Archive of Our Own

Victor’s alarm chimed softly on the end table and he let out a groan of displeasure. He reached over, dismissing the music and giving a long, luxurious stretch that cracked his joints in about a million places before reaching an arm out to the other side of the bed.

Cold. He turned his head with a frown to the spot his better half typically occupied, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he reoriented himself to wakefulness. Gradually, the reason for Yuuri’s absence came back to him.

Worlds were soon. Training was more regimented. Victor had stayed late yesterday ironing out the back half of his own free skate, but today he would be playing the part of coach. Yuuri had suggested a schedule that maximized their practice time while attempting to be realistic with the increased demands on Victor’s time and energy. The realistic approach meant Yuuri waking up early and taking care of his own prep work—stretching out at the barre, practicing the artistic elements of his routine before moving into his on-ice preparations, warm ups and compulsories—then running through whatever he wanted of his routines until Victor arrived to watch, critique and advise. It meant Victor waking up alone with nothing but his own thoughts for company (and lovingly-made coffee waiting for him in the kitchen.)

He’d packed his athletic bag the night before, so Victor moved to the bathroom on autopilot. His shower was brisk and unluxurious, most of his time in the bathroom spent on skincare and doing what he could to keep the lines beneath his eyes (already a prominent feature) from showing his age and fatigue.

He dressed and made his way to the kitchen, smiling at the sound of Makkachin’s paws clicking on the hardwood floor as she lazed her way over to him. She snuffled around his ankles before lifting her head and staring up at him, tongue wagging appreciatively. He reached down to pet her head, and she lifted her paws up onto his thigh, allowing Victor better purchase for his head rubs. Yuuri would have already walked, fed her and given her plenty of water, so her attention was a matter of pure affection. He gathered his coffee, a piece of fruit, a bowl of yogurt and his loving old dog, taking them all to the couch so that he could enjoy his breakfast in what would surely be the last quiet moment of the day before he and Yuuri came home and collapsed onto the couch to cuddle and compare their aches and pains.

Soon enough, the food was gone and Makkachin sated with a favorite toy and a treat. Victor bundled up, grabbed his bag and made his way to the skating rink. Having always been easily distracted (Yuuri was helping him improve in this regard), he had intentionally bought an apartment near enough to the rink that he could rush if he was late. He wasn’t sure if he was running behind yet—Yuuri could practice compulsory skating until the heat death of the universe—but still there was an anxiousness to his gait as he made his way to homebase. He’d fallen asleep to the sensation of Yuuri massaging his sore hip, and he couldn’t quite remember the last expression he’d seen on his fiance’s face. The thought fluttered angrily inside of him like a wild thing caged in his chest.

He offered smiles and pleasantries to the facilities staff on arrival. When you spent enough time in a place, it was important to make a habit of friendliness. He made his way to the men’s locker room and set his duffle down in front of the garish locker that was his. The gold foil that wrapped the entire door had been a welcome home present from his rink mates, both an antagonizing joke for taking off almost an entire season as well as a symbol of their high expectations. He was, after all, Viktor Nikiforov—Russia’s golden son.

He tucked away his scarf and coat before pulling on a pair of athletic gloves and pulling his skates from his duffel. As he tugged them out, something tumbled to the floor of the locker room. He set his skates down on the nearby bench before stooping to pick up the foreign object. He held it in a gloved palm, staring at it for a long time. The white paper bird had been artfully made, a tiny thing with wide, curved wings. Cranes were the traditional Japanese papercraft, but Yuuri had slipped an origami seagull into his skate overnight.

He thought of those first few days in St. Petersburg, showing Yuuri everything he could about his life. He thought of the months before in Hasetsu, learning so much as Yuuri slowly opened up to him. He wondered what Yuuri had been thinking when he made the bird, what he had been thinking about as he woke up and got ready and practiced by himself, what he was thinking about at that very moment...

He ached, eyes watering at the thought of time lost in the shuffle of training (his and Yuuri’s). He fought against the lump in his throat as he turned the bird over in his hands and found himself desperate for more time—time enough to feel confident about the routines he had hurriedly produced, time to get his aging body back to peak performance, time to find new flashes of brilliance in Yuuri’s routines, time to be inspired, time to make Yuuri feel inspirational, time to have everything he wanted with a gold medal on top.

