Memories are a strange thing.
Even if Yuuri realistically understands that memories are just impressions of the past, and therefore subjective, it doesn't change the fact that in reality, memories are seen as hard, cold facts. It's all well to think of his past as an abstract image - a shell of the present that becomes immortalised in his memories. But the discrepancies between that immortalised memory and the present right now hits him like a fire alarm screeching in a college dorm rather than an alarm clock - talk about a wake up call.
He has yet to leave his room since coming back from the hospital, barricading himself within the confines of his room. The only intruder allowed is Vicchan, who he lets escape every morning and whenever his parents come to leave him food outside. It's irrational, the fear he has that his parents will suddenly realise that he's not their Yuuri - that he's different. Despite this, Yuuri stays content under the covers of his bedsheets, trying to ignore reality.
The days in isolation means that he's come to terms with his situation, well, as much as he tries to. He's no longer under the illusion that this is some sort of hyper-realistic dream or a prank gone wrong. Because, no matter how many times Yuuri forces himself to sleep, every time he wakes up, he's still surrounded by the four corners of his childhood bedroom.
His self-imposed exile also means that he picks up on the discrepancies of his memories even more than before. His room is a familiar sight, but the little crevices of clutter around him show that this is a life once lived. It's not an abstract memory - his childhood room is no longer a fragment of the past, but a living present.
There are notebooks strewn across his desk that he doesn't recognise, school books spilling over his shelves and tucked within the confines of his bookcase. He can see disks and music cds, recorded videos of Viktor's programmes from Juniors, medals and trophies from his competitions - all these cluttered details imbuing his bedroom.
He vaguely remembers donating most of them when he left for college, and it's this that finally cinches in that Yuuri has actually travelled in time. There is no way that his brain would be able to remember these elaborate details. He's not that creative.
The next huge discrepancy Yuuri notices is Mari. She's still the same older sister he knows, pierced nose and inhaling cigarettes to the point of lung cancer, but there is a chubbiness to her cheeks, a youthfulness Yuuri can't bring his head around. He has always seen Mari as older. But looking at her now, she looks infinitely younger, shorter, than he has ever realised. Yuuri doesn't know how to handle the fact that mentally he's older than his sister.
It's as he's thinking this, finally escaping his room in the dead of night to sit outside on the engawa with moonlight pooling around him, that Mari makes her move.
"You should be sleeping, Yuuri."
He rolls his eyes, pulling his legs up to his chest to fend off the cold. But there's nothing he can do about his fucked up sleeping pattern, Yu-Topia is stifling. Any moment away from this reality, whether it be sleeping or staring blankly at the wall, was better than being surrounded by these empty shells of a time that should be gone. Everything is the same but different, and that anxiety, the uncomfortable understanding that he can't even trust his own memories, makes his stomach turn.
There's that split second when he wakes up and thinks that everything is back to where it was, where it should be. But then he'll reach out for the phantom figure of Viktor and instead his fingers will clutch the empty air.
Sleeping does not help - it's no longer a respite.
Perhaps it's because he's an adult in a child's body, but the suffocation leaves him mad. It's like he's bursting out of the bones, trapped within this cage of a teenage body. He wants to scream, scream so loudly that someone will come and just help him.
But what other options does he have? Even he can't believe what is happening to him. No matter how many times he tries to wake up from this nightmare, he always comes to the realisation that nothing will change. If he himself thinks he's going crazy, well, it's not hard to think what everyone else would think, is it? He has no-one, he's all alone-
"You're going to catch a cold." A warm blanket is thrown over his shoulders, and Mari is silent as she sits beside him.
"I know you don't want to speak about it to kaa-san and tou-san, but you know you can speak to me. This is about Nobu, right?"
Yuuri's throat closes up, flushes red with anger and pain. It's not about Nobu-san, not really, but Yuuri doesn't open his mouth to correct her.
Instead, he covers his face with his hands, shaking with the way his body wracks with his sobs. The tears drop down from his eyes, trailing down his cheeks like a downpour of rain, drowning him, making it hard to breathe.
