Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Viktor?”

“Huh?”

“Viktor… It’s me.”

Viktor Nikiforov was ninety two and he was about to die.

“So this is the geezer, huh?”

Otabek gives him the Look™, one that screamed nothing but ‘Yura please be nice to our customers’. It was a look that Otabek often gave him all the time throughout the whole course of their partnership as magical wish granting genies shat out by a giant corporate entity. Fortunately, their clients were too nice to think of them as that.

Most of the time. 

Yuri just huffs, wondering how his partner managed to be so inconsiderably polite on a regular basis before looking at the doctor for confirmation on what they were about to do.

The doctor nods. He’s old and graying himself, remnants of a red fringe evident on his grey locks. When he talks, Yuri sees the fanged little canines implanted on his dentures, now leaving an imprint on his gums. Maybe when he were younger, this doctor smiled and laughed and when he grinned his fanged teeth gleamed in the light.

“Mr. Nikiforov’s vitals are overall stable on support. It's a given that they’re showing signs of tremendous decrease in activity once I put him off, so I will make sure to keep watch during the whole process.”

Otabek just hums, setting the last of the equipment down. Otabek always did the ‘carrying around bulky machinery’ part because he’s noticeably taller and manlier unlike Yuri, who looked like an he's one breeze away from getting blown across the country by the wind. Don't let that fool you though, Yuri has enough leg power that he can break bones with a kick.

“We can have him connected on life support for only a certain amount of time, doc.” Otabek says as Yuri inspects the withering man. He was a deathly pale, white hair splayed on his gigantic forehead like a floppy pancake. It was the typical day job, something that Yuri has seen multiple times already. An old and fading man, wanting to fulfill one last wish, wanting to believe that he was more than just an insignificant speck in this vast and endless universe, before succumbing into death.

“Eventually the machines might interfere with the process. We’re going to have to hurry up.” Otabek says, facing Yuri. “Do we have to do a background check on him aside from his basic vitals? His files say he did not have a dangerous history.”

Yuri shrugs. “We already have his information.” He faces Mila, Nikiforov’s caretaker. She had this bubblegum peach princess personality and Yuri knew the moment he entered this manor’s doors that she was going to be a nuisance. “Is it alright if we look around? Maybe find some personal items of Mr. Nikiforov.”

Mila purses her lips, cocking her head. “Sure. But I think it’ll be a waste of time. Mr. Viktor never really had anything personal when he moved in, save except for his clothes and such.”

Yuri huffs. “Then let’s not. This is gonna be easy, isn’t it Beka? What does he want again?”

Otabek looks up from the machine to briefly flash a glance at his partner.

“He wants to get a gold medal.”

Mila and the doctor had this intrigued look on his face, the doctor most especially, with his copper eyes filling with confusion at the statement. Yuri doesn’t know why, but maybe this ancient medical practitioner knew more than what they thought… But who was he to think too deeply on his things? Yuri just wanted to get his paycheck and go home to Potya.

Yuri nods, sitting on a nearby couch. The velvet cushions were soft and plush, Yuri wanted to take a nap and get this over with. “It’ll be easy. What kind of athlete should he be, though? Or is he like… a brain athlete, or something.”

"I believe they're called scholars, Yura." Otabek grunts. “We’ll just have to see when we're in.”

Mila gives them a questionable look, blue eyes curious and searching as she steps closer into the room and towards the bed of the unmoving Nikiforov.

“How… How do you guys do it? Like, grant wishes or something.”

Otabek, the nice man that he is, answers without looking up from the machine he was assembling. “We enter the person’s inner temporal lobe, where it houses long term memories. We tamper with said memories, altering them so the person could have the figurative motivation to accomplish what they desired themselves, even if it’s only all in their imagination.”

Mila stares, confused.

Yuri rolls his eyes, wondering how overly exorbitant his friend managed to be at times. “What he’s trying to say is that we jump in his memories and give him the desire to accomplish what he wants, then his brain does a butterfly effect and it all goes on from there. Then he replays his entire life, except this time he gets his goal, and he believes he lived a full and happy life.”

Mila nods in understanding, looking deep in thought. Her eyes shone with fascination. “How do you ‘give him the desire’?”

Otabek answers for him. “We do minor altering, like maybe nudge him to try track and field or swimming. We could even have him join spelling bees or something. The point is, we don't give him a medal. He will get himself the medal, we only give him the drive. ”

“Ah, I get it.” Something flickers in her blue eyes, a flash of confusion. “But… How do you delve into his mind? Just like that?” Her slim, pale fingers make a little snap.

Yuri shakes his head. “We can’t. It’ll damage his brain. Plus, it’s too easy. We have to go through his memories and try to figure out what sort of person he was.”

Yuri will never admit it, but he liked explaining things to people. It made him feel smart and wanted, not like the usual angry edgelord most of his colleagues passed him off as. It was a chance to prove to everyone that he was so much more, so much mature than what he looked like. Sometimes, though, he wasn't so sure of himself either. Nonetheless, what else is there to do?

The doctor coughs into his fist. “Shall we hurry up? Life support doesn’t last forever, you know.”

Yuri nods, standing from the couch. Otabek takes his place in front of the machine, helmet already on. Yuri once commented that he looked like a shoddier version of those little sci-fi robots with copper heads and squeaking joints. “Let’s go, Yura. We don’t have much time.”

Yuri rolls his eyes, taking the seat next to Otabek, both of them sitting by the dying man’s bedside. “Yeah, yeah… Whatever. Let’s get this over with.”

And when Yuri puts on the helmet, he figured it would be the everyday routine thing. They’ve done this so many times, seen so many secrets, delved into so many memories and each contract was a success. They were just so good at their jobs and humans are so incredibly impressionable and vulnerable that the simplest of whispers into their ear can change their entire world. Patient wants to become a celebrity? Make them join a theatre at a young age. Patient wants to marry girl of dreams? Make him talk to his childhood crush and eventual perfect wife. 

Patient wants a gold medal?

As Yuri sits back and lets the machine toss him through someone’s life, someone’s past, he thinks he'll be home in not even an hour.

This’ll be a piece of cake.

Viktor Nikiforov is ninety two and he is making plans on his death.

It always starts out like this. Every time different, but still the same nonetheless.

Travelling through a person’s brain and memory is like jumping in a black and white photo. It can be loopy, like throwing yourself in a blender or in a tornado. It wasn’t a good experience, but Yuri and Otabek got used to it anyways. There were perks to it, like riding every roller coaster at Six Flags with ease while your friends die from vomiting or dizziness. It didn't make it any more pleasant, but they wouldn't get their paycheck by complaining.

And the places were always different, somewhere unique, somewhere special, somewhere that gave Yuri and Otabek a distinct clue on who this person was. Usually a home or a stage or an office, somewhere a human has imprinted themselves onto the ground and walls of the place. Traces of individuality found in different locations.

They find themselves on a coastline.

It’s chilly and warm at the same time, like heaven and hell colliding. The sand was digging into their shoes, the seagulls overhead fly in a V formation, and Yuri inhales and smells something… sweet.

Something oddly out of place.

Yuri sniffs again, inhaling deeply.

Roses.

Yuri frowns, but he was thankful that it wasn’t anything horrid. Most patients always had a distinguishable smell; it’s purely based on luck whether it was good or bad. Yuri shudders, remembering that one patient they had who smelled like terrible Trench Foot. He was thankful that Nikiforov didn't smell unsavory, albeit he never really liked flowers much.

Yuri sniffs again, feeling the flowery scent waft through his nose, and he tries not to sneeze.

Otabek materializes next to him in a flash. “Should we turn off interactivity for all except for Mr. Nikiforov?”

Mr. Nikiforov.

Yuri sees the form up ahead. Old and crooked, scarf whipping behind him with this standard cane, looking at the ocean like some dramatic action lead. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. His long, silver hair was pulled back into a ponytail, whipping in the wind and glinting under the light. His hair looked like a lighthouse, the silver streaking through the muted grey of the sky.

Yuri shrugs. “If you want to. There’s no one here anyways.”

This was the beginning of it all, the last recognizable memory Nikiforov had before he agreed to sign the contract. The seagulls watched them from above, looking like olden aircrafts ready to rain bombs down on their unfortunate forms. Nikiforov stands there, unmoving; Yuri didn’t need to see his eyes but the young man felt like the older man was searching for something amongst the waves.

He starts approaching the figure by the coastline, shoes burying into the sand with every step. He let out a sound of distaste at the feeling of sand sinking in his shoes, but Nikiforov does not budge.

“Yo, Mr. Nikiforov?” He says amidst the wind softly whipping around them, like a tornado, but a mini tornado. There were mini versions of things that Yuri like, like mini kittens or mini bagels, but a mini tornado isn’t one of them. He was so lost in this tangent that he didn't realize how Nikiforov tensed at his voice.

Nikiforov turns, ever so slightly, just to peek over his shoulder. Next to him, Otabek finally catches up and finds his place next to Yuri. He looked like an ancient statue, with eyes that showed decades worth of life, yet they looked so incredibly lifeless at the same time. There was nothing behind his eyes, no joy or sadness or pain.

It was a sight Yuri saw all the time. And yet it was a sight that Yuri hasn’t seen at all. He hated how he was so unsure of how to feel about this old, dying man.

Nikiforov smiles, soft and tired. There was a twinkle in his eyes, yet they still managed to look empty at the same time. “Are you two those people from Sigmund Corp?”

Yuri blinks.

Well.

“I… Uh, yes, sir.” Otabek says, ever so polite. “How do you know?”

Nikiforov turns, slow and a little stiff with the aid of his cane. Like an old clock ticking. Tick tock. “The Corp sent me information about you both when I signed the contract. I never knew you both would come this early. Are you going to alter my memories already?”

Yuri cocks an eyebrow, feeling a sense of amusement.

“We already have.”

Nikiforov blinks, eyes unmoving and still, like he was watching them warily.Yet he made no abrupt movements or exclamations, like knowing you're in danger but not doing anything about it. Vulnerability.

“We’re already in your memory sequence, Mr. Nikiforov.” Otabek says, voice kempt and rehearsed. “You’ve already called us. You’ve already let us in your home. Now we’re going to fulfill your wish.”