There simply wasn’t enough time. He could feel it slipping through his fingers even now.

It was five minutes before Victor could get his crying under control. Another five to shakily put on his skates and skate guards. And it was two minutes more before he could muster that famous Nikiforov smile in the mirror.

Then, he made his way out to the rink. “Yuuーri!”

“Why are you making such a drama queen face?”

Victor scoffed, arms high in the air as his leg lifted gracefully into attitude devant. “It should be somewhat severe. It’s The Seagull.” Even as he danced, he turned a disapproving eye to Christophe. It was the banquet after the World Championship. He’d partaken in quite a bit of festive drinking. And his best friend had no culture. “Maya Plisetskaya? The ultimate prima of the Bolshoi?” Hadn’t everyone’s coach’s ex-wives made them watch endless old VHS of the Russian ballet when they were teenagers? In the warm haze of liquor, Victor didn’t seem to register that it was an individual experience.

“Ah, of course. And here I thought you were just sour at having been bested by your lover.”

There was a warm rumble of laughter from the small group who had gathered. Victor Nikiforov had taken silver to Katsuki Yuuri’s gold, ending a five year streak of victory. He had triumphed as a coach, but as a skater…

Victor turned a rueful grin to those who had gathered out on the balcony to bask in his presence and enjoy his strange, impromptu performance. “I suppose it is a party. Everyone would prefer something more cheerful.” He moved smoothly into a lively Charleston step and a few of the onlookers gasped. It wasn’t that they were surprised by his flawless technique but rather the vigorous dancing seemed ill-suited for Victor’s stage, which was the wide concrete balustrade of the hotel’s balcony. He laughed at the shock on their faces. “What? This is my party trick. If you all keep ruining the celebratory spirit with those gloomy looks, I’ll be forced to resort to breakdancing.”

He set his hands on his hips, expression haughty as he bounced into some jaunty, can-can high kicks. His audience seemed unmoved, and so he spun into a pirouette perfect enough to earn him applause from some, while others retired back to the main ballroom, casting wary glances over their shoulders. Chris shot a look at Phichit, who had been gleefully taking pictures of the spectacle for his social media feeds but now seemed conflicted about whether or not to keep documenting. Deft fingers typed out a message to the Thai skater, encouraging him to find Victor’s fiance before the Russian got any more rowdy or ambitious.

Heading inside, Phichit found Yuuri beside Coach Celestino, the pair patiently humoring a full blown Plisetsky rant about the nuances that went into scoring GOE. It was a relief to find Yuuri in the company of a prickly sore loser who knew them well instead of with any of the handful of sponsors or officials on hand for the occasion. When Phichit grabbed his friend’s arm to unapologetically borrow him from the conversation, the Japanese man seemed more than a little relieved to have an exit from Yurio’s tirade. Yuuri had barely opened his mouth to thank his friend when Phichit began to explain the interruption. “You need to come save your exhibitionist boyfriend from himself—how much did you let him drink?”

Yuuri tensed, frowning in a look of mild concern. “Oh no...I hope he isn’t causing too much trouble.” Yuuri’s sheepish tone eased some of the tension in Phichit’s expression. He offered Yuuri a shrug and a wink as he motioned for Yuuri to follow him out to the balcony. He remembered the commotion at dinner before the Cup of China and the videos he’d seen of Yuuri at the Sochi GPF banquet. It seemed simple enough to chalk the evening’s spectacle up to being friends with two of the most dramatic partiers in the sport.

At the doors to the balcony, they ran into two guests coming back into the party. In the awkward shuffle to negotiate space by the door, one made eye contact with the Japanese skater, nervously frowning and beating a hasty retreat to the bar with her friend, whispering as she went. Yuuri frowned in apprehension. Whatever Victor was doing had to be shameless enough to have people talking. He said a little prayer that all of Victor’s clothes were still on (or at least the important stuff like pants).