It's warm, Mari's fingers curling around his shoulders and pulling him close into her side. Her body is firm and solid - grounding . For the first time, Yuuri feels safe surrounded in his sister's embrace.
She doesn't say a single word, just holds him as close as possible and let's him cry into her shoulder.
Things do not get any better after that.
Usually, crying would give Yuuri a sense of relief, an outlet for the bundles of emotions that his sensitive disposition needs once in a while. But the overwhelming grief that hits him everytime he wakes up in his childhood room instead of his home in St. Petersburg makes that much harder to get out of bed.
He can't go back, back to Viktor and Makkachin, back to a life of Yura barging into his apartment unannounced, demanding for breakfast as if it was his house. He doesn't have the safety net of Phichit or the key to an empty studio Madame Baranovskaya had gifted him. Yuuri had lost the family that he had made, and the grief was all-consuming.
Once again, it's Mari who barges into his life, slamming open his door.
"Oi, you fucker, it smells like someone died in here. Would it kill you to open the curtains and window for a bit?" She kicks Yuuri out of his bed, ignoring his yelp, to stand up on his mattress and pull the curtains open.
Yuuri groans when sunlight pierces his eyes, covering his face to stop them from burning. "You couldn't be a little more gentle?"
"You don't listen to gentle." She pushes open the window, and a gust of fresh air enters the room. "Better. Now, shower and then meet me in the dining room."
"Why, what time is it?" He rubs the sleep from his eyes roughly.
"Are you stupid? You've been waiting months for today!" Mari places her hands on her hips, scowling. " Victory on Ice is being broadcasted today! It's almost six and you slept through lunch. How did you forget?"
"Wha-?"
Mari grabs Yuuri by the shirt. "Your husband is skating. Go on, bath and then food."
Yuuri's stomach lurches at the word. Mari doesn't notice, but she's a force of nature, and shoves him out of his room without so much of a glance. He barely remembers the next ten minutes, finding himself soaking in the onsen and letting the hot steam flood his senses.
He does feel a little better, the ever-present knot of anxiety in his stomach loosening slightly as his muscles relax under the careful stream of his family's hot springs. He doesn't know how much longer he spends in the onsen before his father comes in, wrapped in his blue yukata and holding out one for Yuuri to wear.
"If you stay any longer, you'll prune. Come, your mother has made your favourites."
It's a sight to see. The banquet hall is empty except for the usual suspects, Nishida-san from down the road sits as primly as you can in a yukata. Minako-sensei was already there, devolving into a yelling match with Tanaka-san over the remote while Mari records the entire thing.
Nishida-san smiles as Yuuri enters. He's an elderly man, wispy white hair brushed back to show a pepper-freckled, wrinkled face. He's as warm as Yuuri remembers, patting the seat next to him. Yuuri tightens his robe and sits beside him, his father leaving the room to what he expects is to help his mother with the food.
"You'll sit next to me, let Mari help your mother."
It's with morbid fascination that Yuuri mechanically sits next to Nishida-san, realising that he remembered the old man's funeral far more clearer than any of their interactions. He remembers about a granddaughter, and tries to divert all attention away from him. "How is Hana-chan?"
Nishida-san smiles toothily, a huge grin stretching on his face. "She's grown all of her teeth now! If only her mother decided to stay in Hasetsu, I could see her more frequently. That reminds me, my daughter says that phones nowadays can send videos, I'll need to get one soon. She has one of Hana-chan's first steps!"
"I can take you to Higashi's store, he can find you a nice one-"
"Yuuri-kun." His mother's voice filters into the rowdy room, carrying a heavy tray of food in her small arms. Yuuri immediately rises to take it, and he feels his throat choke at the sight of a steaming bowl of katsudon waiting for him.
His mother pats his hair, fingers moving swiftly to sweep back his wet strands. "Come on, you haven't eaten all day. Quickly, before it cools."
"Shut it, Tanaka!" Minako-sensei screams, rising the remote high above her head. "It's our turn, you piece of shit."
