A/N: This is a romance heavily inspired by those terrible Lifetime Hallmark movies. I feel the need to disclaimer some pretty heavy angst in this first chapter. CW: Mentions of death, burnout, and self-deprecating thoughts. After this, it's only uphill from there.

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I

#

Most figure skaters hit their peak in their thirties, hanging on for as long as they can while they eke out what little they have left in their tired bones.

Yuri peaked at twenty and it went unnoticed in a haze of quad-flips and overworked joints. It can be like that when you wake up thinking about skating, ate thinking about skating, and slept thinking about it too.

When he realized it, when Yuri finally felt that split in his gut as his love for the sport melted away, it was already too late; all that's left behind is an angry shell of a has-been who aches more and more each day that he puts his skates on.

The rink is frigid, not just in temperature but in tone as well. Yuri is misery on ice, his clipped words as crisp as his pitch-black turtleneck. Everyone keeps a wide berth as they always do, fifteen feet away at all times. Yuri fidgets, fingers twisting around each other, yanking and pulling, trying his best to ground himself. It's getting harder, he finds, his motivation slipping away a little bit more with each puff of frozen breath.

Yuri likes the sharp, bitter cold of the rink and the way that his blades cut into the freshly hewn ice. He might not burn for competition as he used to, but there's comfort in the routine of it all. Yuri doesn't have to think while on the ice; his footwork is known and the jumps are familiar, everything muscle memory and second-nature. It's easy to slip into and just forget.

Skating is the only thing that he's good at which is probably why he hates it so much. Bogged down by expectations, interviews, and billboards with his face plastered across them. Children who watch with adoring gazes, hoisting him high onto a pedestal that he doesn't deserve. He's not a role model and everyone knows that.

Adults too, with their gossip boards dedicated to his every move. Yuri can't grab a cup of coffee, let alone date, without pictures of himself finding the internet. Doing the most innocuous of shit. Yuri left his home today and bought a loaf of bread.

And, it's not that Yuri dates well, to begin with; most can't handle his volatile personality and penchant for yelling. Between that and the long, grueling days at the rink, Yuri's nothing but a recipe for disaster when it comes to being a partner. There isn't a point in trying and coming home to an empty house is easier than coming home to empty expectations.

Yuri doesn't work for championships anymore, only the Olympics. Other competitions are child's play, not even worth the thought. He's fresh off the ice in Italy the year before and already thinking about 2030.

"You'll be thirty-one," Yakov said after he'd secured the gold, having barely left the kiss-and-cry. Avoiding reporters and questions about smashing a new world record. Yuri wanted to feel happiness, but victory only tasted like ash in his mouth. And, Yakov, ever the motivational coach, was already one step ahead, thinking about the next plan before the current one finished playing out. "Older than the rest but with you it's doable. You can still find your way to the ice."

Yuri almost told him that he didn't want another Olympics, but he'd been too much of a coward to commit to retirement. He still is, and it's an ever-present cloud that casts a shadow over him. Skating is the only thing that Yuri knows; without it, there's nothing left.

And so, Yuri pushes himself to the brink, legs burning and back pulled taught, blades digging into the ice as he readies for a jump. Marking a spot on the wall and counting his rotations. Quads don't come easily anymore, but he manages. Only barely. Yuri's good at faking ease.

Yakov doesn't look the type, but he's optimistic. Yuri's a shoo-in again, naturally, he says. Everyone on the team agrees with two exceptions: Yuri who knows better and Mila who knows Yuri better than he knows himself.

Yuri sticks his landing and feels wholly unsatisfied with the result. There are a few polite claps from other skaters. Yakov seems satisfied enough to not jeer. The juniors seem jealous and annoyed. Mila regards him with a long, pointed stare before skating her way over to him.

She leans against the barrier, one toepick deep into the ice to steady herself. "Yuri, what the hell was that?"

Yuri grunts, leaving the ice entirely and slapping his skate guards on. He doesn't go far, only a few feet before leaning over to touch his toes. "I didn't stretch enough."

"Bullshit," Mila says.

