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Hanahaki disease is an illness born from unrequited love. When infected, flowers will bud in the lungs and cause the patient to cough up flower petals; left untreated, this will eventually lead to death by asphyxiation. The infection can be removed through surgical means, but the feelings disappear along with the petals.

It’s become his favorite place to escape to when the world threatens to crash down around him, which is fairly often as of late, so it’s not surprising that Victor knows exactly where to go when Yuri isn’t heard from all day.

He’s sitting in the sand, knees pulled up to his chest, arms folded on top and chin nestled there, just staring out into the ocean. The water looks like glass on this breezeless day, and the sun hangs low in the sky, shrouded in clouds and brushing a broad stripe of gold along the horizon. He hears the quick footsteps followed by the enthusiastic barking that warns Yuri he’s about to be bowled over by Makkachin, and just as he has the thought, he’s knocked into an awkward sprawl on the sand. Yuri laughs under the assault from Makkachin’s warm, wet tongue, wrapping his arms around the bulky beast; the force of Makkachin’s wagging tail makes them both shake.

“Good boy, Makkachin,” comes the amused drawl. “You’ve captured our quarry.”

Yuri eases Makkachin off him, sitting up and brushing sand from his hair. “Sorry,” he mutters, turning back towards the horizon, unable to look at that smile. The one that doesn’t reach Victor’s eyes because he doesn’t mean it, really, he just thinks it’s easier to smile than frown. “Guess I lost track of time.”

“It’s fine, Yuri,” Victor says.

“No,” Yuri sighs, “it’s not. Should we head to the rink now?”

Victor’s feet crunch in the sand as he walks up behind Yuri, and then he’s sinking down beside him, brushing shoulders. He slips his arm around Yuri’s shoulders, fingers trailing down and curling around Yuri’s arm. Yuri shivers; his jacket is thin enough that the warm palm nearly feels like a brand on the skin he hadn’t realized was so chilled.

“It’s fine,” Victor repeats softly. “We’ve been pushing it too hard the past week anyway. There’s still time until the Cup—until then, taking care of yourself is just as important as training.”

Yuri exhales slowly, feels the tension in his body seep away under Victor’s touch. “Okay,” he says quietly. A slight breeze is tangling through his hair and trailing icy touches on his skin; Yuri didn’t notice it before and thinks perhaps Victor is to blame for bringing the wind with him, but he’s warm under Victor’s arm. He doesn’t even mind the slight tickle of Victor’s hair against his ear.

Victor always times it just right. When Yuri spontaneously absconds from the onsen or the rink—from reality—he does so with the knowledge that someone will find him and drag him back sooner or later. He repeatedly assumes sooner. But no matter how urgent the need for training is, no matter what it is Yuri blew off to go sit alone with his thoughts, Victor repeatedly goes with later. He lets Yuri have the time he needs, gives him space to work through whatever it is that sent him hightailing it in the first place. And then, when Yuri’s getting too lost in his thoughts and finds being alone less like comfort and more like drowning, Victor shows up.

It’s uncanny. Yuri’s fingers curl around the edges of his sleeves, pulling until his hands are covered.

“Makkachin used to have a rival,” Victor says. It should feel jarring and sudden, but the words spill comfortably into the silence.

“A rival?” Yuri echoes, confused. “Did you have another dog?”

“No,” Victor says. “A teddy bear.”

Yuri glances at Victor from the corner of his eye. He’s smiling, but it’s not teasing, so it’s safe for Yuri to bite. “And this teddy bear was Makkachin’s rival,” he says a little doubtfully.

“Yes,” Victor says, and his smile widens. “I was terribly attached to it, you see. I’d had it practically since I was an infant, so when Makkachin came along, I was already in a committed cuddling relationship. He was quite upset about it.”

Yuri’s laugh is a soft snort. “Poor Makkachin,” he murmurs, watching as the poodle trots along the shoreline. “You couldn’t cuddle them both?”

“A committed cuddling relationship, Yuri,” Victor reprimands. “I saved only the best for Malysh. Proper nighttime snuggles require both arms.”

“Malysh?”

Victor laughs. “Yes, I wasn’t a very creative child.”

“The teddy bear’s name?” When Victor nods, Yuri adds, “What does it mean?”

Victor turns and smiles at Yuri. “Baby,” he says, and laughs again.

Yuri tries not to think about the strange, sudden warmth in his stomach. “What happened to Malysh?”

“Ah, well,” Victor sighs. “I turned out to be a fickle boy after all. But look at Makkachin—can you blame me? I couldn’t ignore the cutest pup in the world for long. Eventually he won his place for nighttime snuggles, and Malysh got boxed up and ultimately lost. But oh,” he dramatically places a hand over his heart, “how much sweeter the relationship between me and Makkachin is knowing that we had to work for it. He never gave up on me. That’s true love.”

Yuri snorts again, lightly bumping his elbow against Victor’s side. “You know Makkachin spends a lot of his nights with me, right?”

Victor promptly scoots away, the hand on his heart now clutching at his shirt as he stares at Yuri with wide-eyed betrayal. “Under the roof we all share, Yuri?” he gasps.

It’s a little embarrassing how quickly Yuri starts laughing hard enough to make his body shake. Victor’s ridiculous.

He’s good at this.

After Yuri’s laughter has settled and they’ve shared in a comfortable silence for several long minutes, Victor suggests they get dinner. He stands when Yuri agrees, offering a hand to Yuri to pull himself up. Yuri lets go quickly, but his palm remembers the touch for the rest of the night.

It’s not the first time he tells himself not to think too much on what it means.

The next morning, Yuri knows what it means.

He wakes up to the feeling of something rising in his throat and leaps for the bathroom, thinking that last night’s unagi rolls had tasted a little funny and wondering how upset Victor will be about him needing to skip another day of practice. But when he drops to his knees on the bathroom floor and opens his mouth, it isn’t spoiled unagi that comes out.

Yuri stares down at the red flower petals that float in his toilet.

He doesn’t have food poisoning. He’s in love.

The tears don’t so much fall down as crash down, like everything else.

Victor asks him why he’s late for practice. Yuri mumbles about a malfunctioning alarm clock while a soft sigh in his head whispers, I love you.

Yuri fails to nail a single quad and Victor asks him what he’s thinking about. He says he just didn’t sleep well while a ruined voice in his head weeps, You don’t love me.

Victor comments about Yuri being off today as Yuri works through his cooldown stretches. Yuri shrugs and says everyone has their off-days while a somber murmur in his head says, I’m dying.

He will never say these things out loud. It would only hurt Victor.

That night, Yuri researches.

He’d saved one of the flowers from his morning fit and goes to work trying to match it to images online. Not a rose, not a tulip, not a begonia. Camellia. A red camellia. He rubs at his chest, not sure if he’s imagining the feeling of roots burrowing into his heart.

He sets off on another search, pulling up a web page titled Facts About Hanahaki: Symptoms, Diagnosis, and Treatment. Yuri skims down immediately to the Treatment section since he is already well aware of the symptoms and hardly requires a diagnosis. This isn’t some stuffy nose that could be a sinus infection, influenza, or the common cold; vomiting flower petals is a rather conclusive sign.

The website confirms what he only vaguely recalled about the rare disease: the only cure is to surgically remove the flowers and vines in his body. But removing the physical manifestation of the disease would also remove the emotions that had caused the infection in the first place.

Yuri would lose the ability to love. He would lose his love for Victor.

A violent cough rips through him, and more petals fall into his hand.

The website mentions that requited feelings will also reverse the disease, but Yuri knows that’s hopeless. He won’t try to seduce Victor or guilt him into loving him back, and beyond that, Yuri can’t conceive of anything else that will change the way Victor feels about him. It’s been six months of Victor being almost constantly by Yuri’s side, and in that time seeing parts of Yuri that he rarely shared even with people who’d known him his whole life . . . if none of that could make Victor love him, nothing would. Not in whatever time he has left.

So. Surgery.

It makes Yuri queasy to consider it.

But a life without love, or no life at all?

The question haunts Yuri through the night until the pink light of dawn begins to peek through his blinds.

When he starts coughing in the middle of practice, Yuri makes an embarrassing escape from the ice. He nearly careens into the boards in his haste, and then he’s running for the bathroom on the thin blades of his skates. He has a moment to pray that Victor hasn’t followed him before he falls in front of the toilet, red camellias spilling from his mouth.