He stepped out into the cool night air, and though he didn’t immediately see Victor, he could clearly hear the man having a loud half-argument, half-discussion with Chris. He turned to the sound, and for a split second, his brain failed to register what it was seeing. He instinctively opened his mouth to chide Victor for his behavior, but when he realized the man was standing on the ledge of the balcony—on the ledge between safety and a five story drop—the air squeezed out of his lungs. He stood frozen, unable to speak or breathe or think properly as his heart raced in worry.

“Yuuーri!” Victor called cheerfully, spinning razor precise on the ball of his foot in a spiteful pirouette meant to push Chris’s buttons. Yuuri felt a wave of nausea and sweat wash over him as he took a step towards his fiance. Chris turned to Yuuri, seeking a voice of reason. His look of mild exasperation slipped into something less certain when he saw the naked distress on Yuuri’s face. His eyes darted left to share a quick frown with Phichit. Clearly, tonight was something more than harmless drunken antics. He stayed within reach of Victor, even as Yuuri inched his way closer. Victor cheerfully rambled on, seemingly oblivious to the other skaters’ shared apprehension. “My Yuuri’s come to dance with me, but I’m not sure there is enough stage for us to share here...”

To prove his point, Victor dragged his body sharply to his left as though leading in a paso doble step. Even inebriated, he seemed every bit as graceful as he was when sober. The long line of his leg extended perfectly, connecting a clean line all the way up to his far shoulder where his arms bowed around an invisible partner.

“Vi-Victor, what...what are you doing?” Yuuri was trying and failing to keep his voice calm, even as he pushed a patient smile onto his face.

“Showing off,” Victor replied in his cool, rumbling alto. He stared down at Yuuri through half lidded eyes, even as his feet instinctively swayed lazily through a few kick ball changes. “Is it working? Are you impressed? You’re such a tease, but surely I’ll win the dance off this time…”

“You don’t need to show off,” Yuuri countered with a soft laugh, his voice the same comforting timbre he always used to wind Victor down when he got drunk and turned into an exhibitionist. “Everyone here already knows you’re the best.”

Victor let out a performative sigh, his right leg a sweeping pendulum as it brushed against the concrete. The effect of the tapping step was lost under the soft soles of his expensive Italian loafers, and yet somehow Yuuri still felt the sound echoing in his frantic head. “Yuuri, my Yuuri. My kind and gentle Yuuri who says such loving things to me.” He swept a graceful arm out and extended it over his head, bringing the back of his hand across his face seductively, his voice a warm purr. “But I wonder if you’d even want to kiss this...” While his fingers tenderly caressed the silver medal that hung around his neck, his eyes held a flash of challenge.

“Are you kidding me!?” The words snapped out of Yuuri so quickly that it made Phichit jump. Yuuri’s face reddened, but he was relieved that Victor was still firmly with feet on the balustrade. “I’m sorry to shout, but after everything you’ve told me, I can’t believe…” He let out a little sigh, and Victor narrowed his eyes a bit as he watched Yuuri find his words. “All season you lectured me about skating my best and setting small goals to get better. I understand you feel like the bar is set really high because of who you are, but...I mean, welcome to competitive figure skating. Everyone here has been competing against the bar you set, and you’re still this...really amazing athletic god. And you still have a medal.”

Yuuri stopped just short of gesturing to their present company. Chris had built an impressive career on silver medals at Worlds. Phichit didn’t even have a World Championship medal to his name. Neither of them were risking their life for pity or attention. Yuuri reached his hand out, making firm eye contact with Victor. “Please come down.”

“No.” Victor had stopped dancing. His hips were squared, his arms crossed and eyes on Yuuri’s face. “No…” His firm, petulant tone softened into something a little more sad and lost. He was putting up a fight that his heart was clearly barely in. Yuuri frowned, pushing down the icy splash of hurt that came when Victor failed to meet his outstretched hand. With Yuuri now in safe grabbing distance, Chris and Phichit stepped back to give the Yuuri a chance to talk to Victor one-on-one. They lingered just inside the doors to the balcony area, making sure that whatever needed to be said could be said away from the gossip hungry ears of the skating world.

