Chapter Text
Yuuri sat on his boots’ thick rubber heels and surveyed the map he and Shoma had drawn out so far. A humorless laugh burst from his mouth. He thought he had made so much progress, but looking at things from a wider perspective showed just how little he actually discovered. Or maybe it revealed just how large Viktor’s world really was.
One long broad line stretched down the cream page, and only a few chicken feet branched from it. The raven’s balcony was a dark black charcoal smudge in the middle, but he found no other rooms. Yuuri grimaced. At least he had no shortage of time to snoop out this place’s secrets.
Time … how long had it been since the crash? Twenty-four hours must have passed by now. His car had to have been found. When he and Shoma weren’t with it, what would have happened? Did someone contact his family? Was there a search? They’d never find him.
His family ...Yuuri rubbed his eyes -- and then couldn’t stop rubbing them. He hadn’t realized how tired he was until he stopped moving. Thinking of his mom and how she might receive the news of his disappearance only made him more exhausted. More than ever, all he wanted was an extra large serving of her katsudon, his father’s smile, and his sister’s wry teasing.
Shoma plopped his head on one of Yuuri’s knees, fixing Yuuri with that soft, doggy stare he knew was hard to refuse.
Yuuri scratched behind Shoma’s ears. “Ready to head back, little guy?”
Shoma nosed his way farther into Yuuri’s lap, guiding Yuuri’s fingers farther over his neck. Laughing, Yuuri gave his puppy a couple more pats, then stood up. The white hall spun for a second, and nausea created a cyclone inside his stomach.
Yeah, maybe he overdid it a bit today. But it was better than going mad on that tiny balcony, trapped and doomed to overthink everything, worry his sanity away, and think about all he missed about home and the second home he had in Detroit.
Did Viktor have someplace to miss? Yuuri quickly dismissed the thought, shaking his head, not knowing why he thought of it in the first place, not really wanting to feel sorry for someone so … so damn godlike . But then … Viktor couldn’t have been born here, born to this existence, could he?
Turning towards the wall, Yuuri heaved a sigh. There was no way he was going to walk all the way back to the ravens’ balcony - he didn’t even think he could at this point. He would need Viktor’s help.
Their awkward last encounter echoed in his mind . . .
Yuuri ended up standing there rooted in one spot long enough to make Shoma huff out an annoyed breath. Yuuri turned to see him pout and lie on the floor by his feet.
“Okay,” Yuuri said through a sigh. “Okay, I’ll do this just once more, and then I’ll ask Mila to get a watch for me, okay? Okay.” He pulled off his gloves and shoved them into his coat pockets, tucking his journal into a handy velcro slit in Shoma’s jacket. Shoma stood up and wagged his tail, tongue lolling and butt shaking.
“You’re way more excited about this than I am,” Yuuri told him rubbing at his soft white ears. “Don’t tell me you already like the guy?” He was still stalling. Yuuri shook out his hands and wriggled his fingers. Why was this so difficult?
Yuuri looked down at Shoma once more, and before he lost his nerve again, slammed his hands against the palace’s icy walls. The ice shivered underneath his skin; it was such a strange and alien feeling Yuuri was sure his face twisted up into something ghoulish. He hoped Viktor couldn’t see him through however this thing worked.
The ice stilled, and the squirming in Yuuri’s belly quieted. Yuuri blew out a sigh through his mouth and shook out his hands again. He hoped Viktor wouldn’t try to meet them; he hoped Viktor had learned Yuuri would be the only one in his castle begging for help.
On the short way back, around the corner that hadn’t been there before (and he promised himself he’d catch the walls shifting in action one of these times), Yuuri found himself whispering a chorus of “Please don’t show up, please don’t show up…”.
But Viktor didn’t, and the layers of ice opened up to the night sky drenched in blues, greens, violets, and magentas. Yuuri stood in the doorway, stilled in awe. Shoma danced around his ankles and ran to the black birds he somehow already considered friends. The world above them shifted and sparkled like a glowing painter’s canvas constantly being revised.
Yuuri had seen the Northern Lights before. Competitive figure skating demanded constant traveling -- he’d even seen the Northern Lights here in Russia once a couple years ago. He was in Sochi for the 2014 Olympics; he didn’t qualify, of course, but his coach, Celestino, urged him to go for the experience, and his best friend, Phichit, swore he wouldn’t attend without him.
Phichit had dragged Yuuri to a dinner with some of their competitors, and then they dragged the both of them to one of Sochi’s parks afterwards. Yuuri was already pretty tipsy then; there and then he was over the legal drinking age at twenty. Phichit was hardly better, even as a teen, stealing Yuuri’s drinks so he could parade around with all the swagger of a white American man with his first grasshopper.
The Northern Lights then wasn’t really what Yuuri remembered most from the experience, to be honest. He could faintly recall thinking it was pretty. But no, what he remembered most was Christophe unveiling out a bottle of something called spirytus [[1]], and his confident voice challenging Yuuri to a drinking challenge.
Tipsy Yuuri is, was, and always will be stupid, and tipsy Yuuri grabbed the bottle without even looking at the label (not that he would’ve been able to read Russian, for one thing), and wrenched back his head.
Out of nowhere, before he could do more than taste what must have been liquid fire, a junior skater from the Russian team grabbed the bottle out of his mouth and smashed it on the icy pavement. Yuuri was sure he’d lost a couple teeth, too.
