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Nishigori Yuuko
The scene in the inn was like this: Yuuko with Takeshi on one side, disheveled and panting, and Yuuri holding Vicchan on the other, a blank stare on his face.
“What?” Yuuri asked.
Yuuko wheezed, trying to force out her jumbled thoughts in between gulps of air. “Minako-san said…you…the Harghita Cup…I mean, we didn’t see but…the free skate—”
Takeshi elbowed her in the side, and she broke off, wincing. She hadn’t meant to say that.
Yuuri’s expression changed into understanding. “Oh, that.” He smiled a little. It made Yuuko’s stomach twist. “Mm. I messed up a bit. The pressure at an international competition’s really different.” There was a pause, then he suddenly bowed his head. “Sorry. It was a learning experience. I’ll do better next time.”
The puppy in his arms yipped.
Yuuko gaped. “Why are you apo—”
Takeshi grabbed her arm and started to drag her towards the door. “Sorry, Yuuri,” he called over his shoulder. “You’re tired, right? We’ll let you rest.”
She tried to get a good look at Yuuri’s face as they left, but he’d already turned away, chin buried in Vicchan’s soft fur.
It ate at her all evening. Sitting in the living room with Takeshi, trying to do her homework, she found it impossible to focus.
(Yuuri smiling. Yuuri apologizing. Yuuri cuddling Vicchan, his cheek pressed against the puppy’s side.)
At last, she made up her mind. “Sorry, Takeshi-kun. I’m going out for a bit.”
He looked up, alarmed. “Out? Where?”
“Ice Castle Hasetsu. If Yuuri-kun’s upset, he’ll be there, practicing.” She grabbed her jacket from where it lay on the floor. There was a soft shuffling noise, and she turned to see Takeshi shifting uncomfortably, staring at his feet.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said slowly, as he raised his head to meet Yuuko’s disbelieving gaze. “First, are you sure he’s even there? I mean, normally he would be, but”—his fingers dug into the tatami—“he didn’t just miss a couple of jumps, this time.”
(She saw it, then, too. Yuuri hiding in his room. Yuuri giving up on his dream. Yuuri taking down his posters, one by one. Yuuri hating skating—)
“He loves skating,” Yuuko said hollowly. “Of course he’d be there.”
Takeshi pressed on. “Even if he is, you saw him. He said those things because he didn’t want us to interfere. If you go to him now it’ll just hurt him more—Yuuko? Hey! Yuuko!”
She ignored his calls, already running out the door.
“He’s here,” the rink employee said, picking up the skates he’d dropped. “He asked me if he could use the facilities for an extra hour.”
“An hour.” Yuuko leaned against the front desk, hands still balled into fists. Some tension left her shoulders.
“Yeah. I told him I’d check on him then, so I can lock up. It’s been a while, but I think he headed to the rec room. Try looking there?”
Indeed, light trailed from the recreation room’s open door. Swallowing, she crept towards it—
(Yuuri throwing away his videos—)
—and peeked inside.
Yuuri sat in front of the television, and on it was Victor, in the middle of one of his signature Junior programs, entering a gorgeous triple Lutz. Behind him, Yuuko nearly slumped against the doorframe in relief.
It was fine, it was fine. If Yuuri was here, watching this now, then he was okay. That’s right. Watching and copying Victor’s routines always made them feel better, and that’s what he came to do today. Everything was fine. He didn’t hate skating. He didn’t hate Victor. How could she have been so silly? Yuuri loved skating more than any of them, he just needed to get his mind off his loss, that’s all—
The video began to rewind.
Yuuko froze. From her position, she could see the barest sliver of Yuuri’s mouth, angled downwards in a harsh slant. Her eyes darted down to the remote in his hands, then back up to the screen.
Triple Lutz, double toe loop. Rewind. Play.
Triple Lutz, double toe loop. Rewind. Play.
Triple Lutz, double toe…
She’d seen enough; she took a shaky step back and slipped away. Huddled in a corner where she could no longer hear the faint music from the looping footage, Yuuko fisted her hands in her jacket pockets, chin drawn into her chest. It was nothing. Yuuri studied Victor’s jumps for technique all the time. This was just more of the same.
The echo of footsteps came, and she curled back further, just as Yuuri emerged and walked towards the rink. He was going to practice. This would be the first time he’d be on the ice after that free skate. He expected to be alone; watching would invade his privacy. Yet, she felt like she should. That if she watched, she’d understand…something. She wasn’t sure exactly what, but…
So, crouching behind the boards, veiled by the shadows of the rink, she did.
The first attempt resulted in a shaky landing on the triple Lutz that forced the toe loop to become a single. The second went better: Yuuri came out of the first jump smoothly, giving the second a crisp, fluid take-off. On the third, he over-rotated the Lutz, resulting in a hand down that prevented him from finishing. He didn’t use enough speed on the fourth, so the Lutz became a double. He pushed through the fifth try, successfully completing both jumps, but at this point, his legs were trembling, and what little she could see of his face looked strained with both fatigue and frustration. With every attempt, the rhythm of his steps had become increasingly stilted, the jerkiness more and more apparent. But still he tried again, teeth clenched and brows furrowed, for a sixth.
He fell, skidding across the ice. He didn’t get up.
Yuuko’s breath congealed in her lungs, and she scrambled to stand up, to yell his name, to sprint over and help him—
He slammed his fist down, back bowed and forehead against the ice. The first keening sob cut through the rink.
(Yuuri crying.)
Yuuko sank down in a stuttering slide against the barrier and pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes. A harsh inhale shook through her. “I’m an idiot,” she whispered.
She left.
Okukawa Minako
It was half past eleven, and the inn was a mess: bits of handmade confetti littered every surface, empty dishes and bottles piled high on the main table, and pieces of colored paper—some with tiny greasy handprints—strewn about the cushions. One of their banners had started to droop from its proper position on the wall, the fasteners having come loose. Amidst all this, Minako sat, balancing a large scrapbook on her lap, while Yuuri knelt next to her, expression stuck between curiosity and discomfiture.
Tomorrow, Yuuri would leave for Detroit.
