Chapter Text
The silence echoed. It was a strange detail to focus on, but it was the only one that held his attention for longer than a moment. He couldn’t even recall what music had been playing; all of his routines over the years blurred together in his mind until nothing was left but a cacophony.
The next thing he noticed was that his knees were cold. That’s right, he hadn’t bothered to get back up after he had fallen on his final jump.
The stadium continued on in its shocked silence as Victor Nikiforov staggered to his feet and aimed himself towards the exit. He hadn’t even finished his routine, staid and lifeless and flawed as it had been. He had been down too long, they had cut the music. But he didn’t even care. He could feel thousands of eyes on him, in shock, in horror, in confusion. But he never once looked up.
Victor Nikiforov was 27. He was top of the figure skating world, with more medals and records than any other skater in history. He was the darling of the media, hero of the fans, and adored by sponsors.
Victor Nikiforov was 27. He had just fallen on his famed quadruple flip, a move he had mastered more than a decade ago, in the middle of the Grand Prix qualifier at the NHK Trophy.
As he stepped out of the rink, he felt a hand grip his arm, and he was spun to face Coach Yakov. Yakov, whose eyes were unusually wide beneath his furrowed brow, who was yelling something at him, based on the way his mouth moved. But Victor just shook him off, bent down to untie his skates, and walked through the doors as the crowd finally burst into loud confusion.
Keeping his eyes fixed ahead, Victor didn’t hurry to the locker room. He just steadily pushed past everyone who grabbed at him, ignored everyone who called out to him, and stepped around anyone who tried to get in his way. He swapped his costume out for his practice clothes, leaving the rhinestones and silky fabric pooled on the floor. He pulled on his sneakers, tugged his jacket hood low over his face, and stepped out of the stadium at the nearest door he could find.
Victor Nikiforov was 27. He had sold his soul to the ice a long time ago. And now there was nothing left in him as he walked away from the reporters, the fans, his coach, and his life.
* * *
His body on autopilot, he didn’t notice any of his surroundings until he somehow ended up at a train station. The person behind the counter in front of him was frowning at him like they had been talking to him for a while. He tried to focus, but even through the emptiness inside him, the foreign tongue made no sense. After a beat, he began poking through his pockets until he found some yen that Yakov always insisted he carry. He shoved it across the counter, and the agent eyed him for a moment more before handing him three ticket cards and waving him off.
He had never been on a train in Japan before, never been much farther than the airport, the hotel, and the rink, but he kept an eye on the people around him as he swiped through the gate, shuffled onto the waiting train, and slumped into an empty seat.
As the train pulled out of the station, he rested his head against the window and stared, unseeing, at the city that whirled past. He wondered what he was doing. Wondered how he had ever felt anything at all, and exactly when his passion had started to fade. Wondered why he should care at all about the empty ache in his chest.
His phone vibrated against his leg, and he took it out with a glance. Yakov was calling. He didn’t even bother to silence the phone, just stared until it stopped buzzing.
The phone calls continued for half an hour, the train car’s gentle rocking almost lulling him to sleep, until a double buzz signified a text message instead.
From Yakov:
IF YOU DON’T ANSWER ME, OR GET BACK HERE IN THE NEXT TEN MINUTES, I WILL CALL THE POLICE.
Victor finally felt something, even if it was just a miniscule twinge of guilt. Sighing, he unlocked his phone, squinted for a moment, then typed his response.
To Yakov:
Sorry, Yakov. I can’t do as you say this time. I have to do this. I’m fine. Go back to Russia. Dasvidaniya.
From Yakov:
Do what?! If you walk away now, you can never come back!
…
AND YOU’VE NEVER DONE AS I SAID IN THE FIRST PLACE!
Victor smirked to himself, turned off his phone, and slipped it back into his pocket. Yakov would be fine. He would go back to Russia with Georgi and Yuri and Mila. He could help them become the next household name in skating. Maybe this time, he would even be able to fix in them whatever had broken inside of Victor.
* * *
He wasn’t sure if he’d actually fallen asleep, or if he’d just gotten lost drifting on the emptiness inside himself, but the electronic shutter sound of a phone had him jerking his head up. The teenage girls clustered in the seats in front of him blushed bright red, shoving at the one holding the camera and giggling and admonishing one another. Weariness dragged at his bones, but still he mustered up his signature charming smile, and winked at the girls.
He winced as they screamed, but still gamefully signed ever piece of paper they shoved his way, and posed for a couple selfies. Yet when the train pulled up to the next station, he bowed to them, and ducked off the train just before the doors closed behind him. The train pulled out, and he leaned against a nearby pillar, taking a deep breath.
As he straightened and headed down the stairs from the elevated platform, he looked around. He couldn’t read much Japanese, and had no idea where he was, but he shrugged and trudged towards the doors. What difference was one town from another? One country? One washed-up skater?
The town he’s ended up in was… well, frankly, adorable. Trees lined streets full of squat little buildings and shops closed up for the night. Down one of the main roads, he could see the town lights sparkling off the ocean. He took a lungful of salty air and, for the first time in a long time, started to feel a little lighter.
