When the four finally trudge into the hotel, Yuuri and Victor excuse themselves to rest before they meet up with Yuri's family. Yuuri has dark circles under his eyes and Victor's hair looks particularly deflated. Yuri humphs as he watches them disappear down the hallway. It's mid-day in Russia. They were never going to get over their jetlag if they slept the rest of the day away. Besides, he watched them both sleep the whole plane ride. What are they so tired for?

Yuri turns to complain to Yakov, who is talking to someone on the phone as he opens the door to their room. Yuri finds that Yakov looks as exhausted as Victor and Yuuri. He scoffs inwardly. Adults are such wimps.

Yakov lets Yuri into their hotel room and closes the door so he can finish his conversation in the hall. Yuri folds himself into the lone armchair in the room. He scowls at double beds, disgusted that he has to share a room with his coach. Yuri always stays in his own room during competitions, but Yakov, Yuuri, and Victor have made it clear that they don't want him to be alone right now. Like he can't take care of himself.

Yuri opens up his Instagram and is bombarded with notifications. His fans have caught wind of this, somehow. Yuri considers googling himself to see if an official story broke, but quickly changes his mind. He may end up finding more information than he's willing to handle. An article might have a picture, or information about how The Thing happened. He's pointedly ignoring things like that for now.

He closes Instagram, ignoring his notifications, and opens up his email. Here, messages from his friends and fellow skaters have started to arrive. He numbly scrolls past most of them, only glancing at the subject lines and the senders. He catches one from Otabek and opens it.

Yuri,

Call me when you can.

-O

That's it. Yuri doesn't know what he expected.

He tries to calculate the time change and realizes he has no clue if Otabek is still in New York or not. He might on a plane right now. Yuri lifts his phone to text him and ask, but Yakov chooses that moment to barge in the door.

"I've spoken to your mother," he says, and Yuri instantly gets a bad taste in his mouth. "She'll be at the apartment soon, but I've told her we're going to rest first."

Yuri rolls his eyes and doesn't say anything.

"Are you tired, Yura?"

"No."

"Did you sleep on the plane?"

"Nyet."

Yakov gets a stern look on his face. "You have to get some rest. Lie down."

Yuri begrudgingly complies, but takes his phone with him. He stays on top of the covers.

Yakov putters around, moving things out of his suitcase and messing things up in the bathroom. Yuri looks at nothing in particular on the internet, anything to occupy his eyes. Finally, Yakov gets settled in bed and turns off the light. It's quiet for a moment, and then—

"Get off your phone, Yuri."

"I will," he says, even though he has no intentions to.

To his surprise, Yakov doesn't push the issue. After playing a few cell phone games, Yuri realizes he never texted Otabek.

I'm fine. In Moscow, he types.

Less than a minute later, his phone vibrates. Otabek is calling him. Yakov is just beginning to snore, so Yuri sneaks off to the bathroom. He sits on the floor, leans against the tub, and answers.

"Hey, Beka," he says softly, so as not to wake up Yakov.

"Yuri." The familiarity of his voice is almost enough to make Yuri spill all his thoughts and feelings right there in the bathroom. Yuri pulls the phone away so he can clear his throat, forcing the emotion back down. "You there?"

He takes one more deep breath and brings the phone back to his ear. "Yeah, sorry."

"Don't be." There's an awkward silence. "I'm sorry I couldn't see you before you left. By the time I heard, your flight had taken off."

"It's okay." When Otabek doesn't say anything, Yuri adds, "Victor and Katsuki are here, so…"

Otabek snorts. "And how are they?"

One side of Yuri's mouth perks up into an almost-smile and he slouches further against the tub, settling in. "Terrible. Vitya is constantly trying to cheer me up and Katsudon looks like he's going to cry at any moment. It's pathetic." It's relieving to slip some arrogance into his words. It makes him feel slightly more in control than he actually is.

Otabek's chuckle rings through the phone. "Sounds about right." Then, after a pause, "How are you?"

Yuri frowns. "I'm fine."

"Do you want me to come out there?"

"No!" Yuri says at once. "You can't. The Grand Prix Final is in, like, ten days!"

"So? Victor and Yuuri are there."

"Victor and Yuuri are idiots."

There's another pause. "Are you still coming to the Grand Prix Final?"

