CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED NINETY EIGHT
The audience cheered loudly the entire time Viktor skirted the rink, trying desperately to pull his head out of that dark place his worries had taken him. No matter how hard he tried though, all he could think of was the horrid, sinking feeling he'd had as a young teen every time he took the ice in competition. In that first year, when he was still too young to join the Junior ISU and was relegated to local minor competitions...the dread was there.
Skating officially anywhere in Russia made him anxious. Like a ghost that held residence in a corner of every skating rink, that smoky, billowing aura of darkness was always there, coalescing out the corner of his left eye. Always the left.
He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, punching against the inside of his ribs, threatening to burst out for lack of room. Just as he finally got to center, and dug in a toe-pick to stop, he reached up his left hand to try and quiet the beat and calm its rhythm. However, just like before...out the corner of his left eye, all he could see was that wispy dark aura. This time though, he knew exactly where it was coming from; it wasn't just a shadow sitting on the outside edge of his line of sight...it was in the audience. Tendrils of smoke rose from that spot along the dividing wall between the rink-side area and the first row of stadium seats, and it didn't just disappear when he took a chance to get a better look.
His mind's eye couldn't shake it. He knew his father was just a man, not a demon, but the memories of those days were overriding him. Viktor clenched his eyes shut and shook his head, and dared to stare at the Russian Bear straight on just to prove to himself that the aura was a trick...but there it was, all-consuming, writhing over that entire corner of the rink, spilling into other rows of seats, darkening everything it touched. The entire arena seemed to darken, losing its color until everything was a shade of grey. He looked back around in a small panic, then down at his hands...and saw how small they'd become. The color had completely gone, and so had the years that had passed. The audience had vanished, the lights were going out all around him, and worst of all...he was 12 again.
The hand over his heart clenched down on a different outfit than the one he knew he'd worn into the rink; it was the first one he'd ever worn. It was torn up though, one sleeve hanging off his elbow by a thread, holes in the knees, decorative bits hanging off his shoulders. It was almost unrecognizable.
The dark shape to his left was still writhing at the corners of his periphery, and his tiny hands went up in a desperate bid to pull his bangs down over the eye that tormented him, but his hair was too short for that. It barely came down to just over his eyebrows, and as he clawed his fingers through it like he thought it would somehow make his bangs longer, he could feel the skin around his eye opening up all over again. Crimson vitae trickled down his face, dripped off his chin to hit the ice with a quiet tap against the cold between his feet. Two more drops, then another three in succession, falling from his face like an artery had been severed.
Yuri and Yakov watched in confusion as they saw the Russian pawing at his bangs, pulling them out of the shape he'd styled them into earlier.
"VIKTOR!" The younger skater yelled out, trying to snap the man out of it.
To his sights, it seemed to work, and the silver figure finally stopped focusing so much on his hair and eye and took his position. Viktor moved the left hand from his cheek to raise it in front of himself, the right going slightly behind, and he crossed his right skate behind his left ankle, setting the toe-pick against the ice. It was impossible to see from so far away, but the Russian had gone even paler than normal, and his eyes were glassy. The music finally started though, and Viktor moved along with it, looking more like a puppet on strings than a world-class athlete. Yuri turned to glance at the older coach, but all he saw was a quiet, sullen dread on the man's face.
"...Did he ever tell you about his pre-ISU competition days?" Yakov wondered suddenly, stopping the younger skater from turning back out to watch his partner's caricature.
Can you hear my heartbeat? Tired of feeling never enough.
"...He hadn't gotten that far yet, no." Yuri answered, forcing himself to look back around again as he heard his own voice singing the lyrics, "I think he was working himself up to it."
Viktor twisted on the ice, arms to the side, moving swiftly along the short end of the rink opposite them.
"The first time he got onto the ice for a competition," Yakov explained, watching with unblinking eyes as his skater moved like a novice, "And for the entire first year or so..."
I close my eyes and tell myself, that my dreams will come true.
The quad Flip, Viktor's signature move, fell to a triple. He hadn't known how to do it when he was 12. His skate wobbled under him, but he kept moving, deaf to the confused applause of the audience.