Yuri had always found flowers so beautiful, loved to see them blossom around the onsen in the spring, loved the poetry they evoked. But there’s nothing beautiful about this hopeless feeling, nothing poetic in the way these flowers tell him that no matter how much he loves, he will never be loved back.

He wonders how long it takes to die of a broken heart.

The middle of the night finds Yuri back on his computer, clicking through several more web pages that the search engine pulls up. It’s mostly blog posts written by people who had gone through with the surgery. Yuri’s desperate for these firsthand accounts, the whys and the hows and the what-comes-afters. He needs to know.

(Needs someone to talk him into or out of it.)

The blog authors claim their love for their friends and family hadn’t been affected by the surgery; platonic and familial love is separate from what had caused their illnesses. Romantic love was what had infected them, and after the surgery, romantic love was never again a part of their lives. They don’t miss it, they say. They don’t even remember what it felt like.

Yuri leans back in his chair, considering. He’d hardly even known there are so many different kinds of love before he’d met Victor. He hadn’t really recognized or appreciated the love from his parents or Minako or Yuko until he’d had something to compare and contrast it to. Would those softer feelings of simpler bonds be enough now that he knows how much different it can be?

You won’t remember how different it can be, a voice reminds him, if you have the surgery.

It sounds like a tragedy, almost too great to bear.

Yuri had chosen “love” as his theme before he’d even been able to acknowledge what that meant. That’s the best theme, Victor had said, and Yuri can feel the truth in it now. When he skates, he doesn’t think about the vines wrapped around his lungs, doesn’t think about unrequited feelings, doesn’t think about the flower petals slowly choking him to death. Yuri thinks about Victor’s arms around him, Victor’s smile, Victor begging excitedly for Japanese lessons so he can communicate more easily with Yuri’s parents. He thinks about all those times Victor came to sit with him on the beach, how Victor should have demanded that he get to the rink but instead just tried his hardest to steal a laugh from Yuri. Yuri thinks of all the things that planted this love in him, and pours it into his skating.

When he completes the routine, holding his final pose as he gasps for breath, Victor breaks out into wild applause. “It’s the most beautiful you’ve ever skated,” Victor says with shining eyes.

Everything I do is a love letter to you, Yuri thinks.

The answer comes to him with stark, simple clarity. He cannot have the surgery. It would take from him the one thing he needs to skate the way he wants.

Yuri hopes he has enough time left for the Grand Prix Final. He hopes he can win gold. He wants to be able to leave Victor with that.

It’s a four-hour flight from Tokyo to Beijing. Yuri took some cough suppressants beforehand, but he still needs to practically leap over Victor once when the tickle in the back of his throat gets to be too much to swallow down.

Shortly after settling into their hotel room in Beijing, Victor gets a call from Christophe and agrees to meet up for drinks with his once-rival. He tells Yuri to get to bed early and promises he won’t be back too late, and then with a parting pat on the head, he leaves Yuri alone.

Suddenly, alone is the worst possible thing to be.

Yuri hunches in on himself on the bed, unsure of what to do. A part of him knows if he were to ask Victor if he could tag along, Victor would all-too-happily invite him—would all-too-easily understand. It’s why he won’t ask.

The only other person Yuri knows well enough in this competition to hang out with outside of the rink is Phichit, but Phichit’s not supposed to be arriving until tomorrow. But, Yuri thinks as he nervously bites his lip, he could make a video call. It’s rather late in the evening—surely Phichit won’t still be practicing at this time, but he won’t be asleep yet either, right? Yuri pulls out his laptop before he can talk himself out of it. He won’t know until he tries, and if he tries nothing, he’ll go mad in the silence of this hotel room.

“Yuri!” Phichit’s smiling face almost immediately looms into view. “Couldn’t wait to see me again, huh?”

“Yeah, something like that,” Yuri laughs awkwardly. “Hi, Phichit. Nervous about tomorrow?”

Phichit tilts his head slightly, smile softening. “Are you?” he asks, but it isn’t really a question.

Yuri sighs, picking at a loose thread on the comforter. “A little, I guess,” he admits. “Sorry to call so late and so suddenly, but I just . . . wanted to see a friendly face.”

“Well my face, as you know, is the friendliest,” Phichit says with a broad grin, pulling an amused snort from Yuri. “Don’t be sorry. I’m always happy to hear from you—we need to chat like this more! But,” Phichit seems to be trying to peek behind Yuri, though the laptop is aimed in a way where he can’t see much more than the wall, “where’s Victor?”

“Out with Chris,” Yuri says. “He probably wanted me to go right to sleep after the flight, but I guess I’m just a little keyed up.” The loose thread gets curled and uncurled around his finger. “Wish you were here.”

“Me too,” Phichit says. Yuri echoes his smile back to him. “We should get together after the competition, have a movie night or something! We’ll both have time to kill before we leave Beijing, and we won’t see each other again until the Final.”

Tears prick at Yuri’s eyes. Phichit’s always been so confident in himself; of course he’d have faith that he’d make it through to the Grand Prix Final. But he believes Yuri will be there too. It’s more faith than Yuri’s ever had in himself. Especially now, with flower petals tickling the back of his throat, a reminder that he may not make it to Barcelona no matter how he skates. “Yeah,” Yuri says, swallowing hard. “I’d really like that.”

Phichit shoots a thumbs-up and a wink at Yuri. “Good. I’ll even let you pick the movie, though if you want a recommendation, I’ve got a good one—”

“No, thanks,” Yuri says automatically. “I’m sure I can think of something. Something you haven’t already seen 700 times and made me watch with you at least half that.”

Phichit laughs, and Yuri’s sure he hears a fair amount of wickedness in it. “All right, all right. But after my skate, you’re going to want to watch it. Anyway!” Phichit claps his hands together, cutting Yuri off from commenting. “You never finished telling me about Nationals. I want to hear all about your fanboy.”

Yuri groans over Phichit’s snickering, but obliges in telling Phichit everything he remembers about Japanese Nationals, down to Minami’s costume that had been a throwback to one of Yuri’s from his early years in competitive skating. Somehow, the conversation segues into arguing over who had tripped over the other’s shoes more when they shared a dorm. Yuri tells Phichit about a new tea they’d started serving at the onsen that manages to even give him an energy boost for those early morning practices, and promises to send some once he’s back home. Phichit gets up to share the ending pose of his free skate and disappears from view, leaving Yuri to stare blankly at his wall; Phichit crawls back into view to readjust the camera angle, making the laptop shake as he laughs over his gaffe of forgetting the camera wouldn’t see him kneeling on the floor. Yuri laughs too. And coughs.

While Phichit’s affecting an absolutely ludicrous tone as he holds up one of his hamsters and performs a monologue in her point of view, Yuri claps a hand over his mouth and dives off the bed. In the bathroom and out of view, he vomits out the flower petals that have been near-choking him for the past fifteen minutes. Yuri makes sure there are no stray camellia petals before he flushes the toilet; he doesn’t want Victor to question where they might have come from.

He climbs back onto the hotel bed to see Phichit’s worried face on his laptop screen. “Yuri, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Yuri says shakily, hating the fact that he’s lying to his best friend. He can’t tell Phichit though, can’t stand to even imagine the look on Phichit’s face if he were to know about the vines wrapped around Yuri’s lungs. “Just nerves, you know?”

“I hear you,” Phichit says, absentmindedly rubbing his own stomach. “But—it’s the Cup of China! Isn’t that amazing? It’s going to be so great, Yuri, no matter what happens.” He smiles, softer than usual, but the warmth and brightness still radiate. “We’ll be skating on the same ice again.”

“Yeah,” Yuri says, smiling back. “I’m really looking forward to it, Phichit.”

“Right? I can’t wait to see your short program live—it was already killer at Onsen on Ice. I bet that entire audience wanted to get in your pants after that.”

“Phichit!” Yuri says, scandalized.

“Your wiles won’t work on me though, Yuri,” Phichit says sternly, but he’s grinning. “You won’t seduce me into messing up my program.”

“Oh my god,” Yuri groans, dropping his head in his hands.

