We have arrived at the last chapter...sort of. Forgive me, I've had a hell of a week, so I've split Chapter 17 into two parts so I won't keep you all waiting too long. Thank you so much for your support and love!

Detroit, before the Sochi Grand Prix Finals

"Yuuri? Are you hungry?"

The voice may have been muffled but Yuuri's brain honed in on the word 'hunger'. He plucked out his headphones and looked up from his laptop to Phichit, who held two plates of leftover Chinese from the previous day. They'd both resorted to cheap takeout, having been too busy to cook something more substantial. He smiled gratefully, his stomach very interested in the smells wafting his way.

"Starving actually, thanks," he took the food, inhaling several bites in hurried succession; he hadn't eaten a thing since breakfast. Phichit nodded approvingly, scooting next to him and peering at the video on the screen.

"Your free skate?" Phichit's chewing stifled a knowing laugh, "You're obsessing again, aren't you?"

"I'm just putting together some notes on small improvements I can make before Sochi. I didn't make it this far to give a mediocre performance. I'm still too stiff, and some of the jumps can be cleaner. Not to mention my facial expressions. Celestino said I tend to get too serious when I'm focusing on the skate and forgetting the feel of it, and he's right. I need to balance-" Yuuri stopped short, hearing himself veer towards manic. A sideways glance brought Phichit's I-told-you-so face into view, "Okay. I'm obsessing."

"This is supposed to be your day off. You haven't gotten any rest since you got back," Phichit said pointedly, his reminder one of many in the last couple days; this one was more definite though, and Yuuri couldn't overlook the worry in his tone, "You have to take care of yourself too Yuuri."

"This is my first Grand Prix. I want to make it count," Yuuri said stubbornly, but then he sighed and lowered the screen, pushing the laptop aside, "Maybe you're right." He made a show of taking a few large bites of noodles and dedicating himself to eating the food under Phichit's watchful eye. His friend gave him a satisfied grin at his relenting before returning his attention to his own plate.

"Are you at least excited about Sochi?"

Yuuri broke into a lopsided grin; saying he was would be an understatement. There were a multitude of other emotions attached to his accomplishment, and many of them Yuuri seldom let himself bask in. If Phichit hadn't asked, he probably wouldn't have given it the attention it deserved. He concentrated on bringing his grinding nerves to a halt so he could focus on the bubbling pride he'd ignored since he'd qualified for the GPF. Knowing he would soon be headed to Russia was enough to make his chest burst in anticipation.

And if it wasn't enough to have earned the opportunity to show his love from skating on such a prestigious stage, there was the unbelievable bonus of being in the same breathing space as Victor Nikiforov, his constant source of motivation and inspiration over the last decade. Yuuri hadn't quite come to terms with that reality. To share the ice with Victor was akin to discovering a new galaxy in all its brilliant, breathless glory. The impending event would never tire of stealing the air from his lungs.

Yes, there was much for Yuuri to be excited about, and the suspense of it all sent his thoughts tumbling down the steps of his mind. With a smirk, he gave Phichit the short version, "I am."

"Are you serious right now with that two word answer?" Phichit swatted his arm accusingly, "C'mon, give me something to work with. Have you thought about what you'd say to him if you all got the chance to talk?"

Yuuri went red, and it wasn't the spicy chicken that was responsible for the crimson spreading down to his neck. He looked around at the dozens of posters he and Phichit had plastered across the walls of the small room. They were all of Victor, of course. Years upon years of legendary moments, graceful evolution, high profile photo-shoots and star-studded appearances, held together by colorful wall tacks. Victor had more elegance in a single thumb than Yuuri's entire body could muster and that wasn't him over-stressing; it was fact, a global sentiment, the embodiment of Victor's virtuosity. Yuuri had no clue what would do justice in his presence.

He wandered through his thoughts to the announcement of him earning a spot in the top six. A montage of his life had looped in glaring flashes before his eyes that night, and he'd sweated straight through his costume (thank god his jacket hid the worst of it). Celestino had clapped him on the back, and congratulated him in loud cheers at the kiss and cry, but Yuuri couldn't remember the exact words. All he'd felt when they confirmed that he was a finalist was a flood of relief so intense, he'd almost blacked out.

