The assistant who usually oversaw Yuri's fortnightly medical appointments wasn't available, or so he'd been told, and apparently nobody was free to replace him. As a result, Yuri had been gifted with an hour long period of respite that morning, half of which he'd wasted staring down at his breakfast.
His mind was awash with so many things; meaningless numbers and jumbled performance targets, his angry outburst at Boris a few days ago that he still hadn't apologised for, Valkov's insistence that he wasn't training hard enough despite the fact that he'd increased in nearly all of his measurable statistics and was physically and mentally incapable of doing more, the constant risk of failure and the threat to Boris' life, the prospect of finding his personal file, Kai's letter—always Kai's letter—and everything had coalesced in his head in such a garbled way that he was literally sitting at the table thinking about absolutely nothing.
He needed to sleep. Preferably for a very, very long time.
Yuri jumped when a presence appeared at his side, completely oblivious to the boy's approaching footsteps, and couldn't quite fathom why Boris had chosen to sit next to him rather than opposite. Even Boris looked just as perplexed as he felt, repeatedly glancing over his shoulder to check the rest of the hall.
Boris cleared his throat, opened his mouth to speak, but apparently thought better of it. The bruises Yuri had left him with were fading well and Yuri was thankful, for he'd hated having to look at them. The apology that had lingered on the tip of Yuri's tongue ever since that evening threatened to spill out, until it once once again overruled by the selfish anger that still simmered in his chest. Boris had no idea how much Yuri was giving up for him, yet Yuri couldn't breathe a word about it.
There were fresh cuts and scrapes on Boris' hands, spread out in an all-to-familiar pattern, and Yuri wondered why the boy had taken to training without wearing his gloves—the metal shrapnel that flew from the dish when a beyblade shattered was extremely sharp.
His eyes were caught by a long tear in Boris' sleeve, patched up with sloppy stitching. Boris' own handiwork, he assumed, Valkov hadn't employed a tailor. He got the distinct feeling that below the tear lay a painful gash in Boris' skin, but didn't have the desire or the energy to ask and find out how or why it was there. He would only be told to forget about it anyway.
Boris ate in silence, leaving the space between them clear for Yuri to talk if he wanted to. Yuri wasn't entirely sure whether what he felt was gratitude for Boris' support, or annoyance that the boy was treating him like he was fragile. Or a ticking bomb seemed more apt; Boris didn't look completely comfortable sat with him, and Yuri feared Boris was waiting cautiously, preparing to leap away from him the next time he lashed out. Time fled quicker than he wanted, and just as Boris scraped the last forkful of his breakfast from his plate, the intercom system barked his name.
Without thinking, Yuri slammed his hand down on top of Boris' just as he stood up, more forceful than intended, and he didn't miss the way Boris winced. "I have to do this alone," he said quietly, only a partial lie, hoping to have said so much more but he just couldn't find the right words. He needed help, yes, but Boris wasn't the person who could help him.
Boris' hand twisted beneath his own, until his fist was gripped tightly in Boris' calloused palm. "I know." There was a hint of regret that the boy had been unable to cover completely. He leaned down until his forehead brushed against Yuri's hair. "Just promise you won't do anything stupid. If you got caught, I don't"—he swallowed nervously—"it's not worth it, Yura. None of us are worth it."
Yuri only managed a small nod. Boris' unspoken plea hit him hard, but he couldn't make a promise he knew it would be impossible to keep. Boris sighed, realised that his words had fallen on deaf ears, and walked away. The pressure on Yuri's shoulders felt so much heavier and he wondered how long it would be before he started to fall apart at the seams. He was showing weakness, and Valkov didn't appreciate weakness.
He took his tray to the hatch at the back of the hall, his plate looking exactly as it had done when he had picked it up, and ignored the fact that he was going to arrive at the training centre ten minutes early. As he hooked Wolborg from his pocket, he hoped Valkov might be pleased with his eagerness, though he sincerely doubted it.