Minako smiled as she leafed through the pages, marvelling at the photos, the newspaper and magazine articles, the fan letters—all clipped and pasted into place by Hiroko. Yuuri beamed from one corner as he posed on the ice, his face still chubby with baby fat. In another spot, teenage Yuuri stood tall on a podium, accepting flowers with a medal around his neck. Some other page showed him extended in an Ina Bauer, clad in black and white. Pictures abounded wherever her eyes fell: Yuuri skating figures, Yuuri in the middle of a routine, Yuuri with various trophies and plaques…her forehead creased, and she stared at the award photos. Something bothered her and…
Oh. She lifted her head and looked to the front of the room, at the couple of trophies next to the inn television.
As the person who’d introduced him to the sport, Minako had watched Yuuri skate for a long, long time. Even now, she went to more of his competitions than anyone else. Yet not once had she seen Yuuri display any awards in his room. Instead, Victor’s presence completely dominated: posters upon posters, photos upon photos; they multiplied with each passing year, slowly taking over his walls. It was the room of a passionate fan, not a star athlete. Most children and teenagers had trophy shelves, didn’t they?
She could still recall the excitement that’d bubbled up when receiving a new award as a child. How each one went carefully onto the next spot of her shelf; how in times of disappointment, she’d looked at her collection to try and remind herself of how far she’d come. Even her first award, a silly, local thing that paled in comparison to all the accolades she received after, had been framed and hung in a prominent location, where it stayed for many years as a celebration of her first triumph.
She wondered where Yuuri’s first award was. She wondered if he’d enjoyed the competitions at all.
Hadn’t Hiroko mentioned something related, once? That she’d opened his closet during cleaning to find a small heap of medals and trophies, tossed haphazardly in a corner, some so dusty she’d taken the lot out and untangled the knots of cloth straps before wiping the surfaces. She’d picked a couple of her favourites for the main room, while the rink staff had offered to display the rest in a glass case there.
I told Yuuri about what I found and wanted to do, she’d said, and he simply said, ‘okay.’ Imagine that, just ‘okay!’ Really, that child…
Minako flipped to the next page, and her gaze stopped on a crinkled newspaper clipping featuring a young Yuuri holding up a plaque. She ran her fingers over the photo, tracing the faded edges, before turning her attention to the headline: Fourteen-year old figure skating prodigy. Her throat tightened.
(Minako in an empty ballet studio, striking the first pose.)
“Oh, that article,” Yuuri said. She looked up, startled; he hadn’t said anything since she’d first opened the book. “I didn’t know Mom kept that one, too. The stuff they said was pretty meaningless.” He smoothed the page with a smile before speaking again.
“They throw the idea of ‘genius’ around, because it sells, I guess. If everything these articles said were true, then every competing athlete would be a prodigy. Maybe they’re getting desperate, because of Japan’s presence in men’s figure skating…”
“They’re looking for a new hope,” Minako said. “National pride and all that.”
Yuuri laughed and leaned back a little. “Is that so?”
The main Japanese skater competing internationally in Seniors had turned twenty-five earlier that year. In Juniors, for the past few seasons, only Yuuri had caught more than a smattering of attention.
“I feel sorry for them,” he continued, moving to touch the page again, “waiting like this. If only there was a Victor, here in Japan.”
Frowning, Minako studied his face, but his expression didn’t so much as flicker. She returned to the article with a sigh. “You know, I really hate that word.”
“What? ‘Prodigy?’”
(Minako in the studio, feet aching and unsteady, as she gritted her teeth and thought, one more repetition. The girls who didn’t make the cut, the way they choked back their cries. The women who pushed and pushed but could never quite reach, the pallor of their skin and the sharpness of their bones.)
It fell from her lips, acrid against her tongue. “‘Prodigy.’”
The Yuuri on her lap stared dolefully at her. She gave him one last glance and turned the page.
Phichit Chulanont
There’d been a girl in Detroit who’d really, really liked Yuuri. It was easy to tell, when she’d stay in the rink long after official practice finished, attention rapt on him, or how whenever their collective social circle went out together, she’d gravitate towards him, asking after him and engaging him in conversation.
It was all very amusing, and Phichit told Yuuri so.
“You’re so awkward about it,” he’d said. Yuuri was pouring tea while glaring at him. “Really, though. You should’ve seen your face last night; it was hilarious. Next time, I’m going to take a picture.”
“I swear to God, Phichit—”
“But seriously, Yuuri, it’s been what, six months already? If you’re not interested, just tell her. Say something like, ‘sorry, but I’ve been in love with the poster on my wall for like, ten years now—’”
Yuuri spluttered, tea spilling everywhere. “Phichit.”
“I’m sorry, but you go to sleep every night with him right next to your face, I mean, come on—”
“We are not having this conversation—”
See? Very entertaining.
Still. Even though Phichit enjoyed laughs at his roommate’s expense, watching him blush and fumble whatever he was handling, he was Yuuri’s friend and rink mate, first and foremost. That meant he had to look out for him, right? Although Yuuri probably wouldn’t appreciate his meddling. Not that Phichit intended to be found out.
Sorry, Yuuri.
It’s how he ended up having that conversation with the girl several days later, in the rink while Yuuri practiced.
“—you’re here a lot for him,” he’d been saying. They were sitting on the bleachers, and Yuuri was running through his short program, again. That monster. It was almost nine o’clock, how did he still have so much energy?
She smiled at that. “I guess I have, haven’t I? I really like his skating, you know. It has this…musical quality to it, I guess?” She laughed a little. “I’m not making any sense.”
Phichit smiled too, facing forward, even as he focused on her from his peripheral vision. “Aren’t you going to say anything to him?”
She started. Phichit continued looking ahead, and waited. Finally, she answered.
“I…” She seemed to struggle with her words. “…I’ve been inviting him out a lot, lately. To new places, to meet new people.”
“I know.” Yuuri hadn’t said anything, but Phichit had gotten the gist of the conversations, just by watching from a distance.
“I do like him. But that’s not why I’ve been doing that.” She turned towards Phichit, shoulders squared and mouth set in determination. “I don’t think that’s what he needs right now.”
Something jumped within him. Needs?
“I just thought it would be good for him, if he could find activities he’d enjoy, or friends to talk to, outside the rink and fellow skaters…well, you know what his personality’s like.” With a sigh, she looked out at the ice again, where Yuuri had entered his finishing pose.
Phichit did. The muscles in his back stretched taut. He wanted to point out that Yuuri did have other hobbies, like dance, but he swallowed back his words and forced himself to keep listening.
