November 18th, Inn-Credible Inn, Hasetsu
"You're different, now," Georgi said, as he packed his suitcase.
The Russian team was only able to stay for a few days before they had to leave. The next Grand Prix competition was coming up fast, and they had to fly back to St. Petersburg to prepare. Viktor had left work early for the day so he could see the Russians off.
"How am I different?" he asked.
Georgi looked up at him, appraisingly. Viktor was seated on the hotel bed and watching as Georgi folded up his clothes. The other man rearranged himself into sitting cross-legged and rested his elbows on his knees. Georgi frowned.
"You're in love."
Viktor raised an eyebrow. "You don't sound very happy about that."
"Anya and I broke up," Georgi said, looking away. "It's been hard."
He started zipping and unzipping his makeup bag.
"Don't get me wrong, I'm happy for you and your boyfriend. You're like a whole new person with him. But I'm also really mad and jealous. Sorry."
"No apology needed," Viktor said gently.
"He seems to be good for you, at least," Georgi continued, "You're, I don't know, more..." He trailed off, and waved a hand vaguely.
"What was I like before?"
"You were perfect, all the time." A note of bitterness crept into his voice. "Always smiling, always confident, always in control. I'd spend a whole season trying to get into the mindset of the prince, the knight in shining armor, and you'd just wink at people and they'd lose their minds over it. I was never even your rival. I was just some guy who happened to share your coach."
Viktor winced. "I'm sorry, Georgi."
Georgi kept fiddling with his makeup bag. He glanced up for a split second.
"I'm sorry, too," he murmured. "When you turned up missing I realized just how petty and jealous I had been. Skating is just a sport. I'd rather have you and everyone else be okay than win all the gold medals in the world."
"You came to find me, even though it could have cost you a season," Viktor said in wonder. "That's...I'm deeply touched. Thank you."
Georgi shrugged and didn't make eye contact. It must have been hard for him to say all of that out loud.
"You should talk to Yuri," he suggested. "He's been quieter than usual on this trip, but I think he took your disappearance the hardest of all of us."
Viktor nodded. "I'll check on him."
He found Yurio texting and laying back on his hotel bed, long since packed up and ready to go. Yurio glanced at him, then returned to tapping on his phone.
"What do you want?" he muttered.
"We haven't spoken much," Viktor said, uncertain. He smiled anyway. "I wanted to hear how you are doing."
Yurio looked at him again, and glared this time. "Don't do that."
That confused Viktor. "Don't...ask about you?"
Yurio jabbed a finger in his direction. "Don't give me that fucking fake smile, old man. I hate that look on your face."
He blinked. The smile did, indeed, fall off his face, replaced by a more serious look as he tried to determine why Yurio was mad at him. Ah, but of course; the reason was obvious.
"I still owe you a short program, don't I?" he said, tapping his chin. "I'm sure I can—"
"Idiot!" Yurio shouted, sitting up on the bed. "I don't care about the stupid short program!"
Viktor shut up, eyes wide. They stared at each other for a few moments, and then Yurio huffed and threw himself back on the bed, turning away from Viktor and curling in on himself. Viktor wanted to reach out to the boy, to comfort him, but that was probably the last thing Yurio wanted right now.
He eventually settled on saying, "I'm sorry, Yuri."
Yurio snorted. "Do you even know what you're sorry for?"
"...No."
"Maybe start with the part where you fucked off to Japan, and didn't tell anyone, and made the rest of us think you were dead in a ditch somewhere."
Oh. Oh. Yurio was mad because he had been worried.
Viktor remembered from looking Yurio up online that the boy's parents had died a few years before. He'd had to move away from his grandfather, his only living relative, in order to pursue his skating career. In day-to-day life, Yakov was the closest thing he had to a father, and Viktor was the one Yurio had sought out to help him in his senior debut. Yurio had trusted him, looked up to him. And then Viktor had suddenly vanished.
God, Viktor felt wretched.
He cast about, trying to think of something, anything he could say, to make things better.
"I'm sorry for abandoning you," he said, "And I'm sorry for making you worry."
Yurio twitched, still not looking at Viktor. "Are you coming back to St. Petersburg?"
"I don't know," he admitted, hating the words as he said them. "Not today."
Yurio did not respond.