There'll be no more darkness when you believe in yourself, you are unstoppable.
"...He was scared that his father would show up at a competition and drag him home again." Yakov continued, "But it wasn't ever that simple."
Where your destiny lies, dancing on the blades...
Viktor twisted over in a half-jump, and when he landed, he thrust his hand out and slid forward on the ice, lifting his arm towards the opposite end of the rink. However, unlike all the previous times he'd done it, Yuri could see that the man's arm barely came up half-way, like it was too heavy to raise up all the way, and his hand was limp at the end of his reach.
...You set my heart on fire!
His hand trembled, but the Russian's mind couldn't see the rink wall past the heavy chains on his arms. The last link dragged along the ice, leaving a scratch almost as deep as the worn-out, antique blades tied to his snow-boots. The music was almost inaudible in the background, sounding like it was playing from outside the run-down arena, but he knew he had to keep going.
The serpentine step-sequence was next, and Viktor did his best, dragging the chains behind him across pock-marked ice.
Don't stop us now, the moment of truth. We were, born to make History!
The elder Russian coach crossed his arms, seeing how tired the skater looked already, and it wasn't even a third of the way finished. Those unblinking eyes never left the man though, "Viktor had horrible nightmares all throughout those first few competitions. He could only ever sleep easy if he had Kubochin with him, but you know well enough that we're not allowed to bring pets."
Yuri listened quietly, worrying more and more as the story went on.
We'll make it happen, we'll turn it around. Yes, we were born to make History!
"He'd wake up in a cold sweat more often than not," Yakov explained, turning his eyes as Viktor went past the judges, roaming back towards the middle of the rink before tossing himself into a fling sit-spin, only to be unable to completely extend his leg, "Begging for his Uncle or his dog, or he'd just sit there in bed, trembling and terrified. He'd never remember it the next morning, or at least he claimed he didn't, but then he'd go out there and skate like he didn't know what he was doing anymore. He told me once that when he skated, he'd see a dark cloud out the corner of his eye, like it was the shadow of his father's fist coming back to hit him again, or to drag him away."
Born to make History!
The silver Russian had pulled out of the pancake spin by then, trying to pull his skate-blade up behind his back to rise into the full Biellmann spin, but his second hand missed the catch, and he had to grab it in a second attempt once it was already up behind his head.
Bo-bo-born to make History!
"He'd always try to pull his hair down in front of that eye since he wasn't allowed to cover it, and it wasn't until his bangs finally came down far enough to hide the scars on his cheek that the nightmares and hallucinations stopped." The elder continued.
Yuri crossed his arms over the rink wall, and hugged the Makkachin tissue box against his chest, watching and listening nervously, "...Come on, Viktor...this isn't you..."
Yes, we were born to make History!
The silver boy looked all around the rink, dizzy from the spin, seeing the ice cracking at the base of the rink-wall. Still, the hollow echo of the music outside forced him on...at least, until it seemed to fade out entirely, leaving the arena in darkness and quiet. Viktor's legs refused to move after that, the antique blades on his feet crumbling to dust, leaving him with nothing but rotted leather straps across his boots, and the jagged edges where the blades once attached to the bottoms. The chains felt ten times heavier, and the trembling figure dropped to his knees, facing the far corner of the rink, and the roiling darkness that had taken it over entirely. Tendrils of black were starting to come over the decrepit wall, shattering and evaporating the ice with its touch. All Viktor could do was lean his head down, feeling the blood trailing from his eye and across his skin, followed by tears and the crack of his tiny voice trying to scream.
[Youuuuu did thissss...]
That silver head quaked at the sound of the hissed whisper, and he lifted his eyes a little to see the wriggling black mass getting closer, wisps of dark smoke reaching ahead where the inky miasma followed slowly behind. Ice decayed in its path, and slate blue eyes watched in terror as the tendrils inched their way closer. He backed off his knees and tried to push away, digging the oversized antique skates into the remains of the ice to try and shove himself back, but the chains held him where he was, so heavy they might as well have been bolted to the ground. When the first coil of that darkness reached him, he tried to kick it back, but all that achieved was setting the remains of his blades on fire where he wore them. It wasn't long before they were not but ash, falling off his boots entirely and crumbling before his eyes like charred sticks.
