"Yurio?"
Agony spiked through his head, snapping him out of blissful, painless sleep.
Scrunching his face up in discomfort, he groaned unhappily as some asshole shook him again, sending a fresh wave of pain and nausea through him.
"Yurio?"
God, what had he done? Yuri had only drunk to excess once in his life, and the consequences the next morning had felt rather like this.
But he'd sworn vodka off forever, the nasty stuff, and didn't remember any party, or honestly much of anything, and who the hell kept shaking him?
"Come on now... Yurio?"
Ah, Katsudon. The identity of the voice was confirmed a moment later as Viktor's own annoyingly cheerful-and far too loud-voice followed Yuuri's, bouncing through the younger Russian's skull like an over eager puppy in a china shop. "Ah, I found the source of the smell! Ew, I hope the hotel has a laundry room. Though, why did he throw up all over his shoes? He likes these shoes..."
"Never mind that," Yuuri said, accented voice low and worried. "Vitya, I'm having trouble getting him to wake."
"What?" Footsteps padded near, quiet but hurried, and hands grasped his shoulders. "Let me try."
The bed dipped as a weight sank onto it. And then Yuri's eyes snapped open as his head exploded.
"Yurochka? Come now. Heeey, Yura. Yuri! Yuuuurioooo! Wakey wake-"
Yuri meant to open his mouth and tell Viktor to stop shaking him and fuck off. And maybe he'd cut the man with his knife shoes while at it. Or at least he'd let the idiot know that he was awake and that Viktor could stop manhandling him now.
Instead, the moment the older Russian hauled him upright and gave him a firm shake, the blond promptly vomited in Viktor's lap.
It wasn't the most embarrassing thing he'd ever done. The gold medal for that still went to the time when, two years ago, he'd split his chin open after falling on a single toeloop of all things, because he'd sneezed just as he was preparing to push off his pick, done a pirouette en pointe instead of jumping, and tumbled to the ground about as gracefully as a damn recreational skater. Mila had insisted on mocking him for it for two solid months.
But puking on Viktor was a close second.
The Russian Legend looked down at himself, then at Yuri, then down at himself again. "Oh... my..."
"M'... ugh... aw-wake," Yuri managed, aborting another gag with a mortifying burp instead.
"I... uh... I..." Viktor shuddered, two fingertips plucking at the fabric of his pajama bottoms to lift the mess as far from his skin as he could without touching anything. And then he was rising to his feet and hurrying to the bathroom.
Yuuri and Yuri stared at one another for a moment as the door shut and, a couple seconds later, the shower started running.
"Well, you're obviously not yourself." The older skater helped him lie back down, keen brown eyes taking in his hoodie and straightened hair. "Did you sneak out and go drinking last night?" Katsudon's voice was firm, demanding an honest answer, but held no judgment.
Had he? Yuri took a moment to simply breathe through his nose and try to remember. He'd sworn off all alcohol, especially vodka, after Georgi had slipped him a bottle for his sixteenth birthday. And now, instead of vodka, he dimly remembered... running for his life? Cheetahs? Throwing up on his shoes? Something about his cell phone and key card?
Call me!
"N-no," he said, inhaling slowly as his disastrous attempt at an early morning jog came back to him in bits and pieces. He continued speaking when his belly chose to stay where it belonged. "I just went out for a run, and..."
He trailed off. And what? And suffered a humiliating defeat in an unplanned race against a pack of his own rabid fans? And cracked his head against a brick wall so hard that he clearly had a concussion?
There was no way in hell he was admitting any of that. Not only was it pathetic and embarrassing, but admitting it would probably result in a hospital visit, and there was no chance that Yakov would let him anywhere near a rink, let alone the Grand Prix Final, with a head injury.
"And?" Yuuri prompted, eyes concerned.
Yuri glanced away. And not in guilt. It wouldn't be a lie, exactly. And even if it was, he didn't owe Katsudon anything. "And I started feeling sick," he said. He'd just keep it to the simple truth. "Came back here."
"Okay," Yuuri said after studying him for a moment. "Well, I will give Yakov a call and let him know that you are not feeling well and won't be at the rink today. Do you have a fever?" He did not wait for a response, instead pressing his hand to Yuri's aching forehead until the younger skater's death glare made him reconsider his poor life choices with a nervous chuckle. "Well you, erm, don't feel warm yet, at least. Do you want one of us to stay here with you?"
