A/N: The song that goes with this chapter is "With or Without You" by U2

Yuri reached out, hesitated, then picked up his phone and unlocked it with a shaky swipe of his finger. No texts. No voicemails. No email.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm his suddenly racing heart as he logged into Instagram. It wasn't a big deal or anything. It had only been a few days since he'd last spoken to Beka. Yeah, they usually chatted every few days, and texted more often, but maybe…

0 new messages.

37 new followers

189 likes

75 comments

Yuri turned off his phone without bothering to read any more. The comments would all be from the Angels anyway. He usually read every comment; even responded to some of the more amusing ones. He… just didn't feel like it right now. Maybe it wouldn't seem like so much effort if he had a snack, first. He could just be hungry, right?

Lies…

He left the phone on his dresser and wandered out to the kitchen to see if there were any oranges left.

0 new messages

45 new followers

342 likes

88 new comments

0 new messages

0 new messages

Yuri rolled over, yawned, and reached for his phone - like he did every morning. He paused, finger hovering indecisively over the screen. He sighed, tossed it back onto the dresser without unlocking it. What was the point?

The next morning he shoved the phone into the bottom drawer of his dresser without even bothering to open it. He was tired of it sitting there day after day, silently mocking him.

The phone rang, a few days later, and for a moment he stared around in puzzlement, wondering where the vaguely familiar music was coming from. Then he remembered that he'd changed his ringtone just before the competition.

He scrambled to get it, nearly knocking over his chair, clipping his shoulder on the doorframe after cutting the corner too short, and tossing half the contents of the drawer across the room in his haste.

He grabbed it seconds before his voicemail picked up.

"Hello?" he asked, breathless with anticipation.

"Yuri!" Victor's obnoxiously cheerful voice hit him like a sledgehammer and he could only sit for a moment, stunned, and listen as Victor chattered on obliviously about the amazing meal he and the piggy had had yesterday and the amazing trip they were planning and—

Yuri finally found his voice.

"Victor."

It wasn't welcoming. His voice was scratchy from disuse - he thought back to the last time he'd spoken and realized he hadn't actually said a word today. Huh.

"Yuri?" Victor didn't ask why Yuri had cut him off so rudely, in the middle of a sentence. He didn't seem phased at all. Yuri wondered how much insolence his friends were used to, from him, then shrugged the thought off. He could examine his character flaws later.

"What do you want?"

"I just wanted to check on you, see how your grandfather is doing."

"We're fine."

His voice was oddly flat, expressionless, and he knew Victor could hear it. He just hoped that he'd shrug it off in his usual oblivious manner.

"Have you been skating at all?"

Yuri blinked. He hadn't honestly thought about skating once since he'd gotten here. "No-o. The rink's too far to walk and Grandpa isn't well enough to drive."

He could take the bus, of course. Or ask Lena. But he didn't really want to.

"That's too bad." Victor's voice grew distant, and Yuri knew he was getting distracted. Good.

"Hey, Victor? Grandpa's calling me. I think he might need…"

He couldn't think of anything Grandpa might need from him, but that didn't matter. It was Victor.

"Hmm? Oh, okay Yuri. Tell him hi for me."

"I will."

He stared at the phone blankly for a long moment after Victor hung up, half expecting a much more pointed call from Beka. Or Mila. Yuuri even. Not Georgi, though - he was even more self-absorbed than Victor.

After several minutes of silence, he realized that no one was going to call. They were all apparently satisfied with Victor's message. Well. Good.

He stuffed the phone back in the drawer, then gathered up the clothes that lay strewn across the room and folded them. When he finished, the drawer looked neater than it had in years.

Then he pulled the phone back out and powered it off, shoving it as far back into the drawer as he could and burying it under the newly-folded clothes. He didn't really want to replay that embarrassing little scene.

He took the phone out a few days later in a fit of melancholy, and was unsurprised - but still disappointed - to find no messages. None. It had been more than a week now since he'd had any social media presence at all.

Even the comments from his Angels had slowed to a trickle. Not that he minded that, really. Sure, he'd always gotten a guilty pleasure from reading their ridiculous theories about him, but he wasn't really surprised. He'd never gone this long without posting anything new, before.

He debated posting a selfie, or even just a photo - a sunrise or something. But it felt like too much effort. He felt hollow.

He shrugged off the feeling and decided to see if Grandpa would teach him to make borsht.

This was the first time in nearly 3 years that he'd gone so long without some kind of message from Beka. It wasn't hard to see he'd been replaced.

Anyway, he thought mutinously, he kind of liked the silence. Without his phone there, constantly distracting him, he learned to appreciate the slow beauty of the winter. He watched the sunset, and sunrise, and the snow weighing heavily on the branches of the trees, the eaves of the buildings. Everything was prettier, he thought, when he wasn't trying to get the perfect photo.

