In which they are reborn

…o…

Yuri Plisetsky was lonely.

It wasn't as if he hadn't expected it, being the new skater, in a new city, with barely any background. He had known that there would be appraising stares, twisted lips, and heads tilting tellingly. That didn't numb the little sting in his chest, though, climbing into his grandfather's car at the end of a very long day with only the promise of pirozhki keeping him from screaming out in frustration.

The move to St. Petersburg hadn't been that hard in the first place. He had friends back home, but they weren't that close and he didn't really like them that much anyway (or so he convinced himself, as he frowned down at the lockscreen of his phone, a bright picture of him shoving Katerina into the sea when she wasn't looking). He missed his parents a bit, but they were too controlling and strict, and he had missed grandpa anyway.

There was no need to convince himself for the last statement, but now and then he found himself missing the constant warmth of the family cat burrowed up against his side as he collapsed on the couch after a tiring day of skating.

He knew that this was the right decision. Yakov Feltsman was one of the best coaches around, having taken several of his students, into the high standings of international skating. If he was going to succeed, he had long ago decided that summer trips to training classes and a mediocre coach the rest of the year would not be enough. Yakov in St. Petersburg was the best option. Not only due to the coach's popularity, but also…

Yuri took a deep breath in the passenger seat of the old car, allowing himself a small smile as he remembered Victor Nikiforov tossing him a small smile as Yakov introduced him to his new rinkmates.

"Yura, we're here."

The gentle press of Grandpa's hand on his shoulder brought him back to the present, and he squinted out the car window at the worn down house battling the harsh winter weather, seeming as though it would collapse at any moment. It was a far cry from the expensive house covered in paintings and modern furniture that his parents had insisted on keeping.

Eventually, over the next four years, Yuri's presence became more prominent in the house. Papers and posters from school littered the creaky hallways, and it seemed as though one couldn't walk anywhere before tripping over a piece of clothing with boisterous animal print.

Carefully cleaned pictures of a smiling man and grim-faced woman holding a red-faced baby were soon pushed a bit farther back, replaced by pictures of Yuri Plisetsky smiling proudly on podiums with gold, silver, and bronze glinting on his chest. Soon, selfies that Mila always made the Russia team take were propped up against these frames, although Yuri had been quick to insist when Mila visited once that Nikolai had been the ones to print those (she knew better than to believe him).

On his fifteenth birthday, a small kitten was added to the mess of their house, a form of comfort for both Nikolai and Yuri. For the former, a soft reminder of love whenever his grandson was out and about during competitions. The latter, still encompassing a bit too much youthful stubbornness and pride to let himself go around his friends, found himself crying against the feline more than he would ever like to admit.

The house hadn't been the only thing that had changed. His rinkmates were much more like family now, and the only judging stares he received were when Mila decided to use him as practice for lifts. They had an odd friendship, full of sharp edges and insults. Mama and Papa wouldn't have liked it. All the more reason to not ruin it.

Yuri Plisetsky was still felt lonely sometimes, but that was fine by him. It wasn't as though there would be any one in the world who understood him as much as he understood himself. The only one out there, with his problems, was himself. It was hard when all he wanted to do was scream, when his parents' piercing voices came over the crackling of the telephone line blankly congratulating him for another performance, when Nikolai broke down into another one of his coughing fits or had to visit the hospital in the middle of the night, when he could barely have any friends at school because figure skating was time-consuming and—

"Yuuuuuri!"

The blond in question screamed as a heavy weight latched onto his back, but reflexively looped his arms under the legs now fastened against his sides. "Irena for fuck's sake I told you to stop doing that—"

"Wanna get ice cream after your practice? Andrew will treat us!"

"No, I will not."

Yuri rolled his eyes as his friend picked up his and Irena's backpacks before following him out the classroom door. "I'm not going to practice today. Grandpa had a check-up."

"Awww, okay! What about tomorrow?" Irena asked, ever persistent. She began tugging at his hair as they exited the school building, and before he could respond, branched into a different topic. "Have you ever thought about braiding your hair? You keep it down for all your performances but you really should try another—"

"Tomorrow is Friday, I stay after late. I'm taking Saturday afternoon off," Yuri muttered, before ungracefully dropping his friend on the sidewalk as Nikolai pulled up in front of the school.

Yeah, maybe he could barely have any friends. But Irena and Andrew were nice, they always cheered him on while watching his performances while he was out of town, and they worked around his training regime. Grandpa was still stable, and the doctors said he should be doing okay for the next couple decades, at least.

Things could be a lot worse. Sometimes Yuri needed a bit of effort to remind himself of that. Sometimes he forgot. That was okay, he had people around him who would remind him. He was, after all, barely fifteen years old, even though he was dominating the junior figure skating world.

"That works for me," Andrew said, offering Yuri his backpack. He slung it over his shoulder and nodded, opening the car door and waving good bye before clambering into the seat. Irena excitedly jumped up, unfazed by her unceremonious drop, and returned his wave. Andrew offered him a small smile, before Nikolai pulled out of the parking lot.