Ivan walked in just as he was leaving the hall, flanked by a tall, wiry boy Yuri didn't recognise. "Look sharp, captain," Ivan called as he passed, giving Yuri that contagious grin of his.
Yuri responded by lifting his arm and mimicking shooting Ivan between the eyes with his launcher. The boy laughed, mock saluted, and invited him back to the West wing if he wasn't busy that evening. A smile ghosted across Yuri's lips.
It wasn't until over an hour into training, when he was smashing his way through substandard issue blades like he were launching Wolborg through thin air, that he was hit by a thought as solid and unforgiving as a concrete wall. The resulting overload of enlightenment that sparked fireworks in his mind led him to accidentally call up Wolborg and unwittingly destroy the automated launcher he faced and half of the brickwork behind.
Needless to say, he spent the entire afternoon powering though torturous circuits in the gymnasium under Valkov's own beady, condescending gaze just to make up for it. But he didn't care much, barely noticed the sweat pouring down his face or the burn in every muscle fibre in his body, could hardly hear Valkov's menacing threats or feel the man's hot breath on his cheek when he loomed over him, because Ivan still viewed him as the captain, still respected him, and that was something he could easily use to his advantage.
Yuri wasn't expecting to see Sergei standing in the middle of the corridor when he returned to his room, and was utterly stunned when the taller boy lurched forward and slammed him back against his door. He gagged at the hand tangled in his collar, Sergei's fist raised and blind panic stole his breath away. Yuri flinched as the fist pounded against the wood just shy of his head and the door shook from the impact.
"Tell me why Valkov has asked me to watch you," Sergei demanded. Yuri shrank under the anger and betrayal that scowled down at him. He must have overheard the conversation Yuri had with Vasily, there was no other reason for Sergei to get so irate. Valkov asked them to spy on each other all the time and report directly back to him—Yuri had done so nearly a dozen times—so Sergei was surely no stranger to such a request.
Perhaps he just wanted to hear it in Yuri's own words.
Taking a gulp of air and setting his jaw, Yuri stared right into Sergei's eyes and offered up nothing but intense determination. Seconds passed, minutes flew by, and a cold gust ricocheted through the corridor. He wouldn't say a single thing—couldn't say a single thing—Sergei would only try to talk him out of it.
Finally Sergei backed off, and Yuri discretely gasped a breath, wanting to scratch at the pressure he still felt on his neck. Sergei didn't spare him a second glance as he walked back down the corridor.
Just as Yuri managed to regain enough control of himself to rest his hand on the door handle, Sergei's words stopped him short, seconds away from opening it.
"Whatever you're doing, Yuri, Valkov's starting to suspect you. And don't think I haven't noticed the effect it's having on Boris either." Yuri didn't turn around, not even the slightest bit surprised that Sergei had noticed Boris' unwarranted punishments; Sergei knew precisely how the Abbey worked. He could feel Sergei's hard gaze on the back of his head and swallowed thickly. "Don't forget there are some people I can't protect you from."
Yuri collapsed on his bunk without bothering to change, pulling his knees up to his chest and burying himself under his sheets.
He was standing in the night, surrounded by nothing but dark, misty sky and fresh snow for as far as he could see. It wasn't cold; in fact, Yuri could barely feel a breeze at all. Curious, he gave an experimental huff, watching as his breath fogged and took a while to fade. Picking a direction on instinct, Yuri began to walk. Snow crunched under his bare feet, and he glanced down to see that he was dressed in his sleepwear.
He could have been walking for hours or only a few minutes, it was difficult to tell with only the darkness above him and the brilliant white snow below. Either way, all Yuri had been able to discover was that the scenery around him stretched out forever, nothing had changed no matter where he tried to walk.
Confusion settled in his mind, and he came to the conclusion that he must have been dreaming, despite it being nothing like any other dream he had experienced before.
A weight settled around his waist and something heavy dropped into his pocket. Without thinking, Yuri plucked it out, staring at Wolborg in his palm and realising he was now wearing his tournament uniform. His blade seemed to glow an eerie blue. He closed his eyes and tried to make sense of what was going on; for a dream, it all felt surprisingly real.