Behind his eyelids, cloudy blue irises sit and inside them hold a silent storm, old and withered by age as they widen slowly with realization. Viktor takes a few shaky steps back; blue eyes flitting in between them both, his shoes kiss the edge of the waves-

“Are you…” Viktor says, gaze flying to the sand beyond. He looked oddly calm, but the guarded look in his eyes muddled with his surprised exterior. Yuri finally sees something behind his blue eyes. Fear, excitement, astonishment, devastation-

“Are you going to get me a gold medal?” 

They didn’t expect him to be so accepting of it. No questions, no clarifications, no surprised exclamations. People usually asked questions, worried about their privacy or some shit. 

Whatever made Nikiforov want a medal this badly… The drive must have been so excruciatingly large.

Yuri shoves his hands into his coat pockets, the wind chilly despite it being a coastline. “Not us. But you will.”

Viktor’s mouth parts, chapped lips in a little ‘o’. Like waiting for words to fly into his mouth themselves, but no words come.

Eventually, Viktor looks behind him, sees the vast ocean and sighs a little “I… I suppose so.”

Otabek clears his throat, squinting as the light hits his eyes. The sunlight kisses the clouds with grays and blues. “Mr. Nikiforov, we need to know why you want a gold medal.”

Viktor is silent, letting the ocean waves fill their ears like water filling a glass.

It was like the ocean spoke for him, too bad the two didn’t understand anything. It took a while for Nikiforov to answer, but it was an answer that baffled the two.

“I don’t know.”

Viktor’s voice was surprisingly quiet but strong, unlike the same old wheezy breathy voice he had awhile ago. It was like a stronger, younger version of him possessed his body for a while and answered for him.

Yuri huffs, slumping a little. “[Well, I was hoping that he won’t be a pain in the ass.]”

Otabek frowns at him, Yuri’s voice echoing through their private communication system. No entities in Nikiforov’s memory realm would be able to hear them if they wanted to, Yuri has talked shit about their clients multiple times this way. It was one of his favorite parts of the job. “[Yura, be patient. He’s old.]”

Yuri just crosses his arms. “We’ll need more than an ‘I don’t know’ for us to help you, Mr. Nikiforov.”

Viktor returns his gaze on them, eyes a little lost. Like they got shipwrecked in the sea. He looks like he's still looking for something, like he dropped a coin in the ocean and he desperately needs it back.

Crash, crash.

“I really don’t. I just…”

Yuri couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity. Nikiforov sounded lost, scared. He would be too, if he has a goal in mind with no real origins. It must've felt like being hungry without having a stomach, or wanting to fly without wings.

“I just want a gold medal.”

“[Did you do a background check on him? Does he have any psychological problems? Dementia? Alzheimer’s?]” Otabek’s voice echoes in his brain.

Yuri scowls. “[Of course I did. What do you think I am… unprofessional?]” Otabek scoffs, the sound echoes through his ear. “[He’s relatively normal, save except for low blood pressure. No records of any mental illnesses.]”

“B-But… If you’re going to help me get a medal, then I will try to cooperate as much as possible.” Viktor says, stoic and strong, the waves crash behind him, like they were agreeing to his proposition..

Otabek nods, gesturing for him and Yuri to step closer to the man. “We’ll find a way, Mr. Nikiforov. But we need your help.”

Yuri shoves his hands back into his coat pocket, feels the cold air slice through his flesh. “Do you have anything important to you? Like a small little trinket or… something.”

“A memento, sir. Anything that’s important to you.” Otabek says, using these little hand gestures while he talked. Yuri called him a magician once. Otabek swore that if he ever mentions anything magic related again he would dye Yuri’s cat pink.

Viktor thinks for a moment, deep in thought. Searching and searching, like looking through your old toy box and getting hit with old shots of nostalgia. Yuri could see the old cogs in his head turn, rusty and broken. Scrape, rattle.

After a few moments, Nikiforov stands fully up, poise perfected.

He pulls at the hair tie keeping his silver locks together, letting his hair loose.

His silver hair explodes against the swaying wind, puffing up against the breeze. It looked like it was alive and breathing, the platinum locks moving under the wind's command. His hair was stunning.

Yuri is surprised when Viktor hands the hair tie to them.

“Are… Are you sure?” Otabek asks, staring at the offer with wide eyes.

Viktor chuckles, low and weak. “Yes.”

Yuri takes it. The dark garter was stretched and worn, the seams already falling apart. But it held together anyways. “A… A hair tie?”

Viktor smiles, sad and nostalgic and Yuri does not miss the dullness in his eyes, it was like a child letting go of his teddy bear. Yuri has never seen an old man look at a hair tie with so much affection before.

“Believe me, Сын. That hair tie is worth more to me than any other object I have.”

Otabek nods, solemnly. “We thank you, Mr. Nikiforov.” The Kazakh faces Yuri, eyes questioning. “[Should we imprint the memento in? I think-]”

“Aren’t you worried about your privacy?” Yuri asks, eyes narrowing a little at the old man, the sunlight giving his frail form a glow, ignoring Otabek’s question entirely. He wonders, wonders, wonders, why Nikiforov was so unknowing. Why he wasn’t afraid for his past secrets to be unveiled. Why he looked so… lost.

Viktor smiles, sad and weak, looking back at the ocean, then to them.

Yuri would never admit it, but he wanted to know why this man looked like he was looking for something he’d never find.

“I don’t care anymore.”

Before Yuri could say anything else, he gets whisked away.

Nikiforov is left alone on the sand.

Viktor Nikiforov is fifteen and he has single handedly made history.

“And now, we have Viktor Nikiforov, youngest known Short Program and Free Skate record holder!”

It was just like a little ant, gliding out onto ice. It was nothing but just a little insect, one that could be indistinguishable amidst a large crowd and could be easily crushed. That little ant could be anyone, you, your mom, your dog, your neighbor…

But the crowds cheer. They cheer as the tiny ant, looking untouchable amidst the ice, glides out and waves to the people like he was meant to be on top. His hair, silver and long and kept into a certain dark hair tie, whips behind him and perfectly matches his light blue costume.

Because everyone, even a tiny little ant, could bring the world to its knees.

“For his exhibition skate, he is skating to Carmen Suite No. 2: Habanera. Judging from his excitement, he obviously can’t wait to showcase his exhibition to the whole world!”

“We can’t blame him, Jim. It’s his second consecutive win at the Worlds, two gold medals and more than a handful of others from his other wins already under his belt! By the time he’s sixteen, he’ll probably be already on top of the world!”

And the little ant skates, moves, glides across the ice and the people cheer for him, yell his name, idolize him. The ice screeches under his skates, kiss the golden blades on his feet. They all scream his name, wish to become like him, praise him…

Save except for two people.

“What the fuck?” Yuri seethes, watching the show. He can’t say that he’s not mesmerized; the little ant moved like the music was forming wings on his back. Different versions of Nikiforov stray throughout the environment, like little projections, and it should be confusing but the pair is used to it.

Otabek hums, tapping his lip. “He looks like he’s already won a gold medal…”

Yuri gives him an incredulous look. “Looks like? Beka, didn’t you hear the announcers? He’s literally a record holder.”

Otabek purses his lips, watching as Nikiforov launches into an impressive spin. Yuri just scowls besides him, frown looking like a permanent etch on his face. “He looks like he’s already a professional skater, probably got a whole other shelf of medals…”

“Then maybe he wants another one.” Otabek finishes. “Maybe he finished his career unwillingly, maybe he wants to skate one last time-“

“Possible.” Yuri says, he cringes when the crowds scream when Nikiforov lands a jump. It was rather impressive, but it was so fucking loud. “But why doesn’t he know? Why does he have to pull an ‘oh I’m an old mysterious man and I don’t know where the fuck my goals come from’?”

Otabek shrugs. “He is old. Old people forget.”

“Still. We’re going to have a hard time with this, Beka…” Yuri massaged a temple. He feels like he gains twenty years of age every time he works with a difficult subject.

They both jolt when Nikiforov glides off the ice, time seemingly passing, tired and sweaty but alive. Oh so different from the tired, weak, vulnerable man by the sand. An old man, probably his coach, hands him his water bottle before they both head off into the backstage areas. Yuri and Otabek were hidden by their machines, making it unable for the memory entities of Nikiforov sense them.

Glancing at each other, Yuri and Otabek both follow the pair.

“You did well, Vitya.” The old man says, sounding like life has beaten him down multiple times already. “I couldn’t be any more-“

“Yeah, yeah, but Yakov!” Nikiforov jitters excitedly smile bright and silver strands of hair plastered to his sweaty forehead. “Is the costume in yet? Can I see? Can I see?!”

Yuri raises an eyebrow, he glances at Otabek.

Otabek just shrugs.

Yakov sighs, rubbing a temple. Yuri is reminded of himself, and wonders if he’s going to end up like this man one day. The thought terrifies him.

“I don’t get why you can’t wait until we come home-“

“I can’t. Now come on, show me!”

Yakov rolls his eyes; Yuri wonders how an old man looked so bitter, before watching the old man hand a nearby clothing bag to Nikiforov.

Viktor opens it.

Squeals.

Yuri snickers as he feels Otabek jolt next to him. Nikiforov looks like some edgy teen girl from Tumblr, sipping on an old Starbucks Frappucino and wearing thigh highs as he beams at whatever is inside the bag.

“It’s WONDERFUL! The fabric is so soft…. And look, the gems look so authentic!” Viktor holds up the halfway opened baggie, reveals a dark, skin tight costume. Half of it is mesh, with crystals adorning the side. Looked like someone from a BDSM club would wear, but you didn’t hear that from Yuri…

“Beka, look...” Yuri says, nudging the man next to him. The costume glows, but not a beacon like glow, more like an old 60’s portrait. A soft, comforting glow, like mac and cheese when the cheese freshly melts. “It’s a memento.”

Whatever this dark black costume is, it meant a lot to Nikiforov. And it might be their next ticket on finding out how and why Viktor wanted another gold medal.

Otabek pauses the memory sequence, faces Yuri.

“Alright, how are we going to motivate him into winning a gold medal when he already has a truck ton?” Otabek says, hands on hips.