“He just…puts himself down a lot, and it hurts. It hurts to watch. Even though he’s already achieved so much. I wonder why he can’t see any of it. It’s like he’s always looking somewhere else…”
At that, he couldn’t hold back anymore. “And you think, the problem is skating.” His smile had stiffened some time ago; how funny, he’d had selfie sprees longer than this before. And yet, right now, with the way his jaw was clenched, he was probably gritting his teeth more than anything else.
And you think, the problem is us.
“It’s not the right environment for him,” she said, forging ahead. “Maybe a little would be fine, but not the way he is right now, like it’s the center of his world. Here”—her hand gestured around them—“you have to be critical of yourself, because you need to get better. You have to put yourself down, when you can’t be the best. But that’s not what he needs. He needs people to be there for him, no matter how he does on the ice. He needs them there, when he’s anxious and uncertain. People who accept him as Yuuri, without the strings of a skater attached. And that can’t happen here.”
“…You don't think we support him?” His smile was all but gone, now. He was really beginning to regret this conversation.
Yuuri’s not your personal fix-it project.
She still didn’t look at him. “You’re rivals,” she said firmly. “As long as you’re competing, you’ll always see each other as skaters. Please don’t misunderstand, Phichit…” She swallowed. “I’m not doubting your friendship. I…”
(Yuuri, with his head bowed over the washroom sink. Phichit turned around and left.)
“…I just want to help,” she whispered.
He’d been on a road trip, when the accident happened. A short text from Yuuri (sams in the hospital) later, and he was packing up and rushing back, bursting a day late into the room their rink mate was staying in post-surgery, before heading to the rink, exhausted and running on fumes.
Yuuri took in his wretched appearance and raised a sympathetic eyebrow. “You should’ve just gone back and rested.”
“You’re one to talk,” Phichit snapped. “You look like a panda. I came here because of you! I can’t believe you’re practicing when you didn’t get any sleep last night! No one else is even here.”
Yuuri just shrugged and began removing his skate guards. Phichit tilted his head back and pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering why he’d bothered to say anything at all: Yuuri never listened to anyone. Celestino had long since given up fighting with him over things like this.
He'd just have to stay here and scream for help in case his sleep-deprived roommate did something stupid and dangerous and hurt himself in another accident. Wonderful. Why did Yuuri have to be so stubborn?
He was still in the middle of lamenting his fate, when he realized Yuuri’s gaze had flickered to a point over his shoulder. Confused, Phichit looked back. His eyes widened at who he saw.
The girl flinched and retreated from the doorway in haste. He stared after her, before turning around again to face Yuuri, who was now deliberately looking away from the entrance. He finished adjusting his skates and moved to step onto the ice.
“She just wanted to help,” he started by way of explanation, placing his guards on the barrier. “It was my fault, yesterday in the hospital.” He gave a rueful smile. “Sorry. I apologized, but it’ll probably be awkward between us from now on.”
Somehow, the tone and expression didn't quite reach his eyes.
Christophe Giacometti
It’d happened so quickly. One moment, he and Yuuri were standing in front of the screen, Yuuri’s eyes had been red, Chris ignored it, they were discussing Victor’s upcoming free skate which would be next, and then…
One, two, three, four rotations, but the angle was all wrong, and the skater came down on his right leg. He heard a collective gasp as the man slid across the ice and lay there. There were little hisses around them, snatches of “Skater Sawamura,” “that looks bad,” and Yuuri—
—Yuuri had gone as white as a sheet. Even his lips appeared bloodless. “Eric,” he choked out.
Chris stared at nothing. It made no sense. “Why?” he asked, more to himself than anyone else. “Why a fourth quad? It wasn’t planned, and if he was so tired, then why…”
“—aren’t you going to ask me? Why I forced that last quad?”
They were sitting together in a local hospital room, where Chris had been translating a trashy gossip magazine aloud with great relish. How’d it’d made it into Eric’s ward, he’d never know.
At those words, he trailed off, lowering the rolled-up magazine, where he’d been on an article about yet another supposedly cheating relationship.
Eric didn’t wait for him to answer. “I made a bet with myself, you see.”
What could he even say to that? “A bet.” On what? Why now? The injury wasn’t anything career-ending, but a compound fracture would put Eric out of commission for the rest of the season. He’d miss World’s because of a Grand Prix qualifier.
“I didn’t do well at Skate America last month, and I didn’t podium at World’s, this year.”
“I was out of commission for World’s this year,” Chris pointed out.
Eric exhaled softly. “Right.” He shifted on the bed to face Chris, smiling. “But this is my last season.”
His tongue felt too large for his mouth. “What?
“I've already peaked and am past my prime,” he said simply. Chris opened his mouth to interject, but Eric didn't stop. “My hip and back. They’ve been bothering me for a while now. The doctors said…” He seemed to struggle a little. “I had an argument with Celestino about it, in the off-season. I promised him, then.”
Still, he continued smiling. “I practiced the program with four quads, too. Two toe loops, one Salchow, and one loop. But my stamina would usually run out, so I entered with three. Today, though…it didn’t hurt as much today, my hip. So I thought I’d make a bet. All, or nothing.”
Victor. Chris felt nauseous.
Quiet laughter. “I wished I’d managed to learn the Lutz or flip.” Eric's eyes flicked downwards. “Like your quad Lutz, Chris. Even Victor’s can’t compare.”
Chris would never admit it to anyone, least of all to Victor himself, but there were nights when he’d lain awake, wondering how everything would’ve turned out if Victor had chosen to specialize in the Lutz, and not the flip. He’d probably have forced himself to pick the flip instead, determined to master it or go insane trying, wanting at least one thing to distinguish himself from Victor Nikiforov’s crushing perfection.
Like everyone else.
The silence was stifling. He glanced at the magazine where it lay limply by his side. This crushing jocularity…Eric was looking at him again, lips stretched upwards. Chris had a mental image of melting wax.
Do you regret it? he almost asked, and he immediately bit down his tongue. Instead, he leaned forward and pulled Eric into a hug, feeling him stiffen slightly. “I’ll miss you,” he told him. “I’ll come haunt you in America. You’d better let me in.”
It was easier to say the words when they weren’t face to face.
Eric really did laugh, then, loudly. “I’ll stock my house with Swiss chocolate, just for you.”
“You Americans only import the crappy stuff.” He pulled back, taking in how the mannerisms had relaxed. The smile was still there, but it was smaller. Softer, now.