Phichit’s laughing again, and Yuri has to admit that even at his expense, the sound is so soothing. “Sorry, I’ll stop teasing,” Phichit says. “I’m glad I’ll finally see your free program! You’ve been so cagey about it. Are you stripping or something?”

“You said you were going to stop teasing,” Yuri grumps.

“Whoops,” Phichit says brightly.

“Anyway,” Yuri says, and conjures up another smile for Phichit, “I’m glad I’ll finally see your programs too. I’ve always admired your artistry.”

Phichit brings a hand up to his mouth, feigning bashfulness. “Aw, shucks, Yuri,” he says, and then they’re both laughing again. More than ever, Yuri’s grateful for Phichit Chulanont. He never wants to see sadness painted on this bright, precious boy. “You should get some rest now,” Phichit says, warm with affection and a hint of concern. “You’ll have to be in top form if you want to seduce Thailand’s ace skater.”

“Phichit,” Yuri says, sounding pained, and Phichit snickers. “I probably should try to sleep now though, I’m finally feeling tired. Relaxed.” He smiles gratefully at his best friend. “Thanks, Phichit.”

“Of course. Any time,” Phichit says happily. “Goodnight, Yuri.”

“Goodnight.” Their video chat disconnects, and Yuri closes his laptop, stashing it away before he can start doing something stupid like looking up videos of the other skaters or more blogs from survivors of Hanahaki.

He coughs.

Yuri had avoided thinking about it, but there’s no avoiding it anymore. It’s selfish of him not to think about it anyway.

He’ll be leaving so many people behind when he dies without ever telling them why.

Phichit. Yurio. Yuko. Takashi. Minako. Mari. His parents. Victor. They’ll be so sad. If their positions were reversed, of course he would be heartbroken over the loss of any of them.

More or less heartbroken having known that it’s coming?

Yuri doesn’t think he could bear their sadness if he were to tell them—or even worse, their anger when they find out he won’t have the surgery. It’s so very selfish of him, but he doesn’t want whatever time he has left with them tainted with those bitter emotions. He doesn’t want to have to see the worry in their eyes every time he coughs, or feel their sorrow every time they wonder how much longer until the end.

It’s not as if it’s easy to hide the fact that he regularly vomits up flower petals, though. His symptoms will only grow worse with time, and his panicked racing to a toilet will only get more frequent. Sooner or later, someone will notice. Sooner or later, someone will see. If he doesn’t tell them the truth, the camellias will.

Yuri brushes his teeth and changes into sweatpants and a t-shirt while his thoughts chase each other around. He can’t bear to tell them, but he can’t hide it forever. What a cruel catch-22.

He’s still awake when Victor comes back, smelling like liquor and softly humming a familiar tune. He staunchly smothers down a violent cough that threatens to rip out when a gentle hand combs through his hair.

In the early hours of a cold, sunless morning, Yuri silently slips out of the hotel room. He probably didn’t need to be as quiet and careful about it as he was; any time Victor goes out drinking late at night, it’s guaranteed he won’t be dragged out from his heavy sleep for a solid eight hours. But a thought had occurred to Yuri during the night while he’d been listening to Victor snore, and it kept niggling at him as he tried to snatch whatever sleep he could before the rink would open up for competitors.

Yuri can’t skate today’s short program the way he’d skated it back in Hasetsu for his Onsen on Ice challenge. Things are different now. Trying to slip into the guise of the seducer—a bowl of katsudon, a beautiful woman, it doesn’t matter what—it’s not what he feels now. He could try to tell himself he needs to seduce the audience, but he knows there’s still only one person in the crowd he’d be thinking of. He can’t skate like that for Victor anymore. It would feel like a cheap mockery of what’s inside him now.

Yuri laces up his skates, relieved that his fellow competitors apparently did not feel the same need to be waiting by the doors the moment the rink opened. He’ll have at least a little time to be alone with his thoughts, to speak them to the ice and let the ice speak back.

He doesn’t think for several minutes once he steps into the rink, just lets his world narrow down to the feeling of his blades cutting so smoothly over the ice. The easy, effortless glide is like flying, like freedom, and Yuri holds onto the feeling until his limbs are loose and warm.

Yuri transitions his warm-up into the step sequence of Eros, trying to recapture the feelings from Onsen on Ice and mimic those movements—but as suspected, he just can’t grasp it now. The femme fatale won’t be called up because his heart isn’t it in. He doesn’t want to seduce anyone, least of all Victor.

So if not seduction, what else can this program be? Yuri throws himself into a spin, blurs out the world as his body whirls faster than his thoughts. He stays crouched in the spin until his momentum is spent and everything’s become as dizzying and chaotic as what’s inside him. What else can Eros be? Sexuality, confidence, desire? Sexuality is too closely linked to seduction, and the object of his focus would be no different. The Eros routine certainly requires confidence, but that isn’t a complete enough interpretation of the dance.

Desire . . .

Yuri almost laughs. Yes, he does have desires that he can skate for. Life and love. The things he yearns for most because he knows he cannot have them.

He smothers down a cough. Enough. Stop thinking about it like that. Yuri considers the short program’s tale, the story he’ll be telling with his skate. Instead of the seductress, he will become the suitor. Instead of telling the audience, You want me, he will say to those deepest desires: I want you. With everything in me, I want you.

It’ll have to do.

Yuri practices the new version of Eros for hours, pours his heart into his skate until sunlight streams through the windows and turns the ice to gold. Eventually, Victor comes along and scolds him for practicing without his coach, and Yuri feels content as he allows himself to be dragged off for breakfast.

Yuri wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, closing his eyes and breathing hard and deep into his lungs because now he can. He allows himself several moments of just relishing in the feeling of air moving easily through him, but he can’t linger much longer. He’s already missed most of Guang Hong’s skate. Soon, it will be his turn to take the ice.

Yuri flushes the toilet, trying not to notice how there seems to be so many more petals. More than last week, which had been more than the week before that. Just let me have until the Final. Please, let me stay with him until then.

Victor frowns slightly with concern when Yuri joins him at the boards, but Yuri pastes on the brightest smile he can manage. With a happy, “Watch me, Victor,” Yuri glides out onto the ice before Victor can respond.

He’d thought he’d feel more nervous, more troubled. This is a defining moment on his journey to the Final; how he performs now could either drag him far off the path or set victory in his sights. He’s put literally everything he has into making it here. The stakes are high. The pressure is enormous. And yet, Yuri doesn’t feel it. He just feels a certain kind of peace as he skates into position, a burgeoning warmth from the life and love that’s been slowly filling him up since that blizzard in April called Victor had hit. So he’ll take it all, fill his heart with brilliance, and skate as if he may burn up within a single moment.

When the music starts, Yuri lets his love pour out of him like a tidal wave. The raging sea of his desire streams from him as he skates, filling the rink, flooding it, and he is captive in the middle of it all. But sometimes, it’s not about how quickly you swim back to the shore, but how readily you let the ocean drown you. And he surrenders to it, skates his confession: he’s drenched with the longing to stay sinking, as long as it will let him hold these feelings close for just a little while longer.

It takes Yuri several long moments to come back into himself after he finishes his program; it’s like he literally poured himself out, his consciousness tumbling and swimming through the rink. He’s gasping for breath when he finally slips back into his body and, a bit desperately, he struggles to calm his lungs while he bows to the crowd.

When he skates back to the boards, he sees Victor still applauding, a proud expression shining from his face.

Victor didn’t understand Yuri’s skate.

He tells himself it’s fine. It’s good. He doesn’t want Victor to know anyway, right?

Yuri’s score surpasses his personal best, and by the end of the short program competition, he’s in first place. None of that compares to the bittersweet flutter in Yuri’s heart as Victor holds him close, a hand on his neck and his soft lilt whispering soft words that mean more to Yuri than Victor will ever know.

Phichit Skypes him later, groaning about having to congratulate Yuri through a webcam because Celestino’s got him on lockdown so he won’t wander off and “get too caught up taking selfies to get your damn ass into bed at a reasonable hour.” Yuri laughs at Phichit’s impression of his former coach, though he tries (and fails) to stifle it when he hears Celestino muttering something to Phichit. He glances up when he realizes Victor is trying to catch his attention, and nods gratefully when Victor points at himself and mimes taking a shower. It’s a kindness to give Yuri some privacy with his friend.