"What?" Yuri almost yells, then remembers Yakov. He lowers his voice, but keeps the intensity. "Of course! Why would you say that?"

"I don't know. People are speculating. And I don't know how much time you'll have to train."

"The idiots are here too, cutting into their training time. Is anyone speculating about them?"

"No, but they haven't had a death in the family."

A grimace spreads across Yuri's face, but he ignores it and answers quickly. "Don't worry about my training. I'll be at the Grand Prix Final and I'll wipe the floor with all of you." Although now he's questioning what exactly will happen. Up until now, Yuri has only been trying to survive hour by hour. Looking a week and a half ahead seems… unimaginable.

"Seriously, though, are you doing okay?"

Yuri sighs and sinks all the way to the ground, placing his phone between his cheek and the floor. "You sound like Katsudon."

"It's a pretty normal thing to ask when somebody loses someone."

There's a dull ache in Yuri's chest as he says this. Otabek is talking about The Thing too much and Yuri turns defensive. "I said I was fine!"

"Okay, okay. I get it. We can talk about something else."

Yuri is grateful. They talk about Skate America and discuss whether they should plan an exhibition skate together for the Grand Prix Final, like last year. When the weight in Yuri's chest starts to subside, it's replaced with weariness. He feels his eyes start to slide closed when Otabek finally excuses himself so he can get ready for his flight.

"And Yuri?" he says before hanging up. "I know you think Victor and Yuuri are smothering you, but… they just want to help you."

"I know."

"So… maybe try and let them."

Yuri rolls his eyes. "Da."

Otabek doesn't sound too convinced, but they hang up anyway. Yuri pulls his phone out from under his face and looks at the time, but the numbers don't register. He's feeling strangely numb.

The coolness of the tile presses against his cheek and his hair spreads on the floor around him. If Mila could see him now, curled up on the floor of a hotel bathroom, she would give him a repulsed look and a lecture. The image should be funny, but he doesn't feel like laughing. He just stares blankly at the pipes beneath the sink.

Yakov finds Yuri on the bathroom floor about an hour later. It takes a bit of shaking to rouse him, but Yakov is far more gentle than Yuri remembers. Then again, the last time Yakov had to wake him up was when Yuri lived with him and they had to be at the rink for early-morning training. Circumstances are a little different today.

Yakov helps Yuri to his feet and instructs him to clean himself up before they leave. Blearily, Yuri looks at his reflection in the mirror. His hair is a mess, achieving a level of volume that no product could tame. His eyes are rimmed with red and he swears his skin has a pale gray sheen to it.

He turns to Yakov and mumbles, "Maybe a shower."

The hot water is usually invigorating to him, but today it only adds to his exhaustion. He feels warm and sleepy. Somehow, though, his body takes over and goes through the motions of showering and dressing without Yuri really thinking about it. When he emerges from the bathroom, Yakov sends him right back in to dry his hair. Probably a good idea, Yuri reasons dully. It's November in Russia.

The hair dryer feels heavier than usual and Yuri keeps switching hands as his arms tire. He internally jeers at himself. He can normally skate rigorous routines all day and now he can't even manage a hair dryer?

The second time Yuri leaves the bathroom, Yakov starts shoving various pieces of warm clothing into his hands. Yuri puts them on without really registering. Boots. A scarf. A thick coat, fur lining the hood. Yuri supposes it's for the best, but all it seems to do is add to his sluggishness. He lets Yakov lead him out the door and toward the hotel lobby.

Victor and Yuuri have a cab waiting for them. Yakov climbs into the front seat and Yuri is sandwiched in the back between the two lovebirds. As he looks out the front windshield, he can feel Yuuri's eyes drilling into the side of his head, as if staring hard enough could expose Yuri's thoughts. He tries to summon the will to glare back, but he just feels tired. He spends the cab ride in silence.

When he steps out of the cab, the biting Russian air coupled with the sight of his grandfather's apartment finally wakes him up. He scowls up at the gray stone, as if trying to intimidate the building. Go on, he thinks stubbornly. Just try to break me.

Yuuri's voice floats out of the cab as he scoots over to join Victor on the curb. "I've never met Yurio's family before."

When Victor offers Yuuri his hand and pulls him from the car, Yuri turns to give him a smirk. "Then you've been lucky up 'till now."

Yuuri looks at Victor imploringly. Victor shrugs one shoulder. "Yeah, kinda."

