Chapter Text
By the time he was eight, he could no longer remember her face. All that remained was the soft brown of her eyes, harsh blonde of her hair. The burn of her cigarette smoke, bitter taste of cheap lipstick.
By the time he was eight, it was only Yuri and his grandpa, his Dedushka. It was easier, only them, no worrisome absentee mothers to squander away the cash and track men like dirty footprints through the house. For a while, it was calm and good and quiet. Yuri liked it, the quiet. He liked the serenity of days with his grandpa, making Piroshki and laughing about the most trivial of matters. They even purchased a television, second hand from a next door neighbor. The pixels were large, and sound out of sync, but there was no mistaking the awe on little Yuri’s face as he watched Viktor skate for the first time. It was then that he decided that he had to do it. He had to be a skater, the best skater. And he was going to be perfect.
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Seasons came and went, and with them, Grandpa Plisetsky managed to put away enough cash to purchase a pair of very old, very used skates. Yuri was over the moon with excitement, already planning on how he would show his Dedushka that his sacrifices were worth something. They went to the rink as many as three times a week, and Yuri seemed even more in love with the ice every day.
The ice was cold, harsh and strong, but it was also beautiful and delicate. It reminded Yuri of something far away, even if he couldn’t place it. Eventually, someone with common sense witnessed the child doing almost flawless skills without any formal training and called up a precedent coach by the name of Yakov Felsman. He took one look at the scrawny pale boy, scowling with determination, and laughed. He’d have to determine whether his contact was playing a joke on him, or just plain stupid... he stopped laughing when Yuri skated.
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And so he started training, and with training came ballet, and with ballet the mirrors. Mirrors that called to attention every flaw of his technique, every crease in his form. He had always been a thin child, but under the lights and eyes of a foreign city, it all seemed wrong. His limbs were gangly and awkward, nothing like the graceful elegance of that one skater from his magic box years ago.
The trial period ended, and Yakov determined enough potential in Yuri to take him on full time.
“Now, Yuri, this is a lot of responsibility for a ten-year-old.” His grandpa had warned, bittersweet with the thought of his only grandchild leaving the nest so soon. “I can’t move with you to St. Petersburg. There are people who need me here.”
“I know, Dedushka,” Yuri had almost whispered, quiet for once in his short but impactful life. “I’m not perfect yet. I can’t make it up to you till I’m perfect.” Yakov grunted in agreement, happy to have another promising trainee under his belt, and placed a large hand in the center of Yuri’s back.
“Come now, the car is waiting.” And with that, Yuri left his first home, and the only bit of family he still retained. But Yakov, for all his gruff and scruff, didn’t smell so different than Dedushka, and though his piroshki was far from perfect, it wasn’t bad either
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Yuri was too young to live virtually on his own, in the dorms, so Yakov made a rare exception and brought him into his own home. The apartment was a ten-minute walk from the rink and smelled of cigars and aftershave. The deep, dark wood that coated the floor seemed to suck the warmth out with the light, and Yuri took to wearing multiple pairs of socks to keep his dainty feet warm. The socks created a light cushion, and he became quite adept at creeping around the empty home silently. He often tread around, in the cover of night, fingertips grazing the railings that lined the hallways. If he was quiet enough, and late enough, he sometimes thought he could hear the quiet notes of a piano, sprawling through the halls. He couldn’t imagine a man as serious and frigid as Yakov producing such beautiful noise, but he knew from experience that interrupting the affairs of grownups often lead to a swift backhand, or worse. He never followed the piano to its source, never intruded on the artist’s personal time. He knew there must be a reason the person played at night, away from the prying ears of daylight.
One night, after a particularly intense day of training, Yuri finds himself drawn to the music more than normal. Perhaps it’s the cold of winter in Russia, or the slight fever he’s determined to hide, but he finds himself sunk against the thick wood of a door, curled into his own internal warmth. The song is sadder somehow tonight, as if nostalgic with the coming of the holidays. Yuri finds himself drawn in by the notes, as something very familiar tugs at the bottom of his stomach. He thinks he’s heard this before... in another time when he hadn’t yet laced his firsts skates. The ten-year-old, young and tired as he is, finds it impossible to keep his eyes open. Morning finds him still slumped against the door, blond fringe obstructing his view. It needs a trim, he’s neglected it since he left home. Someone had come along in the night, maybe the mysterious piano player, and draped a blanket over him. It smelled faintly of an aftershave Yuri was familiar with, perhaps from the rink...
“Yuri!” Yakov bellowed from down the hall, “what do you think you’re doing? We have to leave in five minutes!” The elder man lumbered down the hall, winter boots already secured. He sighed as he neared the young boy, “have you been here all night?”
“No! Go away, old man!” Yuri exclaimed, already growing a penchant for angering authority figures. He scampered up the stairs, slipping in his layered socks. “I’ll be ready in three!”
Yakov sighed to himself, gathering their coats near the front door. He really needed to qualm Viktor’s nighttime habit before it caught on to the rest of his promising skaters, like a talent std.
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Summer found Yuri swept up in a flurry of preparation, as his home ice was prepared for a boot camp with members worldwide. Yuri himself had never really met people from other countries, much less other skaters, and he found himself filled with a sense of excitement not felt in a long time. He had been training so hard lately that each day found him collapsing into bed, asleep before hitting the pillow, yet he never forgot to phone his grandfather. Although his lessons were free, to be paid off with future earnings, Yuri still worried far more about money than an eleven-year-old should.
With the arrival of warm weather came another change: Yuri was to move into the dorms for the summer. Yakov decided that being around more children his own age would benefit him, and he could do with the lesson in responsibility. His roommate was quiet and rarely spoke. Yuri wasn’t even sure he spoke Russian, so he tried in English
“Hello. I am Yuri. Name of you?” The elder boy had simply whimpered, rolled over, and continued to sob into his pillow. Homesickness, a sensation Yuri had never felt. That was the last time he was nice to the competition.
The new training program brought on more time in the studio, and more time to compare himself to others. For every “Good, Yuri,” and pleasant smile, he found something new to criticize in himself. His arms were too long for his body, elbows knobby and gross. Had his legs always looked so gangly, uncontrolled? Had he always been so awful? Every once in a while, the exhilaration and joy that accompanied ballet would overcome him, and the self-corrections were drowned out. Then he would catch a glimpse of his form in the mirror, find a new flaw, and the cycle would start again.
The new students made him nervous, as many were paying to attend the camp. They were not hurting for money, they didn’t need this as Yuri did, but what if one was better than him? What if Yakov tired of his failures and replaced him. He’d already moved out for the summer... what if Yakov was planning on getting rid of him the whole time? Yuri often caught these thoughts, running around the back of his mind on a never-ending loop. They were ignored easily enough, shoved down under the rest of his unwanted memories, somewhere between a polish cigarette brand and the taste of calloused knuckles. Yuri busied himself with bettering his craft, improving himself so Yakov would have no choice but to keep him around. He still had to live up to his promise to his grandfather, his Dedushka. He wasn’t perfect yet, but he was getting there. He’d see. They’d all see.
Later, Yuri would reflect on this intensive where his motivation focused and understand his Kazakh companion’s words. Maybe to him, they looked like the eyes of a soldier, but to Yuri they remained the eyes of a scared little boy, afraid of being kicked to the curb again.