When he opened his eyes, Wolborg was spinning before him, creating a slight whirlwind that had gathered the nearby snow. His launcher and ripcord were clutched tightly in his hands, but he couldn't recall even setting his blade in the lock, let alone firing her.
He was momentarily blinded as light shot upwards from the bit-chip, forcing him to shield his face with his arm. The ice wolf herself was standing before him, powerful and majestic, and almost lmost immediately he felt warmed by her familiar, comforting presence.
Her aura shimmered, fading slightly and he was sure that if he squinted, he could make out a figure standing just beyond her. A gentle, female voice filtered through his mind; soothing, but he couldn't understand her words. The figure shifted, moving a little closer, until he could recognise the outline of a woman. Something was telling him the voice he could hear belonged to her, but he couldn't see her lips moving.
He wondered if he should have felt cautious, fearful even—he had no idea who this woman was, after all—but he couldn't quite find it in himself to feel anything other than peaceful.
The closer she came, the more he wondered whether he did know who she was. But that was impossible, unless…
A faint knocking echoed around him and Yuri frowned, distracted, glancing out at the vast expense of snow but seeing nothing. The knocking persisted despite Yuri's efforts to block it out, only becoming louder and more insistent until he could no longer ignore it. The image of Wolborg and the strange woman burst and vanished, snapping him out of his obscure dream with a sharp gasp. He realised slowly that the knocking had been coming from outside his room.
Stumbling down the ladder with his sheets still tangled around him, Yuri yanked the door open and was nearly bowled down by the boy that rushed in, tripping over Yuri's feet and sprawling on the floor.
"Piotr?" Yuri asked, not bothering to hide his shock. He hadn't seen nor heard from the boy since he had spent the night on the bottom bunk weeks ago, and certainly wasn't expecting to see him again.
He barely had a second to shut his door before Piotr flung himself forwards, wrapping his arms around Yuri's shoulders and collapsing against him. Yuri forcefully shoved him off, disgust rising in his throat, and Piotr stumbled back, eyes filled with apologies and tears.
Yuri blinked, disbelief pulling at his face. Was this boy—this weak, stammering, whining little boy—honestly a member of the Abbey? A thought crossed his mind; he must have still been dreaming. Surely Piotr wasn't really in his room, sobbing on his floor. Surely Sergei hadn't stepped in to help this… this baby?
"I'm sorry, I'm… Yuri—thank you. I couldn't think where else to go." Trembling words trailed off into sniffles.
Yuri could think of a few places.
He pushed his frustration to the back of his mind and forced himself to think logically. Piotr was clearly upset, afraid; the last time he had sought solace in Yuri's room had been when his training partner had attacked him, and the blackened swelling over his cheek that Yuri could see even in the darkness hinted that he had returned for the same reason.
He signalled to the bottom bunk, watching as Piotr staggered over and slumped on the edge only to bury his face in his hands again and cry. An irritated huff escaped Yuri's lips; he wasn't in a position to look after the boy now, had his own worries to deal with. He wanted to find out who the woman in his dream had been, though he had a fair idea. And the information Kai needed wasn't going to send itself, was it?
"What happened?" he asked eventually, figuring that Piotr stood no chance of going to sleep if he couldn't stop crying.
Piotr glanced up, caught Yuri in a long, sorrowful gaze, before he launched into a garbled account of what had occurred in the last hour. Yuri had difficulty deciphering his words, asking the boy to repeat them over and over, gradually becoming more and more impatient with his hiccoughing and sniffing as he tried to speak. From what he was able to gather, his swollen cheek was thanks to the same boy that had attacked him previously; the one who saw Piotr only as an obstacle on his way to success.
Yuri felt torn between kicking Piotr out of his room—Yuri wasn't there to comfort him—and a desire to do what he could to help. It wouldn't be right of him to step in, not in the Abbey, Piotr needed to learn how to fix his own problems and look after himself. He was only a few years younger than Yuri after all, should have long since grown out of cowering behind someone stronger. Yuri knew he'd been correct in his assumption; Sergei's actions had given Piotr the belief that failure was acceptable, when in reality, nothing was further from the truth.