[Thissss issss...becauuuseee of yoouuuu...]
[I...I didn't do anything...!] He begged in that tiny voice, seeing how the blackness completely surrounded him. Just as it seemed like it was going to pounce on him and rip him apart, it stopped in its tracks, only the smoke moving as it drifted in the air above itself.
[Don't yoouuuu remember what you diiiddd...?]
The voice was much closer now, sounding like it was coming from straight ahead rather than all around. The tiny silver Russian lifted his head again, facing the source of the sound. From within the hulking mass of all-encompassing black, grey smoke started to rise, wavering like in a mild breeze, then condensing into a thick soup of waving silvery threads, eventually looking like hair, floating as though under water. A pale face soon emerged with it; a woman's face, with familiar grey-green eyes.
[...Mama...?] The teen wondered, his voice weak and trembling.
The figure brought its shoulders and arms out of the miasma, reaching white hands towards the young skater, only to burst into flames as well, starting at the fingertips. They turned to charcoal and ash, like the wick of a candle, burning down the length until getting to the palms. The ashes started falling away, leaving smaller and smaller stumps as it moved down the woman's hands, erasing her fingers and thumbs from existence, then going to her wrists.
[...Youuuu did thiiisss...]
[I didn't do anything!] Viktor pleaded again, horrified by the vision, [The burning was because of papa! He did this!]
[Heee burrrned the skaaates...but yoouuu buuuurned meeeeee...] She whispered through a dry, coarse voice, sparks and puffs of smoke pouring from her mouth.
Before the tiny Russian could react, the woman's entire body was pushed down, exploding into dust and embers like the remains of a well-burnt log, vanishing into the smog all over again. He just screamed and tried to get away again, kicking his heels against the ground in a desperate attempt to push back, only for the chains to continue holding him down.
More chains seemed to echo from within the smoky mass, sparks shooting out periodically where it sounded like a hammer had struck metal. Viktor suddenly realized what the miasma was, and he kicked that much harder.
[YOU CAN'T MAKE ME GO. I WON'T. I'LL DIE BEFORE YOU MAKE ME GO THERE.] He screamed, kicking furiously as the tendrils started to grasp at his legs. He watched in even more horror as his clothing there caught fire like his skates and mother had, burning him and leaving charred holes in his skin. He watched helplessly as his fingers caught up in flames after that, turning them to ash and dust as well.
[This is your fault.] Another voice started, darker and lower than the first, [This is a Hell of your own making, and it's nothing less than you deserve.]
"...Viktor...!" A third voice...this one distant and nearly impossible to hear.
[You created this place.] The second voice continued, drowning out the other with a flurry of hammer-strikes and spark-eruptions, [It's a direct result of your disregard for the natural order of things, for your rebellion, for your lies, for your deceit...for turning your mother away from the Light...for seeking the company of those forbidden to you...and for your own insatiable avarice.]
"...Viktor!" The far-off voice cried again, this time a little closer.
The smoke condensed before the terrorized child's eyes, two blue eyes glowing in the midst of it all like that of some dark monster, [THIS IS WHERE YOU BELONG.] It roared, rising high and looming over the tiny silver figure. The smoky black miasma seemed to get thicker, heavier as it towered over the boy...and then collapsed, rushing forward at him, smoke and fire and hatred all coming together to smother him.
[NO!]
"Viktor!"
"...Huh?" His vision was blurry for a moment, coming into focus as the roar of the crowd started creeping in. He could feel where his right toe-pick was planted in the ice just behind his left heel, and his arms were straight out to his sides. His lungs burned...from exertion, he realized, not from fire, and he panted heavily to catch his breath. The air was cold on his face, and a bead of sweat rolled down his left cheek, forcing him to bring his hand back to catch it in case it was...something else. He clenched his eyes shut and shook his head, trying to regain his focus, "...What happened?"
"Viktooooorrrrr!" Yuri's voice called again, this time with a little more urgency.