"Senpai." Hiroko says exasperated, "Please refrain from cursing at our patrons." Minako responds by sticking her tongue out at Tanaka, who laughs good-heartedly as he downs his beer, only trying to pull at Minako's metaphorical pigtails.
"Yuuri-kun!" Minako turns her attention to him, and Yuuri feels the blood drain from his face. "It's time to see your husband!"
"Please stop calling him that." Yuuri knows his family are being good-natured about Yuuri's crush, but the reminder is like a stab in his chest.
"Shush!" Mari is now by the TV, twisting the knob by the side to turn the volume up. "It's starting! Live coverage, paid by yours truly!"
The logo of NHK Sports zooms on to the screen, flooding the room in lights of red and white. The television is archaic, nothing like the flat screen Yuuri and Viktor had gifted his parents on New Years. Like Yuuri thought before, memories are truly a strange thing. He could swear that his old TV was never this bad, but now, with all the experience of the technological advances of the future, all Yuuri can do is grimace at the sight. It's ugly, a gross, old brown colour that's faded with time, and the screen quality is shit, static and blurry.
But the sound is good enough, and the tell-tale music of a pop song floods through the speakers and fills the room with bright notes. It's some English song, and Yuuri can pick out the lyrics as the rink is covered in darkness before spotlights turn on. There's a crowd screaming, clapping to the beat of the song.
"Welcome, everyone." An announcer pierces through the music, speaking in Japanese. "To Victory on Ice - in Kobe!"
There's the usual screaming of a crowd as more spotlights come on. Yuuri clenches his fist, heart pumping as he watches a group of pair skaters do extravagant lifts under the changing lights.
"It's such a shame we couldn't get tickets." Minako pouts, downing her beer glass and waving it around for Yuuri's father to refill.
"At least it's actually being broadcasted this time. Yuuri cried when his stream link died on his computer last time, remember?"
Yuuri, in fact, did not remember that fact. However, it sounded like something he would do. Mari snickers next to him, and his face turns red as he tries to curl into himself from the embarrassment.
Victory on Ice, aptly named after it's star. If Yuuri did his maths right, this would be Victor's second year headlining his own ice tour, hot off his Olympic silver at only nineteen. He's only twenty one now, and it's a feat and a half to headline your own tour that young.
But when you're the first and only skater to land the quadruple flip, you sell out stadium tickets like it's a headlining concert. Viktor's high of the momentum, already at the top of his game. It was the first time in over a decade that a new quadruple jump had been attempted, let alone ratified - the name 'Viktor Nikiforov' was always in everyone's mouth, and that sold tickets.
Yuuri knows that it's nothing compared to two years later, after the next Olympics. Following his complete obliteration of the competition at the Grand Prix, Europeans, Worlds and the Olympics in one season, the next four decades cemented his dominance in the sport. He was a once-in-a-lifetime skater - and despite all of the pain he feels, Yuuri feels like it's a sort of perverse blessing that he's able to witness it all over again.
The crowd's applause filters through the old television speakers, with the announcer introducing skaters as they enter the rink, spotlights up ahead shining down on them. There's a single Japanese skater that skids to the front, twirling around in an excess of twizzles under the array of multi-coloured flashing lights.
One of the patrons sighs at the sight. "It's a shame Minato-san retired, he could've held on for one more year."
"And for what?" Minako rolls her eyes, eyes glazed over as her speech slurs. "He hasn't medalled at any major competition in years! The only reason he's in this tour is because they need at least one home skater per country. It would be weird if the Japan tour didn't have a Japanese skater."
The crowd amps up, screeching so loudly Yuuri's sure his television starts to vibrate. Mari whoops loudly whilst Minako wolf-whistles, and Yuuri's heart falls to his stomach.
"And finally!" The announcer shouts. "The man you've all been waiting for- Viktor Nikiforov!"
There he is. Bright and shining, filling up his television screen like the star he was.
" B`lyad." Yuuri curses under his breath.