And have them fuss over him and watch him like a hawk until he accidentally gave something away? He didn't think so.
"Nyet. It's just a stomach bug." Which was sort of the same as possible brain damage and the world's worst headache. "I'll be fine."
"Hmm... alright," Yuuri agreed after a moment of hesitation. "But I want you to call if you need anything or feel worse." He offered a gentle smile. "We want you better in time for the competition, right?"
He hated to think of how much ice time this was going to cost him, but he could feel even without getting out of bed that gliding around in skates right now would be a bad idea. He only hoped that he would indeed be better in time for the competition. He had four days. Four days of babying himself like a pathetic loser, sure, but it was for a good cause if it would allow him to recover and return to top form as soon as possible. He had another gold to claim, after all.
"Alright," he agreed unhappily.
Yuuri let him be for a while as Viktor showered, bustling around the hotel room getting dressed in his customary blue trainer, transferring his skates from his suitcase to his transpack and speaking quietly on the phone for a while.
Yuri tuned him out, half drowsing and wishing his head would stop pounding to the beat of his heart, when he heard the Japanese skater chuckle quietly.
"Ah, no, sir, he's not faking. Yes, sir, I'm sure. No... by 'he's sick', I mean he just threw up all over Viktor."
Yuri grimaced at the reminder, and Yuuri cast him a gentle smile as there was a long pause on the other end of the line. And then the older skater was nodding as Yakov's voice resumed buzzing through the speaker
"Yes sir, I'll be sure to keep him away from Viktor and the others. Yes. Yes, of course I have a mask..." With one hand, he started fiddling around with his suitcase, glancing apologetically at Yuri as he pulled out one of those medical face masks he seemed to always be wearing in public places, like airports. "No sir, I do not think I'll have much luck getting Viktor to wear one." He held the phone away from his ear as Yakov's voice rose in volume, slightly audible rant now going off on something about Viktor never doing what he was told. "I know sir, I know."
Yuri ignored him, snuggling down into his covers with a wince as his head protested even that gentle motion. He dozed in fits and starts as the idiot couple bustled about getting ready to head to the Barcelona rink for a few hours of practice. He jolted awake as the bathroom door slammed open and Viktor asked how he was from the safety of the other side of the room, Yuuri's softer voice answering for him. Then woke again as there came a knock on the door and, shortly after, Yuuri placed something on the nightstand with a quiet clink of porcelain. Then woke again as the hotel door closed and, at last, silence descended.
His phone rang.
"Ahhh!" he howled, half in sheer frustration and pain, and half in surprise.
That certainly wasn't his ringtone. He didn't even have a ringtone, but instead always kept the device on vibrate.
It definitely wasn't on vibrate now. And he'd certainly not been the one to choose "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" as a ringtone.
"What the hell!?" he snapped the instant he accepted the call, not even bothering to look at the caller ID. The screen was way too bright for his throbbing head.
There was an audible sigh of relief before a girl's voice crowed in Russian, "Yurio! You're awake!"
"Who the hell is this?" It wasn't Mila; the voice was too high. And Lilia did not call; she made Yakov do so for her, or worse, waited until she saw you in person to deliver her terse criticism and instructions.
"Tiffany. Remember?"
It took him a moment, but soon it came back to him. Cheetah Woman. "Unfortunately," he growled.
"I told you to call me."
He closed his eyes and rested gingerly back against his pillow. "Why would I call you?"
"You don't remember?" Her voice sounded worried now. "This was, like, two hours ago."
"I was sleeping." Which he desperately wanted to get back to right away.
"No!" He winced as she squawked in his ear. "I told you that you can't sleep. Not with a head injury. And I said to call me when you got to your room so that I would know that you're alright."
"I'm fine. Now leave me alone." He was about to end the call when he heard the last words he ever wanted to hear from the stalker.
"I'm at your door."
"What?!"
"Well, the hotel door, anyway. They won't let me come up unless you call the front desk to confirm it's okay."
He scoffed. "Like hell am I letting you up. In fact, if you try to come up, I'll call the police."
"Hmm," she hummed. "Let me up, or I'll call Yakov and tell him that you're hurt."
