The cold nipped at all skin being exposed as Yuuri pulled off each article of clothing one by one. He tried to maintain some aspect of decency, keeping his underwear on until the last possible moment. He folded his pants and shirt, laying them in a neat pile on the floor. His feet came into contact with slightly frosted rock. He looked in front of him, seeing the line for the showers. There were only three more people in front of him at this point, one of which was still fully clothed. Yuuri had thought he waited until the last possible moment to undress, but apparently he was wrong.
Standing by the entrance to the showers were two soviet soldiers that Yuuri had become unfortunately acquainted with during his time in the gulag; Major Nikiforov and Private Plisetsky. The two watched intently as the various japanese prisoners slunked in and out of the facilities. Once Yuuri was one person away from being allowed in, he fidgeted with the elastic of his underwear. As he was sliding the thin piece of fabric down his legs, he heard a degrading snicker from the lower ranking soldier.
"Толстяк." Plisetsky hocked out a wad of spit at the ground as the asian man tried to walk by. It wasn't a secret that this Private, for some reason, had a natural disdain for Yuuri Katsuki. Although Yuuri had never discovered why, the young Soviet continuously dragged him off his bunk, knocked down his food trays, and genuinely gave him a hard time while working in the field.
Yuuri stepped over the patch of drivel, hating the feeling of frozen wood beneath his toes as he entered into the bathing area. There was a wall of shower heads, all pointed down at the floor made of planks of wood, each with half an each between them so that the water could leak through. The space was surrounded by a dirty curtain. Yuuri stood underneath an open shower head, bracing himself as he turned the handle. The water that came out was glacial. It stung the surface of his skin before trailing down his body in icy streams. As uncomfortably cold as it was, feeling the dirt wash away layer by layer was satisfying.
A single bar of soap hung in a small, knit bag from a hanger on the wall. Yuuri took it into both hands, feeling the suds grow around his fingers. He immediately started scrubbing at his body. He was on a time limit. Despite the low quality of the shower, he knew it would be a while until he was allowed to have another. He saw his tanned skin get three shades lighter when he would run the soap over his arms and legs. The water stabbed into his shoulders as he built up suds in his hands, and began to lather it into his grease filled hair. Fingernails scratched into his scalp, forcing all of the muck and filth out. Yuuri didn't want to keep his head underneath the stream for too long, in fear of getting hypothermia, so he worked fast. He was in the middle of washing off a buildup of soap on his chest when the water shut off completely. His time was up all too soon.
Yuuri followed others to the exit, where a beaten towel was tossed in his direction. Immediately, he began to towel off. He ran back to where he had left his clothes, only to find them missing. Panic immediately rushed through his body as he stood in nothing but a small rag of a towel wrapped around his waist. He was preparing to ask someone what had happened, when a great force crashed into his back, sending him flying into the jagged ground. Yuuri scrambled to sit up on the ground. When he turned, he found himself face to face with searing green eyes, and a massive scowl.
"Fucking scum." Private Plisetsky shoved the bottom of his boot into Yuuri's chest, forcing the older man back into the dirt. "Pigs are supposed to be dirty, remember?" The soviet soldier's accent was thick, but his words were clear.
An immense pressure was placed in the center of the fallen prisoner's chest as he felt the young russian put the entirety of his weight into standing on the asian man for a brief second. When the boot was removed from his chest, Yuuri couldn't help the uncontrollable coughing as he forced himself to sit back up. He frantically looked around for help. Horror struck when he realized he was alone. The other prisoners were gone; the last of them must have been ushered back to the bunkers by now. The only person nearby was Nikiforov, who still stood by the entrance to the showers. The white haired man didn't even spare Yuuri a glance.
The steel toe of Plisetsky's boot swung into Yuuri's shoulder, knocking him back down. He could feel his back scrape into the rock beneath him. Another swift kick met the side of his ribcage, causing him to sputter and cry out.
"Shut up сволочь." That same large foot rammed into Yuuri's right wrist, causing him to once again scream out in agony.
Despite the freezing cold of the ground and the air, nothing but searing heat radiated from Yuuri's wrist. He could feel tear globbing down his face. "P-p-ple… Stop." He managed to whisper out one word through the pain.
"Huh?!" The russian soldier ground his boot into the prisoner's wrist. "You want me to stop?" Yuuri could only nod rapidly. "If you want me to stop, then make be a good pig and squeal for me."