When he'd scooped his cognition off the floor, his next direct thought had been Victor and seeing the Russian in the flesh. Perhaps if he was lucky, Yuuri would get the opportunity to speak with him, and that 'if' was dependent on his ability to string together basic sentences and not pass out from restless shock. If his newer posters were any indication, in-real-life Victor was going to be an experience, one Yuuri wanted to take full advantage of.

"I don't know," Yuuri admitted, "It's not like I can write a script. Plus, he has the competition to focus on and he'll probably be surrounded by reporters and fans the entire time anyway."

"Indulge me please," Phichit looked dreamy, "I'm sure it's all going to be amazing." Yuuri smiled at his friend's enthusiasm and listened as Phichit went off on a fantastic tangent, the scenarios he imagined Yuuri would find himself a part of in Sochi getting more improbable by the minute. Yuuri took it all in, easing off worrying about his routines and the pressure he was stacking on himself to perform at his utmost in the upcoming competition. He reveled in encouraging prospects; flawless execution of his programs, being presented with a GPF medal, sharing the podium with Victor, having a drink with him at the banquet, something as simple as a 'Hello Yuuri' would do.

The daydream was interrupted by a chopstick poking into his arm, "Earth to Yuuri?"

"Sorry," Yuuri blinked, "Thinking."

"Aha! I knew it! You do have your own ideas about Sochi," Phichit's expression was utter mischief, "Care to share?"

And Yuuri wanted to laugh, wanted to say the silly things that were on his mind, wanted to be carefree and play into Phichit's shenanigans, but all he could pick from the jumble was, "I can't fuck this up."

Phichit shook his head; he was well aware that Yuuri would make a full circle there and had prepared for it, "You've made it this far Yuuri. You shouldn't worry so much," he smiled, "You're top six, and you have no idea how proud I am of you. You're my inspiration for next year. I can't wait for us to compete together."

Yuuri never handled compliments well, but this one he accepted with grace, "Thanks Phichit."

"Stop being so hard on yourself. You've proven that you're perfectly capable of skating at GPF level and I'll be damned if you can't have a conversation with the infamous Victor Nikiforov."

Yuuri studied one of his favorite posters of Victor. Yuuko had surprised him with it, and its age showed in the slight discoloration and frays around the edges. His long hair flowed behind him and his eyes shone in the arena lights. Smooth, pale skin contrasted perfectly with the black of the costume, the intricate detailing and complex asymmetry aesthetically breathtaking. Yuuri remembered the day Victor unveiled his shorter haircut; his fans had mourned the loss for weeks (including him). He'd always wondered what drove him to leave it behind.

"Do you think he'll be different from who they say he is?" Yuuri pondered aloud.

"Only one way to find out," Phichit winked, "I'll be expecting updates on the hour."

One week before the Grand Prix Finals

Yuuri sat alone in the locker room, tying his laces through intermittent yawns and watering eyes. Celestino had refused to entertain his bravado of 'Just another hour', ordering him home to rest. "Don't pass go, don't re-watch skating videos or run exercises. Just sleep Yuuri." He overheard Phichit promising his coach to time him a full eight hours. Yuuri would be disgruntled if he wasn't aware of one core problem plaguing him.

He was nervous.

No. No, it was more than that. There was a volatile buzz under his skin, reverberating through his blood and bones, threatening to detonate without notice. The fun from his and Phichit's ongoing conversations, while helpfully distracting, wasn't enough to solve that instability. No matter how many times he ran his programs, or went through his notes, or reminded himself of all the hard work it took to get there, the knowledge that in a few days he would be competing among the top skaters in the world, including the man he'd looked up to for more than a decade, it was stifling his conviction. He avoided it as well as he could, but that was only a temporary mitigation. If he didn't haul his nerves back into control, he wouldn't stand a chance at the GPF.

Skating meant so much to Yuuri and he wanted to continue sharing that passion with the world. He needed to find some way to clear his mind, a tether of any kind so he wasn't dragged below the ice. Anything to quell this.