Chris stood up, tossing the gossip magazine back to him—“learn some French for me, okay?”—and moved to open the door. Peering down the hallway, his hand tightened on the knob, and he looked over his shoulder, willing the words out. “Victor hasn’t come yet, has he?”
Eric turned to face the window. He gripped at the thin blanket. “No.”
“He will later, then. It’s still early, for visiting hours.”
“I know he will.” His fingers tightened further, the knuckles shining white. “Of course he will.”
Chris left it at that, closing the door behind him.
Everything was heavy. He had half a mind to head back to the hotel and just sleep for the rest of the morning. Something shifted in the corner of his eye as the latch clicked shut. He turned, startled.
Yuuri was standing stiffly against the wall behind the door, gaze downcast, clutching a bouquet of flowers.
“Yuuri,” he said. “You didn’t need to stand out here. You could’ve—” come in. But then Yuuri looked him in the eyes, and he remembered the terrified stare, the bloodless face. He stumbled on his words, suddenly acutely aware that Yuuri and Sawamura were rink mates.
He already knew.
Everything grew heavier, and Chris swallowed.
“You—” his voice cracked even as he tried to smile. “You can see him, now.” It probably looked more like a grimace.
Yuuri's head bowed in response. A low murmur left his lips.
Chris inhaled sharply, unsure if he'd heard correctly. "What?"
Yuuri straightened again, and one of the corners of his mouth twitched upwards. “Sorry, it's nothing. I'll go in now. Thank you, Chris.”
Chris watched him enter, listened to his soft greeting, to Eric's cheerful one back. The words he thought he'd heard Yuuri say reverberated in his mind.
Do you pity him?
Yuri Plisetsky
It was surprisingly easy to skate with Katsuki Yuuri as a rink mate. He supposed he should have known, after all the practicing for the Onsen on Ice, but it managed to astonish him, anyway. (There might’ve been feelings of betrayal and a belief that crying in washrooms made you the biggest loser in the world involved, but he’d rather not think about that. Ever.)
So, Yuuri was polite to the other skaters, careful about where he skated during practice, and even listened to Yakov’s advice on his form and jumps—the first time that happened, Yuri swore Yakov had teared up a bit. He was less attentive when it came to the chides about late nights and overuse injuries, but well, Yakov couldn’t expect to win everything.
All in all, a passable rink mate.
Only problem was, with him around, Victor became unbearable.
He didn’t know if Victor had eyes on the back of his head or just a specialized Yuuri-radar, and he didn’t want to know, but he swore Victor honest-to-fucking-god chirped whenever Yuuri came within ten feet of him. His eyes would go all gooey and his mouth that disgusting heart-shape, and Yuri was sure their displays of affection, which happened every ten seconds because Victor was more barnacle than human, were the vilest things to ever exist. And there must’ve been something wrong with him, because he made it a twisted pastime, to try and document exactly how many Yuuri-directed happy Victor faces there were.
So one day, after Yuuri landed a particularly beautiful quad flip, Yuri, like always, glanced at Victor to see what nauseating expression he’d make. He felt his stomach lurch.
Victor wasn’t smiling. His eyes, though fixed on Yuuri, were neither proud nor assessing, and there was a tightness in the lines of his jaw and brows that made Yuri itch to ask what the hell. But then Victor beamed and chirped again, calling out to Yuuri, and he was left wondering if he’d imagined it all.
Until he saw the same stare again. Then again. And again.
And then, he was seeing it everywhere: at the rink during practice, in front of Yuri’s favourite restaurant, in Victor’s apartment when they invited him to dinner, outside browsing through shops. It was like one of those optical illusions or hidden images; you could spend hours gazing at them without noticing anything out of the ordinary, but once you saw it once, you couldn’t not see it.
Yuri wondered if this was what going mad felt like.
He was with Victor and Yuuri all day, everyday, so of course he’d ended up with that dream.
“I’m retiring, Yurio.”
There was a pirozhok in his hands, and then suddenly, there wasn’t. What had been inside, again? Pork and egg? He couldn’t remember.
“What?”
“I’m retiring,” the figure said again, its back to Yuri. “I’m tired, and I’ve won gold. I’m satisfied.” And with that, it began to move, retreating away, becoming smaller and smaller.
No no no, stop him, every part of him screamed. Stop him, somehow, just stop him!
“Wait! Wait, please…” Yuri gasped, chasing after the phantom, but for some reason he couldn’t run and he’d never hated himself more for being five-foot-four with the stride to match.
“Please! Will I ever see you again?”
Dream-Yuuri just kept walking. He didn’t look back once.
Yuri snapped awake, vaulting off the pillow and clutching his duvet to himself, and tried to calm the violent tremors wracking his body.
This was all Victor’s fault, with his fucking stares and fucking insecurities and what right did he have to look like that, when he was the one wearing the fucking ring? Yuri just wanted to skate, he didn’t need Victor’s stupid shit messing with his head, he had competitions he needed to win and money and sponsorships to worry about and…
He lay like that, cursing at Victor for affecting him, and at himself for being affected in the first place.
The next day, at Victor’s apartment, after Yuuri headed out to walk Maccachin and Victor fixed that stare to his back as he left, Yuri decided enough was enough. “You’re an idiot,” he told Victor, none-too-gently.
Victor started, then turned to peer at Yuri through his bangs. “What?”
“Don’t play dumb. The way you look at Katsudon, when you think no one’s watching. You brought it on yourself, with your flaky, half-assed attitude.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and willed himself to stay calm. “If you’re that fucking scared, you should’ve just gotten married, instead of making some stupid stipulation. Who the hell does that, anyway?”
No response. Yuri’s hackles started to rise. “Say something already, old man.”
Victor just smiled that closed-eye, closed-mouth smile, head tilted to one side. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
And with that, Yuri saw red, his blood pressure skyrocketing.
He hadn’t even lasted two minutes. What was wrong with him, these days? He didn’t remember Victor riling him up this easily when he skated in Juniors. Most of their conversations back then had at least been civil. Nowadays, it seemed like all Victor had to do was exist, and Yuri would be at the end of his fuse.
Mila, the hag, had smirked and said, teenage hormones.
He lowered his gaze, certain if he spent another second looking at Victor’s face, he’d do something he’d regret, like break his phone, or worse.
