Chapter Text
MEN, FINAL RESULT
1. Yuri KATSUKI 322.36
2. Yuri PLISETSKY 319.41
3. Jean-Jacques LEROY 300.62
In his long career as a competitive skater, Victor had never seen anything like it.
The interval between the last skate and the podium ceremony was so short that he had seen winners still looking stunned when they mounted the podium after their brief victory loops on the ice. In his younger years he had often seen the uncomprehending stare of older men forced off the top step, refusing to accept that their star had finally gone into eclipse.
But he had never seen a podium where all three of the medalists looked so miserable with their lot.
The Canadian mustered a flash of white teeth and a victory gesture for the photographers, but it was easy enough to tell that the bronze medal was no more than dust and ashes in his eyes. Victor knew the look only too well; he had spent a season feeling the same way about gold. Was that a twinge of sympathy that he felt? No; it was a travesty that the man had ended up on the podium at all.
Little Yuri would have lacked stature even on the top step of the podium. On the step below, a silver medal around his neck, he looked incongruously small. As the Russian national anthem played, he stood at fixed attention, his jaw set, as if he were a military commander watching his country's flag being hauled down over a surrendered fortress.
It was, when one considered it, almost unbelievable. At sixteen Victor had won Junior Worlds and been giddily, insufferably pleased with himself for months afterwards. Yuri had won Junior Worlds at fifteen, only to be consumed with contempt for his competitors and resentment at not being allowed to do quads. Now, still fifteen, he had a silver medal as the fruit of his first season in seniors – Victor, in the grips of a late growth spurt, had not even made it to the Grand Prix Final – and apparently felt nothing more than a burning regret that it was not gold. He had seriously believed that he deserved to win gold at fifteen.
Or maybe he had felt that he had to. Victor looked at Yuri, wisps of his long blond hair beginning to escape from its French braid, and imagined the thought bubble forming above his scowling face: I delayed puberty for this?
Yakov had clearly taken a lesson from Victor's two teenage years in the wilderness, with Yuri its willing recipient. But nothing could be guaranteed in skating, not even with the aid of hormone blockers.
And then there was Yuuri. He stood on the top step of the podium, slim and strong, clutching his gold medal, tears trembling in his eyes. Anyone else would have thought it was pride. Once again, Victor knew better.
Three points. A narrow but conclusive victory. He had skated his heart out, and with no help from partial judges; no one could say that he didn't deserve it.
And yet. It was close enough that Yuuri would always wonder, was probably wondering now – what margin had the drugs given him? Enough for victory? Without their help, would he have been left on the lower step of the podium, agonising fractions of a point below Yuri Plisetsky? Unanswerable questions, which had never troubled Victor during his own competitive career. But he knew that Yuuri would be asking them, and that he would probably never stop.
After the medal ceremony was finished, Yuri Plisetsky jumped off the back of the podium and skated disdainfully away. Yuuri stepped forward onto the carpet instead, looking as if his knees were still shaky beneath him.
Victor quickly came forward to put a congratulatory arm around Yuuri, in case he felt the need for some deniable support. He leaned over to whisper into Yuuri's ear, knowing that the fans would think he was saying great job or (if they were very discerning fans) tonight you can do whatever you want to me.
"I'm so proud of you," said Victor. "I'm so sorry. Forgive me."
Yuuri unslung the medal from his neck and handed it to Victor to put in his pocket.
"You're the one who won it, really. It's yours."
I don't want to kiss the medal, thought Victor. I want to kiss you.
But he decided to save it for the hotel room. He tucked the medal carefully into one of the capacious pockets of his Burberry and followed Yuuri off the ice.
***
Victor didn't kiss anything that night. Yuuri was too exhausted, or at least willing to use fatigue as an excuse. After showering and changing at the rink, he returned to the hotel with Victor, showered again more thoroughly, and fell into bed.
Victor didn't push; he knew what was coming. He had spent six months waiting for Yuuri, and now it seemed only too likely that the prize would not be anything that he wanted. What man would clamor for an end to the wait, an end to the suspense, when he was living on death row?
He only got into the shower himself and then afterwards, shedding his towel, climbed into bed alongside Yuuri. Although he had not asked for permission, Yuuri sleepily opened his arms to him. No fuss, as if there was nowhere else that Victor ought to be.
They lay entwined in the darkness, both knowing that the reckoning was coming.