It was nice, too, to not have to worry about what everyone was saying about him. He'd lived so long in the public eye, with the Angels and the media watching his every move - he rather liked this new, peaceful anonymity.

He suddenly understood Beka's point about living in the moment and not always trying to pin it down. That it really was different to experience life in person, instead of capturing it on a screen to - what? Why had he spent so much time documenting his every move on social media? Was he really so shallow that he'd rather accumulate likes and comments than memories?

He wondered how much he'd missed.

Yuri couldn't remember the last person he'd spoken to, other than Grandpa. Victor, must have been. But that was days ago, now. He could see how Beka might like this increasingly hermit-like and introspective existence - but the thought of Beka only made him sad again.

He sighed, and wondered what Beka was doing. Was he skating? Riding his bike alone through the urban jungle of St. Petersburg? Or was Mila with him, red hair flying like a banner in the wind, arms raised in gleeful exultance, laughter taking flight like tropical birds? Was Beka smiling - that genuine smile that only Yuri could tease from him? Was he laughing?

Yuri realized abruptly that he'd been staring into space, knife held idly in one hand, half-peeled potato in the other. He gave himself a determined shake and returned to work.

"So…who are you running away from?"

Yuri startled, nicked his thumb with the edge of the paring knife. "Huh?" He looked away guiltily, sticking his thumb in his mouth as much to stop the words from spilling out as to stop the bleeding.

Grandpa sighed, lay down his own knife, turned to Yuri. "I know you, Yuratchka. I've never seen you go five minutes without checking your phone, and now I haven't seen it in days. I thought you'd broken it, or lost it, but you used it just now."

"I did?" Yuri frowned. The unfamiliar weight of his phone in his pocket puzzled him - he'd taken it out earlier, he remembered, to snap some photos of the sunset, and must have forgotten to put it away again. Huh. But…

"Who is she?"

Yuri took a deep breath, wondering if he was really about to do this. Should he do this?

"He, actually."

He bit his lip, worrying at it, waiting for Grandpa to make a scene, but the old man only grunted.

"Hmph. Oh, don't give me that look, Yuratchka. The heart doesn't choose where to love, I know that well enough."

Yuri looked up, startled, and Grandpa smiled at him, a touch wistfully. It was true - they both knew that.

"Now, tell me his name so I can go knock some sense into him for breaking my precious grandson's heart."

Yuri snorted at the mental image, and then sighed. "It doesn't matter, Grandpa. He doesn't feel the same. I just let my heart get carried away. And, I'm not running away. Exactly."

Lies… whispered the heartless voice of his newfound conscience. Yuri ignored it.

"I'm happy to be here for you, Grandpa, truly."

Grandpa smiled at him, but his eyes were sad as he reached over to pat Yuri on the shoulder. "You can't stay here forever, Yuratchka."

"No," Yuri said. "I know that. But I can stay for as long as you need me."

Grandpa gave him a long, searching look, then nodded slowly. "And your heart?"

Yuri shrugged. "Will heal, I imagine. More or less."

Lies…

"Touché." Grandpa saluted him with his paring knife, and then they both returned to work. Yuri's heart wasn't lighter, exactly, but it felt less… burdensome. It was nice, he supposed, to finally be able to admit his feelings to someone. Even if neither of them could do anything about the situation, it still helped to talk about it.

Yuri didn't check his messages again. He almost did, that first night, fumbling his way to bed after another heart-to-heart with Grandpa over a bottle of vodka. His phone had lain in his pocket all evening, growing seemingly heavier with every passing moment. He resisted checking it, where Grandpa could see. He wasn't sure he could take another of those knowing and faintly pitying looks.

He left it in his jacket pocket as he changed. He hung the jacket in its customary spot behind the door, and then carefully didn't look at it as he brushed his teeth and got ready for bed. He even got into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin and hugging his stuffed tiger, hard.

Twenty sleepless minutes later, he admitted to himself that he wouldn't be able to fall asleep without knowing…

He was faintly surprised, as he drew the cool, sleek phone from his pocket. He'd half-expected it to pulse with heat like it did in his mind. He worried at his lip, stroking the metal and glass absently. He felt guilty already, faintly dirty. He shouldn't check it. He really shouldn't…

His fingers were already busy unlocking it. He held his breath…

He got a flash of his home screen, and then nothing. The battery must have died. He wasn't sure when he'd charged it last.

He sighed, but felt a curious lightness settle into the churning maelstrom of his mind. He couldn't check his messages, and having the decision taken out of his hands was something of a relief. He would take it as a sign.

He shoved the phone back into its drawer before he could change his mind. He didn't charge it.

Within minutes of crawling back into bed, he was asleep.