Panicked eyes flashed up at the soldier above him, and moved towards the higher ranking soviet. Major Nikiforov wasn't paying them even a sliver of attention. Fear filled Yuuri's entire body. OH god. Was this it for him? "Wh-what?"
Plisetsky called something out in russian. Out of the corner of his, Yuuri was able to see Nikiforov glance at them briefly before nodding. The blonde then turned his attention back to the practically naked man on the ground. "Make a noise like the pig you are, then I'll let you go."
Mortification. Pure, unadulterated mortification. But in a situation like this, he didn't have any choice. "B-b-..." He gulped down what little dignity he had left. "Bu-hii. Bu-hii."
"The fuck kind of pig is that?" Plisetsky spat out.
"That's the sound japanese pigs make." Nikiforov's voice was calm.
"It's weird." One last kick found its way into Yuuri's side before the enraged soldier finally stepped away. "Go shower again you filth."
With the new found opportunity, Yuuri scrambled to push himself up to his feet. The moment he put any pressure on his right hand, he felt that stabbing pain all over again. He rushed back into the showers, throwing himself underneath a stream of water. He watched the water carry a red tint as it splashed onto the wooden floor. He tried to hold his wrist under the showerhead. It was already starting to swell. The biggest challenge was trying to keep his arm completely still, holding his hand close against his chest, while he tried to use his non-injured arm to scrub his body clean once more. Tears globbed down his face as he stood still under the cold water. He didn't even know where his clothes were.
Once again, the water shut off all too soon. Yuuri stepped out of the shower. The towel he had been using was sitting on the ground, still both a little wet from its last use, as well as dirty from when he had been knocked to the floor. The moment Yuuri tried to move his wrist so wrap the towel around his waist, he yelped involuntarily from the pain. At this point, he was convinced it was broken. He hunched out of the shower area, wearing only his towel. As he walked out, he saw his original pile of clothing, folded neatly on the bench he had originally left them on. Changing was painful. There was no way to maneuver his wrist so that it wouldn't hurt as he pulled in the articles of clothing. But, they were warmer than standing outside in Russian fall weather, cold, naked, and drip-drying. The Asian didn't bother with his boots, knowing very well he wouldn't be able to tie the laces.
Yuuri began walking through the camp. There was no one around, save for guards who only stood and watched the perimeter. At this time of day, the prisoners would all be in their bunker rooms. Oddly enough, he found more comfort in knowing as few people as possible would see him in his current state.
While he didn't trust anyone in the soviet military, especially not after the beating he had just received, Yuuri knew he needed medical attention. There was an infirmary on the grounds of the gulag, mostly meant to treat the strapping young russian men, but it was also used to treat any of the prisoners. However, that was often only in the case of an emergency. The building looked just like all of the others, the only thing setting it apart from the other structures was that it was much smaller in size, and had 'лазарет' painted onto a sign above the door. While Yuuri didn't have even the slightest idea what the sign actually read, Phichit had pointed it out to him once before. He entered the building, and was immediately discomforted by the synthetic lighting reflecting off the pale-yellow tile that ran halfway up white drywall. There was a main room, lined with cots, as well as a door that likely lead to an operating room or two. Out of the many cots in the room, Yuuri counted fourteen, only three were in use.
"Excuse me?" An older woman with an immensely angular face approached Yuuri. She wore a white nurse's dress, a gently folded cap covered most of her slate black hair. A red plus sign was stitched into the fabric of her right breast pocket. The expression on her face was stern, angry even. She looked Yuuri up and down, squinting when she saw how he cradled his wrist. "English?" When Yuuri nodded in response, she continued. "I can't treat you unless one of our men gives me permission. Come back with a soldier or something."
Yuuri was about to open his mouth to object, but quickly closed it again to think over his words before speaking. "It was a soldier who hurt me."
"Well," The nurse walked over to some cabinets along a side wall and began organizing a box of gauze pads. "He must have had a good reason then."
As far as Yuuri was aware, he had never done anything to provoke the young russian soldier who had assaulted him. All he had done was shower. "It was the young soldier, the blonde one named Plisetsky."
There was a visible drop in the nurse's shoulders at the mention of adolescent recruit's name. "He has a temper, yes. I'll be the first to admit he is just a boy. But he still has his reasoning, and the rules still stand."
Yuuri bit into his lower lip. It was a gesture to both calm himself as he thought about what to say, as well as distract from the throbbing sensation by his wrist. "Major Nikiforov was there." He suddenly sputtered out. This caught the nurse's attention. "He saw that it was unprovoked."