The day it all went to shit had started off very well. It was Phichit's turn to make breakfast and he treated Yuuri to traditional Thai porridge which he knew the older skater had come to love. Yuuri was well rested, and less tense which translated harmoniously during practice. Celestino, usually ripe with critiques, smiled proudly through his routines. Yuuri willingly ended his day a couple hours earlier and he and Phichit made plans to see a movie, much to his friend's favor.

Then, the universe pressed the detonator.

He phone rang as he slipped into his jeans, and Yuuri brightened immediately when he saw it was his mom calling from Japan. He answered with a heartfelt "Moshi moshi!"

"Yuuri, it's good to hear your voice. How are you?"

Yuuri frowned; it wasn't like his mother to sound anything but cheerful, "I'm doing well. Phichit and I are seeing a movie tonight. Are you okay? You don't sound like yourself." She sighed, one of those long ones that spell only bad news. Yuuri's stomach knotted itself in the worst way.

"It's Vichaan Yuuri."

"What?!" Yuuri choked, the image of his beloved poodle shooting to the forefront of his mind, "What happened? Is he okay?"

"Oh Yuuri, I'm sorry to tell you this before your competition but..."

Yuuri's blood ran cold as she went on, her voice cracking with every few words. The air in the room seemed to siphon out, and he clutched his chest. No. No. Nonononono.

When the phone slipped from his hand, and his knees slipped from his control, his sobs brought Phichit running.

Grand Prix Finals, Sochi, Russia

Yuuri arrived in Sochi in complete and utter disarray. He'd thrown up twice on the plane and no matter how he attempted to calm himself, or the comfort Celestino and Phichit tried to provide, he couldn't drive the voices from his head. It wasn't his family's fault; he asked about Vicchan almost every day. There was no conceivable way for them to lie to him. He battled with the unremitting questions: Why hadn't he been home in five years? Should he have gone back to Hasetsu? Was the Grand Prix even doable in this state? Was this punishment for his selfish dream?

"Yuuri? Yuuri, talk to me," Minako said, studying him worriedly. His eyes were on her but his stare was far and unfocused. He couldn't even remember her coming into his room much less how he'd ended up crying on her shoulder.

'Vicchan, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I didn't get to see you one last time.'

"Yuuri?"

"It's okay." It was a plea and a prayer, not to her, not to himself, but to the void he was now imprisoned in.

"Yuuri, you have to get dressed," she insisted softly, "It's almost time to go."

"What?"

"Your short program. Yuuri, do you know what day it is?"

"Fuck." His tears kept coming, the guilt a constant catalyst. He was skating today? What time was it? Had he gotten any sleep? What was the sequence of his program again? Should he go home? 'I'm so, so sorry.'

Yuuri felt like a monster. He couldn't breathe. There was no coming back from that pit. He fell.

And fell.

And fell...

Murphy's Law: Everything that can go wrong, will go wrong. Yuuri could only watch as his months of preparation charred and disintegrated around him.

His short program was an unmitigated disaster. From the moment Yuuri skated into position, he knew it was over. He was flooded with memories of Vicchan, of his years in Detroit, of how much he missed his sleepy castle town, of the courage he built time and time again as he fought to fulfill his dream, of the things he wanted for himself and the things he would never have.

Compromise after compromise, sacrifice after sacrifice.

All for nothing.

With no sleep, a headache that burned through his skull, and rippling nausea that singed his throat, there was no salvaging his form. He tried to channel the raging emotions into his skating but nothing held for long. He could barely focus on any one thing for more than a few seconds at a time, let alone delivering a program worthy of the GPF.

The bile reached his tongue when they announced his scores. Yuuri swallowed and retreated into himself.

'I'm so sorry everyone. I'm so, so sorry.'

There was only modest improvement in his free program. Presentation had always been his forte, and he rebelled against his mind to make it through the step sequence without fault. The technical, however, was downgraded or flubbed from extreme fatigue and a stint of binge eating that left him upset and disgusted. All the things he loved about skating, from the first time Yuuko had shown him Victor's performance at the Junior Championships to his years of carving his place on the ice, wasn't enough. The awestruck feeling in his soul was alarmingly dimmed.