The bathroom door shuts behind Victor just before Phichit asks, “How are you feeling?”

If Victor had still been in the room, Yuri wouldn’t have been able to be honest. “Oh, you know,” Yuri says casually, “perfectly fine, other than the slight feeling that the entire world is caving in on me.” It’s partially a joke, but there’s truth in it that Yuri doesn’t want to worry Victor with.

Phichit obliges Yuri with a small laugh, and then promptly launches into an enthusiastic monologue about how incredible Yuri’s short program had been and how, while Phichit is definitely going to walk away with the gold tomorrow, Yuri is going to give him a run for his money: “There’s going to be, like, a 0.2 point difference between us, and you will curse me and our friendship will hang by a thread, but ultimately, you’ll realize I’ve given you the motivation to work even harder, and you’ll be grateful for the gift and love me even more.”

“Phichit,” Yuri rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning, “you know I’d never curse you for skating better than me.”

“But would you still love me?” Phichit says, eyes earnestly wide even though his tone is teasing.

“Yes,” Yuri sighs. “I’ll still love you if you beat me. And I’ll still love you if you place last.”

“Good,” Phichit says, smiling wide. “And I’ll still love you if you beat me, but I’ll need you to buy me at least 50 dumplings to take the sting out of it.”

“Are you two finished yet?” Celestino’s scowling face looms into view. “You both need to sleep if either of you want any real shot at landing on the podium.”

Phichit pulls a face at Celestino’s retreating back before offering a reluctant smile at Yuri. “It is getting pretty late,” he says. “We should sleep.”

“Yeah,” Yuri agrees, though with the roiling in his brain and his stomach (and his lungs, and his heart), he doubts he’ll be able to fall asleep any time soon, if at all before the free skate tomorrow. “Goodnight, Phichit.”

“Goodnight, Yuri,” Phichit echoes. “And good luck.”

“You too,” Yuri says, and signs off.

The thoughts from last night resurface, and Yuri feels heavy with distress. He really can’t stand the thought of Phichit being sad because of him, doesn’t ever want to be the cause of Phichit’s tears. He’s Yuri’s best friend, the person who’s always been there for him and loved him no matter how difficult it was. Bright, precious Phichit. It hurts Yuri to think of what the vines around his lungs will do to him more than what they are doing to himself.

He can’t look Phichit in the eye and tell him he’s dying. He can’t do that to anyone. Anyone who’s important enough to tell is too important to hurt. But Yuri can’t hide this forever either.

Maybe, Yuri muses, it would be best to just . . . disappear. If he lives through the Final, maybe the best thing to do would be to keep his illness hidden by hiding himself. He could go someplace quiet, somewhere he isn’t known—New Zealand, maybe, or Latvia—and live out the rest of his days peacefully. He wouldn’t have to see the pain and worry in his parents’ eyes every time he coughs. He wouldn’t have to try and soothe Phichit every day with check-in texts: I’m still alive. None of the people he loved would have to live with this burden for even a day.

The bathroom door opens, and Victor emerges in a cloud of steam.

“Yuri!” He bypasses his bed and throws himself down next to Yuri, smiling up at him. “You’re still awake! You really shouldn’t be,” he says a bit reprovingly, finger sternly wagging at Yuri—but the tough-coach act melts away quickly, and Victor glows cheerfully beside Yuri on the bed. “But it means I get another chance to tell you how proud of you I am. And I really, really am. You were amazing out there today. When you landed that quad Salchow—” Yuri gives a startled oof as he’s dragged down from where he’s sitting to be awkwardly—wonderfully—folded against Victor’s chest and held there with Victor’s arms. “Ah, Yuri,” Victor sighs happily, “you are more than I ever hoped for.”

Yuri wants to burst into tears. Yuri wants to soar to the moon. Yuri wants to smile so wide he’ll split his face in two. Yuri wants to push out of Victor’s arms and run and keep running until he’s too tired to think. Yuri wants to kiss Victor.

He does none of those things. He just lets himself be held.

Eventually, Victor disentangles himself and rises from the bed, patting Yuri’s head and telling him warmly, “Get some sleep.” Yuri curls onto his side to stare unseeingly at the curtains, sleep the furthest thing from his mind. He can still smell Victor’s shampoo. He can still feel Victor beside him, under him, all around him. He can still hear the raw affection in Victor’s voice. It’s too much, and not enough. He breathes in deep and feels the flutter of flower petals in his chest.

He wonders if Victor will cry when he’s gone.

The free skate doesn’t go very well. Yuri’s distracted thinking about whether or not Canada’s too cold, or wondering if he’d get along all right in Argentina without knowing any Spanish. He keeps thinking of his mother’s face when she can’t get ahold of him. He hates himself for what he’s done before he’s even done it.

He collapses down in the kiss and cry afterwards, mentally berating himself. It’s not hard to figure out where he went wrong. Yuri on Ice is a program of love, composed and choreographed for every person in his life that he holds dear. And instead of thinking about them, he’d been thinking about leaving them.

Stupid, in so many ways.

He doesn’t deserve the silver medal they place around his neck. But he’s grateful for what it means: an opportunity to redeem himself.

Phichit makes good on his suggestion for a post-competition movie night, informing Yuri he has no choice but to come to his hotel room because he’d already kicked Celestino out for the next few hours and he can’t face the cruelty of having to sit alone after he’d just become a gold medalist.

Yuri’s feeling a little weak and shaky, but he’s reasonably sure he can make it through a movie without incident. It hasn’t been all that long since his last episode. There should be no flower petals for at least a few hours yet. Making it through this night and keeping the truth from Phichit will be simple.

Simple. Yuri almost laughs at the absurdity of the thought. As if it’s really so simple to leave his best friend and go halfway around the world to die alone.

He makes it about an hour into the movie before he lurches off the bed, flower petals filling his mouth before he even reaches the toilet. The retching isn’t responsible for the tears that splatter down his cheeks.

Yuri cries as silently as he can on the bathroom floor, hoping the sound of the television is enough to cover the sniffling. He wishes he could stay still for at least a minute, feeling a little weak and light-headed, but he forces himself to move, tossing stray petals in the toilet and wiping his face with his sleeves. He’s desperate to hide the evidence from Phichit. Not that it matters, though: a moment later, Yuri hears Phichit say his name in a voice thick with tears. When Yuri turns to look at him, it’s obvious Phichit has been there crying for as long as Yuri has.

No, Yuri thinks wretchedly. I never wanted this.

Yuri stares up at Phichit, mouth opening and closing as he tries to find the right words to say, but whatever they are, they’re beyond him. There’s no way to voice what’s happening to him, to tell Phichit how sorry he is. But Phichit seems to understand anyway. His face screws up with a fresh wave of tears as he drops to the floor beside Yuri, and they cling to each other there on the stained tile of the hotel bathroom until the sound of the television dies out.

Phichit pulls Yuri off the floor, and Yuri says he’ll follow him out in a minute. He flushes the damning red camellias away, hating them now more than ever for bringing so much pain to his best friend, and then splashes some water on his face and rinses his mouth out. (The floral aftertaste is always unpleasant.) When he tentatively sits beside Phichit on the bed, Phichit grabs for his hand, holding it with both his own.

“You’re not going to get the surgery, are you,” Phichit says. He sounds hollow.

Yuri swallows hard. “No.”

“Dammit, Yuri,” Phichit says, but it sounds more resigned than angry. He sighs. “It’s Victor, right?”

Yuri can’t say it. He nods.

“I can tell, you know,” Phichit says. “That your skating has changed. How different it is now with him. Because of him.” He squeezes Yuri’s hand tighter. “But is it worth your life?”

Yuri offers him a smile, small and sad. “Skating is my life. I’ve always thought I could handle anything as long as I had the ice. But if I let them cut this out of me . . . ” His shoulders sag as he searches for the words to explain what he’d never wanted anyone to have to understand. “You said it yourself. My skating is different now. I’d always remember that. I’d forget the feelings, but I’d never forget how much better I was when I was skating for them. For him. And how could I keep skating knowing that? I’d have to give it up.”

Yuri closes his eyes, hating what he’s about to say but needing his best friend to know this simple truth, now that it’s come to this. “I’d regret it every single day. I can’t live like that, Phichit. Better to let the disease finish things now than to . . . do it myself later.”

