matter of months since Yuuri discarded their life together. Phichit has spent that time coughing up blood and petals, watching his future slip away, and meanwhile Yuuri has been fucking Victor Nikiforov and he didn't even consider Phichit worthy of knowing.

What he wouldn't give to be back in Detroit – not to be with Yuuri, but to tear down all of his precious, infuriating posters. To rip Victor Nikiforov's perfect head off his perfect body and tear him to shreds. Or to be in Hasetsu, to punch that irritating smile right off his face –

He lifts his head and stares down at his trembling hands, vision blurred by tears. What the hell? The urge to hit out – to hurt Victor as badly as he is hurting – burns in his chest, but slowly it is being extinguished by shame.

Spitting out a few more bloodied petals, he shakily wipes his eyes and forces himself to his feet, then fetches Angelica and Eliza from their cage. Their tiny, vital warmth against his skin is a soothing contrast to the alien heat of the rage coursing beneath it, and he feels that rage soften and die as he cradles the two hamsters to his chest. Still, it takes a few minutes of stroking their soft fur and letting them run up and down his arms before he feels calm enough to pick up his phone and read Yuuri's response.

I'm really really sorry. I feel terrible about not telling you before but I was so scared it would all go away if I told anyone about it. Like when you're a kid and you make a wish but it won't come true if you tell anyone about it?

Wait, that sounds stupid.

It's true, though.

I'm still trying to sort out my own feelings. I don't know what love is supposed to feel like.

Like coughing up your own insides at 2 AM, trying to be as quiet as possible so your parents don't wake up, Phichit thinks. Like knives in your lungs every time you see their face or hear their voice and not caring about the pain because everything about them is so good and so much that you can't hold it all inside you. Like going from summer into winter every time they have to leave.

But he doesn't say any of that, of course. His love for Yuuri is a love that leaves no room for him, a love his body cannot sustain. Yuuri must never know what that feels like.

Sorry, I know this is weird and sudden and I shouldn't be dumping it all on you at once. I just had to convince myself it was really happening and that it wasn't some really bizarre dream like that one I had in junior year when I woke up convinced he was my personal chef and then when I realised he wasn't I messed up my jumps for two weeks afterwards and you had to keep coming up with excuses so I wouldn't have to tell Celestino what was actually wrong. Thanks, by the way.

Phichit smiles at the memory, anger ebbing again.

But yeah, let me know what Ketty says.

will do

Tossing his phone back onto his bed, he sits down at his computer, head in hands. He's supposed to be better at this. He's supposed to be over the fact that, when it comes to Yuuri, Victor will always win. But the yellow roses prove that isn't true.

He starts writing to Ketty, just to stop his brain from running in circles.

Hey K,

Haven't seen you in forever! How's it going?

Remember that piece you composed for Yuuri a while back? He was really hoping you'd write another, only he's such a dork he's convinced you're mad at him for not using the last one, so he's making yours truly play go-between.

Also he's banging Victor Nikiforov –

He sighs and deletes the line.

He thought you should know he and Russia's most eligible bachelor are now a thing, but he didn't see fit to tell me –

No good. He needs to get a grip, to let go of the last of his anger. He takes a deep breath.

I've lost him.

He's got himself a boyfriend, and not only is it not me, it's Victor freaking Nikiforov. That's pretty important to him, of course, so he wanted you to somehow write it into the piece if you could, but don't tell anyone. He says he doesn't want people to know yet, but he's gone and chosen 'love' as his theme, so…

I know you must be crazy busy, so no pressure if you don't want to take this on as too, but I know how happy it would make Yuuri if you did.

Thanks a bunch,

P

…

He doesn't have to wait long for a reply.

Hi!

Can't believe how long it's been since I last saw you. I'm doing well, thanks.

I'm really sorry about Yuuri. That must hurt. Wish I could give you a hug – it sucks being so far away from you two. Call me if you want to talk, ok? Don't nurse that broken heart alone. You know I'm always here (and I mean always. What's a time zone or 11 between friends?)

Look on the bright side – now you're free to find a nice available boy who doesn't have an inconvenient obsession with Russia's no-longer-most-eligible bachelor.

Of course I'll write our favourite dork another piece. I've been itching to do more composition, actually – I've been concentrating on performance, so I haven't had much of a chance recently. I'll dig out the old piece and see what I can get from it.

Look after yourself. Love ya,

K

He sends her a cheery thank you, and only mentions Yuuri to say that 'our favourite dork will be delighted'. He wishes he could talk to her, but he knows he would end up telling her everything.

…

Days later, the new piece arrives in his inbox. He forwards it to Yuuri immediately, although it's already midnight in Hasetsu.

Yuuri texts back in minutes; apparently, his college habit of staying up late and sleeping in hasn't changed.

He loves it! Tell Ketty she's the best.

what about u

ur the one skating to it, not Victor

o pairs skater now

Not that you would have told me. He scolds himself for the unwarranted savageness of the thought. He has to let Yuuri live his own life, to accept that he's never getting Detroit back. Never getting Yuuri back.

There's no reply for a while; Yuuri probably didn't even listen to the piece before asking Victor's opinion. When are you going to learn to trust your own decisions, Yuuri?

The ping of a text alert startles him.

It's awesome! Thank you so much. Tell Ketty didi madloba for me!

tell her urself u dork

A sudden rush of exhaustion overcomes him and he leans back against the wall, eyes drooping shut. There are too many emotions swirling around inside him; he's too tired to sort relief from doubt, guilt from fear, the remnants of anger from the last shards of betrayal.

He wakes in the half-light with a crick in his neck and the rotten taste of petals in his mouth, and his stomach sinks. Days when he wakes up thinking of the flowers before he thinks of Yuuri are the worst days.

He checks his phone to see if Yuuri has replied. No messages. He sighs and picks Angelica and Eliza out of his hair, but even after he returns them to their cage and flops back down on his bed, sleep won't come; he is too afraid the sadness lying heavy and cold in his bones like snow will close over his throat and stifle him.

…

When the Grand Prix assignments come out, on the hottest day of the year so far, his heart gives a delirious leap as he realises both he and Yuuri are competing in the Cup of China. His whole body is suddenly light as a leaf, buoyed up by joy the pain in his chest can't dampen. He'll be skating alongside Yuuri in his first Grand Prix series – he refuses to believe it will also be his last – and not even the flowers can take that away.

…

They give it a good try. Perhaps it's the mixture of nerves and excitement he feels at the thought of competing against Yuuri. Perhaps it's the flood of speculation in the media about Yuuri and Victor's relationship, the jealousy that still rises unbidden whenever he's confronted by a picture of the two of them, the longing that tempers that jealousy as he sees the way they look at one another. Perhaps it's the near-constant stream of messages between him and Yuuri – no replacement for Detroit, especially when half of them are about the latest adorable or embarrassing or wonderful thing Victor has done or said, but still enough to bring the petals bubbling to the surface. Whatever the reason, the attacks are becoming more and more frequent, and more and more difficult to hide from Celestino, from his family. They sap his strength and rob him of sleep, and practice has become torture. But he isn't giving up.

He glances over the video once more, studying the way Victor's weight shifts as he takes off into the quad toe loop, the positioning of his feet as he lands, perfect, clean, immortal. Not for the first time, he wishes it were anybody else but Victor. He wonders if he'll ever get to see Yuuri land the quad toe this beautifully, and his chest throbs with the thought of it.

Setting down his phone and pushing the burn in his lungs to the back of his mind, he copies Victor yet again.

As soon as he takes off, he can tell this will be the best quad he's ever done. He nails the landing and turns to Celestino, overjoyed. "Wasn't that jump great? Did you get a good video of it?"

Celestino's face falls. "Sorry, Phichit, I –"

Phichit could swear. He wants to take Celestino by the shoulders and shake him. What if that was the last time I manage to land it, he wants to say. Wants to tell him how his whole body is burning with exhaustion – not the satisfying ache of a practice well done, but a tiredness that he knows will linger, never quite fading, until the next session brings it rushing back like the tide.

But he can't let Celestino know that anything is wrong. "We have to post it online as soon as possible!" he exclaims, with just enough theatricality to cover the real dismay in his voice.

Celestino chuckles. "There's plenty of time."

Plenty of time before Skate America. Plenty of time for Phichit, less well-known than some of his competitors, to build his image, to show that he's a force to be reckoned with. To prove that the boy from Thailand is not a curiosity or a novelty but a world-class athlete. That's all he means.

But Phichit can't help being reminded that time is something he has very little of. He finds himself gulping back tears, and turns away so that Celestino won't notice. Getting that video uploaded is far more important than he can let on. He wants to show the world what he can do while he still can. Not for fans or fame or money, but because some day – in the far too near future – he will be gone, and the selfies and the skating videos will be all that remains.

…

Months later, as Phichit kneels on the cold floor of the Milwaukee hotel bathroom, vomiting dark blood and pale petals into the water, the shadow of that realisation looms over him. He supposes he should be grateful they're not roses; the thorns in his lungs would easily have done for him by now. He's lucky. Four years is a long time to last with his lungs filling inexorably with petals and his bones turning to wood. But it's hard to be thankful when he is choking up his own insides.

A particularly violent spasm rakes fire across the lining of his lungs, and he blacks out for a second. When he comes to, he is lying face down and he can't breathe he can't breathe he can't breathe he can't – His body convulses again, and a bloodied twig clatters against the tiles.

He stares at it in blank horror. He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, what this means, the progression it signifies. But he can't bring himself to look that truth in the face.

He has never been religious, but now he finds himself praying – praying to no-one in particular, sending the words out into the darkness beyond him with no idea whether they will be heard, but praying nonetheless. Please, just let me get through the short programme tomorrow. Don't let me fail here. I have to – Yuuri – I have to… The rest of that thought ebbs away as he slides back into unconsciousness, overtaken by exhaustion and pain.

…

A sharp rapping on the door of his hotel room jerks him awake. "Phichit?" calls a cheery voice. "Time for warm-up! Don't make me come in there and get you!"

He's still slumped against the bathroom wall, blood and vomit and sickly-sweet rotten petals congealing on his clothes and on the floor. I can't possibly compete in this state. But if he wants to skate alongside Yuuri, to make it to the final, he has to.

The thought of Yuuri cheering him on is enough for him to call back to Celestino, "Give me five!" He winces as the words rasp against the rawness in his throat. He'll have to pass it off as a cold again, and hope Celestino doesn't ask questions. The sketchier forums are ablaze with speculation as to why he's been so under the weather lately; the kinder comments suggest tonsillitis and question the wisdom of his competing, while the more outlandish ones, the kind of nonsense he and Yuuri used to read for fun, mention gruesome and quite possibly fictional STIs he'd find hilarious if the truth weren't so much worse.

He grimly surveys the state of the bathroom; there's no time to clean it up now, but he can't let the staff see it. I'd probably get arrested for murder. Nothing for it but to keep the Do Not Disturb sign on the door and sort it out after his skate – if he has the energy.

There's not much he can do about the state of himself, not with Celestino knocking again, reminding him he's going to miss practice time if he doesn't hurry. He struggles into his kit and quickly runs a comb through his hair; there's no time for makeup, no time even to brush his teeth and get rid of the vile taste of petals. He looks a sight, and he feels ready to collapse.

Celestino eyes him with concern as he steps into the corridor. "Are you feeling okay?"

Although the deception turns his stomach, he nods. There's no way Celestino would let him compete if he knew the truth, and he has to compete. He's been working towards this for so long; he can't let himself down now. Can't let Yuuri down, or disappoint those who are looking to him to blaze a trail that only he can. "Yeah, rough night, that's all," he lies easily.

"All right, but take it easy in the warm-up, okay? Save your strength."

He doesn't need telling twice.

…

Leaving the ice after practice, he almost bumps into Guang-Hong. His friend is standing unmoving in the gate, his skate guards dangling forgotten from his hand as if something distracted him before he could put them on.

Guang-Hong startles when Phichit touches his shoulder. "Oh – Phichit – sorry –"

Slipping on his own skate guards, Phichit waves aside Guang-Hong's apology, but Guang-Hong has already stopped paying attention. He's staring straight ahead as if Phichit isn't even there.

Phichit follows Guang-Hong's gaze, and his face breaks into a grin as he sees Leo de la Iglesia a little way ahead of them, engaged in an animated discussion with his coach.

The longing in Guang-Hong's eyes is painfully obvious.

He nudges Guang-Hong, who jumps again. "Go for it."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"Just ask him."

Guang-Hong colours, but keeps up his stubborn pretence. "Ask who what?"

"Ask Leo if he feels the same way."

"Phichit, be quiet, he'll hear you," Guang-Hong says in an anguished whisper.