The Russian lifted his gaze and turned around, seeing his not-a-coach and former-coach there gawking at him like he was standing completely naked in the middle of the rink. He blinked strongly a few times, then nervously turned and started pushing back towards them, blades sliding across the ice normally again. He swallowed, and turned his eyes up to the right, looking past the camera-crane as it followed his trek back to rink-side, capturing his shaky movements as he felt his team jacket being thrown over his shoulders.
Behind the camera, the black miasma had vanished, leaving just the audience, Yurio, and...his father. The duo was clapping slowly, but Viktor wasn't sure what for.
"Are you okay?" Yuri asked, getting the skater's attention back rather suddenly, "Viktor...?"
"...I don't know. I think I blacked out in the middle of it." He answered, reaching his hand back up to press it to his left eye and cheek, slipping it under his bangs, "What did I do? Did I finish at least...?"
"Yeah." The younger figure answered, holding out the first of the two skate-guards, "But you did it like you were skating 'Evoke' already. You didn't look happy at all..." His voice was a mixture of worry and guilt.
Viktor reached his shaking hand past the rubber blade-guard, and took the water bottle from the top of the rink-wall instead, pulling the nub out with his teeth and biting down on it for a moment before finally tilting his head back to actually get a drink. Unexpectedly, he felt his right leg get pulled out from under him, and he fell against the open gateway to catch himself, looking back over his shoulder to see his husband putting the guard onto the skate himself, hoisting his leg up like he was shoeing a horse. Yuri did the same thing to the left side soon after that, then gently started pushing him towards the kiss and cry. Yakov followed close behind, but said nothing, which Viktor found weird.
Waiting for the score was nerve-wracking, and the Russian stared at the toes of his skates the entire time. The big screens mounted above the rink were playing back scenes from his program, but he wouldn't look. His mind was blank, save the echoes of that waking nightmare bouncing off the inside of his skull.
"The score for Viktor Nikiforov...88.26."
Yakov looked up as they heard it, but his expression hadn't changed. He just turned his head towards the opposite corner of the rink, staring at Konstantin like he thought he could make the man evaporate by sheer force of will.
The audience wasn't sure whether to cheer or not, and they fell into a confused quiet. A few people started to clap, and others whistled...but it was the sound of booing that really started to pick up.
Yurio lifted his head, completely stunned by both the score and the reaction of the crowd.
[So much for being a legend.] Konstantin huffed.
[The last time he skated this, he set a new world record with a score over 119.] The teen grudgingly pointed out, [He fucked up cuz you're here. Cut him a little slack.] He rose up from his seat and looked all around the arena. The booing had really gotten loud by then, and he grit his teeth, drawing in a sharp breath, "STOP BOOING THE JUDGES AND CHEER FOR HIM, YOU ASS-HATS."
Yuri lifted his head when he heard it, still numb from the score reading. He turned his eyes toward his husband, nervous for the look on his face...but Viktor's expression hadn't changed much. He still looked down at his skates, eyes half-closed where the left was hidden under his hair.
"Vitya." Yakov said quietly, "Konstantin is going home."
The Russian didn't react for a moment, but then closed his eyes and shook his head, "He's staying. If you make him leave anyway, I'll never forgive you."
"But-"
"I'm still in first place." He said stiffly, pushing up from the bench as he stuffed his hands into his pockets, [I'll make up for it in the Free Skate. I made that program because of how much I hated my father. It'll be perfect.] He finished in quiet Russian, hoping not to be picked up by the microphones and translated later. His tone was grim, even considering what he was saying.
The elder coach simply held his tongue, knowing the kiss and cry wasn't the place to give that lecture. He simply rose to his feet as well, and followed behind as the skater stepped off with his partner at his side.
The audience had passively stopped the jeering and had moved on to clapping politely, though many were still muttering about the injustice of such a low score. Half the judges held their heads up in defense of their grades, but the rest hid behind their clasped hands, knowing the man normally earned better but being unable to justify those same kinds of marks for what they saw moments before.
The trio passed the rink entrance where the next skater was rotating his arms in preparation for his own performance. He, his coach, and choreographer all watched in tepid silence as the Russian team passed them by, disappearing under the curtain.
"Next on the ice...representing the United States of America...Leo de la Iglesia."