Yuri wheels around and begins the familiar march to his old home.

When Yuri opens up the door, he is not surprised to see his mother sitting at the small round kitchen table, nursing a drink. He is surprised at what she was drinking.

"Grandpa's favorite whiskey?" he wonders aloud, making his way to the table and picking up the half-full bottle. "Huh. That's new." His eyes dart around the kitchen, taking in the open liquor cabinet and finally the empty bottle of vodka on the counter. Ah, she ran out. That makes more sense.

A clumsy hand falls on his as his mother wrenches the bottle back from his grip. "Yuri," she greets him, topping off her drink.

"Mother."

She peers at him. "You need a haircut."

Yuri rolls his eyes and walks away.

Yakov steps in. "Irena, so nice to see you." He shakes her hand. His arm is strong, and hers flops like a dead fish.

"Yakov. I see you're letting my son do whatever he wants. His head looks like a mop."

Yakov gives her a tight smile. "I assure you, Irena, it did not hinder his ability to win gold at the Grand Prix Final last year, so his hair is of little concern to me."

Yuri, stripping off his jacket, feels a little swell of satisfaction. He wipes it from his face before turning back to them. "Mom, this is Katsuki Yuuri. And you remember Victor."

Irena's face lights up and she stands for the first time since they walked in. "Of course. Vitya, how have you been?" She sloppily tries to throw her arms around Victor. Yuri seethes when she calls Victor by his nickname.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Irena," Victor says amicably while he fends of her advances, "But might I suggest Yuri may deserve your attention before me?"

"Da, shouldn't you be hugging your own son, you hag?" Yuri says sarcastically, folding his arms. He almost laughs at his mother's vain attempts at Victor. "Besides, don't you have a boyfriend?" Since he hasn't spoken to her in years, he's not sure about this, but it's a safe bet.

Irena's face crumbles and she collapses back into her chair. "Dmitri left me," she wails. "Some devka from Samara. I cried for days."

She downs the last of her drink and Yuri wonders how long she would cry for the loss of her father. He glances at Yuuri, who is looking at him with a mix of disbelief and pity. That's right, Katsudon, Yuri thinks. Not all of us had fluffy little dogs in our childhoods.

Remembering Otabek's words earlier, Yuri looks down, a little ashamed to have thought it. Otabek was right. Yuuri is only here to help.

A voice floats in from down the hall. "Who the hell are you talking to, Irena?"

Yuri grits his teeth. As the hulking figure of his uncle appears, he introduces him. "Everyone, my Uncle Andrei."

"Ah, Yuri," his uncle says, entering the kitchen. He leans against the counter and seems to dominate the room. He crosses his arms. "Where have you been? Last I checked, it doesn't take an entire day to get from St. Petersburg to Moscow."

"I was in New York."

Uncle Andrei blinks. "New York? Irena, you said he was in St. Petersburg."

"How should I know?"

"Typical." Uncle Andrei looks at the ceiling and shakes his head. "It was just like Dad, to let a fourteen-year-old travel who-knows-where, alone, without even telling his mother…"

Yuri's mother hiccups. "He's fifteen."

Hot, angry blood is coursing through his body, mostly at Uncle Andrei's words about Yuri's grandpa. He takes a deep breath, trying not to explode. Uncle Andrei would have a field day. "Sixteen, Mom. I turned sixteen in March."

His mother only looks confused.

"And he wasn't alone," Victor cuts in. "We were all there with him."

Uncle Andrei's gaze snaps to Victor, to his iconic haircut and expensive outfit. "What, was it some figure skating thing?"

He's being ignorant on purpose, Yuri knows, to discredit his career. He doesn't have time to answer, though, before his mother shoots to her feet, immediately twice as cognizant as she was a minute ago.

"Figure skating? Did you win, honey? Was there prize money?"

Disgust rises in the back of Yuri's throat like bile. He averts his eyes from Yuuri and Victor's gazes and says quietly, "No. You'll have to wait until the first. Like always." He had long since changed his number to avoid her begging phone calls once a week. These days, the only way he knows his mother is still alive is by watching her quickly drain the account he set up for her and contributes to every month.

He really didn't want Victor and Yuuri to know about that.

"But Yuri," she pleads. "I need it. My father died."

Something wrenches deep in Yuri's chest and he glances away, breath hitching.