"Would it be so bad if he did? You want to know how he feels, don't you?"

Guang-Hong sighs, defeated. "Yes. No. I don't know. I mean, what if he doesn't like me back?"

"Then I'll take full responsibility for your broken heart, okay? But I'm not gonna stand here and watch you waste your chance."

Guang-Hong looks at him strangely, and Phichit realises he's let his grin slip. He hurriedly flashes Guang-Hong his most brilliant smile. "I'll leave you to it." Before Guang-Hong can reply, Phichit slips past him and out into the corridor.

…

Dressed in his kingly regalia, hair slicked back and make-up perfect to the last detail, Phichit feels a little better. No-one would know by looking at him that anything was wrong; as he steps out on the ice to the roar of the crowd, he almost feels like he might be able to forget, if only for a while. The cheers, the flashing cameras, the applause; all of it makes his heart lift and his spirit soar, and some of the pressure in his chest falls away as he settles into his starting position.

But as soon as the first notes sound, the pain comes flooding back twofold. It takes everything he has to move into his first jump, a triple axel, as if branches are not tearing at his chest, setting his lungs on fire.

There's too much of Yuuri in the music. Ever since he first sat Yuuri down and made him watch The King and the Skater, he hasn't been able to hear the soundtrack without picturing the two of them in the title roles. Yuuri stepping hesitantly onto the ice and allowing himself to be guided forwards, one foot and then the other. Now take my hands, come on! Right, left … slow down … Yes! yes, you did it!

It was a silly enough daydream the first time; he was never going to surpass Yuuri, even before the flowers. Now, as he struggles to hold himself together through the three punishing minutes of his short programme, it's nothing short of idiocy. Yuuri is there facing him on every turn, waiting at the landing of each jump, and the longing is agony. His chest threatens to split open as the buds swell and burst against his ribcage. He fights to keep his movements fluid and his smile in place.

Overcome for a moment, he slips coming out of his triple toe loop, and the shock of the fall jars his chest so badly that tears spring to his eyes. But he pulls himself up and back into his routine as if nothing has happened. I can't let him down.

It is a tremendous relief when, final step sequence complete, he moves into his finishing pose. The last strains of Shall We Skate die away, replaced by an eruption of applause from the crowd barely audible over the blood pounding in his ears.

A treacherous cough builds in his throat; just when he can hold it back no longer, someone throws him a bouquet. He catches it gratefully, to another explosion of cheering. He can't stand flowers now, even in the shop at home; their scent turns his stomach, and he can't look at them without seeing petals crumpled and covered in blood. But he bends his head to the bouquet as if to kiss it, hiding his face as he chokes out the petals stuck in his throat. It's a good thing the flowers are red.

With a final wave and a genuine grin – however much of a shambles his skate might have looked to the audience, he knows how hard he fought just to make it through – he heads over to the kiss and cry, where Celestino is waiting.

"I know you weren't feeling your best, so well done for keeping it together," Celestino smiles. "That quad toe was beautiful."

His score – well below his personal best – puts him in last place so far, but Celestino isn't discouraged. "If you're on form for the free skate, I know you can get on that podium, Phichit."

You wouldn't have so much confidence if you'd seen me last night. Nonetheless, he's touched. "Thanks."

Celestino's grin fades. "You're bleeding."

Phichit's heart thuds against his ribs, cold terror robbing his mind of the power to form any thought more complex than, Shit. He knows.

"Did you bite your lip when you fell?"

Trying not to look too relieved, Phichit nods, and wipes his mouth on his sleeve.

"Be careful out there. You're still young, and I know you've bounced back from injury before, but I'd hate to see you miss out right when you're hitting your stride. You've got such a bright future ahead of you."

Guilt coils in Phichit's stomach; he smothers it with a smile. "You might even say a golden future."

Celestino laughs and claps him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit."

…

He's almost done sorting last night's mess when his phone buzzes. Yuuri. He checks himself over in the mirror to make sure the last of the blood and the petals are gone, then picks up. "Hey."

On the screen, Yuuri beams. His face is bright with exertion; the ice of the Hasestsu rink stretches empty and inviting behind him. "Just wanted to call to say well done – that was a really tough programme."

Phichit laughs. "I was a mess, Yuuri."

"You were not! The way you picked yourself back up after that fall was amazing. And your quad toe was perfect. I know how hard you've been working on it – I'm so proud of you for pulling it off. I bet Celestino's pleased, too."

Yuuri's praise floods through him like sunlight. He lets the feeling fill his chest even though he can feel new buds unfurling in the sudden warmth.

"He was pretty happy, yeah. My score wasn't great, but he reckons I can still place."

"Hey, scores aren't everything. If you gave it your all –"

"What was that, Mr I-missed-my-PB-by-zero-point-three-marks, how-will-I-ever-face-Victor-Nikiforov-again?"

"Shh, he'll hear you –"

"Sorry, didn't catch that over the sound of your massive hypocrisy."

Yuuri laughs ruefully as he runs a hand through his hair.

If only he were close enough for Phichit to reach out and push his hair back from his face for him. He can almost feel the softness of it against his fingers, smell the familiar cinnamon scent of his shampoo. Does Yuuri still use it? Do they even sell that brand in Japan, let alone Hasetsu?

"I guess I'm not the best person to be saying that. But take some advice from an old man –"

"Yuuri, you're three years older than me, for God's sake –"

"– and try not to get too hung up on the numbers, okay?" The softness in his eyes makes Phichit's knees go weak. "You know why I love watching you skate?"

Phichit's heart skips a beat. He covers it with a mischievous grin. "Because I'm smoking hot, obviously. Next question."

Yuuri rolls his eyes, his mock disdain just as lovely as his affection. "You're worse than Victor, and that takes some doing. What I'm trying to say is, you always look like you're having so much fun out there. We all do this because we love it, but you're the only one who never forgets to show that."

"I take it back, you are an old man. A soppy old man at that," Phichit says, to distract himself from the fact that Yuuri's words are turning his insides to water. "Are you sure the old folks' home will let you out for the Cup of China?"

"If you mean am I sure I'm going to absolutely wipe the floor with you, then yes."

"We'll see about that."

Yuuri opens his mouth to retort, but his attention is caught by something offscreen. The picture tips sideways as he turns away. Then he is back, smiling apologetically. "Sorry, break's over, gotta go." He pulls a face, but there's a glow in his eyes that wasn't there before.

Phichit ignores the tug in his chest. "Get back to practice, you slacker. I want you in top form for when I completely pulverise you in China."

Yuuri just raises an eyebrow. "Laeo phop kan mai," he grins, and hangs up.

Phichit sits on the edge of the bed staring down at his phone, heart still racing. "I love you," he tells the blank screen softly, as if Yuuri might somehow hear him. He sighs and flops back on the bed. Moping around won't get you through the free skate, he scolds himself, but it's a long time before he can bring himself to get up and change into his pyjamas.

No wonder I fell for Yuuri and not the other way around, he thinks glumly as he glares at himself in the bathroom mirror. I look like I just crawled out of a swamp.

He takes a deep breath. That's enough of that. Self-pity won't help him skate better; what he needs right now is a distraction.

Half an hour later, when his skin has been exfoliated to within an inch of its life and his nails are painted the same blue as the accents on his Terra Incognita outfit, he carefully selects a photo from the batch he's just taken and uploads it. #freeskatefightback#zerotohero#podiumhereicome

For the first time in a long while, he sleeps through the night, undisturbed by flowers.

…

In the end, he misses the podium by a hair's breadth. Celestino is disappointed – more in the scoring than in Phichit's performance, for which he has only praise – and part of Phichit can't help feeling the same way. That was probably your last chance to win a Skate America medal, says the little voice at the back of his mind. But much more powerful is the voice which says that was your best free skate so far, never mind what the judges think. The only way is up. You're not out of the game just yet.

Besides, he can hardly begrudge Guang-Hong the bronze. Guang-Hong is beaming brighter than the flashes from the press cameras, brighter than the medal around his neck. As Leo steps up to claim his gold, Guang-Hong squeezes his hand tightly, and there is no mistaking the look that passes between them.

When he asks Guang-Hong later if the two of them are already dating, Guang-Hong turns bright red and begs him not to tell anyone.

"Would I?" he grins.

"I just don't want it all over Instagram, okay?" Guang-Hong says, slightly pained. "I mean, no offence, but the word 'secret' isn't really in your vocabulary."

As his stomach lurches and pain sears through his chest, he has to make his excuses and hurry off before the flowers can prove just how well-acquainted Phichit really is with secrets. It's daffodils this time, malformed and tinted brown. They leave an acrid taste in his mouth, and the stunted stems scratch at the lining of his chest like thorns.

As he gets to his feet again, his phone buzzes.

Well done! You blew us all away! There's a picture attached of Yuuri's family crowded around his laptop, smiling. His ballet teacher, Minako, is there too, along with the Nishigoris. And Victor is right in the centre, his arm around Yuuri's shoulders, Yuuri's arm around his waist, the two of them inseparable.

He'd been hoping for another call from Yuuri, but Yuuri has his own life to live now, and he cannot ask too much of him. Yuuri's absence plagues him like a phantom limb, and the flowers are budding faster than they ever did in Detroit, but as long as Yuuri is happy, Phichit can bear it.

Didn't throw away my shot, he texts back. He stares at the photo – at Yuuri, confident, radiant, proud – until the ache in his chest is too much, then slips his phone back into his pocket and heads off in search of Celestino.

…

In the fortnight before the Cup of China, he doesn't make it through a single practice session without having to leave the ice abruptly, hands pressed over his mouth to stop the flowers giving him away. Each time he returns, his breathing is a little more laboured, his steps a little less steady. Celestino worries, of course, but it is far easier to allay those concerns with breezy lies than it is to silence his own fears.

…

"You guys seen Yuuri anywhere?" He'd been hoping to catch up with Yuuri when he arrived in Beijing, but he's nowhere to be found, and – true to form – isn't answering his phone.

Guang-Hong glances up from the card game he and Leo are playing at one of the tables in the hotel lobby. "He and Victor left a while ago. I think they were heading out to eat?"

"Great, thanks!" Phichit says, even as his heart sinks. How is he supposed to find out which restaurant they're in? There must be hundreds in this district alone. And Victor's with him. Of course Victor's with him.

At least looking for Yuuri will give him something to do. He pulls on his jacket and mask and, with a wave to Guang-Hong and Leo, steps out into the neon-lit streets.

The longer he wanders through the bright, busy alleys, the more discouraged he becomes. Say he finds Yuuri; what then? Maybe Yuuri won't even want to see him. He's out with Victor, after all. I should go back. This is stupid. I can't gatecrash his date just because I miss him –

His heart jolts as he catches sight of Yuuri through the window of a hotpot restaurant. He's nestled against Victor, snug and happy, and Phichit finds himself torn between leaving them to it and following the tug of his heart, a compass needle always pointing him towards Yuuri.

He hesitates long enough that Victor looks up and sees him, and waves – not the polite wave of an almost-stranger, but an enthusiastic greeting, as if he's genuinely excited to see Phichit.

Shocked into smiling, Phichit waves back uncertainly. He's never spoken to Victor except in passing, on the rare occasions when their paths have crossed at competitions. He assumed Victor didn't really know who he was. But now Victor is beaming like Phichit is an old friend, and beckoning him to join them inside.

He composes his face into a mostly genuine smile, tugs down his mask and hurries into the restaurant.

"Yuuri! So this is where you were eating," he grins.

Yuuri's face lights up, sending familiar warmth spreading through Phichit's body. He badly wants to hug him, but he's very aware of Victor's presence, Victor's arm resting lightly on Yuuri's shoulder. There's nothing possessive about it; it reminds him of the casual affection his parents show each other without thinking. A cold shock runs through him, cancelling out all the warmth. I shouldn't be here. I don't belong. Victor is the one who belongs at Yuuri's side now; Phichit has invaded a space not meant for him anymore. His breath catches on the sadness of that knowledge and he feels his face start to crumple, sees concern flicker in Yuuri's eyes.

Then he has an idea.

"Hey, do you mind if I invite Ciao Ciao? You want to see him, don't you?" He's already dialling Celestino's number, leaving Yuuri – who looks less than keen – no time to respond. This is for your sake, Yuuri. Left to his own devices, Yuuri will most likely spend the rest of his career awkwardly avoiding Celestino, and Celestino will spend the rest of Phichit's career asking him how Yuuri is doing. If there's anything he can do to repair that relationship, he has to at least try.

But he knows he's inviting Celestino more for his own sake than for Yuuri's. With Celestino there, he can pretend he belongs; without him, he is simply an unwelcome guest, whatever Victor's smile might say.