"I don't bullshit," Yuri says, throwing some bite into his words. But Mila isn't like the others, she doesn't back down. She stares at him instead, disapprovingly. Yuri sighs and says, "Okay, so I bullshit a lot, but not this time."

"So what? You're just off your game?"

"Contrary to popular belief, I'm not fucking perfect."

Mila hums at that, tapping her chin. "That's true, but it's not like you to actually show it."

"Yakov didn't yell so it wasn't as noticeable as you make it out to be." His words aren't as confident as they could be, though, sounding a little unsure. Yuri rests his forehead against his shins, holding himself over in the stretch as he thinks.

"Yakov's an ancient, half-blind man. It's a miracle that he still coaches. If he'd seen that ten years ago, he'd have you skating sprints and then jumping until your toes bleed."

Mila isn't wrong. Yuri stands upright, rolling out his shoulder. "Maybe he's eased up."

"Eased up," Mila says, amused. Then, she scoffs. "No, I think he thinks you're a lost cause."

Yuri starts at that, eyes narrowing at her. Mila knows where Yuri stands in regards to his skating, but she's never so blatantly mentioned it within the rink where someone can overhear. "Something's pissed you off," Yuri says, crossing his arms. "Lose another boyfriend?"

"This isn't about me, it's about you. Besides, I'm not the one who sleeps their way through men. Last I checked, that's you."

Yuri misses uninhibited sex, but lately, he hasn't been in the mood; some men are clingy and don't understand the concept of casual, which is all you'll get if you're interested in Yuri Plisetsky.

He drops to the bench and yanks off a skate, moving to rub at his sock-clad foot. He's already aching and he's barely begun, signaling the start of a very rough day. Yuri knows that it'll end with an ice bath. "Yakov says I'm pretty much guaranteed for the next Olympics," he says.

Mila rolls her eyes. "Duh. Of course, you are, everyone knows that. Even as broken and busted as you are, you'll always be a head up."

"I'm not broken and busted," Yuri says, but he sounds as tired as he feels. And judging by the way Mila frowns, she can tell. "Not entirely broken," he amends.

"You know, Yuri," she says, "there's nothing wrong with taking a break."

"Breaks are for those who aren't serious." Familiar words they've all heard a thousand times.

Mila's still leaning on the opposite side of the barrier, so she can't reach out and smack him. Yuri knows she wants to. "Dumb words coming from an even dumber man," she says.

"Yakov's the entire reason I'm where I am," Yuri says, defensively. His relationship with his coach isn't easily articulated, and yes, it's changed a lot over the years. But, Yuri knows that he can trust Yakov who's an unwavering constant in his life. He's not sure why he can't trust him with the truth.

Yuri thinks that maybe it's because he's barely accepted it himself. He doesn't want to, refuses to.

"Yeah," Mila says. "Exactly. Right where you are. Yuri, you walk into this rink looking sourer every day. Eventually, everyone else will notice, and then what?"

Yuri looks to her, still kneading at the arch of his foot. "Yeah, and then what?" he asks. "I'll keep skating and nothing will change."

Mila watches him for a moment, quietly, and then she says, "Burnout isn't easy, but coming to terms with it is even harder."

Yuri chooses to ignore her, shrugging off his other boot to rub at his foot. Mila doesn't say anything further, just leans over the wall and watches him, a soft look of pity on her face. Yuri almost snarls at the sight of it; he doesn't want her pity.

He doesn't snap back though, too beat to even push at her. He's not in the mood. So, he kneads at the arch of his foot instead, digging into the sore muscles there. And then, on to his ankle, looking for any strain.

Yuri isn't sure the reason he'd landed his quad so piss-poor, but there isn't harm in double-checking. His ankle seems sound enough which leaves only one option.

"You're getting older, Yurotchka," his grandfather said to him the last time they spoke on the phone. Yuri doesn't remember exactly when that was, which means it's been entirely too long. Yuri's only got one thing he gives a shit about and that's Grandpa, who he loves more than anything.

Yuri can certainly treat him better than he has as of late.

"You're going to skate yourself to death," Mila says when the silence stretches for too long.