***
After a late brunch the next morning, they went for a walk together along the sea wall. It was only then that Yuuri began to talk.
"I don't really deserve it," he said.
"And you think that Yuri Plisetsky would have deserved it more than you? Or maybe JJ?"
But it was a tired, rote exchange, the sort of thing that they had been saying to one another for months now. Victor was getting tired of hearing himself talk. He bit his lip, forcing himself to hold back and listen instead.
"You must think I'm the most ungrateful man in the world," Yuuri continued. "You've given me everything I said I wanted. You helped me admit to wanting it in the first place. But..."
"But you realised it wasn't what you wanted after all?"
"I wanted to win," Yuuri insisted. "Of course I did. What athlete wouldn't? But..."
They had been through all this as well. But I didn't want to win like this, it's not really winning. Yuuri casually throwing every one of Victor's victories into the bonfire while continuing to protest, absurdly, that Victor deserved them all. It's all right for you, Victor, you're...
Superhuman? Russian? Victor Nikiforov? Victor had never quite been able to guess how the sentence ended in Yuuri's mind.
A long silence had fallen. There was more; there was something else. Overhead the seagulls were constantly circling, watching and waiting for just a scrap. Victor thought he knew how they felt.
As they walked, Victor reached out his hand so that his knuckles dragged lightly across the rough concrete of the seawall. If he kept it up, there would be scrapes in need of bandaging, but he found that he didn't much care.
"But really I wanted you," said Yuuri finally, with no preamble. "I wanted you from the start. But I couldn't imagine deserving you without winning. So I did what you told me, and hoped that it would make me – worthy, I guess. Worthy of you."
"Yuuri," breathed Victor. "Yuuri."
He felt as if he had just plunged into the cold December sea and been smacked in the face by a wave. His heart pounded; his cheeks smarted with the shock of it. That sudden painful clarity; that moment when you gasp for air and feel reborn.
He stopped dead and took Yuuri's hands in his.
"Let me prove I'm worthy of you."
A small gasp from Yuuri, who was turning pink to the tips of his ears. He chuckled, half delight and half self-conscious disbelief. And then he glanced downwards.
"Victor, you... your hand is bleeding."
"It doesn't matter," said Victor dismissively. "I'm used to it. Look, Yuuri, if you still want to – I think you should give that press conference. Because if you do, I'll join you."
Now it was Yuuri who looked as if he had just been plunged into the sea.
"I can't. You can't! It would destroy you."
"Victor Nikiforov is dead. I never liked him much anyway."
It was, in fact, completely untrue: once upon a time he had adored Victor Nikiforov almost as much as his fans had done. But it was the way he felt now, so it was true enough.
"But..."
"I felt the same way you did," continued Victor, tumbling the words over one another in his eagerness to say his piece. "That I had to win to deserve anything. I did everything they asked; I did the impossible, because once people start to expect perfection, you can't give them less. Who was it you wanted when you watched me on television, really? I thought I was only the sum of my victories. Of course winning was all that mattered to me; I didn't realise there was anything else. But now I know there is. There are all sorts of things people thought I couldn't do. It's never stopped me before. It'll be the last surprise of my career."
He felt giddy just contemplating it. Perhaps in the end it was the only way to free himself from the shackles.
"Your career?" said Yuuri, letting his hands fall away from Victor's. "Your career. Of course."
"What?" said Victor, baffled. "What do you mean, your career?"
A moment later his brain caught up with his mouth and he realised that Yuuri was accusing him of thinking only of himself. Just moments after he had promised to make the most foolish, extravagantly romantic gesture of his life. What more could he do? His reputation and his victories were his life. What else did he have to give?
"I'm offering to do what you wanted me to do!" protested Victor. "What you asked me to do!"
"I never asked you to do that! I just, just..." He laughed ruefully. "We've made a mess of things, haven't we?"
"Yakov always says, as long as you can still wiggle your toes, there's hope."
Yuuri gazed solemnly into Victor's eyes. "Yakov."
His heart sank. "Yes." It wasn't as if he hadn't thought of it. He had lain awake thinking of it. "But it can't be helped."
"Victor, if you burn every bridge on earth, it won't make things right. I want to do it, but I'll never be able to apologise enough. I've betrayed everyone who ever had faith in me."
"Not everyone," said Victor quietly.
A long pause. "I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything," said Victor. "Just believe in me."
Yuuri leaned back against the seawall, contemplating him.