Yuuri still looks nervous at the prospect of seeing Celestino. Phichit could kick himself for being so selfish. He can't really un-invite Celestino now; the only thing he can do is invite more people and hope that will put less pressure on Yuuri, not more.

He texts Leo, and when Leo asks whether Guang-Hong can come too, he allows himself a quiet moment of triumph. They would have found each other eventually, but he sees no point in their waiting. Time is a luxury; the two of them deserve to spend it being happy together.

Things are awkward between Yuuri and Celestino at first, as he knew they would be, and every time Yuuri looks down at the table or clutches Victor's hand a little tighter than normal, Phichit's chest constricts with guilt. But gradually – perhaps because of the easy-going presence of Leo and Guang-Hong, perhaps because the alcohol is flowing freely – they all start to relax. Some of them more than others; it isn't long before Celestino is almost asleep on the table. "Hang in there, Ciao Ciao!" Phichit says cheerfully, snapping a picture.

Victor, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright, starts mumbling about how hot it is in the restaurant. Before anyone can stop him, he struggles out of his shirt and envelops Yuuri in a sloppy embrace. Yuuri's expression of shock is priceless; it's also cute as hell. Too cute not to be photographed, and far too cute not to be shared.

He regrets it the next day when the others see the photo and berate him for uploading it. Or rather, Leo and Guang-Hong berate him. Yuuri says nothing to him directly, but he can hear him fretting to himself about how badly it will reflect on him if his performance isn't up to scratch.

A stab of guilt goes through him, followed by the twist of roots around his ribs, so violent that he stumbles.

Celestino catches his shoulder. "Woah, careful there, Phichit! Can't have you tripping over your own feet before you even get on the ice."

"Sorry, Ciao Ciao," he grins, allowing himself to be led off to warm up. Although he knows he should apologise to Yuuri, he suspects doing so now – with Yuuri already a mess of nerves – would only worsen matters. Besides, he can already feel the buds pulsing beneath his skin like some grotesque second heart, dangerously close to the surface. He is afraid concentrating on anything but skating (Yuuri, in other words, because what else is there?) will bring them bursting through.

So he pushes his guilt to the back of his mind, and makes it through practice without incident. He finds himself impatient for the real performance; the pain in his chest has faded to the point where it's the faintest it's been for weeks, and he can no longer sense the pressure of the buds against his skin.

By the time he finally steps out onto the ice for his short programme, revelling in being the first to perform, he feels invincible, untouchable. The audience have no-one to compare him against; the ice is his blank canvas, and the picture he paints will be so striking no-one who sees it will be able to forget it.

Excitement and pride course through him as the first notes of 'Shall We Skate?' begin to play. Many people have skated to this music, but I'll overwrite that history. This music is mine!

At the back of his mind is the knowledge that Yuuri – third in the order – is probably watching him backstage, but for once the thought of Yuuri doesn't overwhelm him.

He's in control, he's on top of the world, he has the whole audience under his spell.

Then, just as he's moving into the quad toe loop, he catches sight of a Thai flag somewhere in the crowd. The flash of pride and guilt that goes through him is enough for the flowers to drag him down for just long enough that he doesn't fly like he should, and instead comes crashing down, the ice hard and harsh against his outstretched hands.

He moves reflexively to his feet and back into his routine almost without breaking rhythm. He's not going to be kept down that easily.

For the rest of his skate, he holds his head high and lets himself soar on the cheers of the crowd. When it's announced that he's scored a new personal best, Celestino claps him on the back with an enthusiastic, "Bravo!"

Take that, you stupid flowers, he thinks smugly. This illness hasn't got him yet, and he'll see to it that it doesn't do so for a very long time.

He feels a twinge of jealousy as Guang-Hong, next to perform, lands a clean quad toe loop. But he's too mesmerised by Guang-Hong's elegant performance to waste time on useless comparisons, and in any case, he's happy to see a friend doing well. I'm not letting you beat me to the podium this time, though.

Then it's Yuuri's turn, and he's glad that Celestino and Guang-Hong, who has just come through, are concentrating on Yuuri's performance and not on him; he's learnt, over the years, to mask his feelings for Yuuri, but at times like this he can't stop them overflowing.

"Wow," he says softly, unable to articulate the rush of love inside him any other way. There has always been an irresistible beauty to Yuuri's skating, but this routine is something else. His mind flashes back to pole classes in Detroit. Desire pools in his belly, and he sighs Yuuri's name without thinking.

Luckily, the others are too intent on Yuuri's skate to hear him, and in any case, Phichit isn't sure he'd care if they had noticed. He's too intoxicated with Yuuri for anything else to matter.

The score that is announced after Yuuri's performance is, rightly, a personal best.

"Amazing, he's never scored that high before," he says in wonderment, a fierce pride kindling in his chest.

Celestino mistakes the softness in his voice for fear. "Don't worry," he chuckles. "The free skate is where it counts, and he's not used to being the one to beat."

And suddenly he is afraid. He's seen Yuuri buckle under pressure before, and Celestino is right – Yuuri probably doesn't know how to handle being in the top spot right now.

He'll be fine – more than fine. He'll be great. The last thing he needs is for you to doubt him. That doesn't stop tension knotting in his stomach as memories of the Sochi final resurface unbidden.

Yuuri's voice cracking in interviews as he struggled to keep it together. The jagged edges of anger slashing through like the claws of a cornered cat whenever Phichit broached the topic. The dull, defeated tone Yuuri adopted in practice until he finally told Phichit he was leaving.

Yuuri's words, the awful flat tone in which he delivered them, are so painfully imprinted in Phichit's memory that he feels the ghost of the old agony reawakening in his chest, new and dangerous. He has to find something else, anything else, to focus on quickly before he makes himself sick with it.

"Leo's performance has been really polished ever since the first event," he says aloud, forcing himself to concentrate on Leo's figure on the screen. He's switched things up even more since Skate America.

But he can still hear the words I'm leaving, Phichit, I'm going home, and his own reply, I thought this was home, ringing in his ears so clearly that when a voice behind him says, "This programme really maximises Leo's strengths," he almost doesn't realise it as Yuuri's.

He wants to throw his arms around Yuuri and never let him go. He wants to whisper in Yuuri's ear everything Yuuri's skate made him feel. But he couldn't do that even without Victor standing behind Yuuri, beaming proudly.

Instead, Phichit grins and says, "Your skate was the most beautiful thing I've seen since I last looked in the mirror."

Yuuri snorts.

Phichit's heart drops just a little when he sees Leo's score. "Ah, Leo beat me too, damn it." Of course he wants his friends to do well. But if I don't manage to get silver…

"He didn't beat my beautiful Yuuri," Victor boasts, wrapping his arms around Yuuri's middle and resting his head on Yuuri's shoulder with a playful softness that makes Phichit's heart clench.

Yuuri shoots him a look, and Victor, suddenly chastened, turns to Phichit with an embarrassed grin.

"Sorry, Phichit, that was pretty tactless of me."

"It's fine." It's honestly kind of funny to discover how little Victor resembles the aloof ice prince of his jealous imagining. Yuuri wasn't exaggerating when he said Victor wasn't good with words.

Any awkwardness that remains is buried in the horrified yet fascinated silence that reigns as Chris – the last of them to skate – makes his way onto the ice and launches into a routine so risqué he's surprised the judges are even allowing it. "The ice looks soaking wet," Phichit says weakly, half-expecting Chris is to somehow produce a collapsible pole from his skin-tight costume. The audience are loving it, but it doesn't move Phichit the way Yuuri's skate did.

Chris's score is just shy of Phichit's, putting Phichit in fourth – and Yuuri in first.

Victor is ecstatic; Yuuri just looks shell-shocked. Phichit isn't sure what to say, either. He is torn – so full of pride in Yuuri he could barely speak even if he had the right words, but terrified, too. Terrified for Yuuri and the pressure he is under, and terrified for himself. What if I can't do enough? The gap from fourth to second, the chasm he has to bridge if he wants to make it to the final alongside Yuuri, is suddenly nauseatingly huge.

Still, he's got to say something. He puts a hand on Yuuri's shoulder, looks him directly in the eye, and says, "I'm gunning to pass you in the free programme, Yuuri."

He knows he's got it right when Yuuri nods, smiling in that defiant way of his that says, You're on.

…

When he next sees Yuuri, they're on their way to warm-ups. Phichit is half-moving through his programme as he walks down the hall, his arms threading through the air as if he's already out on the ice. He catches sight of Yuuri out of the corner of his eye, and the leap his heart does every time he sees Yuuri becomes a dive.

He knows that look. The too-bright smile wobbling as he tries to stifle a yawn, the droop of his shoulders, the slight but telling heaviness to his footsteps.

Yuuri hasn't slept.

This isn't the first time he's seen Yuuri like this; he doesn't remember Yuuri ever sleeping well before a competition. But the stakes are so high here, both for Yuuri and for Victor.

And for you, says the unhelpful voice. If you don't pull yourself up to second –

I'll know I gave the best performance of my career, he shoots back. He can't afford to doubt himself.

He's still nervous. But while Yuuri's nerves pull him down, trapping him in the tangles of his own mind, Phichit's own nerves fuel him. He's skating fourth today; by the time he takes the ice at last, he's so full of energy and excitement and impatience he can't stay still.

There's a moment, just before he steps out onto the rink, when doubt returns. What if it all ends here?

I'm not gonna let that happen, he promises, gliding out onto the ice to cheers from the crowd. I have a lot still to do if I'm gonna become Thailand's future. However short his own future may be, if he can make his mark here, his legacy will shape things for years to come. He'll be the one generations of young skaters look up to; they'll carry his dream forward long after he's gone.

But only if he lives up to his potential. Chris and Yuuri are always ahead of me. The only way I can get ahead is to put my quads in the second half for more points. Caution will get him nowhere; playing it safe is no longer an option.

Determination kindles a fire within him – not the kind that hurts and hinders, but the kind that fuels him, drives him onwards. Watch and learn. I'm the one who'll advance to the Grand Prix Final.

For a few crucial minutes, everything is as effortless as dreaming as the applause from the crowd and the familiar strains of 'Terra Incognita' weave together and lift him above all the things holding him back. If only he could stay out on the ice forever, he would be immortal.

Each time he launches into a jump, he wills himself to stay in flight forever, but each time he is brought back down with a bittersweet inevitability. His landings are unwelcome but flawless – a quad toe as clean and light as any of Victor's, a quad-double toe combination with all the energy of a New Year's firework. And like a firework, he is determined to blaze as brightly as he can in the time he has left, to give the audience – the world – a show they'll never forget.

It's something only I can do, not copying anyone else.

As the music moves inexorably towards its end, the fire builds within him, no longer a warm, steady flame but a wildfire, burning out of control and ripping through his lungs and muscles and veins with a ferocity so intense and cruel he knows he won't be able to stay on his feet much longer.

The music ends just in time; he holds the final pose for as long as he can bear, dripping with sweat and panting for oxygen, every laboured breath like inhaling hot ash. Then he collapses back onto the ice, grateful for the shock of the cold hard surface beneath him that keeps him from sliding into unconsciousness. His body is well past its limit. As he staggers to his feet again, he wonders how much longer he will be able to keep this up now he is living on the thin ice of borrowed time, whether he will at least be allowed to make a graceful exit or whether he will crash out in disgrace.

But the fear that grips him melts away as he reaches the kiss and cry and Celestino pulls him into a warm congratulatory hug. Today, at least, the prospect of disaster is nothing but a faint shadow on the horizon. In its place is the triumph of a season's best that places him at the top of the rankings.

He punches the air, overcome with elation. "Please root for me in the Grand Prix Final!" he grins, leaning in towards the cameras.

Celestino's vice from behind him brings him back to earth with a bump. "Hey, you don't know if you'll make it yet."

"Oh, right, yeah." Flustered and deflated, swamped suddenly by exhaustion, he sinks back onto the bench, clutching his mascot – a hamster plushie half the size of him – for comfort. Chris and Yuuri are still to skate; they could easily knock him into third place and out of the running for the final. Even if he does manage to cling onto second, he'll still have to wait until after the Rostelcom Cup to see whether he's made it.

Overwhelmed by the clamours of what if, he buries his face in the plushie. But not for long; he has questions to field, interviews to give.

As Chris's routine ends, Celestino puts a hand on his arm and says, "Come on, let's go."

In the skaters-only area, a few staff members stand around looking up at the wall-mounted screen. As Phichit enters, the camera cuts to the final skater making his way onto the ice.

Yuuri.