"Nonsense," Yuri says, still refusing to look at her.

"I think that you want to."

Yuri's fingers pause and he finally looks to meet her face. She stares him down, mouth pulled into a stubborn frown. On a good day, Mila might bench press a hockey player for the fun of it. This isn't one of those days, this is one of the bad ones, the kind where she's more likely to slice a throat with the blade of her skate, then brag about it.

"Take a break," Mila finally says. "I don't care what you do Yuri, just get off the fucking ice. You aren't doing yourself any good."

"This is where I belong," Yuri says, but it's more to convince himself than anything else. It's easier sometimes when he pretends or says it aloud.

"Once, maybe," Mila says. "Everyone has an end."

Yuri says nothing as he slides his skate back on, pulling the strings tighter than he wants to prevent rolling an ankle. Then he pulls the other on, fingers curling around the laces, grunting slightly as he yanks hard. He knots and then double-knots, thinking about what Mila's said.

The worst part of it all is that she's right. Burnout happens. It's okay to accept it. He'll skate himself to death, dying on the ice just like he was born and lived on it. At least he'd go out with a bang.

Yuri stands, tapping one skate against the ground and then the other, testing his ties. "Then you're right," Yuri finally says as he passes by her. He pauses at the gate just before stepping back onto the ice. "I'll skate myself to death. Sounds better than living once I'm done because this is all I've got."

Mila opens her mouth to reply, but Yuri throws on his headphones and pushes right past her. She doesn't call after him, just watches from her spot at the barricade, and that's fine by him because he's got more important things to do.

Yuri's skates cut a smooth path along the ice as he spreads his arms wide and glides. His muscles ache as strain pulls at his body. But, he's not without determination. He pushes through it, and Yuri knows if he can still pull it together on the ice, he can do so off the ice.

He'd rather die trying.

#

Yuri comes home to a dark and empty apartment. He drops his sports bag to the ground, kicks off his boots, and immediately sets about putting together an ice bath. It's more tiring than he'd care to admit, setting the water to cold and then hauling several pots of ice to the tub, but Yuri's too stubborn to waste money on those tiny-little spas that barely fit his feet.

He drops the lid on the toilet, sits down in his boxers, and hisses when his feet hit the water. But it's relief, instant comfort that washes over his blistered skin.

Some skaters' feet don't look terrible, people like Mila get regular pedicures and bind their toes with tape to prevent broken nails. Yuri doesn't bother, not with ballet and not with this. His toes are crooked with cracked nails, corns, and bunions, bruises, and blisters.

The cold water heals but sometimes he wonders if it's enough because nothing ever seems to cure the weariness in his core, least of all the ache in his feet.

He scrolls through social media on his phone. There'd been a point in his life where he'd been damn near addicted, constantly looking through the feeds of other performers or even his own. He'd snatch up gossip magazines and laugh at the wildly inaccurate stories with Mila over water and a protein bar, recharging between training sets.

Now he barely reads, eyes glazing over as he does his best to ignore the shit that's being said about him. He doesn't need to be reminded, he knows it all already. Abrasive and arrogant, unwilling to interview. Can't keep a man for longer than a day.

"No shit," Yuri murmurs as his thumb slides over the phone screen. "That's by design."

It never bothered him before, but maybe that's because he was young and stupid. He's a little bit older now and probably still stupid, but with a silver-lining of wisdom. Just a smidge. Enough to be exhausted by everyone's obsession with his life.

Being a celebrity already sucks, he doesn't need mooning housewife's talking about his tight ass in an outfit, or bemoaning the fact that he'll never look their way. A decade ago, Yuri wouldn't have ever thought he'd want peace basking in the glory and attention. Nowadays it's the only thing that he wishes for.

It's what he gets in the bathroom, feet dunked into ice-cold water as he freezes away the aches of his brutal sport. Precious moments of quiet reflection. Sometimes he stares into the water, wondering where he'd be if he'd lived another life. Sometimes it's into the mirror, wondering what others see in him.

His reflection has accepted that he's past his prime, so why does he hang on so stubbornly?