And then little Yuri Plisetsky, the snarling Russian fairy, stabbed a finger at his face and yelled, “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
It was definitely … an experience. But nothing like this. That sky had been nothing like this, nothing like the feeling of being so close Yuuri thought he could just reach out and take a couple bits of it down for himself.
Biting his lip, Yuuri extended a hand. He couldn’t help himself. Sparks of hot pink and chartreuse fell lazily into his palm before melting. Ah, it was snow. Of course …
Yuuri looked up and saw both ravens waiting for him on either side of the balcony, almost like statues except for the glitter in their eyes. He couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran its way down his back. The Northern Lights had seemed so unearthly; Mila and Sara were a reminder that everything was .
Shoma’s wagging tail drew Yuuri forward, and without him Yuuri didn’t know if he would fully step foot outside. The wind had calmed since the last time he was here, and the snow fell around him as if the Northern Lights were falling, too.
Mila and Sara watched him, following his approach with the jerky shifts of their snow-capped heads.
“Evening,” one of them said.
Was it Sara? Yuuri had a hard time telling them apart …
Then, softly and teasing, “So formal, Sara,” and Yuuri let out a breath he didn’t know he held.
The heavy atmosphere shattered with Mila’s tone of voice, and the ravens no longer seemed like gargoyles. Yuuri forced himself to remember their kindness and complete lack of hostility. He shook his head to clear whatever monsters his anxiety had turned them into while he was inside.
But he still found himself fumbling when trying to address them. His hand fiddled with the zipper of his jacket.
“So,” Yuuri began, “you told me to come back when I was tired, right?”
Shoma hopped around Yuuri’s legs and saved him from having to meet either of their eyes as they landed on the balcony’s icy floor. The dangerous curve of a black talon appeared in the periphery of Yuuri’s vision, and he shrank -- then doubly so when the bird it belonged to began to talk.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Mila said. Or the voice and inflection Yuuri had begun to associate with her, anyway. “I promise we’re not so bad. I always thought Viktor was the scariest of us four, even with our beaks and feathers.”
That got a huff of a laugh out of Yuuri. He looked up at last, and Mila’s head cocked, her feathers glistening with an amber sheen against the glimmering sky. She ruffled her feathers, scattering the snow clinging to her, and a flurry of rainbow lights fell all around Yuuri and Shoma. It was an exquisite feeling, like being inside a rainbow. Shoma tried to catch the snowflakes in his mouth, and Yuuri couldn’t help smiling when the brightest of blues alit on his nose.
Yuuri looked back at Mila. Without knowing why, he reached out and laid a hand on her neck. Mila jumped, and it was enough to break Yuuri out of whatever spell he was in. He jerked backwards, stooping down to clutch Shoma to his chest.
Mila trilled, shaking her head. “No, I’m sorry. You’re fine, I was just … startled.”
She stretched her neck back out to him, almost begging him to touch her feathers again without having to voice it.
Yuuri hesitated, enough for Mila to hop awkwardly around on her feet with her neck outstretched, and then brushed his free hand along her feathers. He didn’t know what he expected, really. Something extraordinary? But they were just feathers. Except of course that they belonged to a bird large enough to carry away a pony.
Mila leaned into his touch, inhaling and closing her eyes, enjoying his petting like a dog or cat would. Yuuri smiled and scratched under her chin. Sara edged closer to them, gaze askance, as if embarrassed.
Yuuri waved her over, sitting down and finally getting comfortable. He scratched the two birds with Shoma settling down in his lap and the sky falling down like confetti.
He didn’t realize he started nodding off until one of the ravens nudged his chin. Yuuri blinked - and had a hard time doing more than that with the brightness of the Northern Lights.
“No, no, don’t sleep yet,” one of them said, and Yuuri was too tired to try to figure out who was who. “We need to get you warm first.”
“I am warm,” Yuuri answered. And then his nose betrayed him by running and making him sniff loudly. He grumbled and tried harder to keep his eyes open.
Mila and Sara were where he remembered them, both looking comfortable and drowsy under the ever drifting, colorful sky. But they had some of Mila’s stash piled in front of them (where do they even keep it?): the slug-like sleeping bag, another water bottle, the warmest pair of sleepwear Yuuri had ever seen, and a large mound of hand warmers.
Yuuri curled his fingers into fists to prevent himself from making a face. He recognized the sleeping bag as one of those extreme-weather models so he’d be okay, but all he had was a sleeping bag against what, the open sky? The snow? He dreaded closing himself up in that thing and laying on the ice for days, let alone weeks or months. Yuuri steeled himself with a deep breath and edged closer.
Mila and Sara eyed him as though he’d turn and run. It made Yuuri want to.
“What?” he asked. “What is it?”
They shared an uneasy glance.
“We’re going to … modify ourselves to help you,” Sara said. Her voice sounded less shrill and bird-like, but so human that Yuuri had to avert his eyes for a moment. It was as if his brain couldn’t handle it.
Mila’s throat bobbed in what looked like laughter. “On the plus side, you’ll get your very own feather bed out here!”
Yuuri gaped at her. “You’re going to turn into … a bed?”
“No, no,” she said, laughing. “A shelter, more or less. My fault for exaggerating. Remember when Sara helped you avoid frostbite? It’ll be a little like that.”
Yuuri didn’t actually know what happened then; he was so out of it at the time he could only process his skin thawing. Sara had changed her actual body’s shape?
“There’s just one catch,” Sara said, and Yuuri found himself slumping with relief, that there was some way he could start to repay them. “When we tell you not to open your eyes, you must obey without question. Do you understand?”