Phichit's heart thuds against his ribs in fear as he sees the redness of Yuuri's eyelids, the half-smudged tear tracks on his cheeks. He's never seen Yuuri cry before a skate – after, frequently, and occasionally during, but never before. His first impulse is to rush after Yuuri, to follow him out onto the ice and hug him as tightly as he can. Something must have happened while I was skating, and I couldn't be there for him. His stomach drops. What if Yuuri's had bad news again about someone back home?

He feels a rush of gratitude at the thought that he at least had Victor with him. I hope he was more use than Ciao Ciao was last year. He glances guiltily up at Celestino, who is watching Yuuri with concern tinged with curiosity.

Following Celestino's gaze, he realises Yuuri is avoiding making eye contact with Victor, who is wearing the guiltiest expression Phichit has ever seen on a human face.

So much for Victor being better at handling an upset Yuuri. I'm gonna end you, Nikiforov. He's halfway to the door before Celestino's voice stops him in his tracks.

"Hey, Phichit, where are you off to? You're going to miss Yuuri's programme."

"I'm going to give that idiot Nikiforov a piece of my mind. I mean, look at him, he must have done something to upset Yuuri." He gestures to the screen, where the camera is lingering on Victor's shamefaced expression. "Dunno why he thought he was worthy of being Yuuri's coach."

Celestino chuckles. "I don't know whether to be flattered that you think so little of my replacement, or terrified of getting on your bad side. But I'd let Yuuri handle this himself if I were you. You saw his free skate – he's really blossomed these past few months, and I think that idiot Nikiforov probably deserves a little credit for helping him on his way."

Phichit sighs. He should have more faith in Yuuri; whatever's happened between him and Victor, Yuuri will deal with it like the professional he is.

The camera cuts back to Victor, and something guard-dog-like in Phichit's brain growls, hackles raised. Then the screen is full of Yuuri again, and there's no room for anyone or anything else in Phichit's thoughts as Ketty's rippling piano melody begins to pour from the speakers and Yuuri is transformed.

All the tension melts off him as he spreads his hands and turns his face to the sky, a bird taking flight. Phichit's heart breaks with the beauty of it, the effortless grace. As Yuuri takes off into his first jump, Phichit is afraid he'll never come down, that he's lost him forever. Then Yuuri lands – lightly, cleanly, as if the ice is paper and he weighs no more than a butterfly.

"He's unusually relaxed today," Celestino murmurs, but Phichit doesn't respond. There are no words rich enough, powerful enough to encompass Yuuri's glory, no way to express how, watching Yuuri, he feels himself shatter into a thousand pieces and come back together again brighter and better than before.

Words would only be a distraction; he couldn't bear to miss a second as Yuuri lays bare his heart on the ice. A quad sal, a camel spin, a triple loop, all flowing into one another so naturally, so spontaneously that it seems absurd to separate and name them, as absurd as trying to categorise the individual ripples in a stream or the wingbeats of a wild bird.

It is a shock when Yuuri touches down on his triple axel. Phichit can almost feel the cold of the ice against his own skin as Yuuri puts out a hand, breaking the flow for an instant.

Then it's behind him, like a bad dream, and he sails onwards into a triple flip. If it weren't for the ache in his chest, like the echo of a gunshot, Phichit would think he'd imagined the misstep. There is no trace of anxiety or self-recrimination in Yuuri's face; he moves into a combination jump as if his routine so far has been better than flawless.

It's slightly over-rotated, but again, Yuuri doesn't react as Phichit was half-expecting him to. There's something ethereal about the calm that radiates off him, evident even through the screen.

Phichit wishes he could watch from the audience, but the slight catch under his ribs with every breath reminds him why that's a bad idea. If this skate is what breaks him – if he has another attack, one he can't suppress – then he doesn't want it to happen out there, in front of the crowds and the cameras.

His chest tightens uncomfortably as Yuuri nails another combination and floats through his final step sequence, and he has to regulate his breathing so Celestino won't hear him struggling.

Not that Celestino is paying him any attention; he's just as engrossed in Yuuri's performance. Who wouldn't be, when the figure moving soundlessly over the ice in front of them seems more than human?

Phichit smiles inwardly. He'd thought he was past the teenage days of hero-worshipping Yuuri as some kind of higher being whose skating really was as effortless as it looked. But even though he's well aware of the immense effort Yuuri puts into a performance like this, it's hard not to slip back into that unquestioning adulation when Yuuri is so magnificent. He shows no sign of tiring; there's no tightness in his face, no droop in his shoulders, even after the slips that would once have sent him spiralling into defeatism.

Phichit grudgingly admits Celestino is right. Yuuri really has changed under Victor's tutelage.

Just as his mind turns to Victor, Yuuri launches into a soaring final quad, and Phichit's mouth falls open. That's not a quad toe. That's a flip.

Victor Nikiforov's signature move.

Yuuri doesn't quite land it, but Phichit couldn't care less. Attempting a jump that difficult at the end of your programme? That's a bold move, Yuuri.

'Bold' isn't a word he would have associated with Yuuri before. Determined, resilient, brave, but not bold, not until Victor became his coach, and Yuuri blossomed like a light-starved plant moved into the sun.

That quad flip is a declaration, a challenge, a question. As Victor runs to meet Yuuri – who skates towards him as if it would kill him to be apart from Victor for another second – Phichit wonders for a wild moment whether Victor is about to ask a question of his own.

But instead of dropping to one knee, Victor launches himself at Yuuri just as Yuuri reaches the gate. He kisses him square on the lips, and his momentum knocks Yuuri of balance so that they both tumble onto the ice.

It's not the kiss. It's Victor's hand cradling the back of Yuuri's head as they fall, so he won't hurt himself on the harshness of the ice. It's the look in Yuuri's eyes as they finally part and he gazes up at Victor without reproach, without shock, only amusement that tinges the deep, abiding love beneath.

Phichit darts into the corridor, hands clamped over his mouth, as petals spill up into his throat. He can already feel the warm blood dripping through his fingers. He staggers, barely making it to the toilets before his legs give out.

He hardly notices what the petals look like, beyond the fact they might once have been white; there's too much blood, too much pain. For a moment, there is nothing else. Then the last of the petals is gone.

Something has been torn out of him, and although the wound is still raw, the pain so searing he can barely breathe, there is a new lightness to his body that he doesn't understand. Loss has never felt like this before; it is supposed to drag him down in pursuit of the thing lost, not to liberate him. But perhaps he hasn't lost anything after all – or at least nothing that was his to keep in the first place.

Is this what letting go feels like?

Not letting go of Yuuri, or Yuuri's friendship, or even his love for him. None of those are options; he wouldn't choose them even if he could. But if he can let go of the false hope that has been treacherously pretending to sustain him, all the while sapping his strength; if he can survive this letting go, perhaps it will buy his body some time to heal, buy him some time to live.

Taking a few careful breaths, he wipes the last of the blood away, thankful none of it has got on his costume. There'd be no explaining it away this time.

As he heads back down the corridor, he collides with Celestino, who grips him by the shoulders and eyes him with concern. "Where've you been? The medal ceremony's about to start!"

"Did Yuuri win?" The flowers gave him no time to wait for Yuuri's score. But that performance – even with deductions for the falls –

"What?" Celestino gives his shoulder a shake. "No, Phichit, you did."

It takes a moment to sink in.

I beat Yuuri. I beat Yuuri. That can't be right, can it?

"But how? You saw his skate –"

"I saw him fall several times, whereas I saw you skate flawlessly. No-one deserves that medal more than you. Speaking of which, we'd better hurry." Keeping a hand on Phichit's shoulder as if afraid he'll make a break for it again, Celestino steers him back out into the brightness and clamour of the rink.

A roar goes up from the crowd as he emerges to the flashing of cameras, and a jolt goes through his chest. They're cheering for him.

Smile for the cameras, he thinks, panicked. You're the gold medallist.

Then, amongst the sea of red Chinese flags, he catches sight of the familiar stripes of the Thai tricolour – one at first, then another, and another – and a real smile breaks across his face as he lifts his arms to wave at the crowd.

As an official guides him over to the podium, the ground beneath his feet seems to disappear. He is in danger of floating away; the only thing stopping him is the woman's hand on his arm.

Then he's standing at the top of the world, with Yuuri beaming beside him.

"You did it, Phichit. You did it." Yuuri throws his arms around him.

Phichit's whole body sings as he leans into Yuuri's embrace, heart pounding. "No, we did it," he smiles. "You were amazing, Yuuri."

He feels a hand on his back, and reluctantly breaks away to see Chris reaching around Yuuri to congratulate him.

"Well done, Phichit."

"Congratulations to you too, Chris," he grins back.

There is a flurry of hugging and back-patting; Chris kisses both of them on the cheek, and, on impulse, Phichit leans in and kisses Yuuri on the cheek too.

He smells of cinnamon and a citrus aftershave Phichit doesn't recognise, and his skin is hot under Phichit's lips.

"What was that for?" Yuuri asks with a surprised laugh. They've never been shy in their affection, but they've never kissed.

"Haven't you heard? It's International Kiss Yuuri Day," Phichit grins, glorying in the blush that burns across Yuuri's cheeks. "Couldn't let Chris and Victor have all the fun."

The stadium falls silent, and the official frantically signals for them to take their proper places on the podium.

Yuuri steps back into position, the imprint of his touch still warm on Phichit's back, as the announcer calls, "In third place, representing Switzerland, Christophe Giacometti!"

Someone – several someones – in the crowd lets out a whistle, and Chris blows an extravagant kiss in their general direction before leaning down to receive his medal. And his bouquet.

Phichit's stomach drops. Of course there were going to be flowers. Chrysanthemums, gaudy red and yellow blooms, their overpowering scent familiar from too many nights huddled on the bathroom floor, trying not to wake Yuuri as he coughed up those same petals.

The announcer's voice pulls him back into the present. "In second place, representing Japan, Katsuki Yuuri!"

Warmth and light flood through him as Yuuri waves at the crowd, dazed. As the bright silver medal is draped around his neck, Yuuri shakes the official's hand with an earnest joy that stabs right through Phichit's chest.

Do you see this, Victor? Do you understand how precious Yuuri is? How good? You have to protect him. Please.

"In first place, representing Thailand, Phichit Chulanont!"

A wave of euphoria lifts him, and he seeks out the Thai flags between the rows and rows of beaming faces as the medal is lowered around his neck. Even with the flowers in his arms, he can't stop smiling,

But as soon as the first official pictures have been taken, he thrusts the bouquet at a startled Yuuri. "You came in second, that means you get two."

"I don't think that's how it works," Yuuri laughs, but – to Phichit's relief – he takes them anyway. The smell of them is making him sick; even the feel of them in his hands, the roughness of the stems against his skin, is unpleasant enough to sour his happiness. They suit Yuuri better, anyway; the radiance of him matches the flowers' brightness.

"They're messing up my colour scheme," he grins, and leans in towards the camera, medal between his teeth.

The gold medal. His first, and probably his last.

Stop that. Right here, right now, it doesn't matter whether this is to be his only gold or his first of twenty. He is standing here with a gold medal around his neck and his arm around his best friend, the love of his life (who looks very good with a silver medal draped against his own chest. Silver really makes Yuuri's eyes sparkle.) How many people get to experience that even if they live for eighty, ninety, a hundred years?

…

The days between the Cup of China and the Rostelcom Cup are infuriating and painful. When the competition finally arrives, Celestino lets him slack off practice to watch; by Yuuri's turn, he is a wreck, his hands shaking so badly he almost drops his phone on the ice. But he can't miss this.

When Yuuri squeaks through ahead of Michele after the free skate, Phichit collapses against the barrier in relief. It takes him a minute to gather himself enough to dash off a message.

kinda hate u for makin me worry like that but well done!

He doesn't hear back straight away, nor is he expecting to. But when he picks up his phone at the end of practice, there's a text waiting.

Sorry! But congrats to you as well! We both made it!

gpf here we come, he texts back. barcelona wont know whats hit em.

…

"By the way, Phichit, have you thought about your exhibition skate?"

He nods. "Actually, I was gonna ask if you'd film it for me, since I probably won't get to perform it."

Celestino gives him a friendly thump on the shoulder. "Course you will! But it's a good idea to film it anyway. Building your Instagram empire?"

Phichit just smiles. This one won't be going online just yet, but Celestino doesn't need to know that. He gets the music ready and hands his phone to Celestino, then skates out into the middle of the rink.

When he's done, Celestino is quiet for a moment, thoughtful. Then a smile spreads across his face. "Well, that's very different from what I was expecting, but that's no bad thing. I hope you have a chance to show it off."

