Chapter Text
The doctor had no more comfort to offer. Everything was just a complication of what Yakov had already said, delivered in cold, clinical terms. Viktor had begged, pleaded with Doctor Vassilyevich to just do it, to let him undergo the procedure at the soonest convenience. At least this would be over, as would his inability to cope with the walls that threatened to press in on him from all sides every time he thought about his fast-dwindling control on his own life. The cavernous echo of loneliness that made him feel vast and endless, unfulfilled and unfixable, that would all be gone. He wouldn’t have to worry about empty beds or empty conversations or empty praise. He wouldn’t have to worry about Katsuki Yuuri and the endless work it took to swallow back all thoughts of him now that he was there in St. Petersburg, now that every day held the potential for Viktor to see that dancing once more, to get a feel for just what made Yuuri move.
He didn’t care that it was callous. He knew it was impulsive, but hadn’t he built his entire image on impulsive moves? The Lilac Fairy costume his first time returning to Sofia, an effort to shock his mothers into reaching out? The leaked photos from old ragers that had given Yakov stomach ulcers from all the stress? It was to be expected from him. And besides, who would know the difference, now that he was balanced on a wire above the rest of the world? Not a single person cared about Viktor without the ‘Nikiforov’ that followed. He’d be surprised if anyone noticed a difference.
But, just as Yakov had, Doctor Vassilyevich insisted that Viktor wait, that he give a degree of thought to the decision.
“There is always the possibility that the party in question is hiding reciprocated feelings of their own, after all,” he assured Viktor, peering over thin, wire-rimmed reading glasses. “Finding out for sure can do you no further harm. And as I’ve said, some people have learned to live with their disease, keep their feelings and slow the advance of the symptoms. Through therapy and a change of lifestyle, you could, realistically…” He peered down at his chart, where he’d taken copious notes on details Viktor honestly felt were trivial, like the approximate number of petals and whether they were connected and the length of time that elapsed from the start of one fit to the finish, the latency between episodes as if they weren’t directly connected to something so simple and specific.
The doctor frowned.
“Well… I guess we’ll have to be vigilant with this case. The moment something starts to change, I would like to be notified. We don’t want another emergency procedure like the last one, Mr. Feltsman.”
Yakov made a noise of acknowledgement.
“Obviously, besides this, there isn’t much we can do.”
He scribbled indecipherable words on a prescription pad and fished through a book of business cards for a light teal and gold card featuring a number in swirling, embossed letters.
“Some have found success with mindfulness practice: meditation, yoga, this kind of thing that can strengthen the mind and help you control your thoughts.”
Viktor took the card and turned it over in his hands. There was a pale pink lotus flower inscribed in faint, impossibly-thin lines.
“You do not have to compete this season, Vitya,” Yakov pressed. “You are more important than your sponsorships. We prepared for this when we set up your insurance. You can take time off and still support yourself.”
“And tell the public what?”
“As little or as much as you like,” Yakov said solemnly. “I wouldn’t advise striking panic in the hearts of the poor young ladies who follow your every move, but it isn’t exactly uncommon to take a hiatus for injury or illness.”
Viktor did his best, or felt himself try, to not crush the business card between his fingers as fear like a widening shadow washed over him once more, a paralyzing realization of just how seriously fucked he was.
“I’ll never skate again,” he muttered, his mouth dry and sour with bile, his stomach very noticeably empty.
“Chances are you’ll remain well enough to skate for a year or two more if you are able to seriously handle your symptoms right away.”
“No,” Viktor pressed, rising to his feet. “No, I mean…. Either way. I don’t do bullshit programs. I’m damned to either kill myself slowly doing what I love or lose the last thing that actually made it worth it.”
He didn’t have any things to gather. Yakov had left his skate bag at the rink.
“I’ll be walking to the train if you won’t drive me home.”
Yakov’s brow hardened, but Viktor didn’t miss the quiver at the corner of his lips, momentary as it was.
“I advise you to stay here until we’ve come up with a plan.”
Viktor said nothing. He’d have to completely re-write his short program, music and all, and he wasn’t touching the ice until that was done. He’d based it all on that night. There was nothing left that he could use. Nothing he could explore without falling apart.