Uncle Andrei seems to notice his weakness. "It wouldn't kill you to pitch in for funeral expenses."

Distract from the pain. Get angry. He spins to face his uncle. "Don't try to guilt me. I know he had life insurance."

Uncle Andrei smiles triumphantly. "You see, Irena? You see what our father has done to your son? He refuses to help his family. Such an insolent brat."

Yuri's breathing hard, furious. He opens his mouth to respond, but he's cut off by Yakov.

"That's enough." Yakov doesn't yell, but somehow his voice still thunders in the little apartment. "We didn't come here so you can insult a teenager to make yourself feel important, and we certainly didn't come so you could ask him for money. We came to get information about the funeral and help you sort through Nikolai's effects. So, if you please?"

Andrei looks indignant, like he's ready to rise to Yakov's challenge. But his eyes fall on Yuuri and Victor, who are standing tense at Yuri's sides, and he backs down. Yuri feels a small surge of pride at their solidarity. It almost makes him feel better until he remembers that Yakov, Yuuri, and Victor won't be around to stick up for him forever.

Crossing his arms, Andrei answers Yakov. "The funeral will be on Monday." He scowls at the group. "I've been running around all day making preparations, and since I don't anticipate my sister being of much use tonight…" He glances at Irena, who is swaying even though she's sitting back down in her chair. "I was going to start cleaning the apartment in the morning."

Yakov's next words come out polite enough, but he never breaks eye contact with Yuri's uncle. "Perfect. We'll be here at nine. Come, Yuri."

Victor curls an arm around Yuri's shoulders and leads him out of the apartment. Behind them, Yuuri gathers up the pile of everyone's coats and follows. Yakov brings up the rear and shuts the door firmly. Victor doesn't stop and let Yuri bundle up until they are about to exit the apartment complex.

"Well," says Victor when they're all inside the warm cab, "That escalated quickly."

Yuuri's leg bounces against Yuri's in the cramped backseat. "Those people," Yuuri mutters. There's a darkness in his voice that Yuri's never heard before. "I'm sorry, I know they're your family, but…"

"I know," Yuri says, then releases a string of Russian that has Victor clamping a hand over his mouth and Yakov apologizing to the cab driver.

When the Russians in the car finally quiet down and Yuri pushes Victor away, Yuuri speaks with finality in his voice. "We'll just avoid them and work on the apartment as quickly as possible."

"Da," Yuri says, "the sooner, the better."

It's quiet for a moment, and Yuri tries to temper his anger a little.

Yakov is rearranging his schedule on his phone. "Monday… Three days away. That means we won't be back in St. Petersburg until Tuesday." He turns around to face the three skaters with a focused look. "That will only be a week before the Grand Prix Final." He twists further to study each of their faces in turn. "Can you boys do it?"

Yuri slumps in his seat and crosses his arms. "You can leave anytime you want," he mutters. "You don't have to stay for the funeral." He was going for nonchalance, but his heart isn't in it and the words just come out in a mumble. Everyone ignores him.

Victor taps his chin. "If we work hard on the apartment in the mornings, we can get some time in at the rink in the afternoons."

Yakov nods. "I'll call in a few favors, see if I can get some private time booked last minute."

"Will Mila be okay?" Yuuri asks. With Yakov was here in Moscow, Yuri was essentially robbing Mila of her coach a week before competition.

Yakov waves the question off. "Lilia can step in until I get back. I can video chat with them, too."

"Then I don't see a problem," Yuuri says.

When Yakov's gaze falls on him, Yuri shrugs. "Works for me."

It'll feel good to get back on the ice.

By all accounts, Yuri should be asleep right now.

Yakov forced him into bed hours ago. The last time Yuri truly got some sleep was the night before his free skate, and since then he's performed in front of thousands of people, won a gold medal, heard about The Thing, flew halfway around the world, and reunited with his mother. He doesn't count that barely-even-an-hour he spent zoned out on the bathroom floor earlier today.

But somehow, inexplicably, he feels restless. If his mind calms down, his legs itch for movement. When his body stills, his mind runs.

So that's why the light of Yuri's cell phone screen is illuminating the room in striking blue light. Yakov, snoring in the other bed, is undisturbed.