Cautiously, with soft shuffling steps, Yuuri drew closer. Victor stayed where he was, unmoving even Yuuri reached upwards to lay a steadying hand along Victor’s hip. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I...I clearly have no right to be giving lectures about showy dance routines after a disappointing skate.” At this, Victor quirked a little smile that was just as quickly swallowed again by that solemn expression. “Please...please come down from there.”

Victor felt zapped of all the energy that had carried him through his dance steps. He was so tired. He nodded softly, letting Yuuri’s hand brace him a bit as he hopped down from the balustrade. That same hand slid around his back as Yuuri wrapped his arm around Victor’s waist the very second his feet were firmly on solid ground again. Yuuri began to guide Victor back into the ballroom with firm force.

“Yuu—”

“I think we’re done with the party.” Yuuri replied evenly, his tone unflinching and his expression showing nothing of the unease of a moment ago. He offered his lover a gentle smile. “Let’s go back to the room.”

They wove their way through the party, Yuuri cheerfully reciting excuses and apologies for their early departure to anyone who stopped to speak to them. The speed of their exit left Victor feeling dizzy, surprised by Yuuri’s focused efficiency. As they rode up the elevator together, the silence felt loaded and dangerous. Victor opened his mouth to break the dark mood with a joke but realized soon thereafter that he felt tired and uncooperative and not in any particular hurry to make apologies to Yuuri for what amounted to letting off steam. He closed his mouth, and Yuuri’s lips pressed into a tense line.

He had stayed in many hotel rooms all over the world with Yuuri. Usually, he led the way back to their door, the possibility of physical intimacy putting a skip in his step. Tonight, only inertia kept him following Yuuri out of the elevator. As Yuuri fumbled with the hotel key card, Victor glanced down the hall and thought for the briefest moment about walking away from his fiance, if only to avoid the conversation he could see was already churning inside of Yuuri’s head.

They entered the room in silence. Victor shrugged off his jacket, hanging the expensive suit coat up in the closet and holding a hand out for Yuuri’s. When it wasn’t handed over, he looked up to see Yuuri was a few feet away from him, coat thrown onto an armchair. His back was turned to Victor. His shoulders were tense. Victor watched as he took a slow, dragging breath through his nose, then let it out a few moments later. The telltale signs of an anxiety attack sobered Victor immediately, and he glided across the room to Yuuri’s side.

Once he’d gotten past the initial tears and misunderstandings, dealing with Yuuri’s episodes had quickly become second nature to him. He placed a gentle hand on Yuuri’s back, right between his shoulder blades, but he didn’t press, massage or try to soothe. Yuuri hated being placated or treated like he couldn’t take care of himself—even knowing full well that Victor liked to take care of him—and so Victor had taken to simply making his presence known and waiting for Yuuri to open up. He focused on the feel of Yuuri’s lungs expanding, the muscles in his back expanding and contracting like an accordion—this body that made Victor’s favorite music.

Victor closed his eyes. A wave of cold exhaustion washed over him, head to toe. With it came a vague feeling of guilt as he thought about where the day had started. Even if Victor had been feeling out of sorts, Yuuri had been having a great day. A better coach—a better lover—would have shared in the celebration. He was proud of Yuuri, but the feeling didn’t quite pierce the fog he was in. He opened his eyes again, startling when he saw Yuuri staring back at him.

“Why?” Yuuri asked softly, shaking his head with a sad smile on his face. He reached over his shoulder, turning to take Victor’s hand and press a kiss to his pale fingers. “I should be…you shouldn’t be trying to help me. It should be the other way around.”

“Yuuri?” Victor tipped his head to the side, trying to pretend that the suggestion made no sense—trying to forget his drinking, his disappointment and the frost that wouldn’t leave his limbs.