He swallowed hard against the thought, let the painful impulse that came with the feeling wash over him, and let the triumph settle like steel in his chest.
This was his punishment. This was what he got for throwing aside everything and everyone he loved except for the one. Skating was his everything, and he could no longer allow himself to skate in the way he could truly say made him happiest. He couldn’t let go, give himself up to his strongest feelings and rely on them to drive him through record-breaking routines. He wasn’t sure he knew to begin. He’d always skated his obsession, whatever that was. For the longest time, it was skating itself, and then the emptiness that filled him when the lights went out, and then the next big thing to bring him excitement and desire in his life.
He didn’t do bullshit programs. He was going to find something new and do it right. But as he turned out the door and walked down Yakov’s long drive, he couldn’t think of a single program, old or new or conceptual, that would interest him enough to draw from him the kind of art he’d come to be associated with. He was finished. He knew. But for some reason, one he knew but wouldn’t admit—wouldn’t even think about now that he understood the repercussions—he couldn’t give up on the current season. He had nothing else to lose.
The choreography would be easy, once he found music that resonated with him. The choreography came to him out of necessity more than anything else, a series of expressions that flowed from him naturally when he felt passionately enough about the program piece. It had been easy—not only that, but nearly unavoidable—to come up with Regarding Love: Eros after his world had been shaken by a night of flirting and dancing. The most interesting, most enticing, most alluring man had danced his way into Viktor’s life, and just when Viktor was close enough to get a taste, he’d been thrown aside by his own expectations.
His apartment building was quiet when he returned. His new neighbor’s boxes were gone from the hall, a single pair of tennis shoes resting in their place, lined up neatly with the door frame. The faint sounds of piano music sounded from behind the numbered door. Viktor wasn’t exactly a friendly neighbor. He wasn’t hostile, either, only that he’d never gotten to know any of his neighbors since moving in. This new one would be no exception, he was sure.
Whether he or Makkachin made more of a fuss at their reunion was up for debate. Something about her unquestioning excitement at his arrival, her attitude unchanged and unaffected by everything he’d undergone in the past few days, was so calming and comforting that the rest of Viktor’s day was immediately handed over to her. He curled up on the couch and let Makka up with him to rest her head on his shoulder as they both drifted off to sleep.
Makkachin was warm, the subtle drone of her snores constant and soothing, and the weight of her body on top of Viktor’s felt like the last tether that kept him from flying away into the vast, expanding space of disassociation. He combed his fingers through her soft curls and focused everything on the feel of her, the warm, musky smell of her breath, every component that made up this present, until he was so saturated in unconditional love and touch-starved snuggles that he felt a heavy weight over his entire body, not just where she lay. Sleep dragged him down swiftly and silently. He hardly would have noticed if not for the violent awakening born from another coughing fit.
Blue rose petals stuck in Makkachin’s fur as she jumped to the floor in alarm.
Viktor’s stomach growled, doubly empty now that he’d just emptied it further, although it took the sickness for him to remember he hadn’t eaten yet since waking up. He ventured a look in the fridge, certain he’d find it empty but remaining hopeful anyway. Sometimes he surprised himself with what he was able to salvage from leftovers and remnants of ingredients.
His hunch was correct, however. The fridge was, for the most part, empty. There was a single, plastic-covered bowl that he didn’t recognize, a full dish to which a little, yellow note had been stuck.
I heard you are ill. I hope you make a speedy recovery. This might not make it to you in time to eat, but I asked Yuri to let you know when he was here to feed your (cute!!!) dog. It always makes me feel better when I’m sick.
Get well -Your New Neighbor
Whatever it was, the dish smelled deliciously savory and heavy, with the sort of sweet burn of fried onions that Viktor hadn’t the will nor the wariness to turn down. He trusted Yuri enough to screen out anyone or anything suspicious, with how cynical that boy was. Above all, he just wanted comfort, and the slightly-fried, slightly-meaty smell of this bowl was too enticing. In the end, Viktor didn’t even heat it up and it was still one of the best meals he’d ever eaten. He finished it off standing right there at the counter, not even bothering to sit and savor. He’d been ravenous.