Yuri pulls his feet from the water with a wince and dries them off tenderly. Several moments later, he sits on the couch with ointments and lotions and bandages, and as he watches old Star Trek re-runs, he carefully tends to his battered skin. Smoothing away the hurt, anointing the cuts, and bandaging it all away.

He wishes he could just bandage away these hopeless feelings too.

At first, he doesn't hear his phone from where it sits in the kitchen, charging. The second time it rings, he doesn't answer it, too tired to share words with anyone other than himself. But then it rings a third time. And then a fourth, and Yuri knows that something is wrong.

He expects Mila. Maybe Yakov or Lillia, if they're in a stubborn mood. He doesn't expect his mother and immediately, Yuri is on the defensive. With her, he always is, hackles raised like an agitated cat, ready to swipe out with claws extended.

"I'd made it clear the last time you called," Yuri says, "to not expect anything from me." She only calls when she needs something. Yuri refuses to indulge.

Strangely, she doesn't immediately respond. Their calls are a business transaction to his mother because as far as she's concerned she'd cleaned her hands of him decades ago. They never share words for longer than necessary and it's usually because she needs money or a favor.

"Nikolai is gone," she says, her voice detached like she doesn't give a damn. Probably because she doesn't.

"Are you just now noticing?" Yuri asks. "He moved from Losta nearly six years ago." Leaving everything he'd owned behind in storage, citing that a facility would be more comfortable. Yuri knows it's because his grandfather gets lonely. He feels guilty about that.

There's another pause, and then his mother says, "No, Yuri." Her voice is soft, almost caring like she's afraid that she's about to break him. "He's gone. The home just called me."

At first, Yuri doesn't understand and his mother keeps talking over him. "I'm not sure why I was the emergency contact, it should have been you. I expect that you'll handle everything from here on out?"

"Handle everything," Yuri repeats, his voice flat.

"The funeral of course." His mother seems confused, if somewhat annoyed.

"Funeral."

There's a pause. "Yuri, your grandfather is dead." She punctuates every word like she's talking to a five-year-old. The breath is knocked out of him like he's just flubbed a jump and tumbled across the ice instead.

"He's-"

"As you know, I'm out of the country so I'm not in the position to handle-"

"You're not in the position?" Yuri cuts in. "Grandpa is dead, and you're not in the position?"

His mother sighs. "It's not as though this doesn't affect me," she says, and there's the tiniest waver to her voice. Maybe she actually gives a shit this time, but Yuri isn't holding his breath, no matter what she says.

"I'll handle it," Yuri says, curtly, feeling utterly defeated. "I'll call the home." His mother calls his name once more, but he hangs up before she can say anything else.

Yuri sits there on his couch, numb down to his toes but this time it's not from the cold of a skating rink, or an ice bath, or even from throwing camel spins all day long. He'd just been thinking of his grandfather earlier that day, planning a trip out to the home where he'd lived. Now he'll be planning a trip for an entirely different reason.

At first, Yuri laughs at the absolute absurdity of it all, shoulders shaking as his chest heaves. And then his shoulders shake for a different reason and his heaves turn to sobs, tears slipping down his cheeks in shiny streaks.

Yuri can't think of the last time he's had a good cry; he's usually like impenetrable stone, unwilling to give in something as pesky as feelings. Grandpa always hated that, Yuri thinks, hated that Yuri bottled shit up.

So he doesn't this time, crying until there's nothing left, and the deep hole that's been settled into Yuri's gut for years widens into a chasm.

#

Yuri hasn't taken a day off since he was ten, just growing out of his training skates. Even in the wake of his grandfather's death, he doesn't want to. The retirement home Grandpa stayed in was only a couple of hours by train, so Yuri trips out there and back in a day, still managing to swing by the rink for a late-night practice.

Mila wants to say something, he can tell, but she doesn't. Instead, she watches from the north end of the ring, arms crossed over her chest and lips tugged into a frown. Yuri ignores her as he beats out his grief with complicated footwork drills until he's dripping with sweat and barely able to stand.

