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The day had started wonderful. Too perfect, if Yuuri had the hindsight to ponder on it.
He woke up earlier than his alarm, got dressed and ate the last of the fruit loops cereal, much to Phichit’s shallow annoyance. They exchanged playful banter over the background noise of the morning news (political woes, inaccurate weather forecasts, the usual humdrum). His roommate and best friend refused to let up on calling him a fiend for selfishly devouring all of Phichit’s cereal when a sandwich would have suited Yuuri’s tastes instead.
“I had a craving, Phichit. We don’t ignore cravings.” Yuuri said, mimicking the tone of a monk imparting wisdom. That only caused them to break out into peals of laughter and the Thai exclaiming Yuuri to be so awful even the pacifist Dalai Lama wouldn’t forgive the theft of fruit loops.
Still, Phichit needed his morning sustenance, and wouldn’t have anything else and so went out to buy more from the grocery across the street.
Now alone in their shared flat, Yuuri had started on preparing for his flight to Russia that was in less than twenty hours. He was high strung on barely contained excitement that had yet to ebb from his Four Continents win. It was his season’s best- no, his career’s best, so to speak. He felt as if the years of repeating the same cycle of failure and hard work had finally paid off.
He would be competing against the best of the best. The cream of the crop. The S-class of the skating world. Whoops, maybe he’d unintentionally made himself anxious, but who could blame him?
‘If only you could be here, Viktor.’ Yuuri thought with no small amount of simple yearning for his friend and Heartache.
His phone buzzed with an alarm and reminder, to which he immediately checked and noticed two missed calls and three texts. All within the span of eight hours.
“Onee-chan?” Yuuri mumbled in confusion. Ah, it might be her bidding him good luck for Sochi. They’d hadn’t been able to talk at all since after the last tournament. He opened the texts and scanned the messages carefully.
Once. Stop. Backtrack.
Twice. His fingers slackened dangerously on its grip around his phone.
On the third pass over, he felt as if someone had punched all the air out of him and swept the rug from under his feet at the same time.
He’s abandoned the thought of his luggage, clothes half folded and various items strewn all over his bed. The morning sun started to filter in through the blinds, but he didn’t notice that as his eyes stared unseeingly at the texts he’d received from Mari while he’d been asleep.
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From: Mari Nee-chan (10:07: 33 pm)
Hey Yuuri. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, especially with you on your way to the Finals. Vicchan wasn’t eating or drinking anything since last night so we rushed him to the vet this morning. They’re trying everything they could, Vicchan’s on fluids right now. Suspected viral infection but can’t say for sure.
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From: Mari Nee-chan (11:21: 10 pm)
Vicchan’s awake. Wagged his little tail when mom said you would be coming home after the competition. He looks so happy. We tried to call you to cheer him up but dad said it’s too late for you and we can’t bother your sleep.
We’ll try later when it’s a better time.
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From: Mari Nee-chan (03:56: 34 am)
I’m really sorry, little brother.
Vicchan passed away this afternoon.
Call me or mom asap.
He felt empty shock, at first. Then disbelief rolled in, quickly followed by unimpressed irritation at his older sister for joking with him at such a crucial time. That moment didn’t last long, not when a logical part of him yelled at him for thinking Mari would stoop so low at such a wrong time.
Mari was anything but cruel.
Yuuri let out a long exhale.
He didn’t know when he set aside his phone, only that he stood up and somehow had the idea to lock his door. He did that, then returned to his bed and began to methodically sort and fold the clothes and other items he needed.
‘What news to greet me just before I fly for Russia.’ He thought. He didn’t have time to mourn though, he told himself. He hadn’t finished packing yet and he still had to call Celestino about the meetup time and the hotel address.
‘Easy, Yuuri. You can’t get distracted now. Extra thermal undershirt, toiletries…’ His thoughts trailed off as he looked under his bed and pulled out the bag where he kept his skates, giving them a once over to see if there weren’t any chips on the blades before sliding the cushions back onto them.
He was halfway through packing when his doorknob suddenly rattled, though he merely glanced up with only a mildly startled expression.
“Yuuri? Yuuri, what’s going on? Open this door, please.”
A series of insistent knocks on his door went ignored by the room’s occupant. He returned to packing and told himself that he didn’t need comfort. Not this time.
There was some shuffling in the hallway as another heavy set of feet could be heard coming to stop in front of his door.
“What? Viktor, what are you doing here?” Came the muffled question. Phichit. There was silence in the form of unintelligible whispering behind his door, and suddenly there was another set of insistent knocking and door rattling.
“Yuuri? Viktor’s out here and I’m not sure why…?”
“Leave me alone.” He hoped his voice was loud enough. And perhaps it was, since no one else bothered him after that.
He had his hour of silence. Sometime during that he’d texted Mari back about the news. He can’t quite remember what he said, but the important thing was that he promised to call back as soon as he’d completed his packing and calls.
Eventually his stomach started demanding for lunch, and he had to open the door. He barely had time to move back in surprise as Viktor fell inwards with a yelp, having sat against the door.