“‘We’ll get married when he wins the gold medal,’” Yuri quoted through his teeth. “And since you didn’t get married when he took gold at Japanese Nationals, I’m guessing that’s not good enough for you?”
He stole a glance at Victor’s mouth. The smile was gone.
Good.
“What’s enough, then? The Grand Prix Finals? The World Championships? The Olympics?” It was like a dam had burst. He continued, wanting to expel the bitterness he hadn’t even realized was there, wanting to inflict hurt. “Must be nice, having someone so eager to meet your fucking standards that he lets himself get strung along like that. It must feel good, to have someone so fucking devoted.”
At that, Victor finally flinched. Yuri felt a stab of vicious glee at the reaction, along with a twinge of guilt. He stamped down the guilt.
“How dare you play the victim,” he snarled at the table, his vision starting to blur. “You”—he gritted his teeth, almost spitting the next word—“love each other, right? So why aren’t you—”
“Yura.”
Yuri froze, then slowly lifted his head. He jerked backwards at what he saw, the anger draining out of him.
The poised, cool expression had disappeared, and what replaced it was almost painful to look at. It was like some sort of protective barrier had collapsed, exposing the frail, naked thing underneath. It shouldn’t be outside; it was unnatural, too much…
“Yura,” Victor repeated. “If Yuuri had won gold in Barcelona, would he have agreed to marry me?”
Yuri’s breath stuttered in his throat, and he thought back to the day of the free skate. He remembered Katsuki Yuuri walking in with a focused, shuttered expression, and Victor following, bereft and lost. There was Victor’s embrace, tight and trembling, head against his shoulder. The desperate furor with which he’d skated Allegro Appassionato in B minor. His tears when he’d finished and recalled all his mistakes, terrified it wasn’t enough.
The question was rhetorical, he realized. Victor had already known the answer. And Yuri had known, too.
“Isn’t it funny?” Victor said, voice brittle. “Yuuri justified retiring by saying he didn’t want to interfere with my skating. But after he decided to continue, he was perfectly fine with me competing and coaching him at the same time.”
Yuri bristled again, snapping before he could help it. “What the hell are you getting at?”
Victor simply smiled, the expression strange and out of place.
Victor Nikiforov
There were many words he wanted to say to Yuuri. He was too afraid to say them to Yuuri.
I don’t care if you win gold. I want to stay with you forever. I love you.
He’d worked up the courage before, in a dream.
It’d been one of those vivid, false awakening types, where he dreamed he’d woken up, pressed skin to skin under the covers with Yuuri. He lay there, content to watch Yuuri sleep, taking in how black eyelashes would flutter with the slightest movement, or how the slope of an arm would rise and sink with every breath.
The words strained within his chest, and he quivered with the effort of holding them in, even while they beat against his throat and twisted insistently on his tongue. And so he pressed his mouth to the junction of Yuuri’s neck and shoulder and whispered the lines one by one, reveling in the way those restless phrases settled into the warm skin.
At I love you, Yuuri stirred. Victor felt the part of lips against his pulse, then the tickle of Yuuri’s exhale as he spoke, voice deep with sleep. “…And?”
Victor stilled, confused. “And…?” he asked, pulling back to look at Yuuri, whose face was open and alert, eyes large and bright.
Yuuri just shifted, fingers moving under silvery bangs to lift them upwards, and then he was leaning in.
Suddenly everything was swimming and Victor realized he was crying, had been for some time, that there were tears pooling against his cheekbones and trickling down his face. And still Yuuri leaned in, closer and closer, until all of Victor’s vision was black hair and dark eyes, until nothing remained before him but brown depths and the reflection of Victor’s own, the blue a muddy overlay.
“…And what is your love worth, Victor?”
He woke, and then he remembered—
His hand gripped Yuuri’s shoulder.
“What brought this on?” he asked. Try as he might, neither the tears nor trembling would stop. “Why are you saying this now? I don’t understand. Is this because of the short program today? If that’s it, you can still—”
“It’s nothing like that,” Yuuri said, gently pushing him back. “I don’t regret anything I did on the ice today. I’m disappointed, but…” His gaze drifted off to the side, pensive. “… J.J. was the same, you know? We both took risks. We took them, knowing the possible consequences.”
“Then why—”
“Like I said, you don’t have to worry about me. I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize my performance tomorrow; it’s the last free skate in my career, after all.” Looking back at Victor, his tone became almost teasing, one side of his mouth pulling up. “Just, believe in me? I’ve been thinking about it ever since I finished the short program…I’ll definitely win gold. For me, for you. I’ll show everyone how much I’ve grown in these past eight months.”
Victor’s tears had stopped, along with his breathing. He could hardly hear anything over the rush of blood in his ears and buzz of white noise in his head.
“Ah, that’s right! That reminds me,” Yuuri continued, either not noticing or ignoring how Victor had stilled. “The exhibition costumes! We should lay them out and do a final check, to make sure nothing’s wrong for the pair skate. We already did one for the free program costume, so…”
Previously, Victor had believed he met the real Katsuki Yuuri in Sochi, teasing and seductive, then amended that thought when he saw Katsuki Yuuri again in Hasetsu, blushing and reverent. Then one last time, at a parking garage in Beijing, where Katsuki Yuuri had bared his fears and insecurities.
All those times, he’d been mistaken. He was only meeting the real Katsuki Yuuri tonight, in a Barcelona hotel room. And what he saw now, of this stranger standing before him, terrified him.
It terrified him, the way Yuuri simply expected him to play along, the way he nonchalantly declared his intention to win gold and skate Stammi Viccino, a routine that was supposed to be a representation of their bond, all while forcing Victor to retire as his coach, as if…
As if Victor’s presence by his side was an afterthought.
Nothing made sense, anymore. “How long?”
Yuuri started where he was carefully arranging the costumes, turning his attention back to Victor. Victor kept talking, voice threatening to crack. “How long have you been thinking about this? When did you decide to retire?”
When did you decide you didn’t need me?
Yuuri continued to stare at him. Victor stared back. He could scarcely believe what he saw on that face.
Wariness and…irritation?
“It was set in stone after the Rostelecom Cup,” Yuuri finally answered, matter-of-fact. “Right after the free skate, that’s when I fully made up my mind.”
Rostelecom. Victor thought back to what Yuuri had said, then. The words that’d once given him hope took on an ominous meaning.