It isn't until he's shoving his skates into his bag that she dares approach him. "Yuri," she starts quietly but then falls silent, unsure how to continue. Yuri knows what she wants to say; You're doing it again, working yourself too hard. This isn't good for you. Take a break.

Or worst of all, What would your grandfather say?

It's her favorite question, usually uttered angrily because Yuri doesn't listen to anyone except Grandpa. And now Grandpa's gone.

"Wednesday," Yuri says, pulling on his street boot and yanking the laces tight. "It's short notice but Yakov's approved the time. He didn't want a service so we're just going to pick up his ashes."

"Yuri, if you want a service, you can-"

"He wanted it simple," says Yuri. "He knew I'd be busy, so he wanted something with no fuss. So, we'll say a few words and I'll then take him home."

Mila frowns at that. "And then it's right back to the rink, I suppose." Well, she's always known him better than most.

"Only three years until the Olympics."

"Yuri-"

"It'll be my last."

"Yuri-"

"And now it really is the only thing I've got left."

"Yuri."

Mila doesn't sound angry, she sounds practically heartbroken. Yuri refuses to look at her because he knows that if he does, he'll break down too and it doesn't matter how much he loves Mila, he won't let her see him like this.

"It's what he'd want," Yuri says. "He'd rather I do what I do best."

Mila sighs. "It's not for him, you know," she finally says. "A service. It's for you and whatever closure you need."

"I don't need closure," Yuri says as he finishes tying off his other boot.

Mila, wisely, doesn't respond. Instead, she reaches out, fingers finding his shoulder. Yuri goes rigid but then he sags slightly under the weight of her hand. His palm finds hers, Mila's skin soft and warm under his, and he squeezes it tight.

And then, as soon as the moment began it's over, Yuri letting go as he stands. He leaves the rink without even looking at her.

There's a letter waiting for him at his apartment when he steps in. He knocks his boots off, turning the envelope over in his hands. He drops it onto the counter in the bathroom before setting up his ice bath.

He sits on the toilet like always as he sinks his feet into the frigid pool. Yuri opens the letter and he reads it, eyes scanning over the words. Once and then twice. And then a third time.

Yuri sighs, not wanting anything to do with this.

He doesn't even feel the ice bath.

#

Yuri can't find any words so he takes the urn silently.

Mila, Yakov, and Lillia are there alongside him without any judgment. They wait patiently, watching him like they're afraid he might startle at any second. Yuri doesn't, he just barely manages to hold onto himself.

Grandpa always liked the park, so Yuri tells Mila that he's going to take him for a walk. Yakov and Lillia part ways at the funeral home, but Mila goes with Yuri instead. Keeping an eye on him, no doubt.

Yuri doesn't have the energy to be annoyed, leaving behind nothing but a drained and tired husk, so he doesn't fight her off.

"He left me the inn," Yuri finally says. They're standing in the middle of the park on a nice little bridge that overlooks a pond. Grandpa always liked dumb things like ponds because they reminded him of the first time he'd seen Yuri try to skate.

Yuri hates that memory because all he remembers is his leg going straight through the ice and nearly dying. An over-exaggeration probably, but that's how he remembers it.

"I didn't even know he still owned it," Yuri continues. "I thought he sold it years ago when he moved into the retirement home." He pauses, heaving a deep sigh. "I don't know what he wants me to do with it."

Mila nudges his shoulder with her own. "What do you want to do?"

Yuri thinks for a moment. "My immediate thought is to sell it. It's in a nice little village, it'll sell well."

"I'm sensing a but," Mila says.

"Well, it's Grandpa's. And Grandma's. Like, it's theirs, and I just-" He sighs. "I can't run it, I don't have the time. I'm busy with… I'm doing my own thing. And like, I could hire a manager but I wouldn't trust them, you know? No one would be good enough, so if I sold it, I wouldn't have to think about it."

"But you would. You'd think about it all the time."

Mila's right. Yuri had spent the winters of his youth there before his mother decided that work was more important than raising a kid. Winters turned into entire years until he'd enrolled in Yakov's skating program and started boarding in Moscow.

The inn was once Yuri's home, but not anymore, hasn't been for a long time.