He holds Phichit while he cries. It’s all he can do for his friend now. Yuri stubbornly keeps his own eyes dry; he won’t cry for himself, not anymore, and he doesn’t deserve to offer Phichit his tears when he’s the one who brought on this hurt.

Eventually Phichit quiets and settles. Yuri wonders if he’d cried himself to the point of exhaustion and fallen asleep on his shoulder, but Phichit pulls back, hands clamping around Yuri’s arms and giving him an unreadable look with his red eyes. “Stay for one more movie,” Phichit says. “Anything you want.”

Yuri doesn’t deserve Phichit Chulanont. Such a simple kindness, but it means the world to Yuri. “Strange,” Yuri says, “but I have a terrible need to see The King and the Skater.”

Phichit’s smile is a wavering thing; he’s trying so hard to be so strong, and Yuri thinks maybe he really will cry after all—and then all at once he’s laughing, they’re laughing, riotous giggles and snorts that just have them laughing all the harder as they fall against each other helplessly. “Don’t think I’ve seen that one,” Phichit gasps out when he has breath enough to manage it, and it sets them both off again into howls.

(One red petal falls into Yuri’s hand. He shoves it into his pocket before Phichit can see.)

Yuri receives a phone call shortly after the opening credits have run; it’s his mother, though he hears the scattered chorus of Congratulations, Yuri!s in the background. He’s sure he sounds odd, flustered by the compliments and still reeling from the emotional roller coaster he’d just been on, and sure enough, his mother comments on it.

“It’s nothing, Mom,” Yuri says, laughing a little. “I’m just a little lovesick.”

When he hangs up the phone, Phichit is glaring at him. “That wasn’t funny.”

Yuri crooks a grin at him. “It was a little funny.”

Phichit shakes his head, looking pained. But he puts his arms around Yuri, keeps them there with his head on Yuri’s shoulder for the rest of the movie.

Sometimes it’s the simplest things that set Yuri’s pulse racing. Like Victor’s elbow brushing against Yuri’s as he reaches for his saké, or the quickflash smile Victor aims at him when Yuri offers to refill his glass. Stumbling into the kitchen in the haze of early morning and finding Victor waiting with a cup of tea made just the way Yuri likes, even though Yuri’s never told Victor how he takes his tea. Victor humming along to the silly jingles played over television commercials. Blinking himself awake to find that he fell asleep on Victor’s shoulder sometime during the movie, embarrassed at the spot of drool on Victor’s sweater but pleased that Victor doesn’t seem to mind. Victor’s childlike joy over being shown Yuri’s baby photos. The teasing quirk to Victor’s lips when he noticed how furiously Yuri was blushing. The artful fall of Victor’s hair against his cheek when he tilts his head.

Yuri knows that Victor belongs to the world; he’s loved and cherished by so many, and Victor loves widely, indiscriminately. But these small, simple moments, the things shared just between the two of them . . . Victor may not belong to Yuri, but these moments do. He presses each one carefully between the pages of his mind, preserving them like flowers. Red camellias, each and every one of them, from the garden of love that blooms death in his chest.

Yuri’s lucky streak in keeping his illness hidden once again breaks at the Rostelecom Cup.

He’d been in a frantic rush to find a bathroom, the need to be able to flush away the evidence taking precedence over his need to breathe, and it made him sloppy. Yuri had crashed through the bathroom door and practically flung himself into a stall before his mouth fell open almost involuntarily. Flowers poured out as his body heaved, so many that Yuri wondered how much more he could possibly take before his lungs drowned in red petals.

His retching has only just stopped when he hears, “Oi, Katsu—”

Ah, not good, Yuri thinks, but it’s a vague and tired thought. It was almost to be expected that he’d be caught since he was stupid enough to leave the stall door open. In a way, Yuri’s relieved that it’s Yurio who found him. He’s too weak to be properly upset about it, at any rate. “Please don’t tell anyone,” he says softly.

Yurio’s standing in unblinking silence, and Yuri feels terrible that he had to see this. “I—” Yurio tries, but his words die out and he clears his throat uncomfortably. “I didn’t think it was real,” he says.

Yuri gives him a tired smile. “I never gave it much thought at all.”

Yurio shifts uncomfortably, and Yuri turns away to give him time. He gathers up some stray flower petals and drops them in the toilet with the rest, and is debating if he can stand when he hears, “Who?”

Yuri sighs. “It’s better if—”

“Why am I even asking,” Yurio snorts, sounding more like himself. “It’s Victor. Of course it’s Victor.”

Yuri’s silence is answer enough.

“Have you told him?”

“No,” Yuri says shortly. He pulls himself up off the floor. “And you won’t tell him either.” He flushes the toilet to cut off whatever Yurio was about to say, and brushes past the scowling boy to wash his hands and rinse out his mouth. Yuri really needs this conversation to end here, needs to not put further burden on this young boy who already knows too much. Please don’t ask anything more. Don’t ask about it. You should just leave, please just leave.

But of course that would be too simple. “Should you even be skating like this? When’s your surgery? Don’t tell me you’re putting off the surgery until after the Final.”

Yuri glances into the mirror; the hard look in Yurio’s eyes that stare back has him quickly turning away, silent as he grabs a fistful of paper towels.

“Katsudon.” Yuri almost winces at the barely contained rage in Yurio’s voice. “When is your surgery.”

It’s not really a question, and Yuri doesn’t have an answer he’s willing to give to Yurio, so he doesn’t say anything. The balled-up paper towels fall from his hand into the wastebasket as Yuri walks past, hand outstretched for the door handle—

And he’s wrenched away, back slamming against the wall. Yuri gapes dazedly as Yurio leans in, almost seeming to tower over him with a furious energy practically crackling from his skin. “You're having the surgery.” Yurio’s hands curl tightly around Yuri’s shoulders. “Tell me you're having the surgery.”

Yuri stares steadfastly back, saying nothing.

“You goddamn idiot,” Yurio sneers. “You’re going to die for this? For him? Don’t you fucking dare.”

Yuri gently lays a hand over Yurio’s, but he can’t meet Yurio’s gaze. He looks down at the floor instead; it won’t punch him for being unable to mask the pity in his expression. “I’m sorry you had to find out like this. I never wanted to upset anyone over this. But now that you know, I hope you can come to respect that it’s my decision, and I’ve made it. If you can’t, please at least keep your silence about this.”

“You’re going to get the surgery,” Yurio says vehemently. “After the Cup. When I beat you at the Final, I want to know I did it when you were in top form.”

Yuri pulls away from Yurio, pretending not to see the odd shine in Yurio’s eyes as he offers him a small smile. “This is my top form,” he says, and slips out the door.

His short program is another success, securing Yuri a second-place finish for the first day, but a phone call from his sister to report that Makkachin is in the hospital sets Yuri on a dangerous spiral into complete panic. Victor doesn’t go easily, but Yuri relentlessly insists that he return to Makkachin’s side until Victor finally packs his suitcase and calls up a taxi to the airport.

Yuri couldn’t bear it if Victor lost another chance to say goodbye.

It isn’t wholly unexpected that his free skate is a disaster, torn as he is between worry for Makkachin and despair over losing this precious time with Victor. He knows there isn’t much left. He’d vomited enough camellias that morning to make an entire bouquet. Yuri can feel the damage inside, the vines that coil around his lungs from the roots that burrow deep in his heart. They sap his strength as they fight to keep from withering, slowly killing him so that they may live, sprouting flowers into lungs that waste away from the burden of bearing them.

It’s sheer luck that carries Yuri through and secures him a place at the Grand Prix Final. He should be happy about it, grateful to be that much closer to his goal, eager to see his dream of standing on the podium come to life. But he doesn’t feel much of anything until he’s back in Hasetsu with Victor’s arms around him.

He dares to broach the subject while they’re training at the Ice Castle. “Hey, Victor,” Yuri says softly. “Do you want to skate again?”

Victor smiles brightly. Falsely. “I skate all the time while I’m coaching you!”

“I meant competitively,” Yuri says, and there’s a slight admonishment in his tone. He knows Victor knows what he meant.

“I can’t compete and coach at the same time,” Victor says. “And since I can venture a guess at your next question, yes, I do want to be your coach. My student is clever and capable and reaching brilliant new heights every day, and I quite enjoy witnessing it. I’m happy where I am, Yuri.”