Please take care of me, until I retire.
“But,” Yuuri continued, looking down at the costumes once more, gently smoothing them with his fingers, the tender actions contrasting with the cool delivery of his words. “I was thinking about it in mid-April, and pretty sure I wanted to in late May.”
April, May. The month Victor arrived, and the month after. He understood what it felt like then, to have his world come crashing down.
It was like being asked, which path will you take, left or right, then carefully considering and deliberating and making a decision, only to find out in the end that none of it mattered. That the paths he chose, could have chosen, didn’t choose, all shared the same destination, the same ending, because Yuuri had predetermined everything. That there’d only been the illusion of choice, because Yuuri had never intended to give him any say in their relationship, ever since May, or maybe before that, ever since his arrival in Hasetsu—no, even before that?
Ever since Yuuri looped his arms around Victor’s waist and said, be my coach?
What did you even want from me, when you asked? Why did you ask in the first place, trick me into believing you needed me? Did you ever truly need me at all? The real me, the me you said you wanted?
And to think, just this morning, he’d felt like he was on top of the world…
It terrified him, that Yuuri could so effortlessly give him everything, and then, with the same ease, take it all away.
“Please,” he finally begged, head bowing. Through his bangs, he could see Yuuri, recoiling in shock. “Please. I know this is something you’ve given a lot of thought…I’ll respect whatever you decide. But, this is my last request, as your coach …”
For the first time the entire evening, Yuuri looked unsure, wavering. At this point, he’d take any small victory he could get. “…Please, don’t make your decision now. At least, wait until after the Grand Prix Finals…I’m begging you.”
Watching Yuuri skate a better-than-flawless free program, Victor realized several things about himself:
- He was indeed a second-rate coach. Judging from Yuuri’s beatific smile before his turn started, how long had Yuuri been waiting for him to say that? How long had he hesitated, fearing it would turn into another Cup of China disaster?
- He was an incorrigible, sentimental fool. Crying over Yuuri’s skating, even if it had surpassed his wildest dreams. And he’d felt hope again, after it’d been so horribly dashed to pieces.
- He hated compromises as much as Yuuri did.
Perhaps he’d been mistaken, and Yuuri hadn’t needed him, the way Victor thought he did. But Yuuri had wanted him, chosen him. He’d asked Victor, and no one else, to believe in him and stay close to him. That was good enough; it would have to be.
(Even now, if he closed his eyes, he could see it before himself: the many long, winding paths, intersecting and forking only to merge into one at the very end.)
Katsuki Yuuri
Half a life ago, I saw Victor Nikiforov as a vision dancing across the screen, and I announced my intention to compete.
When my mother asked if I was sure, I faltered a little, balking. Somehow, even as a child, I understood the significance. Skating was my escape from things that made me uncomfortable or anxious. If I chose to compete, then skating itself would become one of those things. My emotions and my skating. They’d always been strongly connected.
But then I thought of Victor and the way he’d glided across the ice, and there wasn’t any choice at all.
A nervous child, I naturally shied away from games, contests, tournaments and the like. The concept of stakes terrified me; the idea of ‘winner,’ ‘loser,’ the impassable gulf between them, and how nonchalantly everyone decided it all was enough to make my eyes swim, vision darkening with dread. I developed a habit of throwing things, of folding the instant I foresaw my loss. These tendencies didn’t endear me to children my age.
“Crybaby,” they said.
“Say that again,” Yuuko would snarl. Nishigori kept getting into fistfights. I ran away.
So my mother’s concern at my declaration was understandable.
One of my instructors practically exploded with delight upon hearing the news. “I’ve been telling him for so long! He has so much talent. It’d be such a waste if he didn’t compete. You must let him, Katsuki-san.”
My mother smiled nervously. “I don’t want to put too much pressure on him. Maybe just a small one, first, so he can see if he enjoys it?”
“Yes, of course! There’s a non-qualifying one coming up in a few months, in Saga—”
She briefed me at the rink a couple of days later.
“It’s a small competition, set up for children who like skating,” she said, helping me through my stretches. “I’ll act as your coach, Yuuri-kun. And then, if you want to continue, we can start preparing for regionals—”
“I want to,” I said. “I want to go to regionals.” I flushed at my rudeness.
She blinked, surprised, then her lips stretched into a grin. “That’s the spirit!” She leaned a little closer. “Actually, I wanted to tell you something beforehand, so you won’t be too surprised, okay?” At my nod, she continued. “Most of the children won’t have any triples.”
It was my turn for shock. No triples? Victor had landed his first triple at seven. I frowned. It’s true he was a genius, and she said non-qualifying, but still, it was a competition, so I’d thought…
“Think of it as a trial run, if you’d like,” she said, at my expression. “But I want you to relax and have fun, okay? That’s what’s most important.”
Relax and have fun. Those are cursed words. But at the time, I consumed them as law.
The upcoming event hurtled towards me as a yawning uncertainty. To take my mind off the fear, I increased my time on the ice. One hour turned into two, and two into four, until it’d greedily blotted out all parts of the day I could give. My coach bid me to rest more to no avail; even if she left, I’d keep practicing, alone. Minako must’ve caught word of my zealotry, because she started showing up like well-kept clockwork, every night at eight, to drag me back to the inn. There in my bed, I dreamed of the choreography. I tried to skate everywhere.
My family noticed, and my mother fretted. “You’re overworking yourself,” she said, tracing her fingers under my eyes. Mari sighed loudly every time she spied me watching yet another recording. My father just smiled wanly and shook his head.
Still, I persisted. I was in a paradoxical situation. Skating caused my nerves, but it also soothed them. This bizarre feedback loop, sustained through self-cannibalization like a snake eating its own tail, carried me all the way to the competition. Perhaps part of me believed that with enough practice, I could forget about the unease, and reach that mythical state of 'relax and have fun' my coach thought essential.
As Saga demonstrated, that was a silly belief.
Most of the performances were solid; I knew this objectively. I watched as skater after skater gulped deep breaths and staggered into starting position, only to lose themselves in their routines when the speakers played, throwing off their fear like a cumbersome cloak. Graceless steps, clumsy spins, flubbed jumps, nothing appeared to matter except them and the ice. It was all achingly sentimental, and exactly as my coach had said: though not technically proficient, these children adored skating. And I too, became lost. Whose turn was it, now? How many had skated, so far? These personal love letters had no power over me, the details, costumes, and music blurring together. I couldn’t tell one from the next.