…

Leaning against the wall of the hotel bar, he stares down at the screen in his hand, willing it to change. C'mon. Pick up. Any second now… But this call, like the dozen before it, goes unanswered. He can't stop disappointment from curdling the excitement of being in a new city; he'd hoped to spend his first evening here with Yuuri, but Yuuri, apparently, had other plans. Well, no point in hanging around. I can't wait any longer. "I'm going to Sagrada Familia!" he calls to Celestino, who cheerfully slurs back, "Just go!" with a benevolent wave of his hand.

The gesture fills him with an unexpected tide of emotion, and he hurries out of the hotel before anyone notices the tears pricking at his eyes. I'm gonna miss you, Ciao Ciao. He's going to miss everything about this – not just skating itself, but the rush of performing, the glitz and glamour of competition, the camaraderie, the adventure of it all.

Only one thing to do about that. Drying his eyes quickly, he slips on an almost-genuine grin and heads towards the cathedral, determined not to waste a moment.

Barcelona by night is beautiful, but freezing. He tries not to dwell on the way the cold sinks deep into his bones. I was in Bangkok this morning. Of course Spain in December feels cold. But he knows that's only part of the reason.

A quick appraisal of the photos he's taken so far, though, reassures him that the devastation of the hanahaki is still well-hidden by his careful make-up. There are only two people who might not be convinced, and both of them are far away – his mother in Bangkok, and Yuuri in his own world. Well, his and Victor's. Without make-up, the hollowness of his cheeks and the bags under his eyes would give him away, but with it on he can fool anyone into seeing what he wants them to see: Thailand's rising star, fresh-faced and perfectly healthy, ready to tackle his first Grand Prix of many.

The sour taste of deceit rises to the back of his throat. He forces an extra-bright grin and snaps another photo, trying to push the thoughts away, trying to silence that voice which asks gleefully are you sure you're doing the right thing? Are you really, really sure? The voice has only grown louder since he reached the final. Lying to a few people who meant everything to him was bad enough; deceiving the whole of his beloved Thailand is almost too much to bear. He's got sponsorship deals, been on national television, shaken hands with the Prime Minister… And for what?

He gags on the slimy petals as they try to force their way out. Enough. He swallows hard, and takes a swig of water and another defiant selfie. I haven't done anything wrong.

Wrong would be giving up before the final and letting everyone down – his family, Celestino, Thailand, Yuuri. Wrong would be repaying everyone's faith and support with a substandard performance, or no performance at all.

The voice has nothing to say to that, and, slowly, the elation of being in a beautiful, foreign city, on the cusp of the biggest event of his life, comes trickling back until he is swept up in the tide of it and the smile in the photos is no longer forced.

Still, he avoids looking back at the ones he's already taken, all of them slightly off-centre as if leaving space for someone who isn't there.

…

During practice, he is able to put everything else aside and focus on his routine, but as the rink empties and the wide expanse of the day's remaining hours yawns ahead of him, he slips dangerously close to despair. Yuuri and Victor have already disappeared off into the city together, leaving Phichit with no-one to keep him company. There's Celestino, but – much as he loves his coach – he doesn't want to spend the entire day trailing around after him like some kid with no friends his own age.

He's begun to resign himself to a hollow afternoon of selfies and sightseeing – his fans will be expecting updates, and he might as well make someone happy – when he's startled by a hand on his shoulder.

"Looks like our friends have ditched us for each other," a voice purrs in his ear. "What say we do the same?"

He turns, and is surprised not to see Chris follow that blatant suggestion with a wink.

"I thought you had a boyfriend – that ice dancer, right?" he asks politely, shifting so that Chris's hand slips off. He's not in the mood for Chris's casual flirting.

Instantly, Chris steps back, apologetic. "You're quite right," he says, with surprising softness. "Masumi and I are in an open relationship, but that's no excuse for making you uncomfortable. Forgive me." There is something troubled in his expression that Phichit can't decipher.

"Nah, it's okay." He smiles to show he means it, and shuffles his feet, not really knowing what else there is to say. After a beat of awkwardness, Phichit turns to go.

"Phichit. Wait."

He stops, caught by the note of uncertainty in Chris's voice.

"If you want to go for lunch, the offer still stands… Nothing implied, of course," Chris adds, slightly flustered.

"Now that's suspicious. Gonna poison me to put me off my game?"

"Are you suggesting I need to resort to nefarious means to beat you, Chulanont?" The glint returns to Chris's eyes.

"Maybe I am, Giacometti."

Chris pouts. "I take it you don't want to have lunch with me, then."

The thought of the empty hours ahead makes him shudder. "Okay, but if anything happens, I'm telling Yuuri you tried to poison me."

"Understood. Now, how do you feel about seafood? I know a place…"

…

Without the Casanova act, Chris's easy-going company is enough to dull the familiar ache in Phichit's chest. It doesn't stop the ever-present tickle in his throat becoming a full-blown cough – he has to excuse himself halfway through his sundae to go and get rid of the petals discreetly – but it's infinitely preferable to being alone all day.

"Know what's good for a cough?" Chris says as Phichit hurries back to the table.

Although Chris has been relatively restrained throughout the meal, Phichit's still half-expecting him to come out with some nonsense like 'blowjobs', so it's a pleasant surprise when Chris continues, "Steam. I hear the hotel has a pretty nice sauna." He pauses. "Only if you'd be comfortable with that, of course."

"Oh, I think I could cope." He's trying to sound breezy, but his throat is agonisingly raw, and the words come out too rough.

"Christ, Phichit, you sound like a sixty-a-day smoker. You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he says quickly, and finishes up the last of the sundae, grateful for the cooling sensation of the ice cream against the burn in his throat. "Let's go."

…

As the sauna's heat thaws his frozen body and the steam soothes the worst of the pain in his lungs, he regrets never having tried this before. It can't cure him – the dull throbbing behind his ribs is a harsh reminder of that – but he's breathing more easily than he's been able to in months. Maybe, just maybe, he can keep this in check.

Then Chris lays a cautious hand on his arm.

"Phichit. When you left the table… You were throwing up, weren't you?"

Phichit's stomach goes cold with fear. Fuck. He'll go straight to Ciao Ciao – or Victor, oh God –

"And just look at you." Chris's eyes flit over his body, not in appraisal but in concern. "You're about the size of my leg. You're not… doing well, are you?"

Phichit doesn't answer. Can't answer.

Chris's face softens. "Look, I don't want to pry. It's hard to talk about." He offers a half-smile. "I know."

"You…" That means… His head is spinning and his heart soars as months – years – of fear begin to unravel and fall away, and hope flares brightly within him. Chris has no scarring on his chest, so he can't have had the operation, but he's clearly not sick. Which means he got better. That means it's possible –

"Yes. I'll spare you the details, but I struggled with the move from junior division into senior, and for a while after that my relationship with food was… not great. Non-existent, sometimes." He makes a face. "Therapy helped. So did my coach. So did Victor."

Realisation comes like the ground rushing up to meet him after a long fall, and he can't speak.

Chris is oblivious. "This sport is cruel to all of us, and no-one comes through it unscathed, not even Victor." He sighs. "Especially not Victor. But Yuuri's been good for him."

I don't care how Victor feels, he wants to scream, as despair sweeps in to fill the void left by hope. He knows it's unfair, but he's hurting too badly for any of that to matter. I wish Yuuri didn't mean anything to him. I wish he'd never –

Before he can finish that thought, the silence is broken by My Shot blasting at full volume from the changing room. Chris raises a quizzical eyebrow, and Phichit smiles sheepishly, his anger quenched by embarrassment. "Sorry, I'd better get that." Grabbing a towel, he dashes back to the changing room and snatches up his phone. "Hello?"

"Hey, Phichit, I know this is kind of unorthodox, but Mari and Minako-sensei sort of ambushed Other Yuri and Otabek in a restaurant and then Victor and I got dragged into helping them, and now that half of us are here already, we were thinking why not get everybody together for a meal?"

Yuuri's voice sweeps away the last of his anger. "How on Earth did you manage to fit all that into one breath?"

Yuuri's laugh has all the warmth of sunshine.

Phichit basks in it for a moment before replying properly. "Sure! Sounds great."

"Victor's on Chris's trail, I think, but if you see him –"

"I'll let him know. Where's the restaurant?"

…

Half an hour later, after he's awkwardly reassured Chris he's fine and he'll talk to someone if he needs, they are sitting with the others in a small restaurant tucked away down a pretty back street, crowded around a table not nearly big enough to accommodate all of them. Even JJ and Isabella have turned up, although how JJ found them all in the first place is a mystery. (It definitely has nothing to do with the group photo on Phichit's Instagram.) He's managed to get a seat next to Yuuri; the slight crush at the table means that Yuuri's knee brushes against his occasionally, which is making it difficult to concentrate on eating.

Inevitably, talk turns to the previous year's final. Phichit glances at Yuuri nervously – the Sochi final is something they've never discussed, and it was always Yuuri shutting down that particular topic – but, to his surprise, Yuuri seems positively cheerful about it, and perfectly happy to reminisce about the post-competition banquet he's never mentioned to Phichit before.

"I was so nervous, I couldn't even talk to Victor," he grins.

Victor spits out a mouthful of beer, and scrabbles to wipe it up before turning to Yuuri in shock. "You mean you don't remember?"

Phichit's stomach knots as a nasty suspicion takes root. If Yuuri doesn't remember, he was probably drunk. I swear, Nikiforov, if you so much as touched him –

"You got drunk and started dancing. Everyone saw it," Chris says, grinning wickedly.

Other Yuri scowls. "It was disgusting as hell. I got dragged into a dance-off and humiliated, too."

"I still have videos of what happened." Victor angles his phone towards Yuuri, who's blushing so fiercely it's a wonder he doesn't catch fire.

From Phichit's right, Chris pipes up, "I do, too." He slides Phichit his phone, patting Phichit's hand awkwardly as he does so.

"Wait, what?" Phichit looks down at the screen, and his face heats up as he takes in the sight of Yuuri, eyes wild with drunken confidence, hanging off a pole in nothing but his underwear and a loosely knotted tie, supporting a similarly-clad Chris on one arm. Oh my God, Yuuri.

"Yuuri, that's so dirty!"

'Dirty' is the wrong word; that implies disgust on his part, shame on Yuuri's, and that couldn't be further from how he feels as he watches Yuuri and Chris move seamlessly from a jade split into a layback. The innate sensuality he glimpsed during those first forays in Detroit has blossomed into something full-blooded and brazen, something that makes it very difficult for Phichit to keep his breathing steady. Calling it dirty is unfair. But he can't call it what it is without embarrassing them both, can't come right out and say in front of everyone - including Yuuri's sister, including his fiancé – 'Yuuri, that's so hot'.

Chris's voice cuts through the fog of desire clouding his brain. "Hey, what's with the rings, you two?"

He follows Chris's gaze to Victor and Yuuri's hands, each proudly displaying a band of bright gold.

Everything stops.

Phichit's stomach goes into freefall; then he's soaring again on a current of elation he doesn't fully understand. A hundred emotions, a hundred fragments of thought – when did they – I didn't – does Spain even – flit across his mind, but only one leaves any lasting impression. I can't believe you got married without telling me, Yuuri. But the sourness of that thought is drowned in a rush of joy.

He jumps up. "Congrats on your marriage!" he exclaims, clapping furiously. The other feelings can wait. For now, there's only excitement at the thought of Yuuri's happiness, an excitement he can't contain. "Everyone! My good friend here got married!" he shouts in English, and either the other patrons understand or they don't want to feel left out, because he's soon got everyone else in the restaurant clapping.

He turns back to the source of all this joy, beaming, and his heart sinks.

Yuuri is shaking his head, agitated. "No, that's not… They're good luck charms, that's all!" he protests, close to tears, and now Phichit is confused. He knows a wedding ring when he sees one.

Maybe they didn't want people to know? But then surely they would have hidden them –

"Yes, don't get the wrong idea," Victor says smoothly, slipping a comforting arm around Yuuri. "They're engagement rings."

A shoal of half-formed questions darts about his mind, too fast for him to pursue any of them to a satisfactory conclusion.

"We'll get married once he wins the gold. Right, Yuuri?"

That pulls him out of the maelstrom of his own thoughts. "A gold medal, huh?" he says in tandem with Chris and Otabek.

Poor Yuuri looks ready to combust.

The celebratory air in the room evaporates, and there's a moment of stillness as they all size each other up, wary as rival predators. But then JJ starts blathering about how he'll obviously be the one to win, which seems to unite everyone except Isabella in annoyance, and the tension dissipates as suddenly as it arrived.

He glares at JJ. Why'd he have to make it about him? Stealing Yuuri's thunder like that. But Yuuri, he realises, is probably glad the storm of attention has passed on.