“I don’t know what’s wrong, and I’m kind of scared to ask how long you’ve—” Yuuri pursed his lips, still holding Victor’s cold hand in his warm one. Victor took his hand back, ostensibly to loosen his tie and undo the top buttons of his shirt as he moved to sit at the edge of the bed. “Something’s wrong, and I’m sorry I didn’t see it before, but if you’d just—”

“I was just dancing The Seagull, Yuuri,” Victor interjected, his voice too sharp for his own liking. He pressed a smile to his face, the same one he’d used on half the podiums in the world. “I was having some fun. We dance on razor sharp blades for a living. A slab of concrete is nothing. It was nothing.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Yuuri sputtered, hands opening and closing reflexively into fists. “Victor, do you know what happens at the end of The Seagull?”

“You know what happens at the end of The Seagull?” Victor countered with an innocent if not perplexed tip of the head, earning an eye roll from the other skater.

“I’m Japanese, not illiterate.” He scanned Victor’s face for a long moment, taking small cautious steps towards the bed. He reached out with shaky fingers, combing them through Victor’s hair and guiding his head to rest against his hip. When Yuuri spoke, his voice was soft but firm as if reluctant to speak the words but careful to not misspeak either. “Was that what you...were you wanting to die?” He was trembling so much that Victor couldn’t help but reflexively reach up and grab Yuuri’s wrist firmly as he had done countless times before to calm his anxious protege. He tilted his head back, catching a look in Yuuri’s eyes that he absolutely hated. It made his stomach twist into uncomfortable knots.

“No! No, no, no, Yuuri, it was nothing like that.” He shook his head, pressing his face hard against Yuuri’s stomach as he did so. He could feel his own heart beating a mile a minute in his chest. He’d been acting foolishly, carelessly, and yes, maybe with a bit of conscious recklessness, and Yuuri had seen something in it that he had never, ever wanted him to see. Yuuri gave his life meaning and made all the colors reappear and filled his whole world with life and love. Yuuri shouldn’t have to worry just because he still had some dark and empty places inside.

“Then what was it? Help me understand.” Yuuri let him cling, sliding one hand down Victor’s back as the other rested at the nape of his neck. His thumb pressed into a tight knot of muscle there, and Victor released a soft sigh against Yuuri’s body. His chest felt warm and tight, just as it had when he’d seen the paper bird. His body tensed with the dreadful thought that he might start crying again, and Yuuri began to rub a soothing circle on his back. “Victor, I really need you to talk to me. I’m worried about you.”

His closeness with Yuuri was a blessing, but right now, it posed an inconvenient problem. This was not the first time Victor had done something reckless, foolhardy or self-destructive, but it was possibly the first time anyone was seeing the incident for what it was. Cutting off his long hair, insisting on themes that his coaching staff thought nobody wanted to see him skate, dropping commitments as though he had forgotten them entirely—endless arguments dotted Victor’s past. All had been circumnavigated with breezy, careful posturing. Let Lilia think he was a waste of raw beauty. Let Yurio think he was a forgetful egoist. Let Yakov think he was a selfish fool. Yuuri, on the other hand… The only version of Victor he seemed to care about was the real one, and so Yuuri knew he was no careless, ditzy diva.

He tipped his head up to look at Yuuri, affecting a puppy dog smile even as he swallowed the lump in his throat to speak. “Ah, Yuuーri...can’t we just chalk this up to me being foolish and forget it ever happened? We should be celebrating your gold medal. Why talk about some silly, show-offish thing I did when you could be kissing me?”

“Because it isn’t silly at all, Victor,” Yuuri replied softly. “You didn’t look like you were showing off to anyone. You looked upset.”

Oh. The lump in Victor’s throat came right back up, and his smile turned to a pained grimace. His shoulders hitched up, and his whole body tensed, a last line of defense against the swell of emotion he felt churning in his guts. This last barrier soon broke, and he let out an ugly, hiccuping sob. Yuuri’s hands flew up to Victor’s cheeks. Victor sucked in a shuddering breath before the tears began in earnest. He squeezed his eyes shut. He hated crying, resented how it put every emotion loudly on display. He had never been good at seeing others cry, and it was rare he allowed his own sadness to be seen by anyone—even Yuuri. His momentary break in Barcelona had been bad enough, and those had been tears of frustration. The murky emotions of this evening were much more painful to lay bare.