Instead, what stuck in my head was...
…A spectacular wipe-out after a poor landing on a single loop. Miscalculating the distance and careening straight into the boards. Failing to adapt to errors and skating out-of-sync with the music. Stopping dead in the middle of the routine, blanking, having forgotten the choreography. One miss, two misses, three...
Every such performance stoked my growing terror. I was certain that when my turn came, I’d make every mistake I’d seen, and more. I was trembling, skin cold and slippery against my clothes, by the time they called my name. My legs almost gave out with my first step onto the ice.
The routine flew by in a numb, jerky blur. I only remember bits and pieces: the spasm of my legs whenever I jumped, a fall on a double axel—the first in over a year, a hand down on a triple toe-loop. Afterwards, I stumbled off the ice, cognizant that had been my worst skating in months. My coach slid an arm around my shoulders.
“There’s a difference between skating in practice and at a competition,” she said, looking at the scoreboard. “Eventually, you’ll get used to the pressure…look Yuuri-kun, you’re in first!”
I nodded dumbly, and she continued, saying how everyone made mistakes in competitions they’d never make in practice. How she’d seen my panic and was proud of me for pulling through. Dimly, I wondered what that meant for Victor, whose novice and junior careers were full of miss-free performances. What it meant for me, that she felt it necessary to commend me for not losing my mind.
It was sobering, realizing that all the hard work in the world meant nothing in the face of mental weakness. If I was already in pieces now, how could I handle larger competitions?
Emotions and skating. I had no control over either. It ate at me, even as I climbed the podium.
The presenter pulled out the awards one by one with great aplomb. “Third place!” the announcer cried, and the child grinned, grabbing it and waving to the click of cameras. “Second place!” came the next call, and though the boy tried his best, I could see his lips twitch as he accepted. Someone yelled his name from the audience, and that did it, because he was now waving as enthusiastically as the other.
Unbidden, Victor breaking the world record passed through my mind.
The presenter held out another certificate, beaming. “And for Katsuki Yuuri-kun, first place!”
Suddenly, I didn’t want it. I wanted it far, far away from me or to rip it to shreds and burn it. My reaction was entirely illogical; there was no reason a simple piece of paper, one meant to be validation, no less, should inspire such an ugly, visceral response in a twelve-year-old child. But even though I told my arms to lift up and accept it, they stubbornly stayed put at my sides. I felt the beginnings of terror again, coiling in my stomach.
The presenter must’ve seen my reluctance, because his smile dimmed and he hesitated just the slightest bit, the paper quivering in the air, still waiting for my hands. On my left and right, the other children started to look in my direction, wondering what was taking so long. A wave of hot shame surged through me. How ridiculous, panicking over an award!
I finally forced myself to take it, fingers twitching and smile threatening to slide off my face, trying not to look like the world’s most ungrateful brat.
The entire train ride home, still holding that accursed certificate, I fantasized about burning it. I imagined leaning over the stove burner or starting a small fire in the backyard. How I’d dangle it just within reach, so the flames would lick at the edge, turning it yellow-hot and smoking, before advancing in a thin orange line, devouring the words and leaving black ash. But then I thought about my mother, my father, my sister walking in on me, the looks they’d give and the things they’d say, and the idea of that was even more unbearable than the certificate’s continued existence.
In the end, I compromised and shoved the thing deep into a storage room drawer.
There was something else the competition incited within me, other than that melodramatic flight of fancy. Humiliated that my mind had betrayed me, I swore that next time, I’d succeed. The things that’d defeated me, I’d find a way to control them.
No matter what it took, I promised myself.
And so began the fight that would define most of my skating career.
In the beginning, I childishly hoped that with enough willpower and determination, I’d overcome my shortcomings. This attitude harmed more than helped: any evidence of my emotions besting me became a sign of personal inadequacy, and I’d sink into deep dejection, overindulging in food to blunt the bitterness. That habit, too, I saw as proof of my failings. Each time, I redoubled my efforts, more desperate than ever, only to fail again. It turned into an obsession. The only other option I could see was to accept that I was weak, to resign myself to a life of self-sabotage, and to young me, believing that meant the end of my dream.
As this vicious cycle persisted, my nightmares started. Many times throughout my junior career, I’d jerk awake under my blankets, soaked in cold sweat, then lie there staring at the ceiling until the first glimpses of dawn trickled in. The dreams themselves had little variety; they always re-enacted one of my disastrous real-life performances, and only from a small selection. A Croatia Cup short program, a free skate in Hitachinaka. My first international competition, that free skate where I’d fallen on the opening triple Lutz-double toe loop combination and failed to recover. As if to compensate for such lack of creativity, my mind would throw in twists. In one, the rink filled with water, and I suffocated. In another, the ice melted into a mire, immobilizing my legs. Under the light of day, these scenarios seemed grotesquely implausible, banal in their predictability, but trapped in my sleep I felt only terror.
Looking back, it seems fitting that I was unable to break free of those nightmares, a reflection of the way I’d been unable to break free from my emotional snares.
No miraculous breakthrough catalyzed the end of those dreams. I merely became aware, one day, that I’d been sleeping through the night uninterrupted for a while. I don’t even know when they’d stopped: before Detroit, or after? Perhaps my brain had tired of repeatedly churning out situations to scare me with, perhaps I’d matured enough that frightening me became harder. Or maybe I’d simply numbed to the perpetual struggle, having acclimatized to the endless push and pull between the two halves of my mind. Or even, the possibility I dreaded most of all, I really had given up, and I was only continuing out of denial that I could still fight. A delusional man who kept going, because stopping meant losing everything. I’d given up everything for skating; without it, I was empty…
No matter the reason, the result was the same. And as I entered Seniors, I understood the unchangeable truth that the naïve, childish me could not.
I could never achieve my best. I could never achieve it, because it sat sealed within my mind, behind an insurmountable wall of my own making, behind my shortcomings, my failures. I’d have to make due without it. My best didn’t exist.
What’s the use of talent, if I couldn’t access it? Of potential, when it was doomed to rot away? Did I really think I could reach Victor, as a person who didn’t have a ‘best?’
With those thoughts, I dreamed that dream.