Can’t open his eyes? Yuuri put a hand to his temple as if it would help him with this absurd situation. “Why?” he managed to ask.
Mila and Sara looked at one another again, as if passing silent words. Yuuri supposed they very well could be. Centuries with only each other for a companion could allow them that talent.
“It’s a request,” Sara answered at last, firmer. “Can you do that for us?”
Yuuri could hardly refuse. They’ve given him so much; they’ve saved his life over and over and over again. And for what? A simple request?
… Unless.
Yuuri raised his head. “I can do that. I mean, I can try - I’ll tie something around my eyes if I have to, but … you can’t … I know you’re not doing this just for me. For my sake, that is. Is it for Viktor’s? Or will helping him help you somehow, too? And what do you all need help with? Or from? Is it from something? God, I just, I need to know what I’m doing, I need to know what’s going on.”
Mila’s trembling black beak opened and closed without a sound. She glanced at Sara, Yuuri, back at Sara, and then bolted. Yuuri threw an arm over his eyes from the sudden wind, and his ears popped from the roar of Mila’s wings beating with such a fury.
Shoma leapt to his feet, barking in that tone that split Yuuri’s ears -- and Sara’s too, probably, because she brushed over his back with one wing tip. Just like that, Shoma quieted and calmed. Convenient, but terrifying. What about that one gesture made Shoma --
“Yuuri,” Sara said.
Yuuri jumped -- and realized his still held his arm over most of his face. He lowered it to his stomach and wrapped it around himself instead.
“Even after so much time, it still hurts,” Sara said, offering an explanation.
Licking his lips, Yuuri chanced it. “What does?”
Sara met his gaze so fast Yuuri scrambled back on his butt, nearly back inside the palace again. The entrance held him in shadow. He felt somehow more protected there, silly as it sounded.
“Viktor, Makkachin, Mila, and I. do you think any of us want to be here?”
“Well, I guess, I mean …. I suppose not.” Yuuri paused. “But this is Viktor’s world, isn’t it?”
Sara shook her head, although she could’ve been shaking the snow off. Her eyes were violet when they met Yuuri’s again. “Viktor didn’t choose this place. This hell of snow and ice chose him .”
And with that, leaving Yuuri’s mouth agape, Sara mentioned something about checking on Mila and left.
Yuuri slowly sat up. It had never occurred to him that the Snow King himself didn’t even like the snow he was named after.
Shoma distracted him, making a nest out of his sleeping bag. He kneaded it and turned it around under his paws about a hundred times before curling up in the opening where Yuuri was supposed to slide in. Yuuri shook his head, chuckling, before walking over and taking his journal out of Shoma’s jacket pouch. He eyed the warm pajamas set out for him, but the thought of undressing in the freezing cold was too much. He’d just sleep in what he had on. But he wouldn’t disturb Shoma just yet. Not when he looked so peaceful, his little nose curled under one paw and his breath spinning above him languidly.
Pulling the collar of his jacket over his chin, Yuuri leaned on the balcony rail. He drank in the sight of the Northern Lights -- probably the only splash of color he’d see while here. The first time he looked out over Viktor’s land (or whatever it was), he had felt swallowed by all its whiteness. It made him feel small and insignificant. But this? This sky wrapped him up in its colorful embrace and made him feel part of something.
And then Shoma snored so loud Yuuri turned around to find his dog woke himself up.
Yuuri laughed. “Silly boy.”
Shoma snuggled back into Yuuri’s sleeping bag and makeshift pillow with a contented snort. Yuuri watched him for a minute before turning back to the sky.
“I wonder …,” he thought out loud, “Maybe if Viktor spent some time out of his castle … seeing this … he wouldn’t be as sad or lonely or whatever …”
A sudden movement drew his eyes downward, and Yuuri leaned farther over the rail. He choked on his breath and covered his mouth, horrified.
A tiny, false balcony jutted out from a lower floor, its doors open and its space occupied by none other than Makkachin and the Snow King himself. Viktor’s eyes were locked on Yuuri’s. They seemed to glow in the dimness of night, frigid and sharp.
Yuuri’s fingers dug into his jaw. “Oh my god ,” he gasped, throwing himself away from the edge. He dove into his sleeping bag, mumbling an apology to Shoma, and tightened the drawstring to seal himself inside. For good measure, he rolled over to press his face down into his pillow.
He had basically called Viktor, the Snow King, someone who crossed actual souls of the dead over to the afterlife, lonely and pathetic and --
Yuuri pressed his face farther into his sweater. Oh my god repeated over and over in his mind with little room for anything else except a prayer that Viktor wouldn’t come up to see him.
And yet … a stupid , tiny, and rebellious wish that he would.
#
Yuuri woke the next day with his face still deep in the folds of his sweater. His skin would have the most embarrassing crease lines once he lifted his head away from his makeshift pillow, and he groaned at the thought.
No sooner had he made a sound than Sara brushed the back of his head and said, “Keep your eyes closed until we say so.”
Yuuri’s heart immediately hammered against his ribcage, but he obeyed. Mila and Sara were the only ones here who could keep him alive; he needed to be on their good sides as long as he possibly could.
“Okay, you’re fine to open them.”
Yuuri rolled over in his slug bag and undid its zipper, crawling out of it like a newly born butterfly. And then the cold hit him without warning, making him gasp and crawl halfway back in.
Mila and Sara perched on the rails again like gargoyles, black eyes watching him and Shoma. A heavy silence permeated the air as Yuuri searched for his glasses in his sleeping bag.