Yuuri smoothed gentle touches across his face, wiping away the tracks of tears. For as much as Victor hated this show of emotion, Yuuri hated seeing his partner like this—in pain and giving Yuuri no indication of how to help him. When Victor’s tears showed no sign of abating, Yuuri shifted to take a seat next to him on the bed. He wrapped his arms around Victor, concerned when the other man simply slumped against his body and continued to cry. “Shh, Victor. It’s okay. You’re okay, just…” He pressed a kiss to Victor’s hair and another to his temple and one more to the salty tears on his cheek. “I really think you’d feel better if you just told me what has you so upset.” Victor loved to talk about his experiences, loved to express himself in his skating and his thoughtful words. The fact that he wasn’t readily sharing had Yuuri on edge.

“Yuuri,” Victor wheezed desperately. “I…” He pressed the bridge of his nose into the crook of Yuuri’s neck. He had never wanted to burden Yuuri with his feelings leading up to Worlds, but now, it seemed the only way forward was explaining it in a way his partner could understand. Yuuri’s skin was warm and wet as Victor burrowed his face against him. “I—I’m just so tired and—” His breath hitched. He struggled to get his lungs under enough control to say anything coherent, and the words all came out like little whining sounds that made Yuuri’s heart clench tightly. He gave Victor a little supportive squeeze. “I should have...done...b-better. I t-tried, but...m’tired and it’s n-n-never been this hard...to do everything.”

Yuuri digested the words, pressing his cheek into the downy softness of Victor’s hair. It was hard for him to understand—and he wanted very badly to understand—just why Victor was taking the silver medal so badly. He hadn’t properly trained for over half a year, had put together routines in an unbelievably short time, had taken gold in Russia from a newly minted and much younger GPF champion, had done all this while the world speculated about the viability of his career. And the final result had been close. It wasn’t what anyone would call an objective defeat, so why was Victor falling apart in his arms now? “Victor, I loved everything you did on the ice. You were perfect. There’s nothing you should have done better.” He felt every centimeter of Victor’s body curl in on itself, small and defensive. Yuuri clung tightly to him, squeezing his eyes shut. He could feel himself messing this up. Victor was shutting down and shutting him out. How could he reach him? What was he missing?

“Victor, there’s no skater that’s ever competed who has done as much as you did these past few months. You took gold in Nationals when you’d only had a few weeks to prepare. And you did all that while supporting me. This was going to be hard for anyone...probably impossible for anyone who wasn’t you.” The body in his arms stayed tense, unmoved by his words, rooted firmly in a deep mire of sadness. Yuuri’s chest tightened, his anxiety whispering to him that he could always go get Yakov or someone who had been a part of Victor’s professional support team for longer. He mentally chided himself for even considering it. When had Victor ever let him down? Wasn’t that half the problem? He took a deep breath, trying to remember everything that had gone through his mind the last few months in Detroit and what he had been thinking when he had fired Celestino and went back to Japan. “Victor, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize just how much I put on your shoulders.”

He ran his fingers over Victor’s hair, pressing a kiss to the pulse point behind his ear. A wet, shuddering sob slipped past Victor’s lips. If Victor was this upset over a silver medal, Yuuri reasoned that he still very much wanted to skate and skate his very best. Still, something had to give, and there was nothing Yuuri wouldn’t do to help the man who had given him the joy of skating in the first place. “Listen.” Gentle hands smoothed along Victor’s arms, slowly unraveling his body until Yuuri could properly cradle his face in his hands. “We’re going into the off-season soon...I’m sure there’s someone willing to come to St. Petersburg and coach me.”

Victor jolted, body vibrating with adrenaline as he locked an uncomfortably tense grip on Yuuri’s arms. “No! Yuuri, no. Please. That’s not what I want at all.” His face was blotchy, eyes red and wet. “Please, please, please don’t—I—skating doesn’t—” He grit his teeth in frustration, pulling back from Yuuri and slapping an angry palm against the mattress. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes and took a breath, frustrated that he couldn’t get the words to come out properly.