Viktor. With long hair.
How did he forget Viktor would have long hair? God it's so long, pulled back in an array of braids, with strands framing his face like ringlets of silver. Not even the shitty television quality could hide the all-encompassing beauty of Viktor Nikiforov, as he does his signature jump to the applause of the audience. His hair spins around as he lands the jump, and from afar, the way they flutter around him gives the allusion of wings.
Everyone is entranced by Viktor's entrance as the group of skaters move in a choreographic sequence befitting of an opening performance. There's fire and sparklers, and Viktor stands in the middle, soaking in all of the attention.
"He just does a quad flip like it's nothing." Mari sighs dreamily.
Yuuri can't hear a single thing. His ears are numb, eyes trailing on the sight of Viktor, young, alive, breathing. Viktor, with long silver hair, pulled into a crown of braids. Viktor, sending winks and kisses to the audience, Viktor, Viktor, but not his Viktor.
He feels like he's underwater, like waves crashing over his head, dragging him under the tides and he can't fucking breathe -
Yuuri has the distinct feeling of someone calling out his name, but his body is moving on auto-pilot, shoving his feet inside sandals and running outside. He runs, and runs, and runs, lungs burning, legs straining, he needs to feel something besides this ache in his chest, anything, anything, anything.
"Please- please." He cries out, hand outreached for something, anything , to pull him out of his mess. - "Come on, my little piglet. One more lap!" - "You're a fucking joke, Katsudon. Makkachin's a senior citizen in dog years and he's running faster than you!"
He trips over his feet, but his body is cushioned by something grainy. Somehow, he made it to the beach. His hands sink into the warm sand, buried underneath. He can hear Yuri scream curses, can feel Makkachin kissing his cheeks, can see Viktor's laugh stretch across his cheeks into a pretty heart-shaped grin.
He screeches, squeezing his eyes shut. "That's not my Viktor. It's not him."
"Please, please. I don't want to be here. I don't- please take me back. Why, why am I here?!" He cries out to the empty beach, only the sounds of waves replying to him. It's darker now, much darker. He'd slept the whole day away, refusing to leave his room. Now, the sun is setting, sparks of golden. light breaking through Hasetsu's waves.
"I was happy." His gasps out, tear-streaked and in pain. "I was finally happy, why did this happen?"
Viktor's face forms in his head - this world's Viktor. The one trapped behind the four corners of his television screen, blindingly beautiful and so out of his league. It's his eyes that are different - the same as ice, frozen and cold.
Sobs rack his body as Yuuri covers his mouth to silence his cries. He can't go back . To the past or the future or whatever the fuck it is that he was in. There's no way he could, and if he asked anyone for help, it would be a one-way ticket to a mental hospital. Or a lab. They'd probably dissect him like a frog.
He's never met this Viktor. The man who runs on the single notion of winning, one-track mind honed in for the win, the personification of victory.
( "The banquet was a catalyst." Yakov's voice was soft, a contrast to his gruff exterior, as he stood beside Yuuri in Viktor's kitchen. He rinsed a plate, handing it to Yuuri who methodically started to wipe it with a tea towel.
"He was a completely different person before that; you eroded all of his edges. Viktor was always prone to theatrics. He had his fancies here and there, little romances that seemed to be the was stubborn, other partners would want his attention, but nothing could take him away from the ice.
It came to a point where he'd just stop trying. What was the point in having a relationship, love or friendship, if at the end of the day, the ice would take precedence? So, you can understand my complete shock when he dropped everything and moved to a whole new country, because of one night with a stranger.
It's no wonder I wasn't your biggest fan before, but now, seeing the two of you work so well together, it's no wonder he chased after you. You gave him something real, someone he was willing to compromise for." He turned off the tap, and smiled a rare, small smile. "So thank you. For saving my boy. For being the chain reaction that started his change." )
There is no catalyst anymore.
Twenty-one year old Viktor wasn't willing to change like twenty-seven year old Viktor had wanted to. He didn't have the years of untouched dominance, the aura of a champion with no opponent. Outside of their dedicated role as a competitor, Viktor had little care about for how people related to him, rink-mate or competition, there was no difference.