The nurse seemed to be contemplating this. "Sit down." She didn't wait for Yuuri to be seated before she walked out of the infirmary entirely. Yet, the japanese boy listened. He was too exhausted to do much else, so he sat at the end of one of the cots. It felt like an eternity before the elder woman returned, speaking quite loudly in russian. Her conversation partner came into view only moments later.
The crisp, green uniform was easily recognizable at this point. The natural alabaster hair was a dead giveaway. His uniform cap was tucked neatly, and respectfully, underneath his arm. Viktor Nikiforov exchanged undecipherable words with the nurse. Despite having been in this gulag for an undeterminable amount of time, Yuuri had yet to pick up any of the russian language. After speaking with the woman for a few moments longer, the man approached Yuuri. His movements were stiff and mechanical, until he stood firm in front of the japanese man. "Stand." His command was stern. Yuuri was to his feet, no questions asked. Immediately, the back of a gloved hand struck into Yuuri's cheek. "Our lovely nurse, Lilia, tells me that you've accused a soviet man of causing your injury. Worst of all, you've claimed I was witness. Is this correct?"
The glare in hyperborean eyes could have cut like glass. It sent a shiver down Yuuri's spine, so much so that it distracted him from the fact that he had just been struck again. "Y-yes… Yes sir." His cheek was met with another slap.
"I didn't see anything of the sort." Nikiforov asserted. "Next time, think twice before you make accusations such as those, or else we'll have to break your other arm as well." Without waiting for Yuuri's reply, the Major officer turned on his heels. He said a few final words to Lilia before exiting the infirmary all together.
Lilia, the nurse, let out a sigh, and approached Yuuri. A stern hand on his shoulder forced him to sit back down on the cot. The russian women then went over to a set of cabinets, where the rummaged around various shelves and drawers until she returned to where the injured prisoner sat. In her hands was a plank of wood and a cotton-elastic bandage. "I can't tell if you're lucky or unlucky, boy. Nevertheless, Major Nikiforov for some reason think's you are worth fixing up. I will warn you though, I'm not wasting any anesthetic on your kind. Not when our boys may need it."
She took Yuuri's injured wrist between both hands. The pressure of her fingers forcing the broken bones back into place made Yuuri want nothing more than to scream; he bit the inside of his cheeks to stop himself. The plank of wood was placed underneath his forearm. The nurse then began wrapping the bandage around Yuuri's arm so that the wood would be held snug against him. She finished her work quickly. "There."
"Th-thank you…" Yuuri's eyes stung, though he wasn't sure he could try any more if he wanted to.
"You should thank me." Lilia dug a cravat out of her pocket, folding it into a triangle once. She situated the curve of Yuuri's elbow into the fabric, before lifting two corners to tie them around his neck. "Even if Major Nikiforov gave permission, I don't have to treat any of you if I don't want to. Whatever the reason, I'm sure a япошка like you deserved it. Now get out of here. I have real patients to treat."
Without waiting even another second, Yuuri sped out of the infirmary. His arm rested heavy in the sling. The throbbing from his hand had dulled since being wrapped, but it was still quite painful. Why couldn't it have been his left hand at least? Now he would be stuck doing tasks with his non-dominant hand for who knows how long… Working in the fields was going to be nearly impossible.
Yuuri returned to the sleeping hall he was assigned to long ago. He forced the door open with his shoulder, and it made a very loud sound. Instantly, heads turned towards him. It was late in the afternoon, so almost all of the japanese prisoners, plus a few of other ethnicities, were all gathered and hanging out within their confined spaces. Hundreds of pairs of dark eyes followed the fabric of his cast up his arm before bothering to look at his face. There were a few empathetic glances his way, although few said any words. Phichit wordlessly approached him, noting right away that Yuuri didn't want to talk about it.
"I'll switch bunks with you." The thai man said.
"You'll get in trouble if you do that." Another english speaking prisoner chimed in.
"What am I supposed to do? He can't climb into the top bunk with an arm like that."
"I'll be ok Phichit." Yuuri smiled weakly at his companion. "No need for us both to be crippled."
Yuuri moved over to his assigned bunk. He reached with his good arm, an oxymoron considering he wasn't left handed, and pulled himself onto the top mattress. It was meant to prove a point, but it was harder than he thought it would have been. The movement was anything less than graceful. Once in his bed, he could feel exhaustion overwhelm him. The strain of working in the fields, combined with the terror from earlier today… He couldn't take it. The twenty-three year old soldier pulled his blanket up so that it could cover his head, before allowing remaining tears to slide down his cheeks.