It was of a young boy, drawing figures at a beach. When I tried to move closer, hoping to get a closer look, he looked up and frowned, every line of his body tense.
“Stop,” he said, and gestured at his feet. “This is my space. You can’t enter.”
I followed his hand down and saw it—a circle centered around him, carved deep into sand. It was small. Had he drawn it himself, with that stick he clutched so tightly? Drawn it here, next to the waves, as the wind shifted debris and gravel all around him? I trembled at the thought.
Satisfied by how I’d stilled, he pressed the stick into the ground, beginning his scrawling again. Another eight. “It’s all I can handle right now,” he said, not bothering to look up. “Everything inside has to be perfect. If I make it bigger, I mess up.” His hand faltered a little. “Even now, I still mess up. If I make it bigger, they can enter. They get inside, and then…” He paused to suck in a shaky breath.
I spoke. “And then?”
“…It’s even harder to be perfect.” He scrubbed at his face with his sleeve. “It’s hard enough when I’m the only one. If it was him, he could do it. No matter how big it was, no matter how many got inside, he could do it. But I’m not him. Even though I’m trying so hard—”
I shook awake, and reached up to touch my cheek. My fingers came away wet. I curled into myself. It didn’t make any sense.
This dream should have been the dullest of them all.
Yet, I found that marker in the sand more terrifying than all the exaggerated monstrosities my childhood brain had fashioned out my failures.
Coda
Sometimes, I’m not sure you understand, just how much you mean to me. Maybe you thought you understood, when you said, ‘that sounds like a proposal,’ or perhaps when you said, ‘I wish you’d never retire.’ And I saw what you wanted then, and I was happy, I really was, but…
…It’s amazing, really, how much I desire your love and your faith. Even now, I still don’t know how everything got so out of control. How I went from ‘just a little more of your time,’ to Rostelecom, where I’d nearly drowned, pulled under; that’s what Katsuki Yuuri’s feelings for Victor Nikiforov were like at that point. A vast ocean in which I was suspended, with no sense of up or down. In which a single thrash was equally likely to send me to the surface, where I could finally breathe, or even deeper into the depths, where I’d be crushed.
Did you understand, how I felt at Barcelona, before my free skate, when you said those words to me? How much it meant to have Victor Nikiforov, and all he represented, say, ‘I know and I’m telling you, that what you think is your best is not your best. I chose you because I saw this; I left everything because I believed this.’ How much it gave me, someone who spent half his life chasing you but always fell short?
For the longest time, I felt like I was skating through a filter. No matter what and how I did, whenever I finished my routine, this wall, infinite in height and width, always greeted me, and I understood the message: ‘this is as far as you can go.’ And I’d accepted it, a part of me. Even if I told myself I hadn’t given up, I think part of me already took it as truth, that as long as I skated, it’d always be there, and I’d always be one step short.
Until you came, Victor. And slowly, gradually, that insurmountable barrier shrank and shrank, and my strength grew and grew. And then, at Barcelona, after your words, I thought, ‘Ah, I can clear this, now! So this is what my best feels like.’ If it was possible, I wanted to do it forever. Just you, me, and skating...
I owe that free skate to you. Because of your unshakeable conviction, I think that was the first time I truly believed in myself. I’m very grateful.
Oh, your eyes were teary at the kiss-and-cry, weren’t they? Maybe you understood after all.
The truth is, Victor, I’ve always felt very close to you. You were there when I decided to compete, and you became the star I orbited around—in a world without you, I probably would’ve stayed a recreational skater. How distant it feels, the sort of life that might’ve been. Thinking about it became a pastime of mine when I was younger: what kind of person would Katsuki Yuuri be if Victor Nikiforov didn’t exist?
It’s hypothetical, but there’s a parallel question we can ask, in our own world. I used to think a lot about this, as well. If someone reached into me and stripped away all traces of you, Victor, what do you think would be left? A shell? Half a person? Nothing at all?
There’s one thing I hate above all else.
It’s a fascinating word, ‘pity.’ The Oxford Dictionary entry greatly intrigues me: ‘The feeling of sorrow and compassion caused by the sufferings and misfortunes of others.’ A definition with positive connotations—who doesn’t want to feel compassion for others’ pain—yet when you present it to someone, they recoil, face twisted in disgust, as if you’ve offended the very essence of their being. So I used to wonder, what is it about pity that inspires such a gut-churning sense of revulsion? Perhaps it’s presumptuous of me, as a person who has difficulty connecting with others, but I think I understand. It feels something like:
‘Ah, poor Yuuri, with his glass heart and burdensome expectations; how frustrating must it be, to live like that? Look at him, skating as Japan’s Ace while fighting anxiety and low self-esteem; isn’t that a story that makes you want to cry? Oh, if only he wasn’t so hard on himself! If only he understood, how amazing he already is!’
‘Look, Yuuri, I’ll give you an award; look Yuuri, here’s a list of your accomplishments; hey Yuuri, no matter how you do, I’ll always be on your side, you know that? See, Yuuri, how magnanimous we’re being, trying to make you feel better! Don’t you feel better yet, Yuuri?’
And then they smile, looking at me expectantly, and there’s little I can do but smile back. It’s a cunning tactic, cutting off your opponent’s options before you let them speak. In the same way, if someone gets on their knees in a crowded hallway and says, ‘I’m sorry, won’t you forgive me,’ then the only thing you can say back is, ‘it’s alright, I accept your apology.’ Well, maybe some people can say other things. Maybe Yurio, but he’s a child, an exception. Could you do it, Victor?
They don’t mean to sound like that, of course. Human beings are well-meaning to a fault. And some don’t. Some don’t say anything at all and instead traipse around like they’re walking on eggshells, waiting for me to pick myself up. And though I’m thankful, in some ways, it’s worse, because then they’re sacrificing themselves for my sake, when I’m the problem. For them to do it for my sake, when I’m the one at fault, when I didn’t ask for it…
…Sorry, I’ve digressed. But the point is, Victor, why do we hate pity? Or more accurately, why do people like me, hate pity? It’s because it’s only given out in the times we’re weak, and when we’re weak, we don’t want to feel weak. The last thing I want when I’m weak is for others to thrust my weakness in my face, telling me, ‘it doesn’t matter if you’re weak; I’ll stay with you forever!’ It’s harrowing: love without faith.
That’s why, Victor, when the time comes, you’ll let me go, won’t you?