“Victor, breathe,” Yuuri interjected, concerned by Victor’s sudden flash of rage and reddening face. Victor listened, taking in a slow, painful, shuddering breath. His hands fell to his lap. Yuuri placed a hand on his thigh and gave a gentle squeeze, making his presence felt.

“Yuuri...when you asked me to take care of you until you retired…” Victor’s voice was small and so unlike himself. Yuuri watched him intently, trying to decipher what Victor needed to feel better. When Victor’s pinky finger drifted across the side of Yuuri’s hand, he reached out the rest of the way, taking Victor’s hand in his own. “I honestly thought ‘okay, this is it. You want to say yes, and saying yes means your life as a skater is over.’ And Yuuri, I didn’t hesitate to say yes.” His cool blue eyes met Yuuri’s warm brown gaze. “Skating was my life, but somewhere along the way it stopped being the thing I fell in love with. There were all these expectations that came with being the world’s champion and...I couldn’t accept the idea of falling short of those expectations. I wanted to always exceed expectation. And then, people simply expected a surprise, and then, the surprise became all that mattered...my enjoyment was unimportant so long as I didn’t disappoint anyone. So long as they were still amazed.”

His teeth worried over his lower lip for a moment. “But everything changed when we danced in Sochi. I felt the way I had when I was a teenager—back when every movement was some secret thing within me breaking the surface. Ideas flowed through me so easily. The image of you in my mind, the way you made my heart sing...Then, I became your coach and it was so easy to give over all that choreography to you and Yurio. And in return, you surprised me. You showed me skating could feel like new again—beautiful and exciting and a reflection of feelings inside me that I couldn’t figure out on my own. And more than that you…” He gave Yuuri’s hand a firm squeeze, grounding himself. “When I was an idiot teenager I used to say skating was the love of my life, but Yuuri, it’s you. It’s always been you. It just took me a long time to find you, and when I did, I knew that I would give anything to see you shine. You put a ring on my finger, and it was the greatest thing that had ever happened to me. Better than any other gold I’d ever worn. All of a sudden, I was okay with saying goodbye to my career, as long as I could be your coach and your lover for the rest of my life. Your skating reminds me of everything I’ve ever loved about the sport. And if what you need in order to be as magnificent as you were on the ice yesterday is my time and my guidance, then giving you that is all that matters. My life, my love,” he steadied himself with a sharp inhale, his voice on the verge of breaking once more, “my career...Take it...Keep it. Keep me beside you. Please don’t ever say you want another coach.”

Victor let out a low whimper, still heartsick and troubled as he slouched against Yuuri’s shoulder. Even as Yuuri wrapped his arms around Victor, his eyes wandered to the ceiling, lost in thought. His mind raced to work through what Victor had just admitted, a truth that made his heart swell with love and recoil in shame. It was hard to imagine having such a large impact on Victor’s career. It was also a terrible burden to bear. He knew from experience that the weight of dream could be agonizingly heavy. He licked his dry lips, clenched his fingers in the fabric of Victor’s shirt as a steadying ballast. There were things between them that had gone unspoken, truths that Yuuri was certain Victor needed to hear now—the weight of a dream and how it had nearly capsized his life.

“You know, it was really hard for me to get to Sochi,” he started, voice uncertain as he began to speak words he’d only ever recited in his head to an imaginary audience of disappointed fans. In public, he’d always deflected questions about his terrible public meltdown, embarrassed to admit his weakness. In private, Yuuri had wanted so badly to be forgiven for his failings. “I did absolutely whatever ideas for regimen that my training staff suggested. Without thinking about it, really. I was ready to do anything I thought would help me win. I barely had time for schoolwork. A social life was basically out of the question. Phichit was the rare friend and rinkmate who could look past the intensity of my training. He understood what I was was working for. I pushed myself...harder and harder than I ever had before to reach just a little further into the top six, to meet my hero while I still could, to do well enough to deserve his attention.” He could see the start of a remark on Victor’s lips and quickly pressed onward. “I was nervous, of course. So nervous. I had so much pressure sitting on my shoulders, and Celestino is the kind of coach who kind of encourages the nerves because he thinks it’ll make you take training more seriously. So I just...I kept my head down and I held it together and got the wins I needed to get to the final. He didn’t understand that I could internalize that kind of thing for longer than most people. And then Vicchan died, and even though I hadn’t seen him in years outside of video calls, I was tired and lonely, and I just couldn’t keep it together. My heart was telling me that I wanted was to hide from the world and mourn my dog’s death. But my head was saying I could do that at any time. And if I wanted to skate against you—and I still wanted that more than anything—Sochi was my shot. Nursing my heart or living my dream. It was impossible to do both on my own and impossible to let go of one or the other…”