"Yuri?" he tried again, "I'm grateful for the messages you left on that video. I couldn't have contacted you or Yakov or anyone, if you hadn't reached out to me first. You made it possible for me to see you all again, and I can't thank you enough for that."
Yuri snorted. "You could have gone to the police. You could have gotten yourself sent home at any time."
Viktor wasn't completely certain, but he'd been slowly forming an idea for why he was so recalcitrant to do that.
"I think...that would have made things worse."
Yurio finally looked up at Viktor, one eyebrow raised.
"How much did Yakov tell you about my condition?" Viktor asked.
He had Yurio's full attention now. "Not much. Just that you have amnesia."
Viktor wasn't sure how much he should tell Yurio. The teenager certainly didn't need more things to worry about. But on the other hand, Viktor wanted Yurio to realize that if Viktor hadn't stayed in contact, it wasn't because he didn't care.
"My amnesia was caused by some sort of traumatic event or severe stress," he said, "And when my memories come back, I'll remember the trauma, too. That's why I reacted so badly to the earthquake: I was remembering something very bad."
"What was it?"
"Let's just leave it at 'bad.' Anyway, I was warned not to try to remember too fast, because it might trigger the trauma all over again. And I was told to stay far away from whatever caused it." He was frowning now, and crossed his arms. "I was a mess when I first arrived in Hasetsu. Putting me back in St. Petersburg would probably have just worsened it, and I think part of me knew going home would be a bad idea, even if I didn't understand why."
Yurio had pulled his knees up to his chest, and was frowning in thought.
"Old man, just what the hell happened to you?"
Viktor had no answer for that.
"Yuri, please know that I never meant to abandon you. I don't think my mind was working clearly when I left Russia. As soon as I realized who I was, I called your ice rink and you blocked me—"
Yurio made a strangled noise. "That really was you?!"
"Well, you did get in touch later, so it all worked out eventually," Viktor said, holding up his hands.
Yurio was quiet at that. But this time, the silence seemed to be more pensive than sullen.
"I'm glad you came out here, Yuri," said Viktor. "It means a lot to me."
The teenager shrugged. "Yeah, whatever."
Viktor turned to leave, knowing it was time for them to go to the airport. Yurio got up and grabbed his luggage.
"I wish you'd just told us you were miserable," he grumbled. "I don't get why you had to hide halfway across the world. Why couldn't you just talk to us?"
Viktor wished he knew the answer to that, too.
He accompanied the other Russians all the way to Saga Airport. Most of them weren't the type to like sentimental gestures, and were content to simply say goodbye and to wish him well. But as he was about to leave the building, Mila broke out of the security screening line, ran over and hugged him.
"Yuri texted me about what you told him," she said, not letting him go.
"Was it too much?" he asked, "I hope it doesn't make him more worried."
"Vitya, please," she snorted and punched him on the arm. "We were all worried enough to fly out here looking for you. Yuri was obsessing over news of you for months. Letting us know what's going on with you helps us. It doesn't make us more upset."
He rubbed his arm. Mila punched hard, despite her chipper face.
"I'm planning to call Yakov often," he assured her, "So you'll hear about how I'm doing."
She tutted. "Not good enough. He'll just say, 'Vitya's fine, go back to your quads!' I swear, that must be where you and Yuri get it from."
"Get what from?"
"Pretending to be fine even when you're not." She crossed her arms and looked at him sternly. "Yuri puts on a tough guy act, which is adorable, but he's still upset underneath it. You pretend to be happy. You fooled me, too, until I saw that video where you really were happy."
Viktor cocked his head, thinking about what she said. There were plenty of reasons why he should have been happy: he was wealthy, famous, handsome, at the top of his career and a Russian icon. But Mila's words felt uncomfortably true.
She held out her phone. "Let's swap numbers, okay? I need someone to help me plan pranks on Yuri, and Georgi's still mad at me about the hot spring incident."
Viktor could tell it wasn't really about pranks. But he smiled—a small but real smile—and put in his number. Her face lit up and she texted him immediately.
"Ooh, new phone," she said. "Still can't remember the password to your old one? You could get it factory-reset."
"I'm not that desperate yet," he said. "Good luck with the Grand Prix. I'll be watching."
"Thanks. And take care of yourself, okay?"
She returned to the security screening line, where she and the other Russians gave him one last wave. He waved back, and finally left the airport.
His arm was still aching a little, but he felt warm inside.