"Just like that," he said flatly. "Go up in front of the cameras together and beg for the world to forgive us. They won't, you know. They never will. If you do this, Victor, if we do this, it's the only thing they'll remember you for."
"I want you to forgive me," said Victor. "I'm doing it for you. I don't care about the world."
***
Victor's impromptu press conference had filled to bursting point, and with only two hours notice. No doubt everyone assumed that he was eager, after his skater's triumphant victory, to announce his own return to competitive skating. If the journalists piling into the room wondered why Yuuri was sitting at the table beside him, they gave no sign.
He waited until three minutes after the announced start time, watching the photographers jockeying for position in the front row. Then, heart catching in his chest, he gave Yuuri a questioning, sidelong glance.
If he's changed his mind... there's still time. I can tell them I've decided to make a comeback after all. What's another year? For him it would be worth it. Even another back surgery would be worth it, if that's what it takes.
Yuuri's forehead was already beaded with sweat, his eyes unreadable behind his glasses in the glare of the television lights. Looking down at the handwritten kanji of his statement, he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. A heartbeat later, he took Victor's hand under the table and squeezed hard. They twined their fingers together, palms damp with sweat.
"Thank you for coming to this press conference on such short notice," said Victor, smiling instinctively into the sea of faces because he knew how to do nothing else. "I have a few things to say, but first Yuuri would like to read you a statement. Please hold all your questions until the end."
Yuuri swallowed, licked lips that had remained chapped despite Victor's best efforts. He lifted the statement and opened his mouth. For a moment Victor thought that no sound would come out. Then Yuuri spoke.
"Thank you," he said, his voice shaking only a little. "Thank you for coming here, thank you to everyone who has had faith in me and supported me during my time as a competitive skater. I am very proud to have won gold at the Grand Prix Final, but I'm also deeply ashamed. This is because I know that my victory came with the help of performance enhancing drugs..."
A buzz of disbelief from the assembled journalists. People were picking up their mobiles, tapping out urgent messages. Victor held out a cautioning hand to the crowd and the noise subsided to a suppressed hum.
"My victory came with the help of performance enhancing drugs," repeated Yuuri, somehow finding the strength to say it for a second time. "I didn't deserve gold. For a long time I've been telling myself that I was doing what was necessary to compete, but winning the Grand Prix Final made me realise that there's no justification for what I've done. I owe it to the sport I love, and to everyone who has believed in me, to tell the truth now. I am ashamed of myself and I'm not willing to lie any longer. I hope people will learn from my mistakes. Moushiwake arimasen deshita. I am so, so sorry. What I did was unforgivable."
He bowed so low that his forehead rested on the white cotton of the tablecloth.
In his pocket, set to vibrate, Victor's phone was already buzzing continually with notifications. And the clamor from the journalists had reached a crescendo, one name shouted over and over again:
"Victor!... Victor, what... Victor, did you... Victor! Victor!"
"Yes," said Victor simply. "I did."
In his ten years as an international celebrity, he had never seen such a tsunami of flashbulbs. He blinked into the glare, bruise-coloured afterimages jerking and dancing in his vision, wondering if he had forever sacrificed his sight on the altar of honesty. If so, it would hardly be the most important sacrifice of the day.
"As Yuuri's coach I accept full responsibility. Before I started coaching him, he was a clean athlete. Everything he's done since then, everything he's taken, has been at my suggestion. My first apologies are to Yuuri, whose trust and faith I've betrayed." He paused. "It says something about the state of skating today that someone as talented as Katsuki Yuuri couldn't win without doping."
This statement hardly seemed to pacify the room. People were still shouting for his attention, not even willing to let him say his piece. Victor wondered whether some sort of riot might break out. What he said next made it even worse.
"Yuuri isn't the only one. I've been taking performance enhancing drugs for the whole of my career. I've never competed clean – and until I met him, I thought it was normal. I even thought it wasn't really wrong. I was sent to doctors, I was told what I was expected to do, and I was taught how to beat the tests. If my achievements seemed superhuman, that's because they were. Without performance enhancing drugs, I'd be entirely mediocre as a skater. Not nearly in Yuuri's league."
To his disappointment, no one picked up on his praise for Yuuri. Instead people were shouting all sorts of questions: what, when, how much, who else? If he had opened up a vein then and there, let them shove one another aside in the fight to capture a few drops of his tainted blood, they would still not have been satisfied.