He absentmindedly rubbed at his chest, chasing away phantom anxiety pains as he held Victor closer. He closed his eyes, feeling warmth pass between them, a warmth that could and regularly did chase away any heartache. “It’s kind of insane that it’s been just over a year since then. It feels like a lifetime ago. I’m a different person now, and it has nothing to do with the training that lead to this gold medal. It’s all about one single conversation on a beach. I was at my lowest, and you met me there and lifted me up. The dream my head had been so ready to let die...you gave it life again and gave me these amazing feelings I didn’t have to keep buried inside. What kind of partner would I be if I didn’t try to do the same for you?” Yuuri loved Victor—would always love Victor, but he wanted to convey something more than just the love he felt for him. Victor was the person in Yuuri’s life who had made the most effort to understand him, to build up his confidence until he felt like a wholly different person. What was the point of climbing his way back up from his lowest moment if he couldn’t give Victor a hand up now?

“I know things seem...overwhelming right now. You feel like you’ve worked your hardest and you feel like you’ve poured everything you have into the ice and into coaching me. And if you’re anything like me, there’s all kinds of contradictions fighting inside of you, telling you that something has to give. But, Victor, you don’t need to write off anything you really want. Not your art. Not your career. Not your coaching. And I don’t need you writing off your own career and giving all your energy to me. I don’t want that. Just...it’s okay to tell me what your dreams are and together we’ll both work our hardest to make them come true. In the end, I didn’t do any of this on my own, so why are you expecting more of yourself? It’s hard to accept that there will always be disappointments along the way, especially when things problems seem impossible to overcome, but when my career was in a full blown tailspin and I didn’t think there was any way forward, you helped me see that it’s a lot easier to keep fighting if you let someone help you bear that weight.” Victor closed his eyes, pressing his cheek to Yuuri’s shoulder. His arms around Victor felt warm and solid, and the exhausted, cold feeling that had hung on Victor’s shoulders the past few weeks felt lighter, like it was barely there at all. “Of course, maybe I’m just being this supportive because I have a gold medal and world record…” Victor couldn’t help but let out a barking laugh at Yuuri’s aside. He lifted his head to meet Yuuri’s warm gaze and press a soft kiss to his lips. How grateful he was that this man existed and was his partner...

“I love you.” So much had been laid bare between them, and Victor wanted to say even more—wanted to explain in every way he could that Yuuri had changed everything in his life and that even now that his career had gotten so complicated, it was still better than what had come before. He wanted Yuuri to know that watching the sunset at home with him, whether that was by the Sea of Japan or Baltic Sea, was the thing he hadn’t known he’d been missing all his life. It wasn’t a magic cure-all for sadness, anxiety, aches or disappointments, but Yuuri was right. If they both supported one another, those burdens would never be enough to break them.

Victor wakes to the sound of seagulls and the faint glow of dawn through his bedroom curtains. For a bleary-eyed moment the morning blurs into an amalgamation of every morning since he moved to St. Petersburg and his chest aches with the unnameable emotion he’s paying a very patient therapist to help him understand. A million worries—every dark, insecure thought he’s ever felt—scratch at the edge of his mind. He reaches his fingers out, touches warm skin, hears soft breathing. Yuuri shifts into his touch, and suddenly it is only the present, only this moment and no other. He smiles, closing his eyes as he wraps himself like a second blanket around his partner.

There have been many moments, many mornings where the seagulls cried out from the shore, but knowing Yuuri has always heard them too helps. And having this moment, today, is enough.