As the atmosphere relaxes, they reach a silent consensus that it is time to leave. Chris and Victor insist on splitting the bill between them, and Chris, who has evidently decided to play the gentleman tonight, holds the door for everyone. Phichit hangs back to give Victor and Yuuri some space, and nods his thanks to Chris as he leaves.

"I take it you didn't see that coming either?" Chris says, slipping into line beside him.

Phichit shakes his head, and Chris looks thoughtful. "It's funny, I never really saw Victor as the marrying sort."

The weight of that word marry hits Phichit again, painful as a botched landing. He's never thought about Yuuri being the marrying sort; in China, when he wondered if Victor was about to propose, he didn't get as far as picturing their actual marriage. And even in the early Detroit days, when daydreams about his future with Yuuri were an innocent indulgence and not an invitation to agony, he never thought in terms as concrete as that. Marriage is so definite, so final.

Underneath the hurt is a curious sense of release. Something in him still clung to that indistinctly imagined future, to the selfish idea that he might be enough for Yuuri, but now – faced with the irrefutable evidence of the rings – it has stopped struggling.

"Phichit?"

Chris's voice startles him.

"I asked if you were okay."

"Sorry, yeah, I'm… fine. I'm fine."

Chris squeezes his shoulder. "No need to apologise, Phichit. A lot to take in, isn't it?"

Phichit nods, not trusting himself to come up with a coherent response without giving everything away.

At the hotel, Phichit slinks back to his room and texts Yuuri.

sorry for making things awkward for u, i got kinda carried away. congrats tho!

It's okay. Thanks.

Brief, even for Yuuri. u dont sound too happy for someone who just got engaged

I'm fine

Yuuri-code for help.

wanna talk about it?

Not by text.

my room. 5 mins.

…

Yuuri takes the mug of tea Phichit hands him and stares into it as if the words he needs will come bubbling to the surface.

Phichit waits. It doesn't do to rush Yuuri in this kind of situation – not that they've been in quite this situation before.

"It's just… Everything's moving so fast," Yuuri says helplessly.

"He proposed to you, then?"

Yuuri shakes his head, eyes on the floor.

"You proposed to him?"

"I didn't – I didn't mean – well, I did, but…" The colour rises in his cheeks and he clenches his free hand in a tight fist on his knee.

"Okay, okay, slow down, Yuuri. What happened, exactly?"

After a gulp of tea, Yuuri mumbles, "I bought him a ring."

"An engagement ring." Not a cheap one, either.

Yuuri nods. "I'd been planning it, or at least thinking about it, since Beijing. But it was all … abstract, somehow. I knew it was going to happen, but I didn't … I didn't know what it would feel like, Phichit."

There's a terrifying pressure on Phichit's ribs; Yuuri needs his comfort, and Phichit isn't sure he can give it without coming to pieces. "What does it feel like?"

Yuuri flashes him a small smile that sparks like a lighter flame in Phichit's chest. "It's…" He pauses, sighs, sifting through his mind for the right words. "It's wonderful. I don't want you thinking I'm unhappy, that I regret it. I don't. Not for a second. But I'm so scared that I'm going to mess it all up. It's so big. It's my whole future – Victor's, too – and I want it to be perfect but I don't know how any of this works, I've never even had a boyfriend before and now I'm getting married, Phichit, I'm getting married and oh God what if I can't do this, what if I'm not good enough and I ruin everything –"

"Yuuri. Breathe." Phichit runs his hand over Yuuri's back in slow circles. "One step at a time, okay? Breathe."

With aching slowness, Yuuri begins to relax a little. "It's just… I've got nothing to go on," he continues in a small voice. "This is the first time I've been in love." He lets out a breath, like he's been holding that truth inside him, and looks at Phichit with clear, frightened eyes. "Can you believe that? I'm twenty-four, and this is the first time. With everything that happens, with everything I do, I have to stop and ask myself, 'Is this normal?'"

"Yuuri, nothing about you is normal." The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Yuuri says, with a nonplussed look.

"Okay, that came out wrong," Phichit says with a light laugh that masks his own panic. How can he convince Yuuri of his worth without tearing out his own heart in the process? "What I meant was, you shouldn't compare your relationship to anyone else's. If it works for you and Victor – if it makes you both happy – that's all that matters. Neither of you is exactly ordinary – and I mean that in the best of ways – so it's only natural that your relationship is extraordinary, too. The only thing that matters is you and your happiness, Yuuri. And if Victor adds to that happiness, then for God's sake hold on to him and never let him go."

Yuuri looks at him, stunned. "That was… intense. You okay?"

No. I can barely breathe when I'm with you. It's like I'm drowning. But being apart is worse.

"Just practising for my best man speech," he grins without missing a beat.

The tension in Yuuri's face clears, and it's the loveliest thing, sunshine streaming through a sudden break in clouds. Phichit takes a swig of tea to overpower the tang of petals at the back of his throat.

"How do you know I'm even going to ask you?" Yuuri grins.

"C'mon, who else are you gonna pick, Other Yuri?"

They share a laugh at that.

"I'd better get back to Victor – he'll be wondering where I am. But thanks, I feel a lot better now." Putting his empty mug on the bedside table, Yuuri pulls Phichit into a quick hug. At the door, he pauses with his fingers on the handle. "So… will you be my best man?"

"In a heartbeat, Yuuri."

Yuuri smiles, and then he's gone.

Phichit picks up Yuuri's mug in both hands and hugs it to him as if it's Yuuri he's holding, as if the rapidly diminishing warmth might soothe the pain in his chest. He doesn't want this pain; he wants to feel joy for Yuuri, and for Victor, too, who has never deserved his animosity. But he can't let go of the cruelty of it all, of how Yuuri's life is just getting started while his is drawing to an end.

…

Celestino is giving him some last-minute advice, but Phichit isn't really listening. He's running over his programme in his head one last time, trying not to let his legs tremble, willing the ice to hold him up. He won't let the flowers win out here.

A rush of nostalgia, of love, of pain fills him as the music begins to play, and he leans into it, embracing the feelings in their wholeness, their entirety. Remember why you love this music. Why you love Yuuri. The two, for him, are inseparable. Love links everything in his life, and he has to pour as much of that everything into this skate as he can.

He remembers the first time he showed Yuuri The King and the Skater, how nervous he was about sharing something so important, afraid that Yuuri wouldn't understand his enthusiasm. How relieved he was to see Yuuri's eyes light up at the first skating sequence.

'He looks just like I did when I was learning,' Yuuri muses. 'I kept digging in my toe-pick like that. It took Yuuko weeks to coach me into stroking properly.'

Phichit knows from that that Yuuri won't laugh at the dream he's harbouring. As 'Shall We Skate?', his favourite of all the songs, finishes, he says, "Someday I'll skate to that at a major competition." He takes a breath, then plunges on. "You'll be there too, Yuuri."

And Yuuri doesn't laugh, doesn't tell him he's being silly, just nods. "Why don't we practise?"

"What, now?"

Laughing, Yuuri pulls him to his feet. "Why not?" He waits for Phichit to return the Schuylers to their cage, then takes his hand. "Do you want to lead, or shall I?"

"I know the steps off by heart," Phichit grins. "Let me." And he leads Yuuri through the first dance, the two of them gliding over the carpet together as if it were ice.

It's something they'll do many times over the years. When they're tired after class or practice, or Phichit is bored, or Yuuri is having a bad day and needs something to centre him, they will step onto their imaginary rink and go over these steps that Phichit, and soon enough Yuuri, knows by heart.

And now Phichit is living out that dream. He allows himself to be filled with pride at how far he has come, how far he is about to go. Lifted by the music he loves – music to which no Thai skater has ever performed – and the crowd's applause as 'Shall We Skate?' builds towards its first chorus, he nails his triple axel.

Good, but not good enough to elevate him above his competitors. My only quad is the toe loop, so it'll be hard to earn higher scores than the others. But that doesn't matter. Let the others pack their programmes with quads, strive to beat records, set their sights on medals. They're all worthy goals, but they're not his.

It is tremendously freeing to allow the music to carry him, to let his programme flow as it should, to breathe. He pulls off his triple-triple combination with what feels like no effort at all; it will hurt later, but right now he feels only joy that lifts him onwards into his quad toe loop like it is nothing.

No. Like it is everything.

I have no past accomplishments to defend. This is my new beginning. Perhaps it will turn out to be an ending, too, but he can't worry about the future when the present is all that matters. It would be a waste if I wasn't as excited as a child drawing art no-one's ever seen before on a blank canvas! Yuuri is the one with 'love' as his theme, but that doesn't stop Phichit from writing his own love letter in the ice – to Yuuri, to Thailand, to life.

Whatever happens after the music stops and the tracks of his skates are smoothed over, this will remain. People will remember this. Remember him.

Pride floods through him again as the music embarks on its final crescendo and he dances through the last steps and spins.

There is a beat of silence, and then it begins to hail flowers and plushies as the stadium erupts in cheers.

His short programme is over. He's done it. But now everything the music and the exhilaration kept at bay – all the exhaustion, the relief, the tearing pain – soaks through him all at once. His shoulders begin to shake. He brings his hands up to his face, fearing he's about to throw up, but no petals come. In their place are tears, uncontrollable tears, overflowing through his fingers and dripping down the sleeves of his jacket. It's only now it's been lifted off him that he realises the weight of the burden he's been carrying, not only his own hopes and fears but the expectations of a nation. The relief from that pressure is overwhelming, and for a minute all he can do is sob.

He returns to the kiss and cry in a daze, his mind still replaying his performance. Reality does not come rushing back until Celestino envelops him in a huge bear-hug and congratulates him in rapid Italian, too carried away by excitement to remember that Phichit isn't fluent. Celestino has good cause to be excited; Phichit's score is a stunning personal best.

He wraps an arm around Celestino's broad shoulders and pulls him into a selfie, the two of them grinning fit to burst. There you go, Thailand. There's the score you have to beat. He feels a rush of joy, of pride, at the thought of the young skaters who'll one day follow his example.

And you won't live to see it. Pain cuts through his joy, so severe he clutches at his chest in alarm.

"What's wrong?" Celestino is immediately attentive, placing a careful hand on his back and turning him away from the microphones and cameras.

"Don't feel good," he murmurs faintly. His voice is strained against the agony in his chest, and Celestino's concern turns to fear.

Can't have that. He forces a weak smile. "Shouldn't have eaten… seafood… before a competition."

Celestino's furrowed brow relaxes. "Thank God your stomach is stronger than Yuuri's," he chuckles, patting Phichit on the shoulder. "Go and rest up. I'll deal with the press. Call me if you need anything, okay?"

"But Yuuri's about to –"

"I'll film his performance. You can watch it when you're feeling better."

He nods gratefully and slips off down the corridor, ignoring the flash of cameras and the disappointed calls of, "Mr Chulanont? Just a moment, please…" Celestino will have to handle the media storm for him.

As soon as he's out of sight, he half-collapses against the wall, fighting for breath as the pain takes him in its claws. Twigs scratch at his lungs, tearing open the soft fabric of his body as if to drown him in his own blood. He tries to focus on something, anything else, but it is Yuuri his mind fumbles for. Agony blooms in his chest, searing hot, and his vision goes white.

When it clears, he is slumped against the base of the wall, and only has a second to bring his hands to his mouth before the petals erupt in a bloody stream.

He is only distantly grateful that no-one sees him as he hurries to the toilets to clean up the mess the flowers have made; the pain is too sharp for any other feeling to come into focus. But as it gradually subsides, a heaviness begins to settle in its place.

He has cleared away the last traces of blood and petals, but the shadows of illness are everywhere in the face staring back from the mirror. He is haggard, wretched, almost unrecognisable. Make-up and the excuse of food-poisoning will let him explain it away for now, but it's only a stay of execution, not a pardon. Every time he pushes himself to his breaking point like this, the flowers gain more ground, steal more time. If he dropped out of the free skate, who knows how long he could buy himself. If he goes ahead and skates, he'll sacrifice days, weeks, maybe months.

There's no question about it.

He has to skate.

Giving up now would mean letting the flowers win, turning his back on his own dreams, throwing away the love of everyone who supports him – not only Yuuri, but Celestino, his family, his legions of fans. To allow the disease to take control would be to give up on himself, on who he is. And he refuses to do that. His free skate has to be the skate of his life.

Winning this battle will cost him the war, but this isn't a war that he can win. Why not go out in a blaze of glory?

He stumbles against the sink as his knees suddenly buckle, and the boy in the mirror smiles ruefully. You won't be skating at all if you don't get some rest.