He gasped and his heart skipped a beat before he remembered. "Yeah, nice try. You don't even know his number."
"I do know his number," she replied calmly. "And Yuuri's and Viktor's, too. I probably could have looked up your doctor, and nutritionist, and choreographer in your contacts too while I was at it if I hadn't been too busy programming your ringtone to make sure you'd wake up whenever I called."
"What the hell?!" When had that even happened? Damn this head injury!
"I was going to call once an hour, but I decided that keeping an eye on you in person is be better."
Oh, dear God. Why did his fan club attract all the batshit crazy ones? "I'm fine. You don't need to keep an eye on me, or call, or say anything to my coach. Just leave me alone."
"You are not fine. You lost consciousness. Threw up. Can't remember anything. Haven't the sense to stay awake with a head injury."
"I-"
"And the second most important competition of the season is four days away," she went on. That gave him pause. "It's my fault you're hurt. You think I'm going to let you just go out there and skate with a head injury without doing what I can to help you recover? You could die-"
He swallowed. Worse, he could lose.
"-if you do too much, too soon. Someone needs to keep an eye on you, someone who knows what happened. Since, judging by how you reacted when I mentioned calling your coach, I'm guessing you haven't told anyone anything."
"Fuck." Yuri held the phone away from his face, jabbing a finger at the screen to end the call. A moment later he fumbled for the clunky hotel phone and called the front desk. "There's a girl waiting outside with security," he growled in English, hoping the employee spoke the language. It was that, or Russian. "Tiffany. She can come up, I guess."
"Right away... Mr. Plisetsky." He could hear the disapproval dripping from the woman's voice and realized what this probably looked like, especially after arriving back at the hotel earlier that morning looking like someone who had partied too hard.
He hung up the phone. "Fuck!"
The blond cast a quick glance around the room, hoping there wouldn't be anything in sight he didn't want a fan to see. Who knew what the stalker might try to put up on Instagram?
Luckily, his clothes from his shower that morning were tucked away in a laundry bag. He wouldn't put it past this Tiffany chick to try to steal a pair of boxers or something gross like that.
A knock sounded on his door, and he grumbled, dragging himself from bed and trudging his way to open it. He didn't feel dizzy, exactly. Just nauseous and lightheaded. And he was pretty sure that he could feel every vessel in his brain at once, throbbing with his pulse as his blood boiled with fury.
"Well, you look like crap," Tiffany greeted him the moment he threw open the door.
"Fuck you," he shot over his shoulder, heading straight back to bed. "And shut that. The hallway's too bright."
"That's because you bashed your brains in," she pointed out unhelpfully. But at least she was quiet for a few blessed moments as she shut the door, casting the room once more into darkness except for the dim light from the bathroom around the corner. "And I'm sorry, but you do look awful. All... pasty and white." She frowned at him.
He scoffed, climbing back under the covers. "I'm naturally pale. Some fan you are."
Her grin was almost predatory. "I have over one thousand photos of you, Yurio. I know what you normally look like."
"Okay... creepy..." He muttered. But as his aching head settled back against the pillows, he couldn't really bring himself to care. Worrying took energy, and he was exhausted.
"Ah ah!" she called, obnoxious voice too loud in his ears. He cracked his eyes open and fixed her with his best death glare. "No sleeping!"
"Lemme alone!" he snapped.
"No. Questions first. Then you can sleep. For, like, an hour or two, stupid."
He peered at her with suspicion. "What questions? I don't want to give you some private interview..."
She rolled her eyes. "Really, give me some credit. You're hurt."
He relaxed, slightly. Sleep tugged at him.
"I will wait till you are not half dying to get my autographs and selfies and stuff." She ignored his surly glare. "Now, the questions I found online."
"What the hell ques-"
"First, what's your name?"
He yanked his covers up over his face. "You've got to be kidding me!"
"Name?"
"Yuri Plisetsky," he ground out.
"Where are you?"
He breathed in a calming inhale, reminding himself that killing fans was generally frowned upon in the figure skating world. "Hotel. Barcelona."
"And what happened?"
It was also hard to win gold from prison. "You chased me into the street," he growled, "and probably cost me the competition."
"And what year is it?"
"1915."
"What?"
"What?"