Yuri snicker, looking at the paused hologram-like memory. Nikiforov had one eye half opened, his mouth in an awkward position, frozen in holding the baggie up like an as seen on TV product-

“Yuri…”

“Huh, what?” Yuri snaps out of his reverie, wishing he had his phone so he could capture this glorious moment.

Otabek sighs, shakes his head, and inputs the memento.

Viktor Nikiforov is sixteen, and he wins all alone.

“He’s a fucking Olympic champion?”

Otabek pats him on the head sympathetically, shushing him as Yuri seethes, watching the three figures on the podium. Lo and behold, Nikiforov stood on top, 2006 Olympic medal on his chest. There are other holograms of his memories, one is still gliding on the ice, the other just got on it, etc. etc. He was wearing that skin tight costume he previously squealed about, proud and mighty and-

“He’s a fucking Olympic champion. What more could he want?” Yuri seethes, Otabek just shushes him.

“We can’t rush to assumptions, Yura. We’re going to have to dig deeper.” One of the holograms show Nikiforov stepping off the ice, waving to the crowds as the golden medal glints around his neck. Yakov is there, and after a few moments, the two head back to the backstage area once more.

Huffing, Yuri follows them both as Otabek follows in tow.

“Mr. Nikiforov! Mr. Nikiforov, can we have a word-“

Yuri clenches his teeth, hating the paparazzi. He always found them annoying, especially when they crowded the company doors, wanting an interview from their stupid boss, fucking Leroy and his obnoxious girlfriend.

Viktor begs to differ.

He smiles, laughs, answers questions. He’s kind and soft-hearted. He patiently thanks every fan, hugs every kid who asks for his autograph, wishes his rivals the best, and not long after, the paparazzi are finally ushered away to god knows where and finally leaving Nikiforov alone.

It’s funny. Yuri and Otabek has never seen Nikiforov alone. He’s either with paparazzi, somewhere inside a skating rink as an audience praises his footwork, but never alone. The last time they have seen him alone, he was on a beach… Dying and desperate.

And when Nikiforov is alone in the locker room, he pulls out his wallet and stares at a picture.

It was like one of those cliché, movie tropes. Hero stares at old family picture or something, senses nostalgia, and then there’s screaming and guns, or possibly a romcom cliché trope.

“A memento…” Otabek whispers, seeing the familiar soft glow. It was a small picture, tiny enough to fit in one’s wallet, Yuri couldn’t see what it actually was…

Otabek pauses, everything freezes…

“Inanimate Object Interaction: On.” Otabek says, fiddling with the machine.

Yuri takes the wallet out of Nikiforov’s hands.

He expects a family photo, or maybe his girlfriend. Nikiforov was well known and everyone wanted to breathe in the same air as him, he probably had a lot of friends-

“Tch, what a loser.” Yuri says, rolling his eyes as he stares at the picture.

Otabek peers at the wallet curiously. “What is it?”

“It’s a picture of him and his dog, god.” Yuri rolls his eyes. He’d never admit that he had a picture of him and his cat in his wallet too, but come on, cats were cooler.

Otabek purses his lips. “He might just love his pet a lot.”

“He needs a boyfriend.”

Otabek huffs. “We don’t even know if he’s gay.”

“He looks gay.”

Otabek gives him a look before inputting the memento; they’re thrown into another blender of memories.

A twelve year old watches the whole show from his T.V at home, eyes twinkling.

Viktor Nikiforov is nineteen and he realizes that he’s got nothing to lose.

“Vitya…?”

Knock knock.

“Vitya, please come out.”

Viktor sniffs, eyes devoid of any known emotion.

It’s scary. He should feel pain, but the tears are streaming down his face in a numb river. His heart doesn’t ache, his chest doesn’t heave, nothing shatters and breaks because nothing left of him is whole.

“I’m fine, Yakov.” He had his usual, cheery voice. He had perfected many things… like his jumps and his spins, also faking his emotions. And he tried so hard to sound strong, like the person the people thought he were to be, but he was the exact opposite.

He was pathetic.

But he had the power to hide all that up.

But not to Yakov, because that man could read through him… Better than his family ever could.

“Viktor, please let me in…”

But Viktor didn’t want to let him in. Viktor wanted to get used to being alone all over again. He won’t be able to hear Makka’s cute little ‘boof’, nor will he have that warm presence sleeping on his bed every night, nor will the sound of Makkachin's paws on his shiny floorboards distract him from his loneliness. Pat pat pat…

Pat pat pat.

Oh right, she’s gone.

He should’ve seen it coming. He should’ve accepted it. Makkachin was old, but she lived a well spent life. Viktor never wanted her gone, but every step of stairs are mountains, eating food was torture, and Makka wanted nothing more than to sleep…

Forever.

And he knew owners cried over their pets. It wasn’t anything new. But they had a family to help them. They had loved ones. They had somebody to fill that void…

All Viktor had was skating and Makkachin.

Now Makkachin left him.

And soon, skating will… too.

Yuri lets out a low whistle, watching as Nikiforov numbly cried into his pillow that night. “Wow…”

Otabek sighs, rubbing his forehead. “This is way too personal for me.” Otabek says as he walks out of the room.

Yuri nods, trailing him, the thought of poor old Potya in his mind and he wills the depressing thoughts away. She was home, she was safe, and they were going to binge watch a  bunch of old K-Dramas once Yuri’s done with work.

“Agreed.”

They tinker throughout Nikiforov’s apartment for a moment. It was filled with early 20^th century items, old and almost alien to people in Yuri’s generation. They look for that same old glow again, soft and mellow, and eventually-

“Hey…” Otabek says, opening a nearby cabinet and pulling out a phone. And by phone, Yuri meant an old brick with buttons on it.

Yuri sneers at the sight of the old phone. “Jesus Christ, that’s ancient-“

Otabek raises an eyebrow at him. “We’re only in 2009.”

“Still.”

Otabek just sighs, prepares to input the memento in-

Yuri gasps when Viktor emerges from the bedroom all of a sudden, mussed and messy and still a little red eyed…

He walks past them, oblivious to their presence, bare feet padding on the floor.

The two both sigh in relief.

“Now, let’s-“

“Wait…” Yuri says, pausing as he watches Viktor warily when the Russian man opens the door…

There’s a little brown poodle in a basket by his door, pawing at the soft blankets.

Viktor picks it up and smiles.

Yuri is unknowingly hit by a small pang of hope.

Otabek and Yuri leave.

Viktor Nikiforov is twenty two and the dust in his life never settles.

“Hi Mama… Who? It’s me, Viktor… No, I’m your son.”

Otabek watches warily, watching as Nikiforov talks inanimately, alone in his dark room. He could be anywhere, on his couch, in his room, somewhere else, but it’s dark and Viktor’s eyes are dimmer than before.

“I saw from his records that his mother had Alzheimer’s.” Otabek murmurs, seeing the dull and unreadable look in Viktor’s eyes. It’s like Nikiforov was used to this, used to the pain-

“What about his father?”

“He left.”

“N-No… I’m, It’s Viktor. I’m not an imposter, Mama.” Viktor lets out a sad chuckle. Otabek’s chest clenches at how sad it sounded. “Did you see me skate today, Mama? I was… I was on TV- Oh… You… You didn’t? That’s… That’s alright.”

“Turns out they were broke because of him.” Otabek continues. “The family invested everything just so Mr. Nikiforov could skate.”

“Figure Skating isn’t that expensive… is it?”

“It is, Yura. His mother was a skater in her youth and she wanted Viktor to become one to. His father grew tired of it and left them. She shortly got Alzheimer’s before Viktor managed to rise to the top.”

Yuri doesn’t say anything for once, just watches…

And he remembers his grandfather, their crumbling house, the broken down jeep, the amount of sweat he poured out just to get this goddamn job, and he realizes that he might understand Nikiforov a little bit more now…

Viktor sighs, eyes broken. “I’ll… I’ll call you later when you’re feeling better, alright? I’m- No, I’m Viktor, your son. No, your son isn’t dead. I’m very much alive.”

Yuri just sighs, seeing the nearest memento.

A silver medal.

Yuri raises an eyebrow, wondering how Nikiforov managed to lose to second place.

Viktor Nikiforov is twenty seven and he finally has a rival.

“Now we have Yuuri Katsuki, twenty three and from Japan, gold winning medalist of this year’s Grand Prix Final, breaking Viktor Nikiforov’s streak!”

Yuri blinks…

And blinks…

He stares at the beaming Japanese man on top of the podium, waving to the crowds as his blue costume glinted under the spotlight. He looked like a lighthouse, lighting up the heady ocean and settling everything in a soft glow. Katsuki looked like a memento himself, ethereal and glowing and smiling brightly…

And Viktor looked up at him from second place, hair now chopped noticeably shorter; looking up at the younger man like Katsuki just eradicated every star from the sky.

“Ugh, he looks so angry.” Yuri grimaces, and Otabek laughs, shoulders shaking. “It’s unnerving.”

“He looks like you.” Otabek sing songs in the most out of character of voices, Yuri scowls at him.

“I do not look like someone just murdered my entire family and ran off with my riches.” Otabek scoffs, pursing his lips as he smirks.

Yuri kicks him in the shins.

As Otabek hisses in pain (Yuri was small and short but he had the legs of a horse) he sees Viktor’s face and reactions, sees the way his eyes stare at the crowds with dull interest, sees the way his lips frown even amidst the deliberately fake smile Nikiforov tries to put out. It was like seeing Buddha frown for the first time, despite being enlightened and whatnot.

Viktor was on top of his game for years, no one would be able to remove him from his pedestal. He’d broken countless records, set them himself, and Otabek wasn’t sure but the guy probably had two houses full of golden medals. Viktor was a skating god, the nearby newspaper says, and only the mightiest would be able to take him down.

Even amidst all that superficial golden false senses of security, Otabek knew Viktor had nothing to lose. All Viktor had was skating. That’s it.

So what if somebody tries to take that away?

Otabek hums as he watches the two get off the ice. Before they part ways, one sends a breezy glare to the other.

It sure as hell Nikiforov wouldn’t go down without a fight.

“Beka, come on.” Yuri says, gesturing to a nearby memento.