"I'm torn about it," Yuri says.

"Think about it then," Mila says. "Take some-"

"Mila-"

"No," she cuts in. "Listen to me. Take some time off. Go to the inn. Think about it. Yuri, you need a break."

"I need a distraction," Yuri says. Anything to take his mind off of Grandpa, the inn, his entire godforsaken life. "I need to get back to the rink."

Mila and Yuri have known each other for years, she's his best friend, there are things she knows about him that people would pay millions to hear. Even so, she's so rarely disapproving. Stern, yes. Angry, all the time. But the frown that she gives him hits deeper than he'd like to admit, and Yuri finds it hard to meet her gaze.

"Yuri," Mila says, "I know you and that's the last place that you need to be."

Because she knows he'll skate out his frustration until he can't feel his feet anymore. Yuri doesn't even try to hide it.

"Not tonight," she says. "Just… go home tonight. The rink will still be there in the morning."

It's a good idea, so Yuri agrees.

It's a long train ride home full of odd stares that linger on the wooden box he cradles carefully in his lap. Even with sunglasses, a hat, and a scarf pulled tightly around his neck, he's still recognizable.

Not everyone is dumb enough to approach him though. The news has spread and they know what he's dealing with, so they shoot him looks of sympathy from afar. Others have no tact, which is how the paparazzi are when he steps out of the station.

"Mr. Plisetsky! What are your plans for the holidays in the wake of your grandfather's passing?" The reporter is a greasing looking man with a notepad in his head, eyes shining at the prospect of catching a scoop.

Yuri shoots him the finger in response. It's been a while since he's been so aggressively rude and Yakov will give him hell for it, but at the moment it feels good and right. For a moment, Yuri feels like his old self.

When he gets home, he lights the fireplace that he never uses because Grandpa loved the smell of cedar wood burning. Then he places the urn on the mantel directly above. Yuri hates how it looks. But.

He sighs, running his hand across the smooth wood of the shelf. It wasn't so much that Yuri and his grandfather went out and did things together, it was usually the opposite. Sitting around the house and watching bad soaps on the television. Making pierogi together and sitting by the fire with folding trays as they eat.

Just sitting together in general, the calm silence settling over them as Grandpa hummed lightly in his rocking chair.

"Welcome home, Grandpa," Yuri says. The urn doesn't do Grandpa justice, he thinks, too simple and plain, just an oak box with white pine inlays. Grandpa requested it though.

"Glad you're here." It's the first thing he's truly meant in what feels like years.

Yuri makes it another two hours before he breaks his promise to Mila, grabs his skate bag, and sneaks into the rink for a midnight skate. It's not a practice, he doesn't run drills or work on techniques. Instead, he skates old routines, letting his mind fall blank as his body takes over.

Sometimes it's smooth, sometimes it's stilted, but Yuri doesn't have to think as he circles around the rink.

"Yurotchka," Grandpa said once when Yuri was a child, "if you don't know what to do, go back to your roots."

Yuri's never understood it until now, and for a small moment, as he flies across the ice, he feels like he might be okay. It isn't until he stumbles his way through his last Olympic routine that he comes to a decision. He stands there in his finishing stance, chest heaving and legs burning.

"I'll sell it," Yuri says to himself. His heart twists at the idea, memories of his childhood filling him as he stands there, toepick shoved deep into the ice. "It's the best thing to do."

He wishes the decision felt better and he wonders if Grandpa will be angry. Yuri pauses at the thought. Would be angry, he then thinks. The sigh Yuri lets loose is felt down to his gut.

#

Yakov is looking at Yuri like he can see right through him, arms crossed over his chest and mouth tipped into an annoyed frown. Yuri winces on instinct when he comes to a stop, spraying ice everywhere. There are varying degrees of that particular look, but it's been several years since Yuri's seen this one; the last time was when he'd stumbled from a hotel room after a two-day bender with a cute Korean hockey skater that he doesn't even remember the name of.

Wild times.

"Yuri," Yakov says from off the ice. Yuri can't see it from this side of the barrier, but he knows that his coach is tapping his foot in annoyance. "Run it again."