She was silent for a long while, and he tugged his blanket over his face and almost drifted off a moment later. But then the covers were ripped back from his head.
"Leave me alone!" he shrieked, not caring that it hurt his head.
"Temper temper," she mumbled, but her expression was concerned. "Are you messing with me?"
"No," he snapped. "Why won't you leave me alone?"
"Because unless you have some special time traveling ability I'm not aware of, it's 2015, not 1915."
He just stared at her. What the hell was she talking about? This was all too stupid and exhausting and damn confusing to bother with.
She sighed. "Okay, I have a baseline, so now you can sleep. For a little while."
His relief almost made him dizzy. Or maybe that was the concussion. Either way, his eyes snapped shut.
He heard the sound of a camera before he drifted off but couldn't find it in himself to care as he sank into sleep.
When he next woke, it was to something shaking his arm and then the camera sound again as he whined, "Whaaat?"
She hid something behind her back. "Name?"
They went through the stupid questions again, and this time, at least, she seemed pleased with his answers before she let him sleep again.
Only to force him awake two hours later, this time pointing at the nightstand after bombarding him with her questions.
"By the way, it looks like your dads left you something to eat."
"They're not my dads and I'm not hungry."
"Yes, they are and I don't care." She was beginning to sound as annoyed with him as he was with her. "Eat. You need food if you want to recover."
Ugh, she had a point. Grudgingly, he sat up and ate. The cold toast, banana and apple sauce had Yuuri written all over them.
He heard a camera again, this time accompanied by a flash.
He put the toast down. Slowly. "Did you seriously just take a photo?"
She shrugged, flipping through her phone's gallery. "Oh yeah, you bet I did." She beamed at him, her teeth looking freakishly sharp in the dim light. "Have to document the evidence this happened."
He lunged for her. It would have been more effective if his head and belly hadn't protested the movement. And if his legs hadn't been trapped one second too long under the covers.
She dodged him easily, phone disappearing into her pocket. And then she was half hauling him into the bathroom, where he found himself bent over the toilet, dry gagging. Fortunately, his meager breakfast stayed where it belonged and he straightened gingerly, glaring at her.
"If I see those on Instagram..."
She snorted, helping him back up. He was ashamed to admit that he needed the assistance. "Please. These are for me alone."
"Creepy..." He winced as he climbed back in bed. "Ugh," he groaned, reaching up to his throbbing head. Even knowing what to expect-it was hardly his first concussion, unfortunately-he was surprised by the size of the gross bump on his scalp. "Ugh!"
Tiffany sighed as she watched him struggling to get comfortable again, then left the room. He knew it was too much to hope that she might be going away for good, and sure enough, she returned a few minutes later, carrying a bag of ice and a bottle of paracetamol.
"Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital?" she asked, wrapping the ice in a towel and handing it to him along with two pills.
His glare as he pressed the cold bundle to his aching skull was her answer.
"Calm down, it was just a question."
"I'm fine," he gritted out, gingerly adjusting the ice. It hurt, and probably would until the area numbed a bit. "And get me some water." He flexed his hand, rolling the pills in his palm and watching them absently.
"You're not fine, or you'd be wide awake and tearing up all the ice at the rink instead of staring at your hand like a zombie," she pointed out, but at least she did as he'd asked and stepped from the room to fill up a plastic cup at the bathroom sink. Her voice grew louder as she spoke over the faucet. "And if you keep throwing up, I'm not sure how you're going to compete in just a few days. If it doesn't let up soon, it might be dangerous."
When she handed him the cup, he threw the water and pills back like he'd once done with a shot of vodka. His last shot of vodka ever. "It isn't dangerous. It just hurts. It's fucking nauseating."
"Or it could be intercranial pressure. I read it in Medscape."
"Medscape," he scoffed. "That's not a doctor, and neither are you."
"Yeah..." Her eyes glittered almost viciously, though her tone was saccharine. "Would you rather we go see one? I can call an ambulance right now."
"No!" He tossed the empty cup at her and sank down into his covers again. "Just let me sleep! And stop taking pictures of me you perv!"
She ignored him, continuing to pull her phone out of her pocket. As he closed his eyes, he heard a camera snap. His own growl followed him down into sleep.