It was too late.

Yuuri avoided Celestino and the kiss and cry afterwards, charting the fastest path from the arena. He could feel a pair of eyes following him and rationality endeavored to tell him that those eyes were framed by iconic silver strands but he didn't trust his peripheral vision. He trusted nothing about himself anymore.

Yuri, about your free performance, the step sequence could use more...

I won, so who cares? Quit nagging Victor...

Victor was addressing the Russian Yuri, but Yuuri was still dragged to the bottom of the sea to drown when he heard his name. The curl of Victor's accent around the vowels coupled with the disaster of a competition he'd just trudged though, his beloved Vicchan who he would never see again, and the avalanche of all things unexpected, tragic, and ultimately fucked up chased him down the slope of his own self-loathing. It felt cruel. Taunting. Like the universe was challenging him to fall apart right there and then.

The Japanese reporter's questions and everything in Yuuri's vicinity faded in volume, until all he could hear was his own heart beating painfully against his rib cage. Tears clung to the edges, not falling but not abating as he stole a prolonged glance at Victor, shame etched on his face. How had everything unraveled like this? It was then, for no reason that Yuuri could decipher, that Victor chose to turn to him.

Those piercing blue eyes belonged in the night sky. Yuuri took an unconscious step back.

"A commemorative photo?" Victor's smile could start a war, "Sure."

Yuuri caught a dip in his expression, a softness that betrayed the playboy. It wasn't pity. It wasn't anything Yuuri was used to receiving from people. He took another step away, unsure of what else to do. He was seeing what he wanted to see and he let it happen, selfishly holding eye contact for another few seconds before leaving the arena in silence.

Sochi Grand Prix Banquet

Yuuri had no energy to protest when Celestino insisted he attend the banquet. "An hour or two won't hurt Yuuri." If there was strength left in his reserves, he'd have told his coach to handle the formalities but, as it was, he was hollowed out. So, he fidgeted and fumbled as Celestino introduced him to people, which either cornered him into pointless chit-chat or constructive dialogue that he was too tired to contribute to. Yuuri couldn't recall any of their names, nor did he care to. His suit was itchy, his tie was a noose, and he was actively fighting to breathe at an acceptable pace.

He scanned the room to give himself something to do. It was filled with bright lights, spotted with amiable conversation, and there was a distinct flock around Victor. Yuuri lingered on him, noticing the man's too tight grip on his glass, and the smile that never passed his lips. The flash was but a second but Yuuri caught it much too easily for his liking.

Trapped. Unhappy.

That made no sense. Victor was the star of the night. Was he okay? Yuuri blinked and it was all gone, replaced by a head-to-toe dazzling World Champion. He sighed; what the fuck was wrong with him? His eyes reached the nearby waiter and the fresh tray of champagne he skillfully balanced.

Perfect. If Yuuri was going to survive the next hour, he would do it on his terms. He watched Celestino and a small group of fellow coaches leave the hall for a private discussion, and then descended on the waiter, ignoring the confused look he got when Yuuri asked him to leave the tray with him at the table. He swirled the liquid, once, twice, mouth twisting wryly.

'To the worst two days of my life.'

Yuuri tipped back the first flute in one go. Then another. And a third. And fuck, it was getting hot. And he really didn't need this goddamn jacket. And what the fuck was the point of having feelings anyway? And this ridiculous tie was an infuriating and heartbreaking blue. He slipped two fingers into the knot at his neck, tugging at it as he continued to ply himself with alcohol.

Yuuri lost count and awareness at seven flutes. At twelve, he was floating atop the ice. Around sixteen, he was grinning as though he'd won gold.

He walked away from the table, bundling his jacket in his tingling hands, staring openly at Victor's back, at his neatly assembled hair, and the perfect fit of his suit around that world-class ass.

Was Victor still unhappy? Maybe Yuuri should just ask. Maybe he could take his mind off of this night.

He could make Victor smile. No. No. He would make him smile.

Yes.

Yuuri Katsuki would dance with Victor Nikiforov tonight if it was the last thing he did.