A newspaper, old and crumpled.

Viktor Nikiforov is twenty seven and the world is starting to forget him.

Katsuki this, Katsuki that, didn’t the Japanese man break his world record again? Hoo boy, how amazing. Tell me more. It was like ocean waves repeatedly crashing over you, drowning you with repetition and the horrors of this world’s truth. Yuri suspected that Viktor drowned after every article, interview, every mention of Katsuki’s name…

“Poor guy.” Yuri murmurs, watching the blue eyed man pant heavily as he goes for another run, sweat rolling down his forehead in a steady stream. The two have been watching his practice for about ten minutes now, and the poor boy hasn’t even decided to rest.

“He must be hell bent on beating Katsuki, for some reason…” Otabek says, watching warily.

“For some reason? Dude, haven’t you seen their rivalry? The two are basically gunning for the other’s necks-“

Otabek raises an eyebrow. He opens his mouth to say something, but he spots another memento in the distance.

A coffee cup.

“We need to hurry.” Otabek says, walking to the side of the barrier where the steaming cup of coffee stood, glowing dimly. It sat a few inches away from where Viktor’s coach stood leaning against the barrier, watching his student intently.

Viktor skates over to him, wiping his face and panting. Otabek moves to activate the memento, when Yuri stops him, grabbing his arm before he could input the memento in the device.

“You’re getting sloppier.” Yakov says in Russian, Yuri’s mother tongue. Yuri listens intently while Otabek looks on with confusion. “If you want any chance to beat Katsuki then you must up your limit-“

“I am, Yakov.” Viktor sighs tiredly, the beads of sweat rolling down his glistening forehead. “I’m trying so hard-“

“It’s not enough.” Yakov says, rubbing a wrinkled temple. “For the whole of your career I’ve done nothing but push you to your limits. You’ve succeeded because of this and you whine for a rival until Katsuki came. Now what, Vitya? Will you let him win with just one quad and perfect footwork?”

Viktor pants, greedily gulping from a nearby water bottle. “No.”

Yakov eyes narrow, just a slight. “I swear to god, if you’re slacking because of the rumors were true-“

Viktor slams his water bottle down on the divider, droplets flying everywhere.

Yakov doesn’t even flinch.

“It’s not true.” Viktor says. Yuri could see that his voice was strained, forced and elaborate. “Can we focus on anything different for once? I have to perfect this program-“

“What are they saying?” Otabek murmurs, eyes a little confused.

Yuri just sighs and inputs the memento.

Viktor Nikiforov is twenty eight and he wins against Katsuki.

Yuri couldn’t help but feel the twist in his stomach as he sees them in that order once more, always back and forth between the podiums, the other winning the other losing and it held a crackling intensity in the air. And even as Viktor finally stood in the middle, golden medal gleaming in the lights…

He looked unreadable.

This was more terrifying, actually. When someone’s visibly mad or sad or happy, you get confirmation on what they’re feeling. Being unreadable was like a secret power, a mask, like protecting yourself against the world. Nobody would know what you’re feeling, what you’re thinking, what the thoughts in your head are swirling with. It was-

Another projection of Viktor’s memories come up, this time he was in front of the paparazzi by the backstage area, answering some questions. There was a certain sense of determination in Nikiforov’s eyes, like an unquenchable fire.

“I will be sure to defeat Katsuki again in the upcoming Grand Prix Final.” Viktor says, voice meant to be passed off with a certain sense of light-heartedness, but there was an unmistakable passion in his eyes. “Make no mistake of it.”

Yuri’s eyes narrow unmistakably, watching the scene unfold.

Something was off.

“Do you think this is enough?” Otabek asks, hollering at Yuri amidst the excited screams surrounding them. He holds up the handheld machine expectantly. “Katsuki is a good enough drive, don’t you think?”

Yuri shakes his head confusedly.

“Beka, do we even know why he didn’t get a medal in the first place?”

Otabek slackens, eyes widening in deep thought as the realizations hits.

“I…” Otabek says, looking at the nearby projection.

“No.”

“Then how are we going to input the drive if we don’t know how he failed to get a medal in the first place, huh?” Yuri says, raising an eyebrow. “Dear lord-“

Otabek sighs. “Alright, alright.” Otabek runs a hand through his undercut, messy and disheveled, as he looks around at the memory sequence. “Look, there’s a memento over there!”

The bouquet of roses, blue and silver, glint under the lights.

“What the hell?”

Do you remember those black and white movies without any sound? It’s a little surprising to discover olden entertainment and wonder how people didn’t go insane. They were so awkwardly silent, like imagine sitting in a theater trying hard to chew your popcorn quietly as some dude in the back records the whole movie illegally just so he could sell a bootleg version of it.

“What’s wrong? Is there a glitch in the machine components? Did you input the direct system right?” Yuri asks as Otabek types something furiously into the handheld device, mumbling something about stupid mechanic workers.

Yuri looks around in awe as the endless white surrounds him, dulling his perception as the color white bleaches into his perspective. He’s reminded of that one torture method where the person is locked in an all white room. The person goes crazy after that, gnawing at his skin and gauging out his eyes, Yuri does not want to go down that road.

“Where are we?” He asks, trying to make out the surroundings.

“We’re supposed to be in his next memory.” Otabek murmurs distractedly. “But there must be something going on…”

“A glitch in the system? In the Matrix? What?”

Otabek rolls his eyes. “God, you’re such a nerd.”

Yuri scowls. “Fix everything. I don’t want to go insane in a white room with you.”

Otabek hums. “Calm down. It’s an easy fix.”

Yeah right. Yuri says, eyes rolling. I swear to god if I start hallucinating or seeing dream bubbles I am going to kill myself-

It doesn’t take long for Yuri to jolt up, to be swirled through the vortex of time and memories. He’s awake and back on the chair next to a dying Viktor Nikiforov’s bed, as if nothing has happened. As if nothing has changed.

He takes of the helmet, groans as the heavy machinery is no longer on his head and he feels multiple cowlicks on his hair. He stretches his muscles, one popping to the next, as Mila watches curiously from the other side of the room.

“How long were we out?” Otabek asks, not even taking his eyes off the holographic screen in front of him.

“For a few hours, for the least.” Mila says, standing up. “The doctor will be back in a few hours or so. I’ll just get you guys a drink.” The redhead walks out of the room, short hair swishing.

“What happened?” Yuri asks, peering over Otabek’s shoulder as the algorithms and numbers fly on the machine’s screen. Yuri was more of a field guy, numbers and calculations usually weren’t his thing, but Otabek was. And it made them the perfect team.

Otabek hums. “There are two possibilities: either it’s a maintenance glitch and this machine is old as fuck.”

Yuri raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“Or Mr. Nikiforov used beta blockers in the past.”

Yuri’s eyebrow rises even further, so high until it almost reaches his hairline. “He’s an athlete. He’s not allowed to take any mentally manipulating drugs, for all I know.”

Otabek sighs. “But he can, per se. Does he have any recorded traumatic pasts? Abuse? Rape? Violence?”

Yuri rolls his eyes. “I told you, there’s nothing wrong with him. He was an only child with two averagely well off parents living somewhere in Moscow before his family broke apart. The worst he got was a nasty case of the flu one time and when he injured his leg due to a jump. That’s it.”

Otabek stares for a moment. “Wow… You know your stuff.”

Yuri smacks him upside the head. “We’ve been working together for years, you idiot. Now go fix this. You’re right, maybe we’ve reached the end of the line. Defeating Katsuki might be enough to drive him to win for that Grand Prix Final. Then he might retire after that.”

Otabek nods, grabbing his helmet that was previously resting on his lap. “Let’s input all the mementos, then we’ll see launch a test drive on his most reoccurring memory.”

Sad to say, like most things in this world, it doesn’t work out.

Viktor Nikiforov is ninety two, and he’s making plans on his death.

“Nothing’s changed.” Yuri whispers out, as if not to disturb anyone. He looks around, sees the ocean, sees the waves, the seagulls fly past in a perfect V formation like before, Nikiforov standing a few feet ahead of them, nothing has changed.

Why? It was supposed to. Even if it was just a tiny detail, like a seashell moving, or the sky is darker, or whatever the fuck. But it hasn’t changed.

Something is wrong.

“Are you sure you inputted the drive correctly?” He asks Otabek, who was fiddling with the machine with a determined look on his face.

“Yeah, actually. More than once, to be honest…”

Yuri just huffs. “Do something, geez.”

He starts to walk towards Nikiforov, his shoes sinking into the metaphorical sand. He’s hit with a certain sense of déjà vu, like he’s been hit by the same cold ocean air again, or the fact that his shoes are starting to fill up with sand once more, or maybe it’s because Nikiforov was everything and nothing Yuri expected him to be.

Viktor turns around, eyes old and tired.

It was a sight Yuri saw all the time. And yet it was a sight that Yuri hasn’t seen at all at the same time.

Nikiforov smiles, soft and tired. But he had a twinkle in his eye. “Are you two those lackeys from Sigmund Corp?”

Yuri blinks.

Well.

“[Something is definitely wrong.]” Yuri says into their internal microphones. He hears Otabek just huff from the other end of the line.

Crackle, static-

Yuri is hit with a sense of worry, until Otabek’s voice returns.

“[Yura, we have to leave. Now.]”

Yuri huffs a quick affirmation into the microphone. The old man looks at him curiously, blue eyes lost and confused… a look Yuri has seen him wear more than once. It was becoming a trademark, and Yuri wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or not.

Yuri just smiles at the old man, green eyes oddly soft for the first time.

“No. Have a nice day, sir.”

“So… He definitely took beta blockers.”

Yuri groans before taking a sip of the cold orange juice Mila laid out for him. “Jesus Christ.”

Otabek nods, looking up from his phone. “The team sent me more information. It says here that he had a scheduled appointment with a couple of doctors discreetly to have customized memories removed after he took the blockers.”

Yuri narrowed his eyes, taking it all in. “He wanted to have certain things forgotten?” It seemed so… out of line. “So… The memories we couldn’t gain access to-“

Otabek nods. “Were the ones he blocked? Yes.”