Stupid , he thought. Didn’t even set them aside someplace safe before he crashed. Getting replacements here with his exact prescription would be such a pain if not impossible. Thankfully, he found them in his wrinkled sweater, smudged and dirty but somehow in one piece. Then Yuuri pushed them onto his nose and found one lens halfway up his brow and the pressing into his cheek. Yuuri cursed and tried to bend the frames back into shape.
The ravens hadn’t moved when Yuuri could see them clearer. Didn’t move at all, except for the wind tugging at their feathers. Were they waiting for something. What?
He was sick of this, the not knowing. The fumbling in the dark till he messed up again and again and again . Like last night, when he finally thought he had gotten somewhere: Do you even need helping? And it had been the wrong thing to say. Always the wrong thing.
With as much dignity as he could, Yuuri grabbed the sweatshirt set out for him (and he’d have to have a talk with Mila about independence, and how he could possibly have an actual role in choosing his own damn clothes). Yuuri stuck a bare arm outside to retrieve some deodorant and added that to his newly-made checklist. This deodorant made him smell like a straight teenager -- or maybe this was Mila and Sara’s way of telling him he stank. He probably did. Though he dreaded when he gave in and asked how he’d bathe out here.
As clean as he could get for now, Yuuri emerged a second time ready and more prepared for the cold. Mila and Sara were still on their perches, and Yuuri wondered if that was how they endured this centuries-long winter. They just checked out on those railings.
Yuuri sighed, crossed his legs, and faced them. “My name is Katsuki Yuuri. And this is my dog, Shoma,” Both birds tilted their head at the ball of fur wriggling in the snow. “I think …” Yuuri sucked in a large breath to steady himself. “I want to try to help you, but i need to know everything. What can i do?”
The silence that followed his declaration wilted Yuuri’s confidence. His shoulders curled in, and he ducked his head under their gazes. He’d messed up again, hadn’t he? One after another.
Then Mila looked over at Sara and said, “I guess that means I win.”
Yuuri’s mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”
Sara ruffled her neck feathers, something Yuuri was beginning to notice was a habitual gesture with her. “I actually don’t think it was so great to bet over a someone’s mental state.”
“You’re just mad I won,” Mila shot back, around the same time Yuuri muttered,
“I’m not awake enough for this …”
The two of them kept bickering while Yuuri looked through the pile next to his sleeping bag for anything edible. He needed something substantial in his belly and about six cups of coffee --
Shit . Was it possible to even get coffee out here? Yuuri’s heartbeat stupidly spiked at the thought. Panicking over coffee, that was a new low. Scrubbing a hand down his face, he looked back up at the ravens.
“Mila, do you have coffee?”
Mila’s head swiveled his way, then bobbed in what was probably confusion. Yuuri did not look forward to the idea of having to explain the concept of coffee and caffeine addiction to an age-old bird before she let out a high-pitched chirp.
“Right, breakfast!” She hopped right over to Yuuri, way too cheerful in a way that reminded him of Phichit and made his stomach give a painful twist. “Be patient with us, we haven’t eaten for a long time. You’ll have to tell us when you need something, but don’t be shy about it, okay?”
When she was near enough for her feathers to tickle Yuuri’s brow, she whispered in that low, eerie human-like voice, You were right: we’re cursed too.”
Yuuri jerked his head back. Cursed?
Mila said nothing more, just opened her wings to present him with a box of breakfast bars, a sealed bag of kibble, and a bottle of frappuccino. Yuuri tried not to make a face. He supposed any coffee was better than none. He should be grateful he was getting food at all, but he’d probably be more grateful after he had something to weigh down his stomach. Pre-breakfast Yuuri wasn’t a friend to anyone.
Shoma dug into his kibble as if he had been starved, and Yuuri downed his coffee in pretty much one go. They were meant for each other, he guessed.
Wondering idly how he’d deal with the trash, Yuuri watched Mila sweet up the clothes he wore yesterday. She had said “Cursed too” . Could Viktor be under some kind of fairy-tale curse? Who could possibly curse someone who had the power to deal with the souls of the dead?
Yuuri munched on his hard granola bar and decided he didn’t want to think about it. Instead, he pulled out his journal and flipped to the first page. His pathetic map stared back at him. Even if he got a watch, it wasn’t like he could make any real progress without asking Viktor for help, not if he needed to return to this balcony every time he slept.
He made a frustrated groan through his last bite. Sara and Mila’s heads jerked up to look at him.
“Everything okay?” Mila asked, half laughing at him.
Yuuri’s “mm-hmm” sounded less positive than he meant it to be. Sighing, he took up another bar and opened it half with his teeth and half with his one good hand.
He depended on everyone in this place for everything . Better to accept it now than make it harder for himself down the road. The granola began to taste chalky in his mouth. Yuuri set it his lap and took a deep breath.
Even back home, he’d always needed help. Help with his coaching fees, help with his college tuition, help with his jumps, help with his anxiety, with his confidence … the list was endless. He was all in all pretty much a useless idiot of a human being. What did Makkachin possibly see in him? Why hadn’t she left him there in his wrecked car?
He was just whining now. Then again, it was his what, second day on the job? Breakfast could be his official time to whine, at least to himself. Yuuri thought he’d scream and combust otherwise.
He came back to the present to find both ravens still staring at him, Mila way closer than she had been before he checked out. Yuuri bit back a yelp and tried a smile, though he was sure it looked more like a grimace.