…

The buzzing of his phone pulls him out of sleepy oblivion. He surfaces slowly, almost knocking the phone off his bed as he fumbles for it with his eyes half-open. True to his word, Celestino has sent him the video of Yuuri's performance.

He's on his sixteenth rewatch when the text from Yuuri comes through. Celestino said you weren't feeling well. You OK?

He types out a cheery reply, then deletes it.

been better

Yuuri knows him well enough to recognise the understatement, and five minutes later there is a knock on the door.

"Come in," he calls. His voice is too weak for Yuuri to hear; it's a moment or two before he cautiously pokes his head into Phichit's room.

"Hey," they say at the same time.

"Been partying too hard?" Yuuri grins, perching on the end of the bed.

"You know me so well, Yuuri." He means it to sound light-hearted, but his voice is so feeble that Yuuri's forehead crinkles in concern.

"God, you sound awful. You're not coming down with something, are you?" He puts a hand on Phichit's forehead. "I don't think you have a fever, which is good. Do you feel sick?"

The warmth of Yuuri's presence, the miraculous, tingling pressure of his hand against Phichit's skin, has melted away the last of the lingering nausea, and only exhaustion is left. He shakes his head.

"Just tired." They are totally inadequate words for the ache working its way through his bones and trying to drag him under the earth, but he doesn't want to frighten Yuuri.

Yuuri's frown softens. "I'm going to make you some peppermint tea anyway, okay? Sorry, I'm not sure where we'd find Ya-hom in Barcelona." He adjusts Phichit's pillows and busies himself with the kettle, humming a pretty melody that Phichit, foggy with exhaustion, can't place.

He gives up trying and contents himself with just looking at Yuuri. Unlike Phichit, who still hasn't changed out of his costume, Yuuri is wearing jeans and an old grey jumper; it's a comfortable, familiar outfit that reminds Phichit of dark November afternoons in the David Adamany library, of sharing a hot chocolate as they hurried across campus back to the warmth and light of their apartment.

That jumper sits differently on Yuuri now, but Phichit still loves the way it folds against Yuuri's body, loves the snug fit of Yuuri's jeans over his thighs. He wishes he could wrap his arms around Yuuri, feel the half-known, half-imagined shape of him, rest his head on Yuuri's shoulder and breathe in that scent he misses so much. But he doesn't dare. Not because Yuuri would be surprised or uncomfortable – they've always been tactile, affectionate – but because he's afraid the cinnamon will all be gone, and only the unfamiliar tang of citrus will be left.

Only when Yuuri stops humming does Phichit recognise the music for what it was. 'Stammi Vicino'. A bolt of pain shoots through him, and he screws up his eyes against the tears.

Yuuri turns around with a mug of tea in his hands. "What's wrong? Where does it hurt?" Hastily depositing the mug on the counter, he rushes over and puts a hand on Phichit's back. "Phichit?"

"'s nothing. Just sore." He doesn't let his voice shake. He has no way of explaining to Yuuri why he's upset; as far as Yuuri knows, he's just a little under the weather. Just another performance. Nothing I can't handle.

Yuuri hums sympathetically as he rubs Phichit's back in soothing circles. "You really pushed yourself, huh? Here, drink this, it should help." He hands the mug of tea to Phichit.

And it does help, just a little. Or maybe it's Yuuri – Yuuri's hands working out the tension in his back, Yuuri filling the silence with cheerful, inconsequential comments that require nothing from Phichit but the occasional murmur of assent.

But all too soon, Yuuri takes his hands off Phichit's shoulders and stands up. "I should probably go and meet Victor. I need to talk to him about some stuff."

Ordinarily, Phichit would tease Yuuri mercilessly for a statement like that. Is that what we're calling it now? You sure you won't be too out of breath for talking? Make sure you don't talk too loudly – these walls are thin, you know. But Yuuri seems on edge. When Phichit asks, "Anything I can help with?" Yuuri shakes his head quickly.

"This is between me and Victor."

The words are tight and sharp, and Phichit can't help flinching even though he can feel the anxiety coiling around Yuuri, knows he didn't mean it the way it sounded.

Yuuri sighs, fiddling with the ring on his finger. "I'm sorry, Phichit, I…"

"Hey, it's okay." It's not okay, whatever it is, if it's making Yuuri unhappy, but there's nothing Phichit can do. He punches Yuuri very lightly on the arm. "Go and talk to your fiancé, you."

Yuuri smiles at that, which is almost enough to smooth over the inevitable pain in Phichit's chest at the word fiancé. "Are you sure you're going to be okay? I don't want to leave you on your own if you're not feeling good…"

"I'm fine, Yuuri." The tang of daffodils, sour at the back of his throat; he swallows, and does his best to ignore it. "I'll text you if I feel sick or anything, okay?"

"Okay." Yuuri wraps him in a warm hug, and squeezes Phichit's hand before letting go of him. "Try to get some rest. I don't want you collapsing in the middle of your free skate."

No promises. "All right, Mâe."

Yuuri rolls his eyes in fond exasperation before disappearing into the corridor.

Phichit looks at his hand, still tingling from Yuuri's touch. There is a patch of skin on the back of it which is darker and drier than usual. Funny, I hadn't noticed that before. His skincare routine hasn't exactly been the first thing on his mind recently. He prods at the patch, and his stomach twists sickeningly when he feels the rough texture of bark. Heart in his mouth, he glances at his reflection in his phone screen; sure enough, there's a similar patch on his forehead where Yuuri's hand was.

Phichit rolls over and buries his face in the pillow. Is there nothing that the flowers won't snatch away from him?

His entire body is heavy, weighed down by the tangle of branches that clog his chest and steal his air; he wants to run after Yuuri, to make the rom fill with his light again, to push away the encroaching darkness, but he's too exhausted. All he can do is fight for breath and curse the sickness tearing him apart. Yuuri's engagement, his own achievements, all the joy he should feel – all the bright things are buried under dead leaves and rotten petals.

Buried, not gone. But he has to get out of his own head, get away from the flowers, if only for a while.

Just reaching for his phone is a mammoth effort. Slowly, he pieces together a text to Chris.

the lovebirds ditched me again. wanna hang out?

He stares at the words on the screen, bleakly amused by the absurdity of his carefree tone. But Chris is astute enough to read between the lines if he lets his breezy façade slip.

Chris's reply is immediate. I thought you weren't well?

A thrill of fear goes through him before he realises that – like Celestino, like Yuuri, like the pundits who are no doubt debating the cause of his abrupt exit at this moment – Chris presumably just thinks Phichit is having an off day.

ugh did Ciao Ciao tell EVERYONE? He hopes Celestino put together a statement that will keep the press off his back. He'll still have to deal with his fans; they've probably got a prayer circle going for him by now.

No, Victor told me. He's worried about you too, you know.

victor? y?

You're about to marry his best friend. You're important to him.

Marry. That word again. Before Phichit can squash down the jealousy and guilt that the thought of Victor always brings and come up with a proper reply, Chris sends another text.

You realise everyone likes you, right? I've never met a skater with a bad word to say about you.

that's what happens when ur as fabulous as me. Keep it confident. Keep it light-hearted. Keep Chris from knowing his words have set Phichit's stomach roiling with guilt at just how far this web of deceit extends. not feeling particularly fab rn tho

I can come and sit with you if you want. Keep you company.

The last thing he wants is Chris keeping vigil over his sickbed like he's some fragile invalid. nah im well enough to get up, just a bit wobbly haha. did u have plans?

I was thinking of going to the pool again.

its December r u mad

I take it you don't want to join me then ;)

dont feel like swimming rn but ill help u take photos. ur recent neglect of ur Insta is a tragedy

He hastily adds, NOT comin if ur goin skinny-dipping tho

:(

He rolls his eyes; interacting with Chris when he's in this kind of mood is exhausting. Then another text comes through. In all seriousness, Phichit, it would be nice to have your company. And another. Don't worry, I'll keep it PG. Wouldn't want to scar any young fans.

Phichit manages a half-smile as he texts back meet u in 10?

…

It's almost half an hour before he makes it down to the pool. It turns out applying make-up isn't easy with the new, unwelcome stiffness in his right hand.

Chris greets him with a smile. "Ah, there you are, Phichit." He takes a sip of his martini. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better, thanks."

"I should apologise for my unfortunate choice of restaurant. It's my fault you're not feeling well." He runs a hand through his hair, not quite looking Phichit in the eye.

"Very suspicious that I'm the one who got sick, especially after what I said about trying to throw me off my game," Phichit says, eyes narrowing playfully. "If my results in the free skate aren't what they should be…"

Chris looks as if he's genuinely concerned he's damaged Phichit's chances.

Phichit puts a hand on Chris's arm, and Chris starts. "I'm joking. The only person responsible for my results is me. And maaaaybe whoever cooked those prawns. But mostly me," he repeats hastily, as Chris goes to apologise again. "Seriously, don't sweat it. Remember the year at Skate America when Yuuri ate prawn chow mein the night before his short programme and literally threw up on the ice the next day? So, y'know, it happens to the best of us."

Chris makes no attempt to return Phichit's smile. "You are the best of us, Phichit," he says with a sincerity that shakes Phichit to his core.

"Hey, that's my joke."

"I wasn't joking." There's no trace of Chris's usual playfulness as he looks Phichit dead in the face, eyes bright with conviction.

What's going on? "That's not even remotely accurate. I only have one quad. I smashed my PB out there and I still got the lowest score of anyone except JJ –"

"I'm not talking about scores," Chris says, like it's obvious. "I'm talking about you. Have you any idea how special you are?"

A light-hearted reply bubbles to his lips, but he swallows it back; this isn't the time. "You've been drinking," he says, looking at the glass instead of at Chris. Chris doesn't sound drunk, but he has no other explanation for Chris's odd behaviour.

Chris sighs, looking suddenly tired. "I'm a little offended you don't think I can be sincere and sober at the same time, but I suppose I haven't given you much cause to trust me."

"Sorry, I didn't mean…" Phichit trails off, not really sure what he does mean, or why he's apologising. "Sorry," he says again, weakly, with an uncertain smile.

"No, I'm the one who should be sorry. That was uncalled for." Chris's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I was being selfish. Forgive me."

He has no idea what Chris means; before he can ask, Chris leans forward and puts a hand on his shoulder.

"How are you doing, Phichit? Have you thought any more about talking to someone?"

"What? I told you, that's not… I'm fine!" He shakes Chris's hand off.

Chris looks at him sadly. "Phichit, anyone could see there's something the matter."

Then how come it's taken five years for you to notice? How come he's never noticed, in all this time?

Chris looks at him with an unreadable expression, and Phichit realises that he's spoken aloud. It's too late for him to cover his tracks.

"Oh, honey." Chris reaches for Phichit's arm again, then drops his hand suddenly, as if thinking better of it. "You're in love with him, aren't you?"

Phichit doesn't say anything, just looks at him with the ghost of a smile. "How could you tell?" His own voice sounds tiny, childlike in his ears.

Chris's grin is rueful. "I had a crush on Victor for a very long time. Well, at the start it was more like hero-worship. I didn't understand my own feelings until later."

Like me, Phichit almost says.

Wistfully, Chris continues, "I'm something of an expert on unrequited crushes."

"You didn't ask if I had a crush on him, you asked if I was in love with him. How'd you know?"

"I haven't mentioned his name once, but we both know I'm talking about Yuuri."

Phichit's heart thumps against his ribs. No use denying it. "You won't tell anyone, will you?"

Chris gives him a sympathetic pat on the arm, drawing his hand back as if it will burn if it lingers too long on Phichit's skin. "Don't worry, Phichit, my lovely. My lips are sealed." He flashes Phichit a brilliant grin; there's something empty about it, and a touch of tiredness still haunts his eyes, but Phichit doesn't want to pry. "Now how about those photos?"

…

"Excuse me, Katsuki Yuuri, you did what?"

"I didn't mean it like that!" Yuuri wails into the phone.

"And how, exactly, was Victor supposed to know that when you said, 'Let's end this' you were talking about your professional partnership and not your actual freaking engagement? I'd have been pretty upset too, if I were Victor." He sighs. "You two need to talk it out. Now."

He can tell Yuuri is pretty shaken, but he doesn't have the energy to sort this out for him. Not after the weirdness with Chris, not after the discovery that Yuuri's touch could be even more swiftly fatal to him than the flowers in his lungs. Besides, this is up to Yuuri.

"Yeah, you're right," Yuuri says reluctantly. "I'd better go and talk to him. Thanks."

"Any time." The words come out limp and lifeless, but it doesn't matter; Yuuri has already hung up.