Yuri leans back his chair, eyes confused. “But…” He was going to ask ‘why’ but he figured it would be too unimportant. Despite that, some part of Yuri wanted to know nonetheless. “How are we going to get the blockers removed?”

Otabek purses his lips. “It’s easy? But… It’s also a little tricky. I’ll just have to reconfigure the memories in his brain so we could have a way to circle around the blockers, but we need a trigger from his past…”

Mila raises an eyebrow from her position by the door, listening intently. “A trigger? Like what?”

Otabek shrugs. “A photo or something. Anything.”

“But Mr. Nikiforov has been unconscious for days. We don’t know when he’ll be able to wake up.” Mila says, and Yuri groans.

“We’re back to square one…” Yuri groans, chugging back the last of his orange juice. “We’re gonna have to give him a trigger that doesn’t focus on sight.”

“Like taste?”

“Hearing?”

“Smell?”

Otabek sighs, drooping against his chair. “How are we going to find that?”

Yuri doesn’t know, either.

They’re running out of time.

Yuri stares at the dying man before them, skin whiter than Snow White’s, pale hair almost as white as his skin, and Yuri was sure that if he opened his eyes he could see a flash of blue-

Yuri is hit by a cannonball of ideas.

“Mila! Do you have any roses?”

Viktor Nikiforov is thirty four years old, and he wishes to turn everything back.

It’s snowing.

Flecks of snow flutter in Yuri’s eyelashes, in his hair, camouflaging in his white coat. It’s dark, he registers, and without the help of the nearby lamps they would’ve been drenched in darkness as the snowflakes cake them in cold. They’re pretty though, Yuri thinks, like little fireflies amidst the dark night sky…

There’s one firefly, brighter than the others…

It’s a certain Viktor Nikiforov, sitting on a bench up ahead, as a beacon in his hand lights up the sky.

Glancing at each other warily, Otabek and Yuri approach the bench and the lone blue eyed man…

They inspect him closely, seeing the way his blue eyes were unmoving and staring at nothing in particular at all. The way his skin stretches over his bones, the way his scarf whipped against the wind, the way his right hand glowed with so much light, like he was holding the sun in his palm-

“Is that a memento in his hand?” Otabek asks quietly, observing warily. “It’s… glowing.”

“It could be. How the hell are we going to input it, though?”

“You tell me. But we need it to delve deeper into his memories-“

“Do you want to?”

It was neither Yuri nor Otabek who said that.

Yuri nearly stumbles back as Nikiforov talks, voice steady and devoid of emotions. His blue eyes snap to them, calculating and irrevocably lost, like a lost wolf. It was a sad sight, but what was sadder is the fact that Nikiforov’s memories just talked to them.

Otabek merely stares in shock.

“H-How…” Yuri says, voice shaking as he stares at the blue eyed man in shock. He checks his handheld device and- yep, he forgot to turn on inactivity. There was a reason why Viktor sees them, but there was no explanation as to why they knew of their existence.“How do you-“

“Do you want to?” The man echoes, voice lost somewhere far away. His blue eyes snap back to the city, back to the sky, back to somewhere Otabek and Yuri can’t see. Viktor’s voice was unnervingly soft, albeit it was strained.

“Do you want to remember?”

Otabek looks to Yuri for confirmation. Yuri is just as confused as Otabek, green eyes wild with shock and loss.

Otabek clears his throat. “Remember… what, sir?”

Viktor’s eyes drift away, back to the city lights up ahead. His blue eyes search and search, cold and sad and longing for something that wasn’t there-

“What I forgot.”

Viktor slides something off his finger, hands the brightly glowing memento to them-

A golden wedding ring.

Viktor Nikiforov is twenty seven and he’s completely surprised.

He leans back against the barriers, watching the Japanese man skate with his eyes closed, unknowing of Viktor’s presence. Katsuki moved in glides and movements that Viktor knew of only himself… well, that’s what he thought.

He couldn’t help the many emotions that were running through his mind at the moment… Like warmth, yes… warmth was definitely one of those. And maybe a splash of awe and a pint of amazement. What the overly exaggerated tabloids were saying about Katsuki’s footwork and ability to touch the hearts of the audience were true, because Viktor was about to cry.

No, not from his loss earlier… But from Katsuki’s immeasurable beauty.

There was a thrill to winning, that Viktor could confirm. He could say Yuuri deserved that gold medal, seeing the way the sweat poured down his face and the determined, fiery look in his eyes. Albeit he was disappointed in himself, sure. but if he was to lose to someone then Katsuki was a good contender.

And despite being pulled by Katsuki’s beautiful skating, the music he emanated from his body, seeing Yuuri skate his beloved routine, late at night in a deserted rink in Moscow, set a fire in his soul.

When Katsuki finishes his routine, Viktor’s routine, arms raised and facing the heavens, Viktor claps as Yuuri finishes a routine that Viktor choreographed himself.

Yuuri nearly trips and falls.

Viktor is twenty seven and he’s made a new friend.

He laughs and smiles freely around this man, around Yuuri Katsuki, and he was free and Yuuri was so kind and he’d never thought he would ever find himself in this compromising situation. But it wasn’t compromising at all. It was… light and fun, like flying…

And Viktor finds himself to start learning. What, you may ask? Could it be about finally learning how to do a fucking Quad Axel for once? No. But he did learn that Yuuri does this adorable nose scrunch when he laughs, and that his favorite food is Katsudon, and that he has a pet poodle which he loved-

“Hey, apparently people think we hate each other’s guts.” Viktor says one time, when they’re eating out somewhere after the competition. Yuuri scoffs.

“That’s what you get when you glare at someone on top of the podium.”

Viktor pouts, blushing a little at the memory. “I had something in my eye, alright? T’was an accident. Plus, you glared at me too.”

"Viktor, on ice, I'm practically half blind. I have to squint in order to see."

Viktor is hit by a realization, remembering the adorable blue frames that were perched low on Yuuri’s button nose. "Ah... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

Yuuri hums. “Sure you didn't. Now I’m just thinking that you’re just trying to be my friend just so you can sabotage me.”

Viktor feigns an evil laugh, doing that weird pointy eyebrow thing. “Ah, so you’ve realized my master plan-“ Viktor says this in the most ridiculous British accents in the history of British accents, and Yuuri snorts iced tea through his nose.

“Hey, how about we continue the show, huh?” Viktor says as he hands Yuuri a couple of paper napkins. “You know I always love to surprise people-“

Yuuri nods, snorting away any traces of iced tea from his nostrils. “Uh huh…”

“How about we make them believe we hate each other? And then someway or another we drop the bomb and then BAM! Turns out we’re besties.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow.

“Viktor, I’ve known you for three days.”

“Still.”

Yuuri sits back, eyes holding a challenge and Viktor had to suppress a smile. "I'm still not giving you my number, though."

"And why not?"

"Not until you buy me another frappuccino, at least."

"Damn. You really love coffee, don't you?"

"Where'd you think my stamina came from, huh?"

Viktor is twenty eight and he’s in love.

(Something in the back of his mind screams at him that it's not love, probably the little Yakov in the back of his head, but it could be. It could be.)

“Hey…” Viktor says when they’re alone in the locker room after a competition. “Turns out, I realized I actually like you.”

Yuuri hums, wiping away any excess sweat. “That’s nice. I like you too.” He takes a swig from his water bottle-

“No. Like, like like you. As in the ‘I-wanna-smooch-your-face-off’ like you.”

Yuuri spits out his water.

As Viktor pats him on the back while Yuuri coughs, Viktor wonders if he’s been too straight to the point. After several moments of coughing, Yuuri lets out a tiny wheeze.

“You’re… extraordinarily blunt.”

Viktor hums, the previously gnawing nervousness starting to ebb away. “It’s a gift.”

Yuuri had this pretty blush on his face, and it does this thing where it acts like stardust and it sprinkles all over Yuuri’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose. It looked like it jumped out of a Studio Ghibli movie, and Viktor’s heart was doing that weird thing again where it flutters unknowingly… and god damn it-

“Are…” Yuuri says, placing the water bottle down and facing him fully. He had his team jacket opened to reveal the pretty costume Yuuri wore. “Are you sure?”

Viktor has never been surer in his life.

“Vitya.” Yakov’s growling voice says from the corridor, his gaze digging holes into Viktor’s back. Viktor turns around to see his coach, looking like the world was ending and his favorite show wasn’t going to resolve that cliffhanger.

Viktor Nikiforov is twenty eight and the world gnaws at the edge of his mind.

“You know you can’t be with him, right?”

Viktor raises an eyebrow, packing up his suitcase distractedly. “Hm?”

Yakov crosses his arms. “Don’t play fool with me.”

“I already am one.”

Yakov huffs grumbling under his breath. “You know what the media and ISU will do.”

Viktor doesn’t answer.

“I’m not against what you want, boy. But homophobia is still rampant around these times. You do remember what happened to Chris, right?”

Ah, yes. Christophe. One of his old friends… and one of the few people in this world who were proud enough to flaunt their sexuality out onto the ice…

Sad to say, Christophe was banned.

It baffles him, sometimes, on how excruciatingly hypocritical the world can be.

“I’m happy with who you want to be with, Vitya.” Yakov says, voice undeniably soft. “But it’s either this or your career. And we both know that you have nothing to lose.”

Viktor Nikiforov is twenty eight and he falls, over and over again, but someone catches him nonetheless.

“Wow! You’re really good at pair skating! Do you think you can lift me up again?”

Yuuri chuckles as Viktor swings him around on the ice lazily, both of them too dazed and too in love to care. They were like a dysfunctional carousel, with the little horses looking like a drag queens.

“I’ve carried you more than a dozen times already, Vitya.”

Viktor, the drunken in love idiot that he is, feels his heart thrum at the nickname. “But you’re so strong. Do it again- WEE!”

Yuuri, despite his slim and lithe form, apparently had the strength and power to lift up a giggling twenty eight year old.

Yuuri giggles, setting Viktor back down on the ice gracefully. “You’re honestly such a giant man child.”

Viktor swings Yuuri around as they both laugh, holding Yuuri close as they glide across the deserted ice rink, both of them perfectly alone with each other (or so they thought). It was perfectly immeasurable, not even Doctor Who or Bill Nye could explain how perfect the situation was.