“I’m going to explore the halls again today,” he said, trying and failing to sound casual. “Do you think … Mila, you have a backpack somewhere, right?”
Mila nodded, and Yurri wondered if he would ever get used to their almost human like gestures.
“Thank you,” Yuuri said. He put the rest of the breakfast bars into the backpack’s neon orange front pouch, and slid the journal in one of the back ones before sheepishly meeting Mila’s eyes again. “And … I’m sorry, I just … I don’t want you to think I think of you as some sort of … storage thing … I just --”
A sharp pain in his leg interrupted him. His eyes shot open wide.
“You bit me!”
Mila’s wing’s ruffled, and if she were human Yuuri could perfectly picture her hand waving in dismissal. “Oh, please. It was barely a nip. It didn’t even break the skin!”
Yuuri looked down. “I’m … wearing like three layers, how would you know?” He was definitely feeling the lack of caffeine.
But to his surprise, Mila and Sara just laughed.
Sara hopped closer. “Trust us, nothing you’ll ask for will ever be too much. No request will bother us. We’ve been waiting for anything , for anyone , for way too long.”
Yuuri knew they meant well, he did, but it felt like his first place lead in the short program of last year’s Grand Prix Final all over again.
#
Back in the icy depths of the Snow King’s castle, Yuuri was armed with a backpack full of water bottles, food, kibble, a first aid kit, and his journal. And this time, Shoma walked in front of him on a leash. All this made Yuuri feel ten times more competent, and more importantly, ten times more confident walking through these icy halls.
All this was some sort of puzzle, he decided. He could hear Phichit’s avid voice in his ear, going on about how the castle was a real-life puzzle dungeon level: the balcony his save point, and Mila that shopkeeper/companion that conveniently gave him anything he needed.
Unsurprisingly, thinking of this nightmare as some sort of video game helped. He only wished Phichit was at the controls. Phichit usually won -- and this might be the only time Yuuri would admit it.
Facing one of the walls, Yuuri drew in a breath through his teeth and leaned his forehead against it. He didn’t know if all calls went to Viktor, but he addressed his thoughts to Makkachin, anyway. He wasn’t ready to face Viktor yet.
When he straightened and looked around, the hallway didn’t seem all that different. There were no new branches or difference in light or temperature. Maybe if he didn’t call for Viktor, it didn’t work?
But then a gentle scraping echoed around him and Shoma, growing louder and louder until a great big ball of brown fur materialized from the haze of whiteness and pounced on Yuuri. Yuuri fell back against the wall for support, not minding that a connection was made. If anything, he was linking back with Makkachin, who was licking his chin and face and anywhere she could reach. Shoma stood on his hind legs, trying to budge his way in between Makkachin and Yuuri, a jealous little whine building in the back of his throat.
“Down, Makka, Down,” Yuuri said between laughing.
When she sat back, Yuuri wanted to deliver the little speech he had rehearsed that morning, but the words got stuck in his throat. Makkachin just … she looked like any other pet dog. Speaking to her as if she were human when she danced on her paws and swished her tail back and forth like an eager puppy felt ridiculous.
Yuuri licked his half-numb lips and tried again. “Makkachin, do I need to return to the medical room to change and sanitize my bandages? What’s the procedure I need to follow to take care of my injuries? And, uh,” Yuuri paused, embarrassed, “is there any way I could get mild medication for the pain?”
His one free hand worried the hem of his sweater. Yuuri had ibuprofen from Mila, but it wasn’t enough for a restful sleep. He spent most of the night tossing in his sleeping bag and trying not to annoy Shoma.
Makkachin looked up at him and tilted her head in that doggy way that made Yuuri want to cover his face. She was so cute , and he felt so silly.
And then Yuuri’s next breath was sucked out of his mouth. Yuuri clutched at his throat, eyes opening wide, and watched the trail of steam vanish from his lips like the very first time he met Viktor.
The curl of steam exploded until all Yuuri could see was a milky white spinning gust. It sped around him like a whirlwind, ripping his clothes, his skin, at his hair. He tried to reach his face to cover his eyes, but his arm couldn’t fight against it. His mouth opened in a silent cry --
-- And it was over. It was all maybe five seconds, and the torrent had passed. Yuuri looked down at Makkachin, who seemed way too pleased with herself, nearly smiling and dancing on the ice.
Yuuri realized his fingers tightly curled over something. He stiffly opened them to find a small bottle of a common muscle relaxer he recognized from times he had overworked himself skating. There was even his name on the label with dosing instructions -- it had everything but a prescriber. He gave a small, incredulous chuckle and checked himself over.
The arm that had been held in a permanent wave was now slung close to his chest in a polyester brace. His shoulders felt wrenched behind him as they and his back were wrapped in an additional x-shaped support made of breathable nylon. Yuuri reached up to feel his collarbones and flinched when his fingers brushed over a large bandage leaking the vaseline they used to keep wounds and stitches moist.
He looked down at Makkachin and wondered if she got time periods confused. He remembered watching an American film set in the 1920’s featuring a protagonist with a hard clavicle cast like the one Makka gave him before. His updated brace seemed more like what hospitals gave patients now in the present day. Yuuri supposed it was easy to get something as minute as decades mixed up when you were over centuries old … He just hoped it wouldn’t be a problem for him in some way.
Yuuri slipped the muscle relaxers in a zipped pocket of his backpack and gave Makkachin a polite bow. “Thank you,” he said. “Would it be okay if I asked for another favor?”