Yuri fiddles with the cap on his water bottle. “Then—take me out of the equation. If you weren’t coaching me, would you return to competition?”

Victor’s silent for a long time. Yuri is rather surprised that he’s putting actual thought into this when, from Victor’s point of view, Yuri’s questions probably seem ridiculous and out-of-the-blue. Victor taps a finger against his knee and sighs. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. He turns to Yuri with a raised eyebrow. “But unless my student asks me to, I’m not leaving him.”

Yuri nods and lets the conversation end. It’s not an answer, really, nothing that brings any comfort about Victor’s future once he’s gone. Perhaps it was stupid to bring it up. But if nothing else, Yuri can’t pretend he doesn’t feel the happy flutter in his stomach from learning that, in this moment, there’s nowhere else Victor would rather be.

After Yuri excuses himself for the bathroom during a group outing in Barcelona, he once again finds himself up against the wall with a young, angry Russian staring him down. It would seem that he had been followed, and, once again, Yurio had heard him retching up camellias.

“You stupid fucking prick,” Yurio snarls. “You didn't have the surgery. You're really just gonna give up and die like this?”

Yuri smiles slightly. He pats Yurio on the shoulder and says in a gentle tone, knowing it will infuriate him, “Perhaps someday you will understand.”

“No!”

It happens so fast that Yuri doesn’t see it coming, doesn’t even realize what’s happened until after his head snaps back and strikes the wall hard enough to leave his brain rattling in his skull: Yurio had hit him. A punch right to the face. Yuri doesn’t even have time to muster outrage before he sees Yurio swing out again. He scrambles away, just barely missing one fist only to run right into the other one. Yuri makes a sound, part pain and part indignation, trying to move away from Yurio’s flying fists as he strikes out wildly. But backed into a corner with his arms clumsily moving to meet and block Yurio’s punches, Yuri is reminded of something: a small child at the skating rink, upset over something, beating her fists against the thick padding of her father’s jacket. No real power in her hits, no real intention to harm. Like Yurio’s hits now. The first one had been intense, full of all Yurio’s fiery anger—and that one punch seems to have released it all, and now he’s venting something else.

“Yurio.” Yuri reaches out to grasp Yurio’s hands; the fact that he manages it rather easily is telling. “Yurio, please.”

“No,” Yurio says again. He’s breathing harshly, sounding winded even though Yuri knows he wasn’t expending much energy just then. “No. You can’t.” He’s gripping Yuri’s hands now, and Yuri swallows hard as he feels the young boy shake. “You can’t.”

“Yurio,” Yuri murmurs. “If I could explain it to you, I wou—”

“No, shut up,” Yurio hisses. “There’s no—you can’t—there’s not an explanation for letting yourself die.” Before Yuri can even open his mouth to respond, Yurio’s head falls against his chest; any words Yuri might’ve spoken scatter away. He can only wrap his arms around Yurio. “You’re an idiot,” Yurio says, voice muffled in Yuri’s sweater. “You’re going to die for someone who doesn’t love you. A complete fucking idiot. There’s—you know—other people care about you—you fucking asshole, what about them?”

“I’m sorry,” Yuri says. It’s all he has to offer Yurio. “I’m sorry.”

Yurio suddenly rips out of his arms, staggering away. “Tell him,” he says, a wild look on his face. “Tell him what he’s doing to you. Make him fix it.”

Yuri almost laughs. Such a simple solution. Such an impossible one. Yurio is still so young, always so quick to anger—but he is sweet, too. “Unrequited love isn’t something you fix,” Yuri says. “It just is. This is no more Victor’s fault for not loving me than it’s my fault for loving him.”

Yurio’s arms hang limply by his sides, shoulders drooped. He looks helpless. There’s still that wildness in his eyes when he says, “Get the surgery. Please.”

Yuri almost wants to say yes, okay, I’ll do it just to take Yurio’s hurt away. But he can’t lie to him. “I’m sorry,” Yuri says again. “It would take too much from me.” It’s as much as he can say. He won’t make Yurio take the burden his best friend already bears.

Yurio’s fists clench. “Fine,” he bites out. “We’ve been in here too long. Otabek wanted to go see the Magic Fountain. I’m gonna go, and you can just—” He cuts himself off, and Yuri’s surprised by the display of tact. A little touched by it too. But then there’s a finger digging into his chest as Yurio glares up at him. “You better bring your fucking A-game in this competition,” Yurio growls. “Give it everything you’ve got, or I’ll never forgive you.” And he swiftly turns on his heel and stomps out of the bathroom.

Yuri’s hand goes to his chest, absently rubbing the spot Yurio had prodded. That, the punches, the angry words: they aren’t nearly enough. Yurio could’ve done much worse, and it still might not have balanced the scales between them. Because when all is said and done, Yuri’s choice is a selfish one. Selfish and cruel.

Yuri can feel it, feel his heart beating the hurt through his body. He wants to rip his skin open and claw out his veins.

I’m sorry. It’s not enough.

Yuri takes a deep breath in. Holds it. Exhales slowly. Rinses and repeats, again and again.

Time is moving strangely, sometimes hurtling forward so quickly that Yuri can’t track it—like in the hotel room this morning, washed and dressed in the blink of an eye, no time to find that calm in his morning ritual—and sometimes trickling by like molasses through a pinhole—like the cab ride to the rink, every second feeling like an eternity that Yuri was losing when he should be warming up. And now he’s standing rinkside, feeling utterly disconnected from the people around him, those colored blurs moving warp speed through life while he has somehow become trapped in a space that time won’t touch. Everything seems claustrophobic and far beyond reach, thunderously loud and unnervingly silent, real and surreal.

Yuri turns on his heel, marches to the bathroom, and throws up a lungful of camellias.

It helps, strangely. He feels grounded back in reality. A splash of cold water on his face, and Yuri finally feels ready to step onto the ice.

His group is already warming up when Yuri pulls up rinkside. Phichit lands a triple toe loop nearby and flashes Yuri a smile. Yurio skates past, resolutely not looking at Yuri as he furiously launches himself into a quad Salchow. Yuri takes off his skate guards and glides out; everything else drops away, left behind in the marks his blades carve into the ice.

The triple axel flies out, like a passing whirlwind. The landing feels soft and light, arms outstretched to catch the wind, fingers running through the rivulets of a warm breeze. This is springtime, the beginning of all things, the burst of life Yuri felt when he stepped on the ice for the first time to join Yuko as she held out her hand and smiled. Everything about the ice draws Yuri in, like a secret playground built just for him, the plain of ice stretching out, newly resurfaced, smooth and ready for him to make his mark.

The triple Lutz-triple toe combination feels easy as breathing, and he transitions smoothly into the step sequence. He doesn’t have to think about it anymore: this program is embedded into his muscle memory, etched on his heart, the most important thing he’s ever crafted in his life. Together, he and Victor created perfection and now, today, Yuri needs to perform it as such. It’s not an ultimatum. It’s simply what must happen.

This will be Yuri’s final performance in competitive skating. He owes it to this program—to himself—to Victor—to finally, finally let it be shown to the world the way it was meant to be seen.

He’s currently sitting at fourth place on the leaderboard. Certainly not impossible to bounce back from, and just one placement away from making it to the podium. But he doesn’t just want the podium. This program deserves more. Victor deserves more. Victor had come to coach him so that Yuri could win a gold medal, and Yuri will get it for him.

Yuri slowly comes back to himself as he hears the time called, lazily following the other skaters off the ice while JJ prepares to deliver his free skate. Victor’s waiting for him with a look of fierce pride—Yuri hadn’t missed a beat during warm-ups, didn’t falter once during the day’s earlier practice session either. He hands Yuri his skate guards and leads him away from the boards.

“Yuri,” Victor says, sounding almost breathless, eyes wide and bright, “you—you radiate today, do you feel it? No one else has been able to hold a candle to you all day. Oh, Yuri, you could be the sun.”

I would swallow the sun to glow for you, Yuri thinks.

“I have nothing more to say,” Victor says, “except: thank you.”

Yuri blinks. “For what?”

Victor’s laugh is full-bodied and delighted, and Yuri drowns in it. “For being you. For being so wonderfully you.” Victor holds out his hand. “Thank you for allowing me on this journey with you. It’s been a privilege, Katsuki Yuri.”