So, Yuri does. He does his best to try and ease through his routine but he loses his momentum at the end of an element, turning a triple axel into a double. Yuri can feel the burn of Yakov's disapproval from twenty meters away.

He knows that Yakov's not happy but there isn't anyone angrier than himself, so Yuri goes again. He sticks the triple but trips during the step sequence, barely catching himself.

And again. Flubs the jump before ending at an odd angle during a camel spin.

Again. Yuri damn near smacks into Mila because he's too distracted to notice he's lost his line while doing an edge pull. Mila isn't angry, but Yuri lets out a frustrated yell, pulling himself from where he's sprawled across the ice, barking at her for being in the way.

"Watch it, hag!" he snaps, startling no one on the ice. Mila opens her mouth to retort, but Yakov beats her to it.

"Yuri!" Yakov yells. Yuri pauses before turning to him; Yakov never yells. He's the grumpy sort of man who rarely passes out a compliment, but he doesn't yell. "Off the ice. Go cool off."

"No, I'm going again," Yuri says.

"Off the ice," Yakov repeats firmly, and it only makes Yuri want to push back harder.

"I—"

"Get out."

Yuri's rages, spouting things that he'd never dare yell while at practice. His rink mates know he's an angry, ticking time bomb, but they've never seen him so furious. He calls Yakov every expletive he can think of, punctuating his words with rude gestures and even ruder follow-ups.

And the worst part is that Yakov doesn't blink, doesn't even twitch a muscle. He just stands there as Yuri flings every insult that crosses his mind. And when he finishes, Yuri thought he'd feel better but he doesn't; instead, he feels tired and weary, like he's lost the last tiny shred of drive that's barely kept him going.

The other skaters stare in shocked silence. Mila looks resigned and Yakov— Well, Yakov doesn't look remotely surprised, entirely unbothered. Not even red in the face. They all wait to see what Yuri does next which is the last thing any of them expect.

"I quit," Yuri says.

"What—" Mila starts, but she can't seem to find words, falling into stunned silence instead.

"I quit," Yuri repeats, bending over to unlace his skates right there in the middle of the ice. "I'm sick of this, I'm sick of skating, I've fucking hated it for years." He strips off his skate and throws it to the floor, leaving tiny cracks in its wake. "I don't want to wake up in the morning but I do, and I come here. I don't want to train, but I do because it's the only fucking thing that I know. And in the end, it was okay because I at least had Grandpa, and at least he'd be proud."

The other boot comes off and joins the first, leaving Yuri standing awkwardly in his thick woolen socks. He doesn't care about the way the others look at him like he's gone mad, or the shock of cold up to his knees from standing on the ice.

"So, you want me to cool off? Fine, I will then. Permanently." When Yuri stomps off the ice, no one follows. When he packs his locker, he's alone. It isn't until he's nearly out the damn front door there's a hand on his shoulder.

Yuri doesn't expect Yakov. He waits for his former coach to lay down the law and tell him to get back on the ice.

Instead, he says, "I'm proud of you. Mila's proud of you, all of your teammates are proud of you. Your country is proud of you."

Yuri feels the burn of tears pricking his eyes and he hates it. "It doesn't matter," he says, "I feel like nothing matters anymore. It hasn't for a long time."

Yakov sighs, squeezing his shoulder and at first, it feels like a cheap imitation of his grandfather. But then Yuri remembers that this is Yakov, a man who's always been in his wheelhouse even when he was a child. Who saw something in a nobody and didn't take a cent from them until Yuri won not his first or second competition, but his third.

He's not Grandpa, but he's still someone important and Yuri's been wholly unfair to him as well.

"Take some time off," Yakov says. "Do something for yourself, Yuri. You deserve it."

"I was serious about quitting," Yuri says and it's like years of hesitation just slide right off of him.

"I know," Yakov says. "I know, Yuri." His voice is quiet and understanding, and suddenly, Yuri feels like the world's biggest jackass. He should've told him this years ago, Yakov would have listened.

"Go. Get some rest. Do some thinking and when you're ready, give me a call. We'll talk."