Makkachin stepped forward and licked his hand, making Yuuri laugh and crouch down to pet her. Shoma nosed his way through to demand attention, and Yuuri obligingly scratched the place behind his ears he knew Shoma liked best.
“Thank you, Makka,” Yuuri said again. “When you’re not … not busy , would you be able to help me and Shoma around? There has to be more to this place than these empty halls.”
Makkachin leapt away from him, barking and hopping. Shoma found her energy contagious, pulling on his leash - and then biting and tugging on it as if it were a toy.
Yuuri rose to his feet and let them pull him along. A moment of stumbling jogging and the walls began to shift -- the endlessly colorless walls, began to change. The ice became less chalky and opaque and grew clearer. The space between the walls widened as natural light poured in and filled everything with a peach-gold blush.
And then: snow.
More damn snow.
But he paused when his boots scraped against snow-covered dirt instead of the gritty ice he was used to. They had entered some kind of indoor-outdoor space like some fancy city-like hotels or malls built at their centers. Craning his neck upward he could see the floors of the castle until they blended together. Yuuri spun around, catching small, uneven mounds of snow and scraggly trees either dead or caught in this eternal winter. This little garden wasn’t pretty, but it was different, and it made affection rise up inside him.
Above the quiet sounds of Shoma, Makkachin, and Yuuri padding through the snow, the solid crack of a skate perfectly landing a jump cracked through the air deafeningly loud. Yuuri flinched, and the noise sent shivers up and down his spine.
Skating. Someone here was skating .
His face flushing, Yuuri shot forward and tramped through the snow piles. His boots hooked around Shoma’s lead, nearly face-planting himself into one of them, and crushing Shoma between his knee. Yuuri grabbed a fistful of Makkachin’s fur and half hopped, half ran with her as he freed Shoma. He ignored the snow seeping in over his boots and the pain in his bad leg, because the shivers coursing through his body became like hot lightning. Like … excitement. Like joy.
Yuuri stopped. Abruptly enough for Shoma to ram into him and nearly lurch Yuuri forward onto his knees.
The rink spread outward before him, but its surface was like a mirror. A mirror broken into a thousand pieces, some as large as a car, some too small to make out, glittering under the overcast sky. And gliding over these broken cracks with an inhuman grace, unaffected by the uneven surface, in perfect form and nailing jumps Yuuri still couldn’t land, was the Snow King.
Yuuri scooped Shoma up and dove behind one of the snowy ridges. Makkachin followed in lazy, merry hops, seemingly intent on bringing Yuuri to an early grave. Hand over his heart, Yuuri felt his pulse rocketing under his fingertips. Every crack and skid of blade on ice had it stuttering.
Skating. Viktor was figure skating.
Ever since the night of the accident -- was it really only a couple days ago? -- Yuuri had been submerged into this icy horror story in which nothing at all was familiar. But this, this Yuuri recognized. This, Yuuri could relate to. Skating was his constant comfort since he was a child, and he had spent his entire living life studying and trying to perfect it.
Yuuri peeked over his tiny snowbank.
Gone were Viktor’s long, flowing robes, the ice blue suit jacket and white embroidery, the heavy fur trim. Instead he wore what Yuuri considered a fantastical storybook version of his typical training clothes: a slim-fitted, long-sleeved white shirt and black pants, both seemingly inset with enough sequins or sparkles to rival the snow.
Yuuri chuckled at that. Viktor was as flashy as some of the more dramatic skaters he knew from back home. Then he caught himself and remembered Viktor was a literal demigod. He couldn’t be like the anyone Yuuri knew back home.
Yuuri looked back at Viktor. Viktor had pulled his long, silvery hair into a bun behind his head, though much of it had escaped and whirled about his face like a tiny flurry. Everything about him exuded cold, unearthly beauty.
Cold, so very cold. That unemotional, empty expression Yuuri already associated with him was nowhere near Viktor today. Viktor’s face crumpled beautifully with what seemed like yearning. But though beautiful, it all looked too detached, too rehearsed. Too … beautiful. He spun and jumped and performed in perfect form like a smile that never reached the eyes.
Yuuri had no idea he had stood until Viktor stopped completely, icy gaze needling his.
Neither one of them moved at first, caught in each other’s eyes, Viktor breathing heavily in such a human-like way that Yuuri couldn’t look away.
Then Shoma wiggled out of Yuuri’s arms and dropped to the snow, nearly burying himself to his chin. He scurried over to the rink, yanking Yuuri forward and half dragging him to Viktor. Makkachin dashed past them both.
Shoma stopped at the edge of the ice, where he tried to jump up on Viktor’s training pants, tongue out and ready to lick Viktor’s hands. Yuuri caught the tiny look of panic cross Viktor’s face before he slid backwards out of the little dog’s reach. When he looked back up at Yuuri, his icy mask was back.
“What are you doing here?” Viktor asked.
Yuuri blanched at his tone. He fell back on Makkachin, the easiest and cutest scapegoat, and said, “Makkachin led me here.” But he ruined that by being unable to stop his damn mouth, “But if I’m intruding on something, I mean if you don’t want me here, it’s okay, I can just …” Yuuri made himself stop talking, biting on both his lips.
Viktor’s eyes narrowed, more calculating than critical, and that was the only change in his expression. “She’s grown to trust you very quickly.”
“I’m, uh, I’m sorry.” Yuuri fidgeted, gaze flickering from Makka to Viktor. What did Makkachin want him to do? Desperate, he gestured to the rink. “What were you skating just then?