Yuri stares at that outstretched hand. His vision blurs for a moment, and he swears he sees that hand holding out a bouquet of red camellias. But he blinks and it’s gone, and Yuri moves to place his own hand in Victor’s instead.

Victor’s grip is tight as he leans in. “Next up,” he says, grinning slyly, “we’ll make you a World Champion.”

Yuri pretends he is living a different life as he tightens his own grip, smiles back, and says, “Yes, Coach.”

“Representing Japan, Yuri Katsuki!”

It would usually be a cue for the nerves to spike, precious seconds spent skating lazy circles to calm himself until he needs to be in his starting position. But not today. What is there to be nervous about when there’s only one possible outcome for this skate?

The music begins, and Yuri is the song.

When Victor had first showed him this choreography almost six months ago, Yuri’s immediate reaction had been despair. It was beautiful—and it was too much for him. Trying to put all of his feelings into one program while pushing the technical components to compete on a higher level than ever before had seemed beyond his capabilities. Yuri had wanted to focus more on the artistic components, the PCS that would save him if (when) he flubbed his jumps. Victor, however, had waved an airy hand at all of Yuri’s hesitations and doubts and relentlessly drilled him. And Yuri had come to realize: I can do this. The hesitations and doubts fell behind as Yuri hungrily chased a dream, Victor by his side.

Victor. He’d reached into Yuri and pulled this out of him, excavating deep beneath the layers of Yuri’s weaknesses, the fear and repression and anxiety, exposing a core that Yuri hadn’t known was there. Ambition and passion and determination swelled up, vibrant and heady, continually intensified by Victor’s prodding—and all of it, every single newfound strength he’s discovered is inextricably tied to a love so overwhelming it grew roots and bloomed flowers in his chest.

Yuri could have a lifetime and he wouldn’t be able to pay it all back to Victor.

He doesn’t have a lifetime. All he has is this, now.

In this moment, with music notes spilling from his fingertips and his heart spilled out all over the ice, Yuri admits to himself that the goal has changed. There’s something else Yuri feels is worth chasing, something more beautiful than gold medals, more powerful than all the titles in the world. To skate a program that will leave a lasting impression in the hearts of the audience, a program that is indisputably perfect, a program he can feel satisfied and whole with. This is the hope. This is the mark he wants to make. No one knows that this is his swan song, and Yuri yearns for it to not be remembered that way. Let them remember this as the masterpiece crafted by Victor Nikiforov and Katsuki Yuri, as only they could craft it.

As Yuri arches into the Ina Bauer, he thinks with complete conviction, I never want to leave. He wants to be the music. He wants to be the blades. There is something about the sound of his skates gliding, the cold against his skin, the energy that pulsates within the rink. Every practice, every performance, every time he is on the ice, he can feel this need, this hunger, beating a tattoo into his heart. What was once a steady hum is now a staggering roar, and Yuri lets it overtake him.

Watch me, Victor. The ice is the polygraph and I am the needle. The best way to say I love you is honestly.

The music stops. One hand on his heart, the other pointing to the person who holds it.

He can’t see Victor’s face, but Yuri hears the clarion call of Victor shouting his name.

For you, Victor. It was always for you.

The sound of the crowd penetrates through the haze, and the place he was just in is lost to Yuri as reality creeps into the peripheral and crashes over him: unavoidable, unforgiving.

The hand over his heart clenches.

Yuri tries to draw in a breath, but there’s nowhere for it to go. His throat is full, his lungs are full; flower petals rustle in his mouth and Yuri deliriously thinks they are laughing at him. He spits them out, coughs and coughs to force them from his throat, desperate to just make some room to breathe. The camellias spill out, and out, and out, and Yuri falls to his knees.

Too much, he thinks, vision blurring until all he sees is red. The flood doesn’t stop, and Yuri knows that this time, it won’t.

He thinks of his sister, somewhere in the crowd. His parents, watching this on a laptop screen on the kitchen counter. Phichit and Yurio, rinkside. I’m sorry.

Yuri’s cheek is cold. It seems fitting: the ice is where he was really born, and now he’s come full circle. He closes his eyes. I’m sorry, Victor.

Yuri is surprised when his eyes open. He didn’t think they’d ever do that again.

“Yuri!” Phichit looms into view. Yuri can feel hands clenched around his.

He tries to talk, and finds he can’t.

“Don’t try to talk,” Phichit says. “They’ve—they gave you something—a sedative I think, so you’d stop—um, well, you’ve stopped, and they put—they put a tube—” Phichit’s voice catches. Yuri sees how red his eyes are. “You’ve got a tube in your throat. So don’t try to talk. You’re okay right now. You’re okay.”

I’m dying. Yuri squeezes Phichit’s hand.

Phichit swallows hard. “Mari was here,” he says. “And Minako. Mari’s—she’s on the phone with your parents now, I think. I’m sorry. I know you didn’t want them to know.” His hands shake. “And I know—I tried to tell them—the doctors,” he whispers, “that you don’t want the surgery. I don’t know if they were really listening to me though. They kept saying you had to stabilize before they could—but I tried to tell them.”

Phichit steps back, taking his hands from Yuri’s and covering his face with them. Yuri sees his shoulders shake, and desperately wishes he could reach out and make them stop. “I don’t know what to do!” It bursts out, and with it comes the tears. “I’m—I’m trying to be a good friend, Yuri, I’m—I want to respect what you want, but, but how can I be a good friend when—how can I tell them to just let you die?”

Yuri watches his best friend quake under his sobs and thinks, I’ve made such a mess of things. He wishes he could speak, though he doesn’t know what he’d say. He tries to make a gesture, but he doesn’t think he manages it. He’s so tired, and his body is so numb. He can feel himself slipping away again; from drugs or illness, he isn’t sure.

Before his consciousness slips into the black, Yuri hears Phichit’s quiet, trembling plea: “What should I do?”

“Yuri.”

Yuri knows he needs to respond in some way—move his fingers, open his eyes, make some sound. But he is so very tired.

“Yuri, please. Please come back.”

That voice. Yuri can’t not answer to it. He forces his heavy eyelids open, and there’s Victor, staring down at him.

There are tears in Victor’s eyes.

“Yuri,” Victor breathes, and he surges forward, one hand clasping around Yuri’s shoulder and the other gripping Yuri’s hand. “How could you not tell me?”

Yuri’s suddenly aware the tube in his throat is gone: his mouth is dry and it’s hard to pull air into his lungs. But there’s a warm hand on his, and Yuri won’t ignore it. “I didn’t tell anyone,” Yuri says, and that’s true enough—they’d all found out on their own. “Didn’t want to. It’s mine to bear.”

“No,” Victor says fiercely. “This isn’t something you should have been bearing alone. You’ve never been alone.” His hand clenches tighter around Yuri’s. “Yurio told me. I’m the one who did this to you. But I—”

Yuri wishes he could summon up the strength to march out of this hospital bed and give Yurio an ear-blistering lecture. “You didn’t,” Yuri interrupts. He wants to say so much more, but there’s not enough air and his throat feels like it’s full of jagged glass shards; all he can manage is, “It is what it is.” His eyes close again. He’s so tired.

“Yuri,” Victor says, sounding wretched. There’s a shift, and Yuri feels a forehead pressed against his. “I love you.” Yuri feels a dampness on his cheek, and it takes him a moment to realize it’s Victor’s tears. “I love you, Yuri.”

Oh, he’s wished so desperately to hear those words. They settle in Yuri’s veins, warmth and happiness rushing through him.

But he also feels the vines constricting his lungs, hears how his breath whistles through the flower petals he’s slowly choking on. “I know you don’t,” Yuri whispers, “but thank you for saying it.”

Victor actually sobs, and Yuri wants to wrap his arms around him, beg him not to cry and promise that it will be okay. But he’s so tired.

“Don’t go,” Victor says hoarsely. “I love you. Please don’t go.”

I won’t, Yuri wants to say, but he is already leaving.

It’s something like déjà vu, opening his eyes again to a white ceiling when he thought they’d closed for good.

“Oh my god,” Yuri hears beside him, “Yuri.”