…o…

Yuri's earliest memory was from when he was five years old. He was in the park with his father, a smile wide on his face. This was the smile that Yuri liked, the smile before the disasters. When he saw this smile, he was often hoisted onto strong shoulders, a bit taller than a stern-faced and soft-voiced woman. He reached out towards his Mama, and she obligingly pressed her hand against his, allowing a the corners of her lips to twitch upwards. Mama was always a bit stern, a bit closed-off. That wasn't a bad thing. Things only got worse when those traits manifested in Yuri. But at that time, five years old and sitting on his dad's shoulders, all Yuri knew was that he was on the top of the world.

Grandpa liked Mama enough, but it seemed as though she always had trouble with him. Yuri didn't mind that much. Even though Grandpa couldn't give him sweets and toys like other kids got, Yuri got something even better: his stories. Stories of long-forgotten princes, of glorious dragons, of animals who could speak just like humans, and sometimes, even the story about how thirty some years ago, a young man had fallen head over heels for a woman he met at the library. Mama didn't like those stories. That was okay, too. Grandpa made sure to whisper them. Whenever his face split into the wrinkly smile and he leaned in close, pressing a finger to his lips before quietly asking what story he should tell that day, Yuri learned the excitement that could come with a secret.

And secrets he did keep. Too many, at times, so he learned once he met Andrew and Irena. They had tripped over him in the hallway, sending them into a dogpile that took three minutes to detangle from. Andrew profusely apologized as Irena stood in the corner, cackling. This continued until the bell rang, and they found themselves sprinting across the school to class. It hadn't been really in Yuri's mind to befriend them, friendship was never on his mind; but somehow, the trio found themselves pulled together as the days went on. He found himself letting go around them, releasing the knots of tension and weight he had carried for so long. When he came to school without long sleeves for the first time, neither of them said anything about his blank wrist.

His rinkmates didn't say anything, either. Until one day, after his last Grand Prix Final in the Juniors, Victor had very seriously pulled him aside and asked him to make sure that his wrist was empty. He was bewildered by the request more than angered. It was uncommon, sure, for someone to be born without a name, but Victorwas the last person he expected to care about such a thing.

"I—what the fuck, old man? It's empty. You know that. Why the fuck do you even care?" He shook away his hand from the skater's grip, slowly backing away. He felt the tension building up in his body, and summoned it into a scowl. Stupid Victor. Stupid, stupid Victor. Of course he would care. It wasn't like he understood, miles above the rest of them, with the whole world under his fingertips and his soulmate right—

"I found someone with your name."

He froze.

For a second, he almost entertained the thought. Would it be possible, for one soulmate to be born without a name? He hadn't heard of it before, but then again, if something like that were to happen, the couple would most likely not want to publicize it—but really, what were the chances? Was it…possible that maybe he wasn't like—

And then logic came crashing down, and he fixed his glare back into place, shoving his hands in his jacket. "There are a million Yuri's in the world, idiot. Even you know that, look at your own wrist."

Victor shook his head, "No, no. Yura, listen, I'm sure. I'm absolutely positive—"

Yuri held up his hand, and the older man fell silent.

"Listen, I don't care, okay? I don't care about soulmates right now. I'm here to win. I don't have time to get sidetracked by your fairy tales."

Victor pursed his lips, and by the next week, the entire team knew of Yuri's supposed soulmate. No one mentioned it. Only Victor knew his name, and he wouldn't speak it until months later, goading on the young teenager, only to have a door slammed on his face.

But Yuri didn't hate Victor. He couldn't, not after years spent idolizing him and four years spent skating next to him. It hadn't even taken all that time to figure out that Victor Nikiforov had no idea what the fuck he was doing.

It had been after his first competition under Yakov. He had failed, and he wasn't stupid enough to believe that Yakov wouldn't be disappointed. No matter what he did, he couldn't convince himself that maybe it wasn't his fault, that maybe it was okay to let his nerves get the better of him once or twice. And so he found himself holed up in a cleaning closet far away enough from the rink to close out the thundering applause and roar of the crowd, the only sound being a quiet sniffle as Yuri desperately wished that he had taken the family cat with him.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he hadn't even realized when the closet door gently opened, and didn't notice the hand reaching from him until it was already gently placed on his shoulder.

He didn't have the heart to move it away.

Victor sat with him quietly, pressing small circles into his back, and not saying anything until Yuri was done. Even then, he simply walked him back to the rink and offered him a tissue before shifting back into the crowd. Yuri had never seen someone so inept yet skilled at handling someone crying.

These were the memories that he held in his heart. The memories that he reminded himself of, as he stepped onto the ice in a small town far far away from St. Petersburg, determined to bring Victor Nikiforov back to Russia.