That crease Yuuri already had begun to look for appeared between Viktor’s brows, and the Snow King looked down at his feet, as if he forgot what he had been doing. He seemed to struggle with something … debating on whether he could share something with Yuuri.
“I’m a figure skater, too,” Yuuri tried again. “It’s -- was -- it was my entire life.” He looked down at the surface of the ice, reflecting the sky exactly like a mirror, alike and unlike every rink he’d ever skated on. The sight of it softened his face; he could feel the shift in him like a switch when he blinked.
“I skated every day,” Yuuri continued. He didn’t know why he kept talking, didn’t know why he was opening up. “It was the only place where I could clear my head sometimes.”
He looked up to find such a difference in Viktor’s eyes that he almost backed away. The curious, meditative look was gone, replaced by something so piercing and direct it froze Yuuri in his place. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came to him.
Viktor extended Yuuri one long, pale hand.
Yuuri’s eyes widened. Viktor, who wouldn’t touch a puppy, offering him this? Yuuri’s bulky, gloved hand shook as he reached out. At the last moment, Viktor pulled away, and Yuuri would consider it teasing if not for Viktor’s face, still serious and almost pleading. Dimly, Yuuri recognized it would look ridiculous, him following Viktor with his arms out as if he were begging.
And then Yuuri looked down and yelped when he realized his next step would land on the rink. “W-wait, I don’t have any --”
His voice gave way to surprised laughter when his feet slid onto the rink with the smooth glide of a boot and skate. Yuuri almost bent over backwards to examine his boots, now fashioned with a basic pale, snow-white blade. Wide-eyed, he hopped back on the snow, almost taking Viktor back with him thought their hands never touched. He pulled Viktor with him as he stepped back and forth, watching the pure-white streak appear out of nothing beneath his foot.
Makkachin and Shoma danced around them, Shoma splitting Yuuri’s ears with his excited, high-pitched yapping. It was probably the most fun he’d had since getting confined to this freezing wasteland.
Yuuri skipped once more on to the snowy bank - just for Shoma’s reaction -- when Viktor clicked his tongue and said his name.
Yuuri froze. His name sounded different in Viktor’s mouth. He didn’t even know the Snow King knew that much about him; he didn’t think Viktor saying his name would affect him like this.
He glanced back at Shoma, but the puppy sat down at the edge of the ice, obedient like he’d rarely ever been before. He gave Shoma a small smile and turned back to Viktor, whose eyes hadn’t left Yuuri’s face and hadn’t lost their intensity.
“Viktor?” Yuuri said.
Viktor stopped in the middle of the rink and stared at Yuuri expectantly. No smile, but his eyebrows vanished up into his bangs and his eyes were wide enough to see the whites around his irises.
“Uhh, right,” Yuuri said, tugging the cuffs of his coat over his gloves.
Nodding more to himself than to Viktor, Yuuri skated a couple laps around the broken ice to warm himself up. He glided over the cracks like they didn’t exist. When he looked down, it made him dizzy and nauseous, so he just lifted his chin and decided, for now, to do his best to ignore it. His body burned and protested, but he did his very best to ignore that, too. Just one routine, and then he could rest.
After his muscles felt looser and his body warm, Yuuri shed his bulky coat and slid into the opening position for the routine he would be presenting at Japanese Nationals this year. The thought of him missing it created such a painful crater inside him that for a moment, his chest felt too tight, and he fell out of position, folding in on himself a little.
He took a couple of deep breaths, the first one shaky, the last one steady and sure. “I won’t be very good right now. I probably shouldn’t be skating at all.”
Viktor cocked his head, much like something Shoma would do when Yuuri blabbed on about something and expected him to understand.
Yuuri fell out of position and gestured widely to himself. “I’m … the car crash?” Did Makkachin and Viktor have a way to communicate, or did Viktor really have no idea what Yuuri was going on?
… He guessed that made them both have something else in common.
“Makkachin saved me from a car crash,” Yuuri continued. “My arm or collarbone is broken up here, and my leg is sprained or something … Yeah, I probably shouldn’t be skating.”
Focusing on everything that was trying to heal, his body screamed. Imagining how every pull and sprain would ache after he was done trying to pitifully replicate one of his competition programs just made him want to curl up somewhere and take a nap. Everything in him screamed about how stupid an idea this was, but Yuuri laughed a little at himself, straightened his back, and for the third time, took his starting position.
#
In hindsight, it really was a stupid idea.
Yuuri sat on the edge of the rink, head bowed between his knees. His chest roared as if on fire, but worst of all was the pain of actually attempting a double with two casts on. Even in the pseudo-afterlife he was a stupid mix of anxiety and competitiveness once he went on the ice.
Viktor loomed over him, the shining ends of his ponytail nearly grazing the top of Yuuri’s head. He said nothing, just watched him hack half a lung onto the ice in front of his feet. Very reassuring. The instinctive urge just to run somewhere and curl up reared up stronger than ever. What must Viktor think of him now?
Unable to stand the silence any longer, Yuuri said, “I’m sorry. I’m really not this bad usually, it’s just--”
“You’re very emotional.”
Yuuri coughed on his surprise and cracked his neck in a bad way jerking his head up. “I’m -- wait, I’m -- excuse me?”
Viktor’s eyes were bright, his face wide open in a way that caught Yuuri completely off-guard. “When you skate,” Viktor continued. “It’s like you’re overflowing with it.”