Still, even if he didn’t technically finish his skate, he hadn’t eaten since the early morning, and his stomach growled its complaints at him. As he passed near the center of town, he followed his nose to a small ramen shop down a side street. He rustled in his pocket to check his remaining cash, shrugged, and ducked inside.
He was greeted with the cutest little ramen shop he had ever seen. With a big grin, he slid into one of the stools at the bar. The man behind the counter eyed him, and spouted off something in rapid fire Japanese. Victor blinked at him a couple times, shrugged, and spread his hands to show he didn’t understand. The man sighed, turned behind him to grab a few things, then turned back around and set down a large steaming bowl and a small bottle of sake.
Stomach grumbling, Victor bowed his head in thanks to the man, scooped up the bowl, and took a large slurp from it. “Vkusna!” he declared, then chased it down with a shot of sake. He always loved trying new foods when he traveled, but this small-town ramen was leagues ahead of anything he’d ever gotten from the restaurants clustered around the international hotels.
The first bowl of ramen was gone too quickly. He motioned for another, and his third bottle of sake, and the chef raised his eyebrow but slid them across anyways when Victor pulled enough bills to cover the food. The warm broth filled the gaping emptiness in his stomach, and the fuzziness brought on by the sake distracted from the gaping emptiness in his chest.
He was just taking another swig of his fourth bottle of sake when someone sat down next to him, slapping him on the shoulder and calling out something incomprehensible yet enthusiastic. He swiveled towards them, a smile on his face to hide the weariness of another fan approaching him.
The willowy woman next to him just looked him up and down, quirked an eyebrow, and called out to the man behind the bar. He rolled his eyes, tossed a quick exchange back to her, then plunked two more bottles of sake on the counter in front of both of them.
“Sorry, miss, I’m not interested,” Victor blurted, even as his fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle.
The woman only snorted in response, slammed back nearly half her own bottle, then wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “Well good, you’re a little young for me. Now shut up and drink.”
He blinked at her perfect English reply, before his frozen smile morphed into a real grin. He clinked his bottle against hers, and called out “To new friends!” before slamming his own bottle back.
* * *
He’d give this to Minako, she was much stronger than she looked. She could probably lift him in a pairs skate. The mental image made him giggle, and he stumbled against her even harder.
“Yeah, it’s definitely time for you to call it a night, isn’t it?” she asked him, amusement clear in her tone.
He tried to straighten up and pull some of his weight off of her, but the world wobbled dangerously, and he merely clung on tighter. “Don’t have anywhere to stay…” he reminded her, even as he tugged on the collar of his shirt. Was it just him or was this thing growing tighter?
Minako only snorted in response and tugged him forwards again. “Yeah? Well lucky you, I have some friends who will take good care of you. Oh he’s gonna owe me…” She muttered the last to herself, and ignored Victor’s inquisitive look and the small noise he made under his breath.
Victor had lost count of how many bottles he’d consumed once Minako showed up to match him shot for shot. Minako had slapped her card down to cover the tab, egged him on with wilder and wilder stories about performing abroad, and hadn’t once indicated she knew who he was or cared why he was there. And when he’d literally fallen off his stool after an incredibly hilarious joke (or maybe just a little too much sake), she’d pulled him to his feet, waved to the chef, and steered him down the street without a word.
Wherever she had in mind wasn’t too far away, because just when his legs started to wobble and threaten to give out, they materialized in front of an inn. He peered at the large gate with signs that wavered too much in his vision to even attempt to read (oh right, he can’t read Japanese anyways), but Minako didn’t give him much time to look around before she threw open the front door, and unceremoniously dropped him in a heap on the floor.
“Oh Yuuri~~!” she drawled, kicking off her shoes and stepping over him, hands on her hips in a triumphant pose. Victor didn’t even try to untangle himself, just squinted up at her in confusion.
“Minako-sensei?” a small voice called from the next room over, and light footsteps approached them slowly. The voice continued as its owner entered the room, but the rapidfire jumble of symbols and vowels were too much for him to bother with when he was so concentrated on removing his face from the floor.
“Bringing you a present. Don’t worry; I will take payment in the form of adulation and/or free drinks at a later date,” Minako responded in English, before stepping away from Victor and gesturing to him with a twirl and a flourish.
Standing in the doorway was a slightly pudgy man not much younger than himself, with messy dark hair and brilliant brown eyes hidden behind thick glasses. As Victor continued to stare, the man’s shoulders crept higher towards his ears and an attractive flush spread from the bridge of his nose across his cheeks.
Victor tried to stand and step forward, but his uncooperative legs instead sent him into a stumbling wobble that ended with him mostly splayed across the floor, but a few feet further ahead and gripping the hands of the man between his own. “Hello,” Victor purred, smiling slowly up at him.
He was used to disarming people with his charm, getting anything he wanted. What he wasn’t used to getting was a squeak, and then a strong breeze as the man yanked himself away and vanished down the hallway. Victor pouted down at his now empty hands in astonished confusion.
“Yuuri!” Minako tried to call after the man, as she doubled over in laughter. “Yuuri, is that any way to treat your guest? Come back here and show him to a room! Yuuri!”