"I've already been in touch with the McLaren commission," he said.
His phone call from the hotel room that morning had been met with utter disbelief, as if it were some sort of prank. In the end he'd had to resort to the perverse expedient of sending them a selfie – himself posing with Yuuri's gold medal and a handwritten sign that said I would like to testify – in order to persuade them that he was who he said he was.
"I intend to cooperate fully with the inquiry. Because of that, I won't go into detail here. For now I'll just say that it was all managed at the highest level, and it's been happening for at least twelve years. To my knowledge."
The woman from L'Equipe in the front row quickly did the mental math. "You were fifteen?"
"If not younger. I don't know for sure."
That was clearly a mistake because now there were other names on people's lips: Yuri Plisetsky and Yakov Feltsman.
"I'm talking about myself," said Victor. "I don't know about anyone else and I won't comment. It's not an individual matter. I think you should ask the Russian Figure Skating Federation."
It gave him no small degree of schadenfreude. The FRSF had hated his guts for years, at least partly because of his impulsive answers at press conferences. They couldn't accuse him of being flip now; he knew exactly what he was saying, and what panic it would cause. But that wasn't the point.
"I want to apologise to all my fans, to everyone who has believed in me," he said, echoing Yuuri's words from earlier. "I fully expect to be stripped of my medals. I understand how many people I've let down.... Yuuri especially. But my love for him has shown me another way, and I don't regret that for a minute."
No one reacted. Victor thought that maybe, when they played the clip on the evening news, someone would notice. He hoped that they would.
***
Fleeing the country had always seemed like a romantic notion to Victor. Years spent idly pondering the idea had clearly had some effect, because before the press conference began he had been organised enough to book a car to the airport, two plane tickets, and a villa in the Maldives that came very highly recommended by an oligarch acquaintance of his who did this sort of thing all the time.
Makkachin would be safe and happy with the Katsuki family for a couple of weeks, until the worst of the media firestorm had died down. Whether they would ever utter Victor's name without dire imprecations – that was another question.
Like all longhaul travel, fleeing the country was much less romantic in practice than it sounded. Victor studied Yuuri, who was staring out of the car's tinted window at Barcelona's scrubby, quasi-industrial hinterland. Power pylons and a Carrefour with what seemed to be the world's largest parking lot.
"Yuuri, do you mind if I make a couple of calls?"
"Hmm? No, that's fine."
Victor didn't wait.
The first number rang and rang and then went to voicemail, which was unusual. Chris always picked up, unless he was in the middle of having sex. Sometimes even then.
"They're yours now, Chris. Three-time World Champion, Olympic gold at Sochi. I hope you enjoy the medals even more than I did." He paused. "Your move."
He didn't bother trying to call Yuri, only texted him. Are you surprised? Call me. And then: If I don't pick up it's because I'm on a plane.
Yakov's phone went straight to voicemail, which was exactly what Victor expected. Every sports journalist on the planet must have been trying to call him simultaneously.
"I'm sorry, Yakov," said Victor simply. "I had to. Call me back. If you want to."
He hung up and turned to Yuuri, conscious of the fact that his words – in French and then in Russian – had been incomprehensible to him.
"I'm sorry," he said again. All things considered, he had a feeling that he was going to be repeating that, or variations on it, for a while. "Are you all right?"
"Yes," said Yuuri, a sort of shaky surprise. "You always imagine that it'll be worse than it actually is. I'm mostly relieved that it's all over."
For Victor it was exactly the opposite; he jumped into things without thinking and regretted them at leisure, much like that quad salchow when he was seventeen. And yet, after the surgery to fix his torn ACL, he had mastered the quad salchow eventually.
"And – and I shouldn't even be asking this, just... did you say you loved me in the middle of that press conference?"
It was the easiest question he'd been asked all day. "I did! You noticed! We decided we were going to be honest with the world, didn't we?"
Light dawned across Yuuri's face. "Oh. I'm so glad. I wanted to believe it, but thought I was so anxious that I'd started hallucinating."
Victor threw his arms around Yuuri. For a moment they embraced, angled awkwardly towards one another in the back seat of the car; then Yuuri pulled back to look into his eyes with a frown.
"What about you, Victor? Are you all right?"
Victor smiled his broadest, most sincere smile. "Of course I'm all right, Yuuri. You'll love the Maldives. It'll be almost like a honeymoon."
But he knew in his heart that he would never speak to Yakov Feltsman again.