November 28th, Hasetsu
With the Russians gone, Yuuri's life soon went back to normal. Mostly. There was now a tangle of nerves that coiled in his stomach whenever he thought about the future. Specifically, Viktor's future. Because Viktor's memories had started coming back.
It started with the car wreck flashback. The next one happened while they were folding towels, and Viktor had picked up a fuzzy bathmat and froze. Yuuri tensed up, prepared to respond to another relived trauma, but then Viktor's face softened.
"It's like Makkachin's fur," he said, smiling a little wistfully. "That's what he feels like."
Yuuri hadn't known what to say, so he had just put his hand on the mat and tried to imagine a poodle's fur. He wondered if Viktor wished he was back in Russia.
The next time, Viktor ran all the way to the ice rink on Saturday evening, and practically collapsed onto one of the benches as Yuuri's last class for the day filed out. The students sent him confused glances. Yuuri had initially thought something was terribly wrong, but then Viktor raised his head and beamed.
"Baranovskaya!" he said.
Yuuri put on his skate guards and walked over. "What?"
"I was showing Minako's class a chainés turn, when I remembered Madame Baranovskaya," he panted. "My old ballet teacher."
"Wow," Yuuri said. "I take it you really liked her?"
"Oh no, I hated her!" Viktor laughed. "She was so strict! Always criticizing my form. I just finished the chainés when I heard her saying, 'Again, Vitya! I've seen spaghetti with better posture than you!' It's funny now, but I was so mad at the time!"
The third time it happened, Viktor wasn't laughing. Instead, he was looking rather sheepish while the Katsuki family stared at his handiwork in the kitchen.
"Shiro, dear?" Yuuri's mother stated gently, "It looks lovely, but what is it?"
"Pirozhki," he said, leaning back on the counter. "It's a Russian stuffed pastry. I know we were supposed to have curry bread tonight, but I got distracted and I accidentally made this instead."
"How do you accidentally cook in Russian?" Toshiya asked.
"Yurio would steal my lunch whenever I brought pirozhki, so I started making extra ones and letting him have them. I think the habit stuck."
"You spoiled him way too much." Mari mumbled between mouthfuls. "Tastes good, though."
The pirozhki was excellent, Yuuri agreed. But with each memory that came back, he felt his heart stutter. Every memory was one step closer to Viktor's old life and the day that he would go back to Russia. Yuuri could see the joy and wistfulness in his eyes whenever he remembered something else. A few months in a backwater like Hasetsu were nothing compared to the glamorous and successful life Viktor had waiting for him back home.
Not every memory was as pleasant as these. There were more flashbacks. There were nightmares. Sometimes Viktor would go an entire day without smiling, or he would wander off to be alone. Sometimes the only sign of it was that he acted unusually clingy or thankful to the people around him, and his gaze was distracted.
As November turned into December, the trickle of memories turned into a flood. Viktor would wake up from a dream or realize in passing that a whole segment of his life had come back: His parents, Makkachin, his first coach, his school years, Yakov, and more. He stopped recounting to Yuuri every blank that had filled in, although he'd talk about it if Yuuri asked.
The one conspicuous void that remained was his career. Viktor couldn't recall any of his competitions, interviews or public appearances. He joined Yuuri at the ice rink, hoping to jog those last few missing pieces, but they remained elusive.
"I'm working on a new routine," Viktor said one day. "Something more dramatic! Want to hear the music?"
"Sure, what is it?"
"The Rite of Spring, by Igor Stravinsky," Viktor said, and played a recording of it on his phone.
It was bizarre. Every time Yuuri thought he'd found the melody, it changed. The score couldn't decide whether it wanted to be fast or slow, happy or sad, and its rhythm lurched off course at unpredictable intervals. Beneath it all was a growing current of wrongness.
The music broke out into off-key screeches.
Yuuri startled. He pulled himself together, and coughed.
"It's...nice."
Viktor raised an eyebrow. "Really? Stravinsky would be disappointed to hear you say that. He was going for shock value."
Yuuri looked down, and brushed ice shavings off his boot. It was a beautiful song, in its own way, but it sounded more like the score to a horror movie than a figure skating routine.
"Well, good for him. It seems like it'd be really hard to skate to, though."
Viktor shrugged at that. "I could use a challenge."
The music dipped and swerved again, from joyous to furious to eerie. It sounded like somebody dying.