“… Viktor.” Yuuri winced at how plain his voice sounded. To his credit, Viktor seemingly ignored it and blinked up from the floor and throwing him his signature heart-shaped smile.
“Hello, Yuuri. Why didn’t you-”
He dropped his smartphone onto Viktor’s lap, much to Viktor’s squeak of surprise. Yuuri didn’t wait and carefully stepped around him. He didn’t feel the need to explain when his Heartache could simply find out himself.
His gaze met Phichit’s, as the other eyed him curiously from the sofa, but said nothing as his fingers deftly typed something out on his phone. Yuuri walked over to the small kitchen and began rummaging around in the fridge. He took out a grape soda and slowly made his way to the other end of the sofa, just as Viktor came walking in with an unreadable expression on his face. The Heartache sat between the two, setting the phone on the coffee table then leaned back.
“So… Guys.” Phichit started, the hiss and clack of Yuuri opening the can following shortly after.
Yuuri took a sip, sighed, and let the words tumble out.
“Vicchan died today.”
Being a Heartache was suffering. Being the person with a Heartache suddenly in need of being on the same flight as them was also suffering.
One would have thought that with Heartaches being around for as long as they have been, people would have found a way to accommodate any sudden additions coming along on international flights.
So much for believing in the human integrity and resourcefulness.
Viktor couldn’t get another ticket on the same flight as Yuuri, at least one that didn’t cost an exorbitant amount of money even though it was flying coach. Yuuri and Viktor argued, with Celestino between them trying to find a way to sort the problem out. Yuuri’s coach was well acquainted with Viktor’s on and off appearance through the years and while he was exasperated of Viktor’s poking into Yuuri’s training regime, had found himself rather fond of the Heartache’s enthusiasm.
The argument lasted for all of fifteen minutes, before Phichit declared he would have Viktor take his place, much to Yuuri’s insistent refusal and Viktor’s less than wavering protests.
There was the livestream, Phichit said. He’d be able to watch the competition just the same on their couch, Phichit had also added. His Thai friend could be stubborn as well.
It was how Yuuri found himself staring out at a sea of greyish blue clouds, the sun barely peeking over the horizon. Viktor sat to his left with his head resting on his shoulder and one gloved hand gently squeezing Yuuri’s hand.
“Yuuri. You need to sleep. It’s a long flight to Moscow.” Viktor mumbled, not opening his eyes.
“’m not sleepy yet.” He mumbled back, keeping his eyes trained on the view outside. Viktor cracked open an eye, his lips pursed into a thin line but said nothing.
Yuuri remained silent for the rest of the flight to the land of harsh winters and warm pirozhkis. After touching down and collecting their luggage, he ignored the crowd for the most part, allowing Viktor and Celestino to steer him away from the prying questions and nearly endless flashing of the cameras. Of all his luck to arrive in the same hour as one Jean-Jacques Leroy. The press always swarmed the airport for him, and having Yuuri Katsuki -first time Grand Prix Finals participant-, was a big bonus scoop for the sports section in and of itself.
‘Isn’t that Yuuri’s Heartache?’
‘Viktor? Viktor, a word if I may for the Russian Daily?’
‘Viktor! Is Katsuki Yuuri feeling the pressure of his first time competing in the Grand Prix?’
Viktor himself turned to address the press with a well-placed smile and a few choice words that were neither condescending nor appealing to the hungry reporters. He had a way with people, that much Yuuri could say. They made it to their car and drove to their hotel in just as much silence as there had been on the flight.
Despite Viktor’s quiet insistence, Yuuri had denied himself thinking or talking about Vicchan’s death after his rather curt explanation in Detroit, and tried to focus on skating his best on this stage.
What happened the next day was a train disaster that slowly unraveled before so many eyes.
The lack of sleep, and the overwhelming grief finally caught up to him in that quiet moment as the short program’s first skater, Emil Nekola, entered the rink. The music started up and the Czech started off with an impressive display of step sequences.
Yuuri’s mind was far removed from the moment, staring unfocused into space as the realization, the dawning comprehension, finally hit him like a truck to the face.
Vicchan was gone. There won’t be frantic barks of joy and warm, wet kisses to welcome him home anymore. There wouldn’t be a snuggly rug look alike running across the tatami floor running after a squeaky ball or attempting to playfully bite his fingers.
Vicchan was gone. And there was nothing he could do about it.
“Yuuri?” The near whisper of Viktor’s voice went unheard as the Japanese skater briskly turned away from the television screen as Emil took his bow. He made his way into the comfort room, shut the cubicle door behind him and sat on the toilet cover as the figurative dams burst, his grief flowing out and rendering him inconsolable.
Viktor could only listen and stand by outside of the cubicle door, his charge deaf to the well-intentioned words the Heartache desperately tried to get across.
Not five minutes later, Celestino’s frantic words and incessant pounding on his door finally got him to stop.
“Yuuri! Plisetsky’s about to take the ice and you’re up next after him.” He spoke, stern and professional. “I know you’re worked up but you have to pull yourself together for this! It’s your big chance!”