Maybe he’d have to meet this new neighbor.
Except, no, Viktor remembered that he’d somehow been trapped in a new and dire emotional unavailability. Maybe he’d have it in him for a fling. But he was facing a choice—and a forced one, at that—between earning Yuuri’s love or losing his own altogether. There was no room for him to seek that connection elsewhere.
The reminder of just how finished Viktor was washed over him with the last bite of rice. He dropped the bowl to the floor for Makkachin to finish and dragged himself off to bed once more.
The next few days were a blur of sleep and occasional program work, of taking Makkachin outside and downing cup after cup of chest-soothing tisane. Of medicated lulls when Viktor could rest easy that no thought of Yuuri could arouse even the slightest emotional reaction in him. He could take Xanax and sleep throughout the night. He often did.
Eventually, he had what was beginning to look like the bones of a program, two contrasting pieces that fit the same theme and that had nothing to do with the life or love that Viktor had found in Sochi, that had nothing to do with his loneliness and longing, nothing that could trigger an episode mid-skate. He practiced early in the morning now, at a time when few other skaters had the will to drag themselves to the rink, and he was pleased and puzzled to find that Yakov didn’t have too many questions for him. He almost found himself back in the hands of a steady routine.
Except, by all accounts, it felt like the furthest thing from routine. By all accounts, Viktor was stumbling along a narrow path in the midst of hell itself, ignoring the horrors that loomed on all sides, as he tried to keep hold of the last, fraying strands of normalcy. By seven in the morning, his day was done; his rink time was up, his engagements made. He’d go home and sleep away the day, or he’d make half-hearted attempts to exercise effectively from home. He was afraid, now, to walk to the rink or anywhere that dragged him too far from the security of his own apartment building for the fear that he might run into the one face that could undo him without word or occasion. He took Makkachin out to the courtyard when she needed it. Sometimes, if he was feeling up to it, he made a couple loops around the block. Anything further, and he’d call a car with tinted windows and bury himself in a book for the duration of the commute.
He’d been lonely before, but nothing could have prepared him for this new self-seclusion. His social interactions now came in the form of dialectical behavior skills training groups and meditation classes with a new therapist, a woman with thick, black curls and plastic-rimmed glasses named Inessa. Her voice was low and soothing, her demeanor strangely comforting even as she asked him about death, even as she asked him to consider possibilities he was not ready to tackle yet.
Some days he met her bluntness with gratitude, some days he resented her with a bitterness he was only just discovering within himself.
“Surely you’re financially stable,” Inessa chirped, her accent subtle and soft like the little, babbling fountain she kept on the table between them. “What is so important about continuing to skate?”
The questions were always a little intrusive in a way that Viktor wasn’t quite ready to accept. Inessa demanded a level of vulnerability that felt unwieldy and dangerous, a willingness to shed light on the conditions he’d created for himself up until now. So often, he found himself slipping into interview mode. So often, he’d offer a coy smile and an anecdote about his first win. Something safe and disingenuous. So often, it would be met with sad acceptance, with a kind of weaponized patience. She’d be ready for him when he decided to cut the bullshit.
“It’s all I have. It’s my tether to existence.”
“I wonder how true that would be if you stayed in contact with your parents,” she challenged. It was a painful sort of hypothetical, the sort of thought experiment that seized Viktor by the heart and dared him to imagine the worst. He wasn’t ready to wander down that path, to imagine how things could be different. He just wanted to survive the present.
For all the deflection that entailed, Inessa seemed willing to accommodate. Anything too far removed from Viktor’s comfort zone was stashed away for a later session. But that didn’t mean he was allowed to stay within his boundaries.
“I’d like to try thinking about him, if that’s all right,” she’d suggest. “I’d like to try stepping back and letting yourself become an observer, to witness what you’re feeling without letting those feelings overtake you. Can we try that?”
Every episode could be the one that sends a thorny branch through his heart, or his lungs, or could block his air passages for good, but they tried it anyway. They tried exercises like this all the time; impulse rejection and self-as-observer stuff. Putting thoughts away for later. The result was often terrifying, controlled experiments that evoked painful fits of piercing emotion, even after his first successful attempt to prevent it.