…

The roar of the crowd is deafening. It rolls through the stadium like thunder; the air crackles with expectation, and the reverberations travel up through his feet and shake his whole body. For a moment, he can't breathe.

"All right, Phichit." Celestino's voice cuts through the roar and brings him back to himself. "Go out there and make Thailand proud."

He nods, the pressure in his chest lessening slightly. Forget about the others. Do this for Thailand.

He risks a glance up at the stands, searching for those familiar stripes and finding dozens. I've never had such a big crowd cheering for me before. I really want to turn in a flawless performance.

He'll have to fight for every step. His breathing is tight, his limbs stiff as an old man's, his body crying out for rest. Not yet. He smiles against the pain, against the flowers that want to bind him to the earth. He can do this. He's pushing back against something that may well overwhelm him before he can even reach the end of his programme – but a futile effort is better than no effort at all.

He stumbles on his triple axel, and with the pain of the fall comes a wave of relief. He won't place now; that leaves him free to do what he does best. I have to entertain the audience.

Were Yuuri watching, nothing but perfection would do. But he'll be preparing for his own skate.

Phichit's lungs are burning, but his body is freer, lighter, and he lands the quad toe with rare ease. Forget the pain, and fly; show Thailand – show the world – what only he can do. Here at the Grand Prix Final, I'm confident that I stand out as a skater unlike any other! He nails his next combination – a triple flip for Yuuri, a loop for himself, a double flip for everyone else who's got him this far.

This is his best chance to show what skating can be, the joy of it, beyond the scoring, the endless chasing after the next impossible quad. He had hoped, when his competitive days were over, to carry that message beyond the professional ice skating circuit. To have an ice show – something to tell ordinary Thai kids there was a place on the ice for them, too. But that's out of the question now; this will have to take its place.

No better stage than an international one. He leans into the music he loves, lets it carry him towards the ending.

"That was really something," Celestino enthuses as he helps Phichit into his jacket. He starts talking about scores, season's bests and records and new goals, but Phichit is suddenly light-headed, woozy, and he barely registers any of it.

Worse still, his head is spinning too much for him to focus on Yuuri's performance. He slips off before Yuuri leaves the ice, nodding to Victor as he does so. It's their turn now; he shouldn't impinge. Celestino follows him. Phichit can tell he's worried, but for once he doesn't say anything, and Phichit is glad not to have to lie again.

The skaters-only area is empty but for a couple of venue staff who congratulate him briefly before turning back to the screen. He's grateful for that; he's in no shape for small talk. Trying to steady his breathing, he watches Chris take the ice.

Something's wrong. Chris seems ill at ease, looking at his feet instead of playing to the crowd, and his movements are too stiff. It's no surprise when his quad Lutz turns into a dismal single.

"Hang in there, Chris!" he exclaims. He hates seeing Chris struggle. It's a relief when the elements start to flow more smoothly, to come together as they should. There's something different about the routine itself, and he can't help smiling when he realises what it is.

"He changed his programme to make a jump into a combination in the second half."

Celestino nods approvingly. "That's something you might want to work on. I'm not telling you to pull a Yuuri and start throwing quad flips in right at the end, but having alternatives in mind in case you trip up on one element is a good idea. We can incorporate that into the rest of this season."

Phichit pretends not to hear Celestino – ignoring the exhaustion that sweeps through him at the thought of Worlds and the Four Continents and everything still to come – and loses himself in Chris's routine instead. When Chris lands his last jump without falling, he clenches his fist triumphantly. No matter that Chris's score has kept him in last place; he's beyond caring about that now. He's just happy to see Chris recover. Something's up, though. I should talk to him later, make sure I didn't upset him.

But that can wait until he's seen Yuuri claim gold.

Excitement at the thought of Yuuri's win brings back the dizziness; the only comment he can manage during Otabek's routine is a gentle 'wow', and a sigh of relief when Otabek fails to overtake Yuuri.

When Other Yuri snatches the gold by the cruellest of margins, he wants to scream, but he doesn't have the breath.

He almost wishes he'd told Yuuri the truth beforehand, laid everything out and said to him, "Go and win the gold for me." But it wouldn't have been fair. When Yuuri wins, it must be on his own terms, not shackled by the weight of a selfish dying wish from someone who has never quite learnt to let go. He has always tried to lift Yuuri up; he cannot end by dragging him down.

…

Yuuri stands off to one side of the room, Victor's arm around his waist, silver medal gleaming brightly against his indigo jacket. A camera is trained on him, and two reporters are interviewing him in English. And Yuuri is glowing. He looks happy and relaxed and proud, and Phichit thinks he might burst open with pride, too.

He waits until the interview has finished, then hurries over. Yuuri's sister and teacher are around somewhere, probably chatting to (or chatting up) Chris. They'll want to talk to Yuuri soon. He shouldn't keep Yuuri from them, but he's going to explode if he doesn't get to congratulate Yuuri. He has no words to express the joy coursing through him, the pride and relief and love, but he has to say something.

"Phichit! I'm so proud of you, you did amazingly," Yuuri exclaims, letting go of Victor and drawing Phichit into an embrace that threatens to break him into pieces.

He opens his mouth, trusting it to find the words that his mind cannot, and his body betrays him at last. Unable to hold himself up, he sags against Yuuri as his shoulders convulse and he coughs out a stream of not words but petals.

Yuuri is too shocked to move; it's Victor who grabs him and bundles him into the skaters-only area, away from the crowds and the cameras. He'll be grateful for that, later, when he can process anything other than pain and horror – horror that Yuuri finally knows, and worse, that he had to find out like this. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I've gone and ruined your big day.

He is propped up against the wall, and someone is shaking him by the shoulders. Yuuri. "Who is it, Phichit? Do I know them? I'll – we'll talk to them, we'll sort this out, okay? You're going to be okay." He's choking back tears. "Is it someone here? One of the others? Chris? Seung-Gil? Guang-Hong?" His grip on Phichit's shoulder grows suddenly tighter as his eyes widen in fear. "Oh God," he says hoarsely, almost to himself. "It's Victor, isn't it?" Yuuri takes his hand off Phichit's shoulder and lets it fall limply to his side.

Yuuri's utter obtuseness is almost comical; Phichit doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Before he can respond, Yuuri is off again, his words running frantically along the same well-worn tracks of anxiety Phichit recognises all too well. "Okay. Okay." Deep, shaking breaths as he tries to hold on to a shred of calm. "We can find a way round this. Together." He glances from Victor to Phichit. "I can live with it if – if it means you don't, you don't have to…" He can't finish that sentence; Phichit can hear the unsaid words tearing him apart.

His glasses have slipped down his nose, and Phichit reaches up and adjusts them gently, dares to cup Yuuri's face in his hands. Even with your glasses on, you never could see what was right in front of you. "Yuuri. It's not Victor."

That gesture does what years of hints and glances and drunken confessions have not. All at once, Yuuri knows, and it breaks him. He clutches at Victor as his knees buckle and he stumbles, staring at Phichit in horror and grief.

Victor holds him steady as he buries his face in Victor's shirt and howls.

As he strokes Yuuri's hair, Victor looks at Phichit, helpless, lost. Finding the right words has never been Victor's strong point, but even if he were good with words, what could he possibly say to make this right?

Phichit is grateful he doesn't try. Yuuri's grief is heavy enough; he can already feel the petals bubbling into his throat, and he turns his head to cough out another clump of them. Purple streaked with red, something that might once have been hyacinth. I'm sorry. Trying to comfort both Victor and Yuuri would be more than Phichit could bear.

Yuuri breaks away from Victor and kneels at Phichit's side, trying desperately to stem his own tears. "I'm so sorry, Phichit, I'm so sorry," he whispers over and over, until the words dissolve into sobs again. He's holding Phichit now, gently, like he's afraid of breaking him, and even with the fire in his lungs, even with Yuuri's tears soaking into his jacket, it's so sublime a feeling Phichit almost wishes it could end like this.

"When?" Yuuri asks. "When did this start?"

"If you mean when did I fall in love with you, Yuuri, that would be the moment I saw you, although I didn't realise it then."

That only makes Yuuri cry harder, and now both Phichit and Victor are comforting him, Victor's hand on his back, Phichit's fingers in his hair.

"But the petals? Five years ago. The night before your first Skate Detroit entry, Yuuri."

Victor swears quietly.

Yuuri lifts his head and stares at him. "Five years? This has been going on for five whole years and I didn't notice? Oh God, Phichit, why didn't you tell me how you felt before you got sick, why didn't you s-say s-something…" He collapses into sobs again, and Victor gently draws him away from Phichit, hugging him close.

Phichit's chest throbs, but he gives a weak laugh. "You didn't believe me. Not your fault, I was off my face at the time…"

Yuuri looks at him, unable to speak, and Phichit knows he remembers that night, and that right now he's breaking apart, horrified, furious at himself for not taking Phichit's sloppy, drunken confession seriously.

"Yuuri, don't beat yourself up over it. Please." He can't stop Yuuri from hurting, but he has to try to limit the damage, at least. "Why on Earth would you have thought I was telling the truth? It was 3AM and I was too drunk to walk straight…"

He grins at Victor. "Ah, the perils of underage drinking."

Victor doesn't smile back. He just stares back at Phichit like Phichit is a puzzle he can't fit together. "This is going to sound rude, but… five years? How are you still alive?"

"That's just who I am – Phichit Chulanont, certified medical marvel."

"Phichit. I'm serious."

"Hi serious, I'm –" he begins, but Yuuri cuts him off.

"How can you be so calm? How can you joke about it like it's nothing when it's everything, Phichit, it's going to – you're going to –" His voice is strained, barely audible, but there is something like anger in his expression.

"Maybe precisely because of that." He can't bring himself to name it either. "If I didn't know exactly how this was going to end, I'd be terrified, Yuuri. But there's nothing I can do to change it, so what's the use of being upset?"

Victor's face tightens in indignation, and he hurries on, "I don't mean you, Yuuri. To be honest, I'd be a bit offended if you weren't upset." He smiles; Yuuri doesn't. "But I don't know how else to be. Why spend my last – why spend however much time I've got left feeling sorry for myself?" That's not the whole truth, but he's not ready to face that yet.

At last, the ghost of a smile on Yuuri's lips; it's fragile, fleeting, but it dulls the pain in his chest. "I think that's the most Phichit thing you've ever said." Yuuri hugs him again, almost calm.

Until Phichit begins to cough – or at least tries to. The obstruction in his chest doesn't move. His shoulders twitch as he spits out a few mangled, bloody petals, but it doesn't alleviate the pressure behind his ribs.

Some of the petals land on Yuuri, who springs back, his face contorted with guilt. "Did I hurt you?"

But Phichit can't answer. He's doubled over, clutching at his chest, gasping for breath as the pressure pushes up into his chest, cutting off his air. And the pain – the pain is like nothing he's ever felt before. It's as if his lungs are trying to turn themselves inside out.

Air. He needs air, or he's going to die. Right here, right now, sprawled against the blank white wall of a backstage room at an unfamiliar rink, thousands of miles from home.

Shoulders heaving, he retches – emptily at first, and then there's blood splashing down his front and it won't stop, it won't stop and he still can't breathe. It feels as if there is a jagged stone stuck in his throat, and the harder he tries to force it out, the deeper it cuts him.

He can hear shouting, but he can place neither the voice nor the words; the pain and the panic block out everything else.

Then Yuuri is kneeling in front of him again. He can't hear what Yuuri is saying, but he's there, and that's enough for Phichit to hold on to, to keep him fighting for breath. He grabs Yuuri's hand to steady himself against the pain, and with one last desperate effort, his fingers holding tight to Yuuri's as fire rakes through him, he coughs out the object in his throat.

It's a monster of a thing, the size of his fist, and even through all the blood, there's no mistaking the long yellow petals.

"That's a shame, I used to like sunflowers," he starts to say, but for some reason no sound comes out. There's still an odd pressure on his chest, but it's not the familiar weight of petals and roots; it's as if there's something heavy sitting on his lungs, crushing him from the outside. He looks down, puzzled, but there's nothing there.

He tries to cry out. It's only then that he realises he still can't breathe.

Looking at the bloody sunflower in his lap, he only has time to think 'well, that's hardly fair' before he slides into unconsciousness.

---

Thai expressions:

Sawatdee kap - Hello

Khop khun kap - Thank you

Laeo phop kan mai - See you soon

Mae - Mum

Georgian expressions:

Didi madloba - Thank you

Flower meanings:

Yellow rose - Jealousy

Daffodil - Deception

Red chrysanthemum - Deep passion

Yellow chrysanthemum - Sorrow, neglected love

Hyacinth - I'm sorry

Sunflower - Radiance, brightness