Yuuri shook his head despite neither of them being able to see. His words came out choked and running over each other in a garbled mess. He did at least open the door and it was Viktor who almost threw himself at the skater. But the Heartache refrained from it, and instead kneeled before him with a handkerchief wiping away the tearstains from Yuuri’s cheeks.
“Yuuri.” Viktor spoke quietly, handing the handkerchief to Yuuri while this time he ran a hand through Yuuri’s hair to slick them back into place. “Celestino’s right. It’s too late to back out of this now. Just finish today’s program and I promise we can retreat to the hotel as soon as this is over.”
Yuuri made a soft grumbling whine, feeling too tired to even bother with the competition. But he nodded, knowing that both of them spoke the truth.
Get this over with. Get out.
As they walked out of the comfort room, Viktor had an arm snaked around Yuuri’s shoulder in a protective gesture, and Celestino’s warm hand on the small of his back brought some measure of comfort as they drew closer to the rink side.
It was expected that the atmosphere would be charged with so much energy even long after Yuri Plisetsky’s short program was over. There was an excited buzz running through the crowds, but Yuuri paid no heed to it as he skated out onto the ice.
Under the glaring lights, in front of so many cameras and the judging eyes of the crowd, Yuuri felt his anxiety rearing its ugly head and grasping his body at the most inopportune moment.
He started three seconds too late after his music entered. He lacked a spin on his triple toe loop. He almost stumbled on the combination in his second half in an effort to catch up on his jump list, and the only saving grace was his step sequences being nearly flawless.
And even then, the figurative train was merely in the process of derailing. The crash and explosion hadn’t happened until the morrow’s free skate.
Yuuri would remember it as his most humiliating fall in all of his career.
“Did you know? Vicchan was ten years old.”
Viktor stood behind him, not touching nor moving away. It was the end of their second day, with Yuuri finishing in last place. The Japanese had retreated to their room as soon as they arrived and Viktor was left to put away their things. This was how Viktor later found him, wrapped in a blanket while seating on the windowsill looking out at the city lights against the growing darkness of the sky.
“I… assumed he was around that age. You got him when you were thirteen, right?” Viktor spoke, settling himself onto the nearby bed.
Yuuri nodded without ever taking his eyes off the city.
“I just got off the phone with Mari onee-chan. They’re cremating Vicchan tomorrow.”
A pause.
“I haven’t seen him for almost three years. I didn’t even call to check on him as much and… now he’s gone.”
Yuuri choked back a trembling sigh.
“I didn’t even get to talk to him during his last moments. What kind of… owner am I that I couldn’t even comfort my own dog?!” Yuuri cried out, then pressed his forehead against his knees.
There was a sound of muted scuffles against the carpet and then there was Viktor’s warmth encompassing him all around. There were no words that Viktor could offer that would soothe Yuuri’s grief. Not before, and neither this time. And even without Yuuri’s blatant say so, he must be suffering the humiliation of his less than acceptable performance at the Finals. Really, there were no words that would cheer him up.
But there were still words that needed to be said. Viktor knew it and dreaded being the one to deliver stark reality to his charge.
Still, he gave Yuuri his silence and his time to grieve.
Neither counted the minutes that passed. It could have been an hour, for all that they knew. Viktor shuffled Yuuri to make room for himself on the windowsill, then took to running his hand through Yuuri’s hair when the other had leaned in closer.
“Yuuri?”
“… What is it, Viktor?”
“About the gala. Usually I’d be fine with you hiding away, but it isn’t professional to skip out on your first ball, no matter how awfully you flunked the competition.” Viktor whispered, the sound of his voice both a comfort and a source of Yuuri’s suddenly swelling anger.
He tried to stamp out the latter, knowing Viktor was only doing what he was obligated to do, to be. It was still so difficult to actually let him.
All Yuuri wanted to do was fly home at this moment and be able to at least watch over as they cremated Vicchan. But even that was something he couldn’t do.
He had obligations. And for the first time in his life, he wanted to say, ‘fuck it!’ and do just as he wants to. Maybe in a more ideal world, that would have been an option. In an ideal world, Yuuri would have been able to at least speak with Vicchan before his passing. But this was not an ideal world, and there was a need for him to appear civil in front of the public even though he was screaming to get away inside.
He was angry how Viktor appeared so… so casual with his words.
“Celestino roped you into it, too? Fine, I get it. I’ll pretend to be civil just for one night.” Yuuri said testily, throwing the blankets away from him and pushing Viktor’s arms away from him as he stood.
There was hurt and confusion on the other’s face. “Wait, Yuuri. Yuuri, you can’t just…”
“What would you know, Viktor?” Yuuri snapped, whirling on the man with anger burning in his eyes. The silver-haired man flinched away as if he’d been slapped.
“I wasn’t trying to make you angry-”
“Of course not.” Yuuri retorted blandly. “It’s not like you’ve ever failed anything this bad before. What would you know about grief? Or trying so hard only to fail in the end? Or feeling helpless? You’re only ever here when I already feel like crap!”
Viktor was stunned silent. Yuuri himself didn’t wait for an answer. He opened the closet and took out his only decent coat and tie, then stormed off into the bathroom.