It’s Mari, sitting beside his hospital bed. There are dark purple smudges under her eyes, and her hair is mussed—like she’s rested her head down several times and has not had the chance or inclination to comb it inbetween. Her hands grip Yuri’s arm, smile trembling but bright. “Hey, you’re okay now. You’re okay.”

“What?” Yuri hopes she misreads the way his voice cracks.

She opens her mouth and starts speaking, but Yuri doesn’t listen. He already knows what happened.

He doesn’t feel the vines. Nothing flutters in his chest as he breathes, uninhibited.

He thinks of Victor, and there’s no ache.

There’s no ache.

“You’re awake!” Running footsteps, and then Phichit is by his side again. His red-rimmed eyes crinkle up in a smile—but the curve of his mouth seems plastic somehow. “Yuri,” he says, like another plea.

“Mari,” Yuri says, “could you give us a minute?”

“Yeah,” she replies, and while she seems a little surprised, Yuri’s grateful she doesn’t comment on how rough he’d sounded. “Yeah, of course. I need to go outside to call Mom and Dad anyway—damn place has no cell reception.” Mari stands, squeezing Yuri’s shoulder briefly before she leaves the room.

Yuri swallows hard and forces his eyes to meet Phichit’s. “What happened?”

Phichit drags a chair over and sits down close to Yuri’s pillow. He fidgets quietly for several long moments, biting his lip as his fingers twist around each other. “The doctors wouldn’t listen to me,” he says quietly. “I’m not family. So I—I tried to tell Mari. She might’ve been able to—they would’ve listened to her, probably. But I couldn’t do it, Yuri.” Phichit grabs for Yuri’s hand, but he bows his head and won’t look Yuri in the eye. “I was standing right in front of her. I couldn’t tell her to let her little brother die.” He looks up then, scared but steadfast. “I’m sorry. But I couldn’t.”

“Don’t,” Yuri says, squeezing Phichit’s hand. “I’m sorry. You never should’ve had to be in that position. I’m so sorry, Phichit.”

Phichit lets out a tiny laugh. “We could go back and forth on this all day, Yuri.”

“Right.” Yuri tries for a smile, but it wavers and fades under the cold dread still prickling through him. “So—so they just—I figured it’d be obvious enough I didn’t want the surgery, but they—”

“They’re sticklers for official stuff. Paperwork, you know,” Phichit says uncomfortably. “They mentioned there were no DNR papers. Without those, they said—they said they were obligated to do everything they could to save your life.”

Yuri lets out a shuddering breath. “Right.”

Phichit’s grip on his hand becomes almost painful. Yuri looks at him and frowns slightly; the sparkle in Phichit’s eyes is all wrong. “Please, Yuri.”

Yuri closes his eyes, sinking back into his pillows. “I’ll try.”

The worst part is: he doesn’t know if he’s lying.

Victor is not frequently prone to bouts of floundering. Similarly, he’s rarely at a loss for words. It’s not that he’s particularly skilled at avoiding uncomfortable situations; uncomfortable situations arise, and he simply barrels through them.

But when Phichit rushes into the waiting room and breathlessly tells Victor that Yuri is awake (safe, alive), Victor smiles, spouts out some words about how very relieved he is, and promptly flees the area before he can be lead to Yuri’s bedside.

He may not be particularly skilled at it, but Victor isn’t above using avoidance tactics when convenient.

He just needs a moment. A moment to think. A moment to calm the lurching throb of his heartbeat.

He needs to see Yuri.

Just a glimpse, a reassurance. Yuri’s alone right now, as Phichit had told him, obviously thinking Victor would go right to him. And Victor wants to; oh, how he wants to. There is so much to be said. But for now, he’ll just settle for a look.

The view through the window reveals Dr. Mateu checking Yuri’s stitches.

Victor sucks in a breath and steps back until he collides with the wall. It’s one thing to hear that Yuri had been cut open. It’s a different thing altogether to see the evidence on his body. To know he’d been cracked apart and scooped out and then stitched back together, missing a piece of himself.

Victor leans back against the wall, and waits.

When Dr. Mateu leaves the room, Victor takes an unsteady step forward. “I don’t understand.”

Dr. Mateu glances back at the door he’d just walked through. “You are . . . a friend of Mr. Katsuki’s?”

“Victor. Nikiforov. Yes, I’m here with Yuri—Mr. Katsuki.” Victor takes a deep breath in, eyes closing briefly before he meets the doctor’s faintly perplexed gaze again. “I don’t—don’t understand this . . . Hanahaki. I always thought it only happened with. With unrequited love.” His eyes blur, and he rapidly tries to blink it away. “I don’t understand.”

The doctor’s eyes are all too pitying now. “I see. Come with me, Mr. Nikiforov.”

Victor follows him to an office and takes a seat when Dr. Mateu tells him to. The leather on the chair creaks beneath him. This is not a chair meant for comfort; this is a chair for listen to what I have to say and then, please, get the hell out.

Dr. Mateu settles behind his desk with a weary sigh. “Hanahaki disease is still quite a mystery, I’m afraid. It does infect those whose love is unreturned, but not every person suffering unrequited love suffers from Hanahaki. And . . . ” The doctor very visibly hesitates. “This is just a theory of mine. I have seen many cases of Hanahaki, and sometimes. Well. Sometimes, it would appear that the Hanahaki manages to thrive simply because the patient so deeply believes their love cannot be returned. Not because it isn’t.”

Victor feels like the breath has been knocked out of him. “Oh.”

“It’s just a theory,” Dr. Mateu hurriedly repeats. “There is still so much we don’t know or understand about the disease. But,” the doctor offers Victor a helpless shrug, “the disease does seem to be quite a capricious sort. In another case of mine, the Hanahaki developed in a man who had just proposed to his fiancée. I assumed, rather cynically I suppose, that perhaps he was involved in an affair, and pined for this other person. But he cried when I told him about the surgery—about losing his feelings of love. Clung to his fiancée’s hand and said he couldn’t bear it. He loved her, that was clear, and so my cynical thoughts turned to her. But you know what he told me? He said he knew his fiancée loved him, but he knew she didn’t love him the same way he loved her. Said he’d always known it.”

The doctor takes off his glasses, cleaning them in a gesture that seemed to have less to do with need and more to do with it being a nervous habit. “There was love between them. But to the Hanahaki, it was a matter of degree. And so it still managed to take its hold.” The glasses get pushed back on his nose, and Dr. Mateu lays his hands palm-up over his desk. “You see? Capricious. I cannot tell you why Mr. Katsuki was infected. I cannot tell you if your love is different than his love, or if he just believes it is. I’m sorry, Mr. Nikiforov.”

The words burn in Victor’s chest. “And,” he says, staring unseeingly over the doctor’s shoulder, “there is no chance his feelings could return to him, is there?”

Dr. Mateu takes a long moment to respond. “It’s impossible to say anything definitive about Hanahaki,” he says, “but it has not happened in any case I’ve seen.”

“I—” Victor swallows hard. “I see. Thank you, Dr. Mateu.” Victor stands abruptly, eyes wild for a moment before they focus on the doctor with a sort of wry helplessness. “I don’t suppose,” he says, “that you can cure this.”

Dr. Mateu just looks at Victor sadly. “I’m sorry.”

Victor laughs, the tinge of hysteria threatening to spill out of his eyes like rivers. “It feels like it’s there,” he gasps. “It’s not—I know it’s not—but I swear, I feel it.” His hands curl around the back of the chair, fingers digging into the leather. “How I wish it were so you could cut this out of me.”

And he swiftly strides from the office.

Victor’s legs carry him outside the hospital until he’s leaning against the rough cement wall, chest heaving. Hands on knees, sucking in deep lungfuls of air. It almost makes him angry that a fistful of flower petals isn’t falling from his mouth.

He might have put Yuri in that hospital bed just because he couldn’t love him the way Yuri deserves.

He might have put Yuri in that hospital bed just because he didn’t say something. Not when it mattered. Not when Yuri might have really heard him.

Yuri had been slowly dying from a love he thought was unreturned, and neither of them said anything.

We are such fools, Victor thinks as a manic laugh touches his lips.

The laughter fades into sobs as the full weight of it hits Victor: he still carries this love inside his chest that has been cut out of Yuri’s. But it had been there. It had been there. He had almost been Yuri’s and Yuri had almost been his. And now that’s all they will ever be to each other.

Almost.