Yuri itches to get on Instagram or Twitter or something, but all his social media platforms are flooded with well-wishes right now. He supposes in a way he's touched that so many people are reaching out, but he really doesn't want to face the messages right now. He complained about it a few hours ago, when they were at dinner, so Victor sent out a tweet for him.

v-nikiforov As some of you may know yuri-plisetsky recently lost his grandpa. We thank you for your support and ask you to respect his privacy during this tough time.

Yuuri retweeted it and so did several other skaters and several hundred fans. Unfortunately, all it did was increase awareness about the situation, and Yuri is getting more notifications than ever. Yuri doesn't know what Victor was expecting. His Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter apps all have little red bubbles with '99+' on them. And he doesn't dare check his email.

Yuri glances at the clock. It's past midnight. All his little fiddly cell phone games aren't doing much to pass the time. Or keep his mind off things. Yuri sighs and puts his phone down next to his head, watching until the screen goes dark. Maybe he'll be able to sleep if he tries again.

Unfortunately, now his body is twitchy and his mind is busy. It shouldn't come as a surprise, really. This is the first time he's left alone with only his thoughts and nothing to distract him.

His mother looked like crap today. Obviously, she hasn't sobered up since he last saw her. Her hair, once golden blonde like his, was now a dingy gray. Her eyes were sunken in. Yuri wonders idly if she has branched out into other substances yet.

He never intends to worry about his mom. Most of the time it's easy. Whenever she comes to his mind, he thinks mean things about her, writes her off, convinces himself he's already accomplished more than she ever will. There's not a single aspect of his life that would be better with her in it.

But still… she's his mom.

Tired, his mind drifts out of his control and brings him to one of his first memories. He's tiny, no older than four, waking up from a nap to the sounds of broken glass. He leaves his room to look for his mother and finds her semi-conscious, slumped over the kitchen table. The glass of… whatever she was drinking… has slipped out of her hand onto the floor.

He remembers what she'd told him in the past about the dangers of broken glass and stops in the doorway. He calls to her, his small voice bringing her back to her senses. She looks at him, looks at the broken glass, and instantly angers. Yuri doesn't remember now what she said to him, but his four-year-old self knows she blames him for the mess, even though he's all the way on the other side of the room. He remembers being scared and crying. Suddenly his grandfather is picking him up from behind.

Yuri doesn't know why his grandfather came over to their house at that moment, but he yells at his daughter and takes Yuri to his room. He checks his bare feet for cuts before firmly telling him to stay put, shutting the door softly when he exits. Yuri buries himself under his covers and throws his hands over his ears as his grandfather argues loudly with his mother. The next thing he knows, his grandpa is back, shoving clothes into Yuri's tiny blue schoolbag.

"Come, Yurochka," he says, gathering Yuri's tiny form easily in his arms. Yuri's mother is still yelling when they leave the apartment.

Now, Yuri bolts upright, gasping. He's not sure when the memory turned into a dream, but he's awake and panting now. His mother's screams and his grandfather's gentle voice clash against each other in his head. He rakes his hands through his hair.

It's like the past is mocking him about his future. His terribly incompetent mother, from whom he escaped once and is now doomed to return to. The one comforting presence, looking out for him since childhood, who is now absent…

No. It's too much. He can't think about it. He pushes the memory back behind the wall in his mind.

I am in control of this, he tells himself fiercely. This cannot touch me.

To his surprise, it seems to work. He feels his heartbeat steady and his breathing even out.

He's present in the hotel room once again. Yakov is still snoring, the clock casts red light into the room. 2:15.

Yuri gets up, uses the restroom. Wipes his sweaty face with a washcloth. Gets himself a drink before heading back to bed.

He looks at the clock again. 2:21. He plays a game on his phone for another ten minutes, then texts Otabek. Yuri knows Otabek's alarm rings at 5:30 every day to get in a workout at the gym before he trains. Kazakhstan is three hours ahead of Russia, so he should be getting up soon.

YP: Morning

The reply comes at once. Beka is probably not even out of bed yet.

OA: What are you doing up
YP: Cant sleep
OA: Y not
YP: I dunno. Just cant
OA: You're crazy. Go back to bed
YP: Nooooo text me
OA: I have to work out. Text me later

Yuri scowls and sends another few messages, just to pester him, but Otabek doesn't answer. Frustrated, Yuri puts the phone down and tries to take Otabek's advice.