It was predictable, but it wasn’t reasonable.
Once Viktor knew how he would react, once he understood the impulses that preceded the attacks, he was able to prepare himself. He became able to point out the figure of crushing loneliness as it strolled into his subconscious and point it in the direction of the figurative door. Thanks for coming, but now is not your time. Even then, the unwelcome stranger seldom left without making its presence felt, without clawing at the doorframe and scratching its urgency on the walls of Viktor’s throat.
Sometimes, the petals would simply show up later, flooding out as he tried to shower or shaking him awake in the middle of the night. Sometimes they never came, but the weight that hung in the hollow of Viktor’s chest grew that much heavier and more cumbersome, and the fear that accompanied it was almost more unbearable than the cleansing fits he was suppressing.
Therapy was early in the day, but for all the energy it took, Viktor was often confined to his apartment for the rest of the day following. He’d lay in bed and listen to the shimmering trills of his neighbor’s piano piece, to Yuri shuffling around cursing and grumbling when he came to take Makkachin out. Poor Yuri didn’t know yet. No one did, although Viktor knew those he’d worked closely with up until now had their suspicions.
“Jesus, get up.” A burst of white-hot light signaled the curtains being thrown aside as the duvet was yanked off of Viktor’s body. “Are you sick or just lazy!?”
Squinting against the sun, Viktor sat up, drawing a sweaty palm over his face. It must have still been afternoon. “Always a pleasure, Yuri,” he groaned. “By what providence do I find you barging into my bedroom?”
“Wow, ok, fuck you too,” the teen spat, picking discarded clothes up off the floor and chucking them into the laundry before dropping down on the corner of the bed. “I just… whatever. You know what? Nevermind.”
He stood to go, teen angst dripping from the downturned corners of his lips. That thin-pressed line was so strikingly familiar it made Viktor start. Combined with Yuri’s lithe figure and spiteful attitude, it evoked a spitting image of Lilia.
“I was gonna tell you your neighbor was asking about you. Left you some food—some sort of weird pelmeni. I ate half of them since you hardly eat anymore.”
“How thoughtful of you,” Viktor hummed. His lips and the inside of his mouth stuck together as he spoke, dry and dehydrated from an overheated sleep.
Yuri raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you think you should say thank you at least?”
“Ah—yeah. Thanks, Yura.”
Yuri’s boot was off and hurtling across the room faster than blinking; it was a good thing his aim was so poor or Viktor might have had signature Doc Martens treads stamped into his forehead.
“Not me, you idiot!” the teen roared. He seemed to immediately regret his choice as he hobbled back toward the bed. He held out a sheepish hand and Viktor graciously returned the shoe. He’d have hell from Yakov if he tried to fight fire with fire with the single most mercurial skater on the Russian team. “Just… I don’t know. He likes your dog. Maybe go introduce yourself or something. It’s the least you can do.”
“You make a good point.” Viktor let his legs roll off the side of the bed and teetered to standing. The air was cool against his bare skin as he dragged himself to the door in nothing but his briefs, scratching at the stubble that was bordering on unruly on the side of his face. “I’ll just go do that now.”
“Ew, stop, you fucking perv,” Yuri whined, and it surprised Viktor how quickly he managed to put himself between him and the door. They always bantered like this together at the rink; it was Viktor’s way of seasoning the kid into a good competitor. He really did admire Yuri’s drive and determination. But something in the crimson that was blossoming under fiery green eyes told him that Yura did not look upon his jokes quite as fondly.
“See, this is why I can’t ask you to do shit. You’re such a fucking child,” Yuri spat. “To think I was going to come here and ask if you would still choreograph my short program. Fuck that. Die lonely, then, idiot. Next time I’m here, I’ll tell the neighbor to give it up.”
Thick, velvety paper in Viktor’s throat choked out any apologies or compromises he might have offered. As he fought to find that image that he could willingly discard, as he fought to remove his feelings from his narrative, he watched as Yuri jammed his foot back into his untied boot and stormed off through the front door.