It was the wall that was built, the difference between Viktor Nikiforov and Vitya. After a while, Vitya had disappeared, replaced entirely by the glimmering image of Viktor Nikiforov - the living legend.
Yuuri, a small fish from Japan, would have been eaten alive.
Just by being here, the chains of events were already broken. The world around him was already changing. There never was a car accident to begin with. In fact, Yuuri swears that it was Nobu dropping him that made him end his Junior career early.
"You pulled me from the cliff, solnyshko." Little sun.
Yuuri had somehow thawed Viktor, but only because he didn't want to feel empty anymore. He was alone before Yuuri, and because of his desire to not be alone, he had opened his heart first. Viktor made the effort to change.
This Viktor wasn't like that, didn't have personal realisation or desire for change. He is young, brash, loud - his first taste at having the world at his feet.
There was no denying it.
This Viktor Nikiforov would break Yuuri's heart in seconds.
Yuuri had abandoned his indoor slippers, feet sinking into the warm Hasetsu sand as he watched waves lap up the coastline.
Hasetsu was always so still . The sun had fully set now, engulfing him in darkness. He's been here for hours, nobody has come to find him. He's sort of thankful, the silence of the Hasetsu seaside was exactly what he needed.
The tears had finally subsided hours ago, so Yuuri closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and thinks .
Returning to his own timeline was not an option. As he thought before, just being here changed the future. Butterfly effect be damned, there was nothing Yuuri could do when his mere existence changed the future. If just by simply breathing, there were knock-on effects, Yuuri has no idea what the hell he can do other than sit at home and do nothing. All he has is the present.
So, the only logical decision Yuuri can think of is to wing it.
It's not his best plan, but every other simulation his mind goes through ends up the same. Unless he wants scientists to dissect him or lock him up, going for outside help isn't ideal. Besides, his memories of the past are hazy at best. Even if he did try to stick to his past-timeline, just by being here, he's fucked things up.
Sure, he probably has an obscene recollection of every single milestone in Viktor's life, but his own? He barely remembers his time at Detroit, with only the vaguest awareness that he spent most of his time having multiple movie nights with Phichit and cleaning up hamster droppings.
Detroit itself is a year away from now. Celestino has no idea who he is, Phichit wouldn't start competing in juniors until next year, and fuck - Yuri was only ten .
So, if just being here was changing the future, fuck it - Yuuri might as well just skate.
What else does he have that's always there, unchaning? There is no Viktor, no Phichit, no Yuri.
Only the ice is the same.
"Fuck you." Yuuri finally explodes. He curses loudly, even to his ears, he sounds so much like Yura, it hurts his heart. Channeling his inner Russian teenager, he shoots to his feet, points his fingers to the sky and starts sprouting curses in Russian.
"Fuck whoever thought this shit would be funny. I'll put on a hell of a show - just watch and be fucking entertained."
He makes it back to Yu-Topia late. The doors are shut, lights off to signal that the inn is closed for customers. Vicchan is curled on the engawa despite the cold night, his eyes drooping with sleep. As soon as Yuuri opens the gate, he bounds down the steps, snapping at his ankles.
"Okay, okay. I'm sorry, Vicchan!"
Vicchan sits on his hind legs, glaring up at his owner. Yuuri sighs, feeling slightly guilty as he bends down, lifting Vicchan into his arms. "I'm not getting a lecture from you when I know kaa-san is waiting behind the doors. You know if she's got a slipper in her hand?"
"No, but I do."
Yuuri yelps as Mari moves into the moonlight, lifting a thick, rubber-soled slipper in her hand. The fright had made him squeeze Vicchan a little too tightly, and he's immediately apologetic when Vicchan hisses in discomfort. He sets him down, and Vicchan bounds towards his sister.
The two are silent, glaring at Yuuri.
"I'm sorry?"
The slipper hits him just above his eyebrows.