It hits him at that moment, how lucky Yuri is to have someone like Yakov. And Mila. He feels guilty. "Tell Mila that I'm sorry," Yuri says.

Yakov lets out a gruff little chuckle. "You made your bed, the least you can do is lie in it." Because they both know that Mila will wring his neck the moment he sees her again. But only after she gives Yuri a much-needed hug.

Yuri has a car but he hates driving, so he takes the railway instead even though public transport can be an annoyance. The train is quiet, though, and he gets a little reprieve. The few people riding alongside don't even give him a second glance. He uses the time to think as he watches Moscow slide by in a blur.

"Go to the inn," Mila said to him. He'd hated the idea at the time. Part of him wants to just sell the place and never think of it again, but the rest of him resents the thought of it. Even the selling part of it. He'd like to see the place one last time, he thinks, it's probably worth bitter memories in the end.

When he gets home he packs a bag. Turtlenecks, designer jeans, and thick woolen socks. There isn't really a plan, just get up and go. Yuri has no idea what to expect when he gets there. Most likely take one look, turn around, and immediately leave since running away from his problems seems on-brand for him these days.

Yuri sleeps like shit and wakes up feeling worse. This is a mistake, he thinks, but he still gets dressed and shoulders his bag. He forgoes breakfast knowing it'll be hard to keep down with such a sour feeling settling deep in his gut.

He's about to go for the door when something catches his eye, punching the breath out of him. Grandpa's armchair sits by the fire, one of the few things delivered from the retirement home. And across the wingback are his grandfather's scarf and hat, draped there as if they'd just been dropped. Yuri doesn't remember putting them there.

He wonders if Grandpa wants to see the inn one last time as well.

Yuri drops his suitcase and pulls it open, pulling his clothing aside. This is the dumbest thing he's ever considered doing but it feels right. He grabs his grandfather from the hearth, fingers smoothing over the wooden box. Then, he tucks the box into the bottom of his luggage, wrapping it carefully in one of his shirts.

He stands, fingers wrapped around the handle of the case and then he pauses again. He hesitates for a moment before reaching out and picking up the scarf on the armchair. "'Cause it's cold out there," Yuri says, wrapping it around his neck. Then he slips on the newsie cap, coiling up his hair and tucking it up into the worn-out wool.

If he closes his eyes he can just barely smell Grandpa, comfort settling around him. Yuri hasn't felt such peace in a long time so he relishes it. And when he finally leaves his apartment behind, key slipping in and locking it shut, there's a little moment of excitement.

And then it's gone, replaced with dread.

But it was a moment even if only a small one and that alone means everything because it shows that Yuri is capable of moving on. It surprises him because he's a creature of habit. He'll go and get some rest and do some thinking. Yuri's never been one for self-reflection but this time he's looking forward to it. Just some peace, moments for himself.

Sounds nice.

#

Elsewhere

#

The news of Nikolai's passing hits him harder than expected.

At first, he considers taking the day off. But then he doesn't, slipping into the worn-down house just like he does every day. He's pulled down a few walls and framed up new ones. There are sheetrock and plaster on standby for when he feels like doing lighter work.

Instead, he takes his frustration out on the kitchen cabinets, sledgehammering them to splinters, pulling them from their brackets on the wall. He hadn't been planning on replacing these, but-

Might as well.

When he's done, he's tired and sweaty, covered in grime and dust. He feels a little bit better. And a little bit heartbroken. Nikolai was a one-of-a-kind man, one who'd taken a chance on him when no-one else would.

There'd been a letter delivered with simple words.

My grandson might come. Keep up the good work. Thank you in advance. -Nikolai

He heaves a heavy sigh and declares his day done. He doesn't lock the door because it doesn't work, not that anyone would mess with the place. Snow and Bone is a beloved spot in this village, even if it's been broken and bruised for a half-decade.

He turns to give it one last look before leaving for the night, oddly in love with the building's slight lean to the right. "Charm and character," Nikolai once told him.

Otabek will miss him.

But, he'll keep his word.

"Tomorrow then," he says, before turning down toward the path.