When he next woke, or came to, or whatever, it wasn't because of his pest of a fan for once.
The door creaked open and then Katsudon was stammering like an idiot, "Oh! Oops, sorry! So sorry! I-I think I may have opened the wrong door, somehow. I..."
"No, Mr. Katsud-err, Katsuki, you have the right room."
As Yuri sat up groggily, knowing that this was all somehow bad, but not quite able yet to get his brain to work out exactly why that was, Viktor cut in.
The man's voice was by far the most dangerous Yuri had ever heard before in his life. "Who are you and why are you in our room?"
Yuri peered over at him in surprise, shivering in alarm as he took in the older skater's narrowed blue eyes. Even Cheetah Woman, who had been unfazed by all of Yuri's glares, took a step away.
"I'm T-Tiffany Lachinov. Yurio's friend. And I'm-"
He resisted the urge to scream at the hated nickname, but only because it would have made his head hurt worse.
"Yurochka has no friends but us," the silver haired man challenged, edging into the room and standing by Yuri's bed, eyes flicking over him assessingly before his stern glare returned to Tiffany. Yuri noticed with irritation that he was standing directly between the girl and the bed.
"I do too!" The blond snapped. He had Otabek and... Well, he had Otabek. "And you're not one of them, old man! You or Katsudon!"
"I assume that you do know her, then?" Yuuri asked, apparently finally recovering from the embarrassment of thinking he'd barged into some teenage girl's room. He walked inside and set his skate bag on the chair.
"Yeah. She, um... she..." He glared pointedly at Tiffany, encouraging her to help him out. Stupid useless, concussed brain couldn't even come up with a lie.
"We met at one of Mrs. Baranovskaya's recitals. My sister is a ballet dancer, you see. Not as good as Yurio, but a big fan. My family came to Barcelona to see Yuri compete, and when he told me that he was... erm..." This time, she was the one who glanced his way for help.
His brain slowly supplied a useful lie, much as he hated to even pretend that her presence here was wanted in any way. "I told her about my flu. Asked her to keep me company," he grumbled.
At last, Viktor relaxed. If, by relaxed, one meant that he stopped acting like he was going to murder the girl any moment and instead turned the "extra" up five notches. "Ahh, our little Yurochka has another friend!" he crowed, clapping his hands together.
God, the idiot's smile really did sort of resemble a heart. It was sickening. "Shut up you asshole!"
Yuuri chuckled quietly. "Well, it is good to meet you, Tiffany. Though I see you already know Viktor and I."
She nodded, beaming. "Oh yes. I'm a huge fan of you both, and Yuri of course. And besides, my good friend Yurio here talks about you two all the time." Her eyes glittered maliciously as she glanced at the irate skater. "He really loves you guys, you know. And looks up to you."
Katsudon blushed happily at that, even as Yuri shouted, "I do not!" His head throbbed with pain with every word, but damn it, he needed to stop this before she weaseled her way into their hearts and they adopted her like a pet. "Tiffany, it was great seeing you. Really. But it's time for you to go." She opened her mouth, and he continued quickly before she could protest or say anything incriminating. "I'm sure your family is wondering where you are, and really, I'm feeling better. Yuuri and Viktor can take it from here, thanks."
It irked him to have to do it, but he cast Yuuri a pleading look, hoping the man would side with him on this and not with Viktor, who was already looking disappointed at the prospect of Yuri's mysterious friend leaving.
The Japanese skater's eyes softened. "It sounds like he could use some rest, Tiffany. But thank you for being here with him today."
She sighed. "You're welcome." She smirked at Yuri, who glared back. "Make sure they don't let you sleep," she said pointedly, then turned back to Yuuri and Viktor. "He's slept almost the whole day away."
"We'll keep an eye on him," Viktor said, clearly amused.
Yuri resisted the urge to snort. Viktor could barely look out for himself, let alone Yuuri and their obnoxious horse of a poodle. He had serious doubts about whether the man could also watch over a concussed skater.
He was soon proven wrong over the coming days, however. True, Yuuri was the main one to nursemaid and nag him to eat this and do that to rest up and recover from the "stomach bug", even going out of his way to track down the ingredients for a soupy rice porridge called okayu and forcing him to take foul-smelling little black seirogan tablets to help "settle his belly". And true, for the first day or so, Tiffany was the one who kept him from sleeping too long-thoroughly against his will-by finding lame excuses to call him about this or that every couple of hours.