Yuuri shuddered.
Viktor frowned. "Is something wrong?"
"No, no. It's fine. That song just gives me the creeps, that's all."
"I'll warn you before it's about to play. Is that alright?"
That was fine. Yuuri might not like the song, but he was sure Viktor could do something amazing with it.
December 7th, Hasetsu
Viktor didn't take long to develop his new routine. He had probably worked on it before, in fact. As strange as most of the score was, to him it felt familiar, and he felt a peculiar affection for its beastly tones. He was cheerful and easygoing by nature. The Rite of Spring...wasn't. Inspiration practically flooded him, and the movements came easily. In less than two weeks, he could fly through the whole four and a half minute program flawlessly. He had to show it off.
Despite Yuuri's strong distaste for the music, he was willing to stand at the rink wall and watch as Viktor skated out to the center of the rink. Viktor felt touched by his support, and gave Yuuri a grateful smile. Next to Yuuri, Minako leaned over the rink wall with a gleam in her eye and the sound system remote in her hand. On Yuuri's other side Yuuko and her daughters looked on eagerly.
"You sure you want to let the kids hear this?" Minako grinned at Yuuko. "It's pretty intense."
"It's just an instrumental, right?" Yuuko replied. "They'll be fine."
Minako, Yuuri and Viktor shared a knowing look. She pressed the play button.
Viktor's routine started at an upbeat part of the song, setting a peaceful and somewhat eerie tone. He moved slowly, delicately to match it, drawing on his ballet training. Then, kicking off for his first jump, a shriek of brass ruptured the tranquility.
In the Rite, Stravinsky drew from Slavic peasant songs that "civilized" Europeans called backwards, primitive, barbaric. Traditional ballet was light and graceful. The dancers in the Rite stomped and fell over. Instead of a happy ending, biblical story or morality tale, it culminated in an innocent girl's pointless death. It wasn't just ugly. Stavinsky had thrown away everything high society thought necessary for a performance to be good.
But when Viktor had heard it, he hadn't been able to get the music out of his head. The sacrificial maiden had been the best dancer in her tribe. She was an athlete, strong and fast. She could have fought back, could have refused, could have bolted. Had she really been forced to dance to her death?
He switched to his step sequence in time for the hardest part. Now, the strings and brass purposefully shifted their beats seemingly at random, throwing off any attempt to follow. Viktor didn't dare jump here. There was no identifiable rhythm, and just keeping time required all his concentration.
She could have chosen to stop. She could have fled. But if she had, the entire tribe would have turned on her. They'd praised her, admired her, loved her for throwing her life away. And wasn't it a heady feeling to be adored? Wasn't it better to go out in glory, than to stop dancing and revert to being nothing? It was easy to sacrifice yourself, if you thought your life was worthless to begin with.
The dizzying beat smoothed out. He swept from a three-turn into a quad flip, then into a spread eagle.
But, the girl could run. It might cost her everything her old life had given her, but if she was willing to try, she could run.
His last jump was a triple Axel. It wasn't terribly challenging, compared to the quads, but it was Yuuri's favorite jump. In the choreographic sequence that followed, Viktor purposefully borrowed moves from the Hammerklavier routine. That would give Yuuri a smile.
The music cut off early, leaving the audience reeling and unable to make sense of what it had just heard. Plenty of chords were still unresolved. The routine itself was unresolved. Any judge would dock points for that, but Viktor wasn't skating for judges here.
This time, the girl didn't die. She'd thrown off her crown and ran for her life.
Viktor held his final stance for a few seconds before finally relaxing. The small audience broke out into cheers.
"My ribs hurt just from watching that," Yuuri said, slumping over on the barrier.
Viktor left the rink and immediately collapsed on one of the benches. "You're tired?"
Yuuko cried, "That was so cool! I've never seen anything like that!"
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the triplets running off somewhere. That was odd. Usually, they'd be all over him, asking how to do the moves in his routine. But his head was pounding and Yuuri was patting his hair, so Viktor couldn't pay them much attention.
It was probably nothing important.
Notes: As a person's mental health improves, sometimes they actually feel worse for a while. This is because the brain finally feels safe enough to process all the pain that's happened to it. Figuring out how to express and make sense of this pain is often a major part of therapy. What's one of the most common methods people use to do this? Music.