“But I’m your giant man child.”

It was a routine, like a skating routine you perform during the Olympics. One of them lifts up to greatness, and then they meet each other halfway. It was a little hard and competitive at first, but they eventually, like all the other things they go through in life, managed.

Some people got tired of routines, wanting ‘something new and fresh’ and some other mediocre white picket fence shit like that. Almost everyone does. But not Viktor and Yuuri. They competed, and sometimes one of them would rise up higher than the other, but they’d always meet each other halfway.

And it was the beauty of it all, no? They rose against each other and yet they were equals, puzzle pieces sliding together in sync. It was the beauty in competition, nothing could ever compare.

Sometimes it wasn’t normal. They’re always trying to outrank the other, for one. But it was all good natured, yes? Like that one time Yuuri got the most kisses from Makkachin that one night, or when Viktor managed to finish all the Marshmallows in the Lucky Charms cereal box-

Viktor stops short, stays there… holding Yuuri close, his breath dancing on Yuuri’s cheek.

“I wish I could tell everyone.” Viktor murmurs, sending red to blossom on Yuuri’s cheeks. “I wish I could tell the world… I wish I could scream it out to the heavens…”

Yuuri chuckles, sad and low, as he brushes Viktor’s bangs back. “We can’t. You know that.”

“But I want to.” Viktor says, eyes eliciting a promise. “I want to let the world know how much I love you. I don’t give a damn about what they say. I want you.”

Yuuri does that thing again, when he gets hopeful and happy, where his eyes open wide with shock for a moment before everything about him smiles. Yuuri just radiates happiness, Viktor’s happiness, and it was so nice-

Yuuri holds him close. Yuuri smelled like ice and sweat, and Viktor probably did too, but the situation was perfect nonetheless.

“So do I.”

Viktor Nikiforov was twenty eight and was alright with the world forgetting him.

He hugs Yuuri tight that night, when they discreetly meet up on top of the hotel roof after the competition, smile wider than ever before. The stars stream above them, like pretty disco lights. It was pretty. Yuuri was pretty.

“You’ve beaten my record. I’m so proud.”

Yuuri giggles, hugs him back, burying his face in Viktor’s shoulder. “Aren’t you upset?”

Viktor scoffs. “Far from it.”

He was alright if the world decides to forget him.

He’d rather be forgotten by the world that to forget about love.

Viktor Nikiforov was twenty eight and he lets Yuuri fills the void inside of him.

Yuuri decides to accept Viktor’s invitation and moves in.

For multiple reasons, of course. Celestino, Yuuri’s coach, had decided to take up pair skating students from St. Petersburg. Now, it wasn’t alright for him to be thousands of miles away from his golden skater, so he asked Yuuri if he could move with him.

And Yuuri did.

But he didn’t live under Celestino.

Ohoho no.

That night, when Yuuri finally moved in with him, he had this little keyboard with him. It was merely five feet long and had dusty keys. It was like one of those things you see rock bands bring around. It was cool.

Viktor loves it. Loves everything about the fact that Yuuri was now moving in. Loves everything about Yuuri, to be honest. It’s like little droplets of color now a bloom in his apartment, and it was wonderful. Like a little potted plant on the windowsill, Yuuri’s discarded blanket behind an office chair, or that they have two dogs now. Yuuri’s poodle was named Vicchan, and Viktor might have a feeling where the name came from…

And he still learns, to this day. He learns that Yuuri likes to sing along to songs when they come on radio, and that he likes to burrito himself at night (turns out Viktor liked hugging burritos), and that Yuuri had anxiety that made him swivel his eyes and gnaw at his nails until they were jagged-

Sometimes Yuuri has nightmares.

Sometimes Yuuri is too anxious to try and wake Viktor up.

When he wakes up one night, one half of his bed empty, he hears two notes being played over and over again.

Like two tiny feet, stepping and stepping. Step step step step step step. It was repetitive and just two notes fucking being played over and over again, but it was a lovely tune nonetheless…

Viktor freaks out for a moment, because hearing that in the middle of the night was enough to scare the shit out of you, but he remembers that Yuuri was there with him now. And it was a comforting thought.

Viktor creeps out, finds Yuuri by his keyboard and the two poodles sitting by his feet. His eyes unfocused and dazed, staring at his two fingers dancing on the keys.

Step step step step step step step-

They were just two notes being played over and over again.

Nothing but two notes being played over and over again.

Step step step step step step step-

And yet, they were more than that, still.

Viktor Nikiforov is twenty nine and the universe reflects in his eyes.

He was seven when he succumbs, tiny hands slapping the ice as he feels what it’s like to be under the ice’s whim. He cries and laughs and he goes mad, latching onto that one thing that he had. His father was gone, almost as absent as a fleck of snow in April. His mother forgets the color of his eyes, his hair, but she does know the color gold. And that’s what he’s been getting his whole life.

And he’s been falling repeatedly for years now, only when no one is there to see him fail. Quietly, gently, loud, rough, all at the same time. He falls and scratches his knees, his feet, his palms and he cries. Cries knowing that the thing he’s crying over will be all gone one day. The ice will forget him. The crowds will never yell his name again. His feet will be too old and crippled to fit in his skates. He’ll just be a memory, someone lost to the breeze. Absent as a fleck of snow in April.

One day, he’ll be nothing. 

But that day is not today.

The cold shocks him at first, something that his usually gloved hand isn’t used to. Yuuri slides the fabric off and chucks it off to the side.The golden ring is cold on his finger, sliding up to his knuckle, resting there as if it was meant to be.

And it was.

It was.

This was something.

Yuuri called him out of his hotel room that night, the night before the Free Skate, and they danced around the Barcelona streets with their fingers linked and shoulders touching. They don’t care about the whispers and the stares. Viktor handfed Yuuri half of his plate and Yuuri was too embarrassed to decline. The whole restaurant gives them stares, but they do not care.

Now, they’re right in front of a church and a choir sings in the distance, and Viktor was in love.

So, so in love.

Yuuri looks up at him, a challenge in his eyes albeit it was mixed with an unmistakable swirl of love and softness. It was a look that he reserved for Viktor. It was a look that Viktor reserved for him.

This was something. This was everything. He falls all over again, hands slapping the ice as pain reverberates up his entire body. But he laughs and he smiles, and Yuuri is there to help him up even when the sole reason of Viktor’s fall was him. Viktor would fall continuously, over and over again, just to have Yuuri care for him and help him up by the arms. He’ll do the same as well, don’t worry. He’ll do everything. He’ll do everything just to have him here, nothing holding them back, nothing ever stopping them from falling.

Viktor feels his heart jump from his chest as he slides the ring on Yuuri’s finger, the golden band filled with so many unsaid promises, but they knew what it said, they knew what they wanted…

He’ll do everything. He’ll never put his skates on again. He’d give up drinking alcohol completely. He’ll shave his head. He’ll do everything.

One day he'll be nothing.

But right now, he's something.

He's happy.

If one of us wins gold at the Grand Prix Final, we’ll get married. Alright? And then we'll finally tell the world of our story. Nothing will ever stop us.

Viktor’s eyes light up at the statement, brighter than the day he won an Olympic gold at the age of sixteen. But the blue in his eyes aren’t his universe. The man standing across from him, the only one Viktor had only truly, fully, completely, loved, was.

Viktor is twenty nine and he counts two steps.

You know those little things that could make and break a person? Like one of those cliché games about time travel or the butterfly effect? Crushing one tiny ant could cause the next genocide, that one little taunt you told your little brother could change his perspective of things, and…

And…

It was just one jump.

One jump.

Viktor could hear the two steps as Yuuri glided across the ice, the familiar piano tune Yuuri played at night. Yuuri was beautiful. Yuuri was his. They were going to win. They were going to win and get married on an ocean side with Makkachin as an adorable ringbearer, cute bow and all. They were going to win with the two steps. It was a beautiful, captivating, haunting melody… and Viktor could never, ever, look away.

Step step step step step step step step step step step step-

Viktor couldn’t look away.

Step step step step step step step step step step step step-

Viktor couldn’t look away.

Step step step step-

Yuuri skids to the ice; the sound of bone cracking fills the rink.

The steps all stop.

Viktor still couldn’t look away.

Neither of them wins gold that night.

Viktor is twenty nine and he falls, his hands do not stop bleeding.

“He’s been transported to Japan.” Yakov says one morning, when Viktor couldn’t sleep again. He’s been riddled with nightmares of two steps, repeating over and over again. “They have better doctors there, they said. He’s still not waking up any time soon; he’s in a deep coma.”

Viktor wishes he was there, cold and lifeless, melding with the ice completely.

It was a crushing reality. It was a sad and gratifying fact. It was quiet, nonetheless, unlike the whirlwind of crushing realities Viktor has gone through his entire life. It was like Yuuri, quiet and yet carnivorous on the inside, and it was more terrifying nonetheless. There are many things that scare him, the most terrifying of them all was the golden ring around his finger.

He didn’t even get to say goodbye.

They won’t let him contact him or his family.

He doesn’t know how to contact him or his family.

And god knows how long it would be before Viktor will have the chance to fly to Japan.

Viktor drinks the night away, hoping that he’ll never wake up.

Viktor is twenty nine and he forgets.

When it was his third consecutive night at the hotel bar, Yakov finally breaks and intervenes…

With a bottle of pills secretly tucked in his pocket.

Throughout the years, Yakov has seen more than a healthy amount of Viktor Nikiforov’s bullshit. It was a wonder and worldwide phenomenon on how he didn’t go insane. But now here he was, and he couldn’t help but feel like a monster.

“Vitya…” Yakov sits down on the stool next to the wasted man, feeling his heart thrumming in his chest. He never had this feeling before, where it feels like a glass panel is balancing on your shoulders. “You need to get yourself together.”

Viktor hiccups… how many times? One two three four- he forgot numbers all of a sudden. But he still remembers the glass of whiskey across from him, however, so it was alright…

Before he could chug it all down, Yakov stops his hand and takes the glass away from him.

Viktor whines, sprawling out on the bar counter.

Yakov secretly drops a pill in. It bubbles, drip drip, until it’s gone.

It’s not gone.