"If you post that on Instagram, I'll fucking kill you!" he howled into the phone after the fourth round of "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go", then hung up with a scowl.
But Viktor did his part. After Yuuri found the ingredients at a local Asian mart for his weird porridge, it was Viktor who sweet-talked one of the hotel's cooks into transforming the hodge-podge of ingredients and Yuuri's carefully penned recipe into a meal that actually tasted pretty good. If he had to eat Japanese food, Yuri would have preferred a bowl of katsudon-not that he'd admit that to Yuuri-but the okayu was an acceptable alternative.
But today's meal-a proper Russian bowl of chicken broth with croutons-was way better. It almost eased the anger boiling within him from Tiffany's latest text.
"Post what?" Viktor asked, peeking over his shoulder as he set the soup bowl on the nightstand.
Yuri quickly deleted Tiffany's text, and with it the photo she'd sent him of himself, fast asleep and drooling into his pillow with towel-wrapped ice perched on his head. "None of your business, old man!" He glared balefully at the soup. "Spoon?"
He really didn't need tasty but still rather wimpy food like chicken soup or medicine for his stomach anymore. Or, for that matter, to have Tiffany keep harassing him nonstop to keep him from sleeping too long and falling into a coma or whatever it was she worried might happen. His nausea had relented late the first day and, when he'd looked up the Medscape article she'd apparently been referencing for his care, he learned that she'd really only needed to keep him awake for the first few hours, the creepy stalker. Most of his symptoms were gone, except for dizziness when he moved too fast and a lingering headache.
But he knew that he wasn't ready to dare the ice just yet, and even tomorrow's competition would be iffy. If he wanted to stay tucked up in the hotel bed recovering for as long as possible, his only hope was to keep feigning "stomach flu".
But it was going to be hard to have all the energy he needed to compete and have any chance of medaling after eating nothing but Japanese rice porridge, Russian chicken soup, bananas, and applesauce for days. He needed something stronger, with some protein and electrolytes.
"Any chance you could convince the cook to make solyanka tomorrow?" he asked Viktor, doing his best to seem as meek and pathetic as possible. He knew the idiot ate it up, even if, like Tiffany, Viktor responded by taking a billion photos to show the world "poor little angry Yurio". It was grating, but if it might get him some solyanka, he'd endure. The hearty soup, with lots of sausage, bacon, salami, olives, capers, pickles, cabbage and dill, would be perfect for getting him back on his feet as fast as possible in time for the competition.
Viktor looked at him consideringly. "Are you starting to feel better, Yurochka?"
His eyes narrowed at the stupid name-only Grandpa got to call him that!-but he nodded. "Yeah. Just a bit weak still. Hopefully if I eat something real..."
Viktor beamed that ridiculous heart shaped smile. "Well then, tell you what. If you eat all of that-" He nodded to indicate the bowl of soup. "-and drink all the tea I'm steeping, and take the medicine my Yuuri has for you, I will see if I can find the right things to make it." He looked excited. "I wonder how Spanish pickles and chorizo will taste in it. Hmm..."
Yuri resisted the urge to grimace. If it would get him back on the ice again, he'd try any weird food Viktor wanted to throw at him, and Yuuri's bizarre medicines from the bag of "travel remedies" the fucking hypochondriac carried around as well.
"Fine," he said, pasting on a smile as Viktor spooned a dollop of raspberry jam into the tea. God, he liked the stuff well enough-he wouldn't be Russian if he didn't-but did the idiot have to put so much in there? He was going to end up replacing his concussion with fucking diabetes.
"Here you go, Yurio," Yuuri said, three seirogan tablets in hand and mask firmly in place. Such a weirdo. But a useful weirdo. And kind, though Yuri wasn't about to admit it.
Yuri drank his tea, ate his soup, took his bitter medicine, and even managed not to complain about his stupid nickname. He'd do anything he had to in order to be back on his feet and, better yet, back on the ice tomorrow. He was going to compete even if it killed him. And maybe, just maybe, he'd not just make the podium, but reclaim gold.
He would love to wipe that stupid heart-shaped smile off the Russian Legend's face.