…o…

There were several times Yuuri Katsuki wondered what he had done with his life, what events had brought him to where he was. If just one thing had changed, if he hadn't gone out to the beach that one night, if he hadn't been early to practice that one day and hadn't found Yuuko watching the old TV, if he hadn't gone out to the beach that one night, if he hadn't listened to Hiroko and bought the tickets to Detroit, if he hadn't refused to take his meds, if they had kept Vicchan on a leash.

Would he even be the same?

He pressed his hands to his face, slumped down against his desk. This wasn't going to work. There was no way he could get Victor to stay in Japan, no matter how hard he tried. He could tell that the older man was running out of patience, the smile becoming more and more strained as they went through the program time and time again. Yurio was progressing so much faster, had so much more potential. It would be better in Victor's interest for him to go back to Russia, to coach someone who could actually flourish under his tutelage.

Yuuri had seen his agape, after the waterfall. It had been so hard not to, when his skating was suddenly filled with so much emotion, a stark contrast to the stiff movements of before. It was as though something had softened all his rough edges, turning him into something else for those few minutes on the ice.

There was nothing about Yuuri that was eros, there was no part of him that he could suddenly pull out and brandish the way that Victor had.

The way that Victor had…

The way that…

He was running out of the inn before he even realized, feet leading him to the one place they had always gone, when his thoughts had been too jumbled, when he found no comfort in home, when he needed somewhere to escape. But this time was different. This time, he knew what he needed.

"Minako-sensei! I need your help!"

They danced into the night, until Minako sternly sent Yuuri home, insisting that he needed at least a few hours of rest before the competition the next morning. He stole those precious few hours in dreamless slumber, before being awoken by a certain poodle leaping onto to him and excitedly barking until Yuuri sat up.

They had decided to get ready at the Ice Castle, not wanting to interrupt the flow of the inn with their preparations. Victor excitedly bustled them out the door, almost forgetting to clip on Makkachin's leash. Yuuri had fearfully dragged the dog back and set the leash himself, shaking his head at Victor's sheepish smile.

Three hours later found him perched at rinkside, watching as Yuri Plisetsky's routine came to a close. The audience broke out into thunderous applause, and Yuuri joined in, trying to ignore the nerves climbing over him.

"Victor."

His coach started at his name, turning to Yuuri with a small smile on his face. "Yes?"

"Look at me. No one but me."

Victor had allowed them to choose from his old costumes so that they would have something in time for the informal competition, and Yuuri had eventually settled on one Victor had worn during his Juniors. It was black, lace cutting through along the side and a flare of red fabric on the side. The metallic accents glistening under the rink lights as he skated to the center of the ice, taking a deep breath before the music started.

The idea had come to him the previous night. For the past few weeks, he had been trying so hard to mimic what Victor was doing with the program, the story he saw in Victor's skating. But it was time to him accept that that would never happen. He had spent the last decade idolizing Victor, trying so hard to be like him. That's how he thought he could skate on the same level, how his inspiration to finally notice him. When Victor came to Japan after seeing Yuuri's video, he thought that it was a confirmation.

He was wrong.

This wasn't about being Victor's equal, about following his legacy. This was his own path, his own career, his own life. So long, he had just been trying to be like Victor. Now it was time to be like Yuuri.

As he skated, he thought of what he had decided. The story had the same basis now, but in the way it was completely different. He was no longer the playboy trying to woo the town sweetheart, but the woman who played with him, seducing him and running away time and time again.

He forgot about the audience, he forgot about what he was skating for, what this competition decided. All he knew in that moment was that he had to seduce the playboy, to skate with all his heart. This was where he belonged. This was where Yuuri Katsuki belonged. This was who he was. He had his own legacy.

It was time to be better, to rewrite the story.

His senses came back all of a sudden, breathing heavily with his arms crossed across his chest, in his ending pose. He swiveled to the side, squinting against the glaring lights to see Victor; but without his glasses, it was nearly impossible to distinguish the blurry shapes. He hurried to the exit, assuming that Victor would be there, but found himself engulfed in a hug before he could even stop on to solid ground.

"I couldn't take my eyes off of you."

…o…

*shows up three months late with this*

I hope the length of the chapter makes up for the wait—

I was feeling really unmotivated to write actually, but once I came back on this year, I saw all your reviews and I felt a lot better…I hope that I can update more often now! I'm aiming for chapters that are 2500-3000 words now. I don't want to rush the fic along anymore. I hope that's okay!

I would also like to note that I know like, literally nothing about skating and although I'm trying to learn terms and things, I'm still going to skim over their actual skating a bit.

Also, here are some things that won't make it into the fic but I feel are very important for you to know:

-Yuri found out that Victor disliked cats after Puma Tiger Scorpion followed him to the rink by accident once. There was a lot of screaming involved. On both ends.

-Nikolai was the one who bought Yuri his tickets to Japan. He did this while imagining Yakov's reaction. It was great motivation.

-when Yakov visited Nikolai to inform him of Yuri's departure (assuming he didn't know), all Nikolai did was burst out laughing for the next five minutes. He nearly had to go to the hospital.