"I just wish he would disappear, Yuri, I really do!" Piotr's last words came across as more of a desperate, high-pitched squeal than anything else, though he didn't seem to notice the way Yuri winced at the noise.
Sighing and rubbing a hand over his face and through his hair, Yuri relented. "What's his name?" he asked carefully, forcing his voice and expression blank lest he accidentally give Piotr the wrong idea. He was only curious, so far hadn't actually planned to do much once he found out.
Piotr met his eyes with a glimmer of hope, wiping the tears from his face with his cuff. "Anton Vitaliev. He's in 312 in the West Wing and—"
"Stop talking," Yuri spat, harsher than intended, but he had to stop the boy before he revealed anymore. Yuri couldn't help but feel that Piotr had just signed his roommate's death wish.
Yuri turned to look though his window, catching sight of his pale reflection, his brow furrowed in thought. Anton Vitaliev… he'd heard the name, couldn't put a face to it, but knew that the boy was nothing more than an arrogant teenager; far too ambitious, far too prideful. The sort of boy who believed he was born on top of the world and deserved to be honoured as such. The sort of boy that annoyed everyone and didn't often tend to last long. Nobody would think anything of it if he vanished.
Piotr paused where he was washing his tears away at the basin, and fixed Yuri with an optimistic, encouraging, knowing glance that made him look years older than he was. He swallowed, seemingly hesitant to ask a question, and Yuri braced himself for what he knew was coming next. "What do you want me to do?"
Because in the Abbey, everything had a price.
Yuri was somewhat stunned that Piotr had the courage to ask and wondered whether had a been a little harsh in thinking the boy was pathetic. In the back of his mind, the memory of the last time Piotr had stayed flickered to life again; his reluctance to share a bunk with Yuri and the potential reason behind his fear.
Even though the thought sickened him, Yuri couldn't help but wonder just how far the boy was willing to go, how far he could push him. "Let me think about it."
Piotr nodded silently, drying his face and hands on his shirt and hovering awkwardly in the middle of the room. Yuri realised he was waiting for permission to move, no different to how Aleksandr had been at first, and he merely flicked his hand in the direction of the bottom bunk before climbing back onto his own mattress.
He lay awake for hours as usual, unable to return to the dream he'd had about Wolborg and instead hanging over the edge of his bed and watching Piotr grimace in his sleep. Nightmares, no doubt, something they were all familiar with. He sighed, pressing his forehead against the cool metal rail. He could do something about Anton easily enough, boys disappeared all the time and nobody ever bothered to investigate why. He wouldn't get his own hands dirty, of course not, Yuri knew exactly who to talk to and could 'accidentally' let the boy's name slip from his tongue.
Calm, casual and indifferent; nobody would suspect a thing. He'd done it before, after all.
The question was whether he wanted to do it. Whether he really wanted to remove the boy from Piotr's way. It wouldn't make sense; arrogant or not, Anton was clearly the stronger of the two and the weak always faded eventually. Yuri didn't hold out much hope of Piotr lasting much longer, even if he did manage to get rid of Anton.
Just as he caught the first glimpse of sunlight through his window—frustrated that he had gone another night without sleep—Yuri came to a decision. Boys like Anton were the ones who aimed for the main team, focused all their effort on getting there, and wouldn't stop until they sat above everyone else. Yuri wasn't overly concerned; assuming Anton was about the same age as Piotr he had probably missed his chance at taking the captain's role in the next World Championship. Valkov would have his sights set on someone younger, most likely, someone he could still control and mould precisely as he saw fit.
But even though Yuri knew that with almost complete certainty, just as he knew it was only a matter of time before his own name was scratched from the team roster, the thought of someone challenging his position still irritated him. He knew it was selfish, but he hadn't managed to climb so high in the Abbey by lying down and letting others walk over him.
And if he had gained anything useful from his training regime, it could only be his refusal to back down from a challenge.