“I…” Viktor murmurs, eyes looking like a mini ocean and he wants to let the water out. It terrifies him. He’s drowning, drowning, drowning. “I… miss him.”

“You’ve been secretly having a relationship behind my back. I have no idea how I didn’t find out sooner or later.”

Viktor sighs, rubbing a temple. “I’m… I’m a sneaky person. You should know that.”

Yakov nods, solemn. “I should’ve.”

Viktor doesn’t answer. He just eyes the lights above, mistaking them for Barcelona stars, eyes unfocused and drunk.

“It’s my entire fault.”

“No… It’s not.”

“It is, Yakov. Yuuri… Yuuri is h-…. hurt because of me.”

Yakov sighs. “He’s done nothing but destroy you.”

Viktor stares off into the distance.

He sees the lights, the stars, he sees the little church where Yuuri and Viktor promised themselves that one thing that seemed so attainable, but it seemed like it was everything that Viktor couldn't have right now.

Yakov was right.

Yuuri has done nothing but destroy him in the most beautiful of ways possible.

Yakov hands back the glass, drugged and Viktor drinks it all up, unknowing.

Yakov believed it was for the best.

Katsuki didn’t seem like he was waking up anytime soon. The doctors found severe head trauma and damage, and if he were to suddenly wake up nonetheless, he’d never be the same. Yakov has seen this scene more than a handful of times, and it wasn’t pretty. He’d rather die than see Viktor, whom he treated as a son, go through the incoming onslaught of pain if Viktor continued this.

Viktor didn’t deserve to go through this.

And don’t blame Yakov.

He believed it was for the best.

But he didn’t know about Yuuri’s smile, the way his nose scrunched up when he laughs at Viktor’s stupid dad jokes, or the way Yuuri cooks and lets Viktor taste test it. He doesn’t know about Yuuri’s anxiety, his bitten nails, and his beautiful metaphorical scars all over. He didn’t know the way Viktor’s heart fluttered, the way his smile reached his eyes, the way the golden ring sat on Viktor’s ring finger-

Yakov didn’t know about their promise.

Yakov didn’t know they were engaged.

And later, when Viktor is unconscious, Yakov hauls him in a taxi and drives him to the nearest psychiatric ward. While there, he asks Georgi and a few other trusted friends to clear Viktor’s apartment of any traces of Yuuri Katsuki.

“Hi, we are here for a private appointment? We have used the Beta Blockers like you have instructed- the patient is unconscious yes, now… What memories should be blocked? Well…”

Don’t blame Yakov.

But unfortunately, Yakov didn’t know many things.

And what’s worse is the fact that Yakov didn’t know what the future will hold.

Viktor is twenty nine and he wakes up with a golden ring on his finger.

Yakov says he bought it one night.

Viktor figures he must’ve forgotten.

He never takes it off anyways.

When people ask him if he’s engaged, he just shrugs.

“I don’t know.”

Viktor is twenty nine and he returns to his apartment.

It’s the same as before, dull and empty. After years of living alone, he figures he must’ve gotten used to it.

But there was a twist in his gut. Something screamed in the back of his head. He jolts, shakes his head, and looks around at the now suspiciously empty apartment.

But there’s this one cute little potted plant by the counter, small and green and alone and Viktor has never seen it before in his life.

He keeps it anyways.

Viktor is twenty nine and he wins gold.

Again.

It’s a dull and empty win. Competition after competition, flight after flight, the living legend lives on to make history. But it’s all a blur to him. He registers breaking a world record again, Yuuri Katsuki’s world record, and for once, he can’t bring himself to care.

Once, after a competition, a reporter asks him what his thoughts are on Katsuki.

And there’s a nagging feeling in him, like a clawing memory waiting to be revealed, but he searches and searches and he simply cannot find it anymore. He had a feeling that he should know more, say more, but he doesn’t. All he remembers are the glares, the rivalry, the crash, Katsuki’s beautiful skating-

He tried, and tried, and tried

When he answers, he smiles softly and says that he prays for his rival’s recovery.

Nobody hears from Katsuki ever again.

Viktor Nikiforov is thirty years old and he dreams of two notes, being played over and over again.

He jolts awake, the two steps echoing in his mind. They fade as he pants, chest heaving, but they resonate through Viktor’s mind still. He’s thankful that he didn’t wake up his dog, who curled up on the other side of the bed, as if missing a certain presence.

Viktor steps out of his bedroom, sees his apartment, registering how it has never felt this lonely before, sees the potted plant and it’s wilting leaves by the counter…

Viktor waters it and goes back to sleep.

Viktor Nikiforov is thirty one years old and the gold medal clamps down on his chest, choking him until he drops.

He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why every time he stares at his massive trophy cabinet it feels empty. He doesn’t know why his heart is screaming for that shine. He doesn’t know why he wants to win, over and over and over and over and over and over again. Until the flesh from his palms melt away completely, until his feet can no longer move, until he gets that gold medal-

But even if he does, even if he does break world record after world record, he still has that hunger.

But it wasn't vicious; it wasn't the sort of 'I want to take over the world' hunger. It was a sad, quiet hunger. Like a tiny kitten pawing at your pant leg nonstop. Repetitive, never ending, it can drive you insane. And it made it worse, because Viktor didn't know where it came from.

He just doesn’t know why.

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever know why.

Viktor Nikiforov is thirty two years old and wins one last golden medal.

One last.

If he was going to retire, he must do it with a bang, right? The last Grand Prix Final of his life and he wins with a score notoriously high. Ha, he wishes luck to whoever tries to beat his insurmountable records one day. But he wins gold at the NHK Trophy, and he was preparing to go back to the hotel and dish out on yummy Japanese food in order to fill that endless void.

It was terrifying… Leaving the ice as a competitor for good was something he feared. But his bones ached, his feet blistered and his lungs folded in on themselves on more than one occasion now. Viktor’s body was tired. Viktor couldn’t blame his body, his skin, the tired muscles weaving around his bones as he pulled them to their absolute limit-

But he’ll never really leave the ice. Leaving the ice was leaving everything else. He’ll find a way, for sure. He’ll be a judge or a commentator or a coach, anything, anything. Just don’t take the ice away from him. He had nothing. He had nothing.

(Maybe in another life, he had everything.  Maybe he would’ve given up skating competitively for good, maybe he would’ve gave up everything, if it meant waking up next to someone with sleepy eyes and unruly bed hair. But unfortunately, Viktor doesn’t know this ‘other life’. Viktor doesn’t know. Viktor doesn’t know.)

He picks up his bag, hurries because Yakov was waiting for him outside, and prepares to leave the locker room area. He looks at his surroundings, knowing that this will be the last time he’ll see this musty locker room as a competitive skater, and he hopes that he didn’t have any regrets.

(He had so many. Most of them are the regrets he does not even remember.)

When he turns, someone is waiting for him by the door, brown eyes wide and expectant, little scarf wrapped around his neck like a Cabbage Patch kid. There was someone accompanying him, a woman with halfway bleached hair, her eyes searching and watching everything-

Viktor has never seen a person happier than that brown eyed man. His eyes shone behind his glasses, rosy blush caressing his cheeks and Viktor is suddenly hit with an endless sense of familiarity. He must be a fan, or a reporter, or a-

“Viktor?”

“Huh?”

“Viktor… It’s me.”

Viktor… Is confused.

And a little suspicious at the same time.

(He refuses to acknowledge the screaming, way back at the farthest corners of his head, where some unnamed hope jumps out of its chair and pleads to get out of the prison it’s in)

It’s like dropping a little pebble into a still pond. The tiny pebble could be the size of a fingernail, for the least, and it didn’t seem like anything insignificant. But the tiny pebble could create ripples, crashing waves, tsunamis bigger than ever before.

And Viktor felt like he should know this man.

But he doesn’t.

And it terrifies him.

It terrifies his more than anything.

It was like solving a puzzle, and you know how to solve it, but the pieces won't fit and it's all falling apart and-

“I…” He says, blue eyes feeling like they were going to fall out of his sockets. “I-“

“Vitya?” Yakov’s head pokes around the corner.

Yakov’s eyes widen.

Viktor has never seen Yakov this terrified in his life.

The man’s eyes swivel throughout the room, confused and disoriented.

“Viktor… Go get a cab. Wait for me outside.”

“B-But-“

“Now.”

“He… He took beta blockers?”

“Yes. He’s forgotten about you now.”

“But… But why-“

“Listen. I know this is hard, but Viktor was having a hard time when you… you had an accident. It’s better if you leave him be; bringing back old memories that the beta blockers removed may damage his brain.”

“B-But… We-“

“Were in love? I’m sorry, but it’s too late.”

Viktor was thirty four years old and he wishes he could turn everything back.

Turn what back, you may ask?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know.

Sometimes, when he’s confused and dazed again, he stares at the golden ring around his finger as if it could answer all his questions. It doesn’t, of course, but Viktor does it anyways. It was like an unhealthy habit. But he doesn’t smoke. He doesn’t drink much either. Addictions weren’t his thing.

But he was addicted to one thing.

He sighs, his breath having any sound, feeling the snow collect in his hair, on his lashes. He feels the ring around his finger, caresses it, feels the bouts of comfort that came along with it. It was like it had magic powers, but no amount of magic could remove the churning in his gut.

He still wants that gold medal.

He doesn’t know why.

He’s won countless of gold medals before.

He had everything and nothing that he wanted.

But he still wants that gold medal.

Why, you may ask?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know.

Step step step step step step step step step-

And all because of an accident and a coach who believed he was doing what’s right, Viktor Nikiforov lives the rest of his life with never ending want for something he cannot find.

“Yura, no…”

“I swear to god I am going to fucking do it.”

“Yura, you can’t hit Yakov. If you do, I’m going to regenerate the memory anyways.”

“He’s the fucking root of all this. If he would’ve left his wrinkled hands to himself Viktor at least would’ve lived a happy life with Katsuki.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because they’re soulmates. They’ll always find their way back to each other. Viktor would’ve remembered Katsuki at the NHK Trophy and they would’ve lived happily ever after.”

Otabek blinks, wondering how Yuri managed to be this undeniably passive aggressive.