Yuuri sat there, blinking up at him, and then his mouth went and followed his body’s lead to say the stupidest thing: “You’re -- are you smiling?”
He expected the fall of Viktor’s expression and winced. He tried to rise, waving his arm as if to ward Viktor’s mask away, and failed at both completely. The pain ripping through Yuuri’s leg and hip made him crash back down to the ice, hissing.
“I’m so sorry, Viktor,” Yuuri blabbered, falling over every word. “I’m--”
But Viktor didn’t look upset, or entirely buried under his frozen mask. Instead he raised one arm, hesitant and shakily, up to his lips. He pulled his hand away, staring at his fingers as if they held some sort of secret.
Yuuri gave an awkward laugh. “It, uh, it doesn’t come off on your fingers.”
Viktor looked down at Yuuri with none of his usual grace, his mouth half parted and eyes wide open.
“Are you … okay?” Yuuri asked.
Viktor flinched. And then without another word, a long, white robe materialized from his shoulders and fell to beyond his heels, following him as he turned and fled the rink.
Yuuri craned his neck to look after him, but the snowy hills blocked his view. He guessed that was another thing he and Viktor had in common: a bad habit of running away.
When he turned back around, Makkachin walked over and sat in Viktor’s place with a sad little whine. Yuuri reached out and scratched her under the chin.
“Did I do something wrong?”
Makkachin climbed into his lap, setting her large head on his knee. Yuuri knew she was trying to tell him something, but he didn’t know how to interpret what it was. He settled for hugging her to him, and then adding Shoma when he nuzzled his way in.
Yuuri planned on sitting there with his ass numb for a couple more minutes to recover before starting the walk back to Mila and Sara, but the sun, as weak as it was, caught on the mirror-like ice, and Yuuri looked down between Makkachin’s white paws.
He saw his own reflection. Wan and dirty, with heavy bags under his eyes and fresh pimples dotting his jawline. Yuuri pinched his cheek. Though it was impossible -- it had to be impossible in just a few days -- it looked as if he’d gotten heavier.
Yuuri didn’t want to look at himself anymore, but he couldn’t look away. This was how he appeared to Viktor, a smooth-skinned, perfect demigod? He could feel his body trembling and heat rushing to those spots behind his eyes.
Makkachin barked in his ear.
Yuuri cried out, covering it and tearing his eyes away from the icy mirror. He had the queasy sensation of being on a landing plane, that pop in the ears and the roll of the stomach. When everything settled, he no longer felt near to an anxiety attack. His body stilled and his heart slowed. It vanished, and everything was steady again.
“Makkachin,” he said, “what was that?”
Makkachin bit a good chunk of his scarf and dragged him to his feet. Yuuri wrapped Shoma’s leash around his wrist and patted Makkachin’s head.
“Okay, are you gonna show me something?”
Makkachin trotted around the edge of the rink, her paws finding a trail that looked well-worn under a thin sheet of snow. Now that his body cooled after his disastrous skate, Yuuri shivered. The cold bit the tip of his nose like a vice. He remembered Viktor exuding a frozen chill, but now without him here he felt far colder.
When they reached the far side of the rink, Makkachin stopped and began digging through the snow. Yuuri knelt, wincing, and tried to help her. Slowly, a plaque appeared under them, its dark stone a severe contrast to the white surroundings and what snow stuck in the etching.
Yuuri swiped his glove over the stone a last time and then sat back. Rune-like symbols decorated the smooth plaque in a language Yuuri didn’t even recognize and couldn’t even guess which part of the globe they came from. He looked at Makkachin and shrugged.
“I can’t read it.”
Even so, Yuuri slung his backpack off his shoulder and took out his journal. He tore out a couple of its pages and laid them across the stone before scratching his pencil over them. A rubbing of the stone was better than nothing. If Makkachin thought it was important, he would consider it important too. She’d never done anything to make him doubt her so far.
Well, maybe except for choosing him for this whole thing.
But you made him smile.
Yuuri covered his own mouth and stifled a gasp, then angrily swatted the thought away. Stupid, it was so stupid. Even as his cheeks warmed rebelliously.
Sliding the stone rubbings into his journal, Yuuri took one of his pain meds and asked to go back to the ravens’ balcony. It wasn’t dark, and a quick check of his watch showed it to be only around five-thirty, but Yuuri didn’t think he could do much more without collapsing. He didn’t want to think about what just happened if he could help it. He’d rather collapse in one of the halls somewhere.
When Yuuri got back to the balcony, he gave Makkachin one of Shoma’s treats in thanks -- it turned out she, and probably Viktor too, could eat -- and wriggled into his slug-like sleeping bag. Shoma curled up by his head, making Yuuri blearily remember to unhook Shoma’s lead.
“Taking a rest, then?” Sara asked, but her voice already seemed far away.
“Mmph,” was all Yuuri could say.
He felt Mila and Sara curl their wings over him, shrouding him in a comfortable warmth, even if it sent his frozen nose stinging. As an afterthought, Yuuri reached out blindly and unzipped his backpack so he could hug his journal in his sleep. The journal was a solid comfort by his chest, and Yuuri thought this might have been the first time he had been truly comfortable since he arrived at the castle.
He curled his fingers around the leather spine, his mind wandering to Viktor’s smile, then the way Viktor’s fingers touched his lips, the way he looked when he’d been so shocked.
Yuuri slid into sleep, and he dreamed he was dancing with a man all in white, a solid ivory mask covering his face from crown to chin.