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Winter in St. Petersburg had always been harsh. His first winter had been one of the worst. He’d recently started training under Russia’s most capable coach, Yakov Feltsman, and had been living in an apartment alone at thirteen years old, or at least might as well have been. Yakov had set him up to live with an older skater who could legally have his name on the lease and look after him, but he was rarely home to do such things. All Viktor really knew about his flatmate at the time was that he was a two time Russian world champion and he was eighteen years old and had their groceries delivered to their apartment on Wednesdays. Because his roommate was never home Viktor spent alone all day while he trained, not knowing any of his rink mates, and then spent the whole night alone when he returned from the rink. It had been a miserable winter. But then, Yakov adopted a brown poodle for him for his fourteenth birthday upon realizing this, and the dog became his source of happiness. He did everything with Makkachin and for Makkachin.
The older Viktor got, the more Makkachin meant to him, but sometimes Makkachin wasn’t enough to keep him happy. This strange phenomenon happened in the winter, as St. Petersburg winters were harsh not only to children living alone in spacious apartments, but to figure skating champions who couldn’t stand to see the snow piling up outside on their small balcony and on the sidewalks they use to get to his training facility, and the way that the snow made them feel.
The cold of winter never bothers Viktor. It couldn’t have, really. He’s a professional figure skater now, at twenty five. He’s decorated in medals for his efforts in the freezing conditions that all ice rinks boast. It’s not that cold that gets him down. It’s the snow always manages to take him out at the knees.
It’s February now and Makkachin is staying with Yakov because there’s not much Viktor can do this deep into winter for the dog. He’s not even completely capable of taking care of himself. Makkachin doesn’t need to be around for that sort of thing. Makkachin needs love and food and exercise but all Viktor can manage to do when he gets home from the rink is lie in his bed in a heap of blankets and stare at the wall.
He’s not even sure how he manages to get himself to the rink and skate like the three time Grand Prix gold medalist he is, but somehow he’s been doing it for years. For every single winter practice, he manages to put on a smile and work through choreography until it’s perfected enough for Yakov’s expectations.
It’s when he goes home when it all falls apart… so he’s learned to avoid home as much as possible. He goes for long walks enjoying the beauty of the city he’s been lucky enough to call home for twelve years drinking various warm drinks from cups he buys from street vendors. Today’s drink of choice is green tea, which is nearly as bitter as Viktor feels inside watching all the happy people currently in town. Every laugh he hears brings him closer and closer to bursting at the seams and screaming about how he used to be that happy too. He misses the snowless summer where he could be happy like everyone around him is now, even with snow surrounding them.
He loved snow when he was younger. Every child did. Now, the sight of the white on the ground and in the trees and air makes him feel heavy. He feels like a man made of lead, though he’s far from it if his recent physical is an indicator.
Every winter he loses at least ten pounds, and not from working harder on his programs -- never from that.
He sleeps too much, too. Yakov is threatening to move a junior skater in with him so he’ll make it to practice on time. He knows Yakov wouldn’t do that to him, though. He’s far too understanding of whatever it is that makes Viktor a barely functioning human.
He’d probably end up scaring the younger skater away with his short temper and habit of crying in the shower late at night anyway. He probably wouldn’t even remember to have groceries delivered for the poor kid.
He finds himself on the route home eventually, tired of the happy people, and soon he’s fumbling for his key at the front door of the apartment he once shared with a man he never really knew. It feels more like a real home now, with Makkachin’s bed in his bedroom and magnets on the refrigerator from places he and his friends have traveled to, which he’s thankful for.
He unlocks the door and toes off his shoes in the entryway, and puts his coat on one of two hooks by the door. He tries not to think about the lack of another coat for his second hook, and heads for the bathroom, where he initiates what seems to have become a regular routine of crying in the cramped shower.
He falls to the floor of the shower a minute in and lets his sobs shake his body until both his cries and himself calm down enough that he can turn off the shower and go to bed.
He doesn’t bother to towel off upon exiting the shower, rather opting for forcing his boxers on over wet legs and crawling under the heap of blankets he’d left behind when he went to the rink that morning.
After what feels like two seconds of wall staring later, but is probably fifteen minutes worth of it, he realizes he didn’t plug his phone in, but he can’t muster up the energy or motivation to collect his phone from his coat in the entryway so he accepts that he’ll go without one for tomorrow and uses the energy he would have used to get his phone to take a sleeping pill and he falls asleep.