“Wow… I didn’t know you were the romantic type-“

“Shut up. I’m not.” Yuri glares at him. “Now, how are we going to do this? It seems impossible.”

Otabek runs a hand through his undercut, sighing.

“Now we know why he wants a medal, for the least.”

Yuri sighs, remembering the way the two lovesick idiots gazed at each other in front of that Barcelona church. It was like watching those sad movies where one of them actually has cancer, and then tears fall and teenage girls won’t stop making statuses about the movie quotes. It was horrifying, Yuri did not want to deal with this-

“They wanted to marry each other.” Yuri murmurs, wondering why he’d felt any sort of sympathy for Nikiforov’s past. “They wanted to marry each other if they win gold. That’s why Nikiforov wants gold so bad, but he doesn’t know why because-“

“Of the beta blockers.” Otabek says, finishing with a sad little frown.

Yuri sighs, sits next to him on the bench. A few benches away from them, Nikiforov sits, searching for something he can’t find. He searches, and searches, and Yuri wonders how torturous it must have been. Viktor will push and pull, search and grab for that gold medal but he cannot find it. He’ll never find it, no matter how many times he wins. He will win and win until his bones crack, until his skin melds with the ice-

“How will we input the drive? He’s won so many gold medals already, but he’ll never get satisfied until he marries Katsuki.” Otabek says, looking up at the moon with disbelief in his voice.

Yuri just sighs.

He remembers, back then when he was new, he tried to make a dying cancer patient’s wish come true. He wanted to go to the moon, he said, and it should’ve been fairly easy. Make the boy study to become an astronaut, then BAM! Finished. Pack up, we’re done.

But it wasn’t. Yuri has been proven wrong so many times that day. That man was nothing he’d expected. He’d watched as a man loses everything he had, everything he wanted, and Yuri realized that he didn’t have a chance to change things for the better. Yuri shouldn’t care, Yuri wouldn’t care, but he watches the dream worlds crumble, and he wonders if it’s been his fault-

It was just like right now. Nikiforov was a hopeless case and he will be left on the shore, in the snow, searching and searching and searching. He didn’t have a chance to change things. He didn’t have the chance to go back to the past-

Yuri jolts, green eyes widening as he is hit by a thought.

Otabek just groans at the sudden movement. “What are you-“

“We can divert his past, Beka.” Yuri whispers, green eyes filled with hope. “If we change his memory sequence, fix up a few things, then we can-“

“Yura, no.” Otabek says, eyes wide with disbelief. “You… You know we can’t alter memories manually. It might ruin his brain-”

“We don’t have a choice.” Yuri says, eyes now glowing a certain sense of impatience. “We’re going to have to get Nikiforov a medal-“

“Yuri, no.” Otabek says, voice firm as he stares Yuri down, eyebrows furrowing. “I’m not allowing you this.”

Yuri rolls his eyes, discreetly grabbing the manual device in his pocket. Ha, Otabek wasn’t the only one who could input memories. Yuri was intelligent, far more smarter than anyone could peg him as…

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

And with his current determination, Yuri knows he can’t.

“Yura, NO!”

Yuri Plisetsky is gone in a flash.

Otabek growls and chases after him.

Nikiforov watches from his bench, eyes still searching.

There are many things in life that Yuri Plisetsky wanted to change.

Like his hair color. Or his height. Maybe his inability to have patience.

Or maybe his inability to cook Pirozhkis right. Granted, he always cooked them perfectly, just not in the way his Grandfather made them.

But he couldn’t change that. Couldn’t change anything.

But he could change this.

He sighs, stuffing his hands into his pockets, staring down at the cute little poodle. His beady little eyes stared up at Yuri, cocking one furry head to the side as if asking a question.

Reaching down, Yuri pets the dog.

He never really liked dogs in the first place. They were overly hyper and Yuri preferred cats much more. But right now, at this moment, Yuri feels like a monster.

You may think, dear reader, that this is Makkachin.

Yuri couldn’t help but smile as the little dog yips and licks his hand, unknowing of what Yuri was about to do.

This is not Makkachin.

“I’m… I’m sorry.” Yuri whispers, knowing what was going to happen next. He knows he shouldn’t feel this, knows that this is merely a fragment in Viktor’s imagination, knows that this isn’t real, but he feels like a monster.

“I’m sorry, but I have to.” Yuri murmurs, pulling back.

Vicchan whines.

He feels like a monster.

Yuri opens the Japanese sliding door and the dog runs away, yipping into the night. Soon, he’ll pass by the bridge, the town square, and into incoming traffic.

“Yuuri? I have something to tell you… It’s about Vicchan-“

“And now let’s take a look at Yuuri Katsuki, who earned a spot in the Grand Prix for the first time! Well, I must say, he didn’t perform like his usual self today. He was such on a good roll, but sadly, now he’s on the sixth spot at the Grand Prix Final.”

“My girls uploaded the video and it went viral! I’m so sorry.”

“Yuuri! Starting today, I’m your coach! I’ll make you win the Grand Prix Final-“

“I want you to stay as you are, Viktor! I’ve… I admit I’ve ignored you, but that’s because I don’t want you to see my shortcomings! I’ll make it up to you with my skating.”

“This was the only thing I could think of to surprise you more than you surprised me.”

“Th… Thank you for everything, up to now…”

“I… I couldn’t think of anything better, but… I’ll be trying my best from tomorrow on, so…”

“Tell me something for good luck, please-“

“I love you.”

“Now now, this is only an engagement ring. We’ll get married if he wins gold at the Grand Prix Final.”

"I really want to kiss that gold medal. Don't you agree, Yuuri? 

“With the power invested in me, I now pronounce you as husbands! You may now kiss.”

The church echoes with thunderous applause, echoing throughout the columns, shining with camera flashes and the two in front of the altar are now whole.

Yuri just sighs as he leans against the church column. He’d usually gag at the sight of people kissing and just generally showing affection to each other, but he’s too tired and parched to actually care.

(He'd never admit that he felt relieved and proud. Never.)

Besides, Otabek gives him a look of disapproval as he watches the couple daze at each other, all the love in the world held in their eyes. It was like a scene that came directly out of a movie. In their circumstance, it probably was.

“You broke a company rule.”

The green eyed man just sighs, and Otabek wonders why he even bothered at all. 

“Do I look like I give a shit?” Yuri murmurs in a monotone voice, eyes watching the happy couple by the altar, their rings glinting even from afar. It was almost blinding. Otabek wasn’t even surprised. Yuri was impulsive and brash, but for once… he was thankful that he was.

Otabek just sighs, running a hand through his hair. Their lab coats and uniforms looked like an ugly contrast to the pastel wedding around them, doves and all. “He didn’t even win a medal.”

Yuri frowns, eyes looking down at the shiny church tiles, eyes deep in thought as he realized the situation, looking and searching to see if he’s failed again-

Then he realized that Viktor never said about ‘winning’ a medal.

Yuri bursts out laughing; he doesn’t stop until there are tears in his eyes.

Mila hands them both a basket of goodies. It was heavy and it held a lot of promising snacks. Their long journey back seemed a lot more bearable.“Mr. Nikiforov wanted to give these to you once you’re done.”

Yuri nods, getting the two baskets as Otabek loads up their beaten up truck in the background. Otabek was doing the 'carrying around bulky equipment' part again, and due to Yuri’s mentally exhausted state, the green eyed man was thankful. “He’s still alive, isn’t he?”

Mila nods. “Only on his last thread of living though. The doctor is pulling him off life support today.”

Yuri sighs, eyeing the baskets in his hands. Mila looks back at the large manor; Viktor bestowed the large house to Mila and her family, and sighs at how dreadfully quiet it will be, with the ghost of a broken man wandering the halls.

“It’s sad, isn’t it?”

Yuri looks up, looks at the blue eyed woman who had a look of forlorn in her blue eyes. There are cake slices and Ferrero Rocher in the basket. There was nothing sad about it. “Why?"

Mila smiles at him, eyes a little tired. “You might’ve made him believe it was real. But it still didn’t happen.”

Yuri… agrees.

She was right.

No matter how bittersweet, how life changing, how perfect the dream world they made, it still was a dream. It’s nothing but a memory. It like this all the time, and no matter how many times Yuri and Otabek did it, the crushing reality would never fail to jolt them. It wasn't real. They didn't get married. And Viktor Nikiforov is still dying.

Yuri, he would never admit this, wanted it to be real.

He wanted them happy.

He wanted Nikiforov to get married to the man of his dreams.

But Nikiforov’s dying. Katsuki’s probably already dead, if not, roaming around somewhere-

“Excuse me?”

Mila and Yuri both jolt when they hear a voice, soft and old and beaten with time. They turn around, sees Otabek accompanying an old man with glasses as they approach the two.

“Mila, he’s looking for Mr. Nikiforov.” Otabek says, helping him with his rusty cane. Yuri looks at the old man, wrinkled and pale with a scarf covering his mouth.

His brown eyes blink up at them, hopeful behind his blue framed glasses.

Yuri is hit by a sense of déjà vu.

Mila blinks. “Why, sir?” Mila says, politely. The old man opens his mouth for a moment, as if looking for words, but he finds none.

Until he does.

“I’m… I’m an old friend.” He says, voice old and beaten by time and troubles. “I wish to see him one last time.”

Mila glances at the two, as if looking for confirmation. They don’t have any. Why would they?

“Sir, I’m sorry, but Mr. Nikiforov is unconscious and is on his last thread of life-“

“I know. I just… I just want to see him.”

Yuri glances at Otabek, the Kazakh glances back and shrugs. Yuri’s eyes narrow as he observes the old man, old and slow, probably has terrible vision. He had a cane and in his right hand was a golden wedding ring-

Yuri’s eyes widen.

Mila just sighs, smiles at the man softly. “I’ll assist you, sir.” The old man smiles in relief, small and weak. Mila faces the two, giving a warm smile.

“Yuri, Otabek, thank you so much. I hope we keep in touch.”

“Yuuri! My love, I’m so proud of you! You finally have a gold medal-“

Yuuri Katsuki, Grand Prix Final gold medalist, removes the medal around his neck and loops it around Viktor’s.

Viktor stares in shock and awe.

Yuuri smiles.

“Not just mine. It’s ours.”