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Viktor is seventeen years old when he first utters the phrase, “I’m gay,” aloud. The words feel strange, heavy on his tongue as he speaks.
He takes a long, deep breath and opens his eyes, making eye contact with his reflection in the mirror. Silence is the only thing that meets him. He is alone.
“I’m...I’m gay,” he says it again, his voice shaking as he grips the edge of the bathroom sink and stares into his own eyes. His throat hurts. His knuckles are white.
He had known that he was different many years ago, and alongside learning that him being attracted to men was different, he internalised that it was wrong, unnatural, sinful.
“I’m gay,” his voice only wavers slightly this time. It's barely a whisper, but blood is rushing in his ears and it sounds to him like he's shouting. He inhales shakily, and finally allows himself to cry. Small, hiccuped sobs wrench their way out of Viktor’s throat. His vision blurs, clouded with tears. The lump in his throat subsides. The light is too intense, too bright. His eyes hurt.
He speaks in English; he doesn't want to say it in Russian. The word has a much more negative connotation in his native language. It sounds nicer in English, almost as if he isn't admitting to himself that he's a freak. For now, he feels as if he doesn't have to say it in Russian, as if what he has already done is progress enough.
He thinks of what his life would be like if he spoke of this to anyone else, and his chest tightens in unbridled terror. Who could he trust? He doesn't know. No one. No one.
He remembers his mother’s rage and disgust when one of her co-workers was found to be a lesbian; Yakov’s refusal to let him skate to the instrumental of a Queen song for his senior debut because the frontman of the band wasn’t straight.
He takes a few steps backwards. His back hits the wall, and he slides down to the floor, his knees brought up to his chest. He cries louder, now, his sobs echoing around the small bathroom.
A few seconds pass before Viktor hears the scuffling of paws against hardwood floor, and Makkachin appears in the doorway.
“Makka,” he sniffles as the poodle sits in front of him, “I’m gay. I'm sorry.”
Makkachin tilts her head to the side and raises her paw to set on Viktor’s knee. It's okay, Viktor hopes she would say if she could. Or maybe not. Maybe she would reject him, too, if she understood what he was.
Gomik, gomik, gomik.
The word carves itself into Viktor’s mind.
Dirty, disgusting, freak.
Viktor didn't know that his emotions could hurt him this much. The pain he feels is much more intense than physical pain he's ever experienced, even worse than when he fractured his wrist after landing a jump poorly a few years ago, worse than the burning pain in his legs that he gets after intense practise sessions. A mix of fear, shame, and loneliness settle deep in his gut. He feels like he's dying.
He doesn't want to be this way. He wishes that he was normal, that he felt the same way that his friends did about women. But, he already knows that he doesn't. And he won't. Three years of attempting to force himself to not see men the way he does has already proven fruitless.
His brain serves Viktor an unwanted memory of him watching a boy in his school being beaten because some people thought he was gay. He had observed the physical and verbal onslaught, alongside a crowd of others, chanting derogatory names at the boy. Pidor, gomik, pederast. Viktor didn't help him. He briefly wonders if anyone would help him if he was in that situation. He scoffs, a bitter sound cutting sharply through the otherwise quiet room. Of course not.
The sound of his shrill ringtone sends him crashing back to reality, and his eyes land on his phone sitting on the edge of the sink where he had left it.
He scrambles for his phone, reading the caller ID through bleary eyes: Georgi. He sniffles, trying to regain control over his breathing before he flips open the phone and holds it to his ear with shaking hands. This is easy: all he has to do is pretend. That's what he's been doing for half of his life.
“Georgi,” Viktor is proud of how casual he sounds as he answers the phone, as if he isn't in the middle of an emotional crisis, curled up on his bathroom floor at five in the morning.
“Where are you? Practice started ten minutes ago, Yakov’s mad that you're not here,” he's late. Viktor’s eyes widen as he pulls himself up to stand, using the sink as leverage.
“I wasn't keeping an eye on time, I got distracted,” it's not a lie, and Viktor tries to sound nonchalant, but his voice hitches and he immediately knows that he's been caught out.
“Are you crying?”
Georgi’s tone borders on mocking, and Viktor doesn't have to be looking at him to know how Georgi raises his eyebrow, a smug smirk on his face.
“No,” Viktor panics, and the reply is too quick to be believable, “I will be there soon. Tell Yakov I’m sorry.”
For being late? For being gay? Both, probably.
Viktor hangs up.
And he's back where he started, staring at himself in the mirror. He looks different from when he had stood in the same spot a few minutes prior. His eyes are now red, his cheeks are tear streaked, and his hair is a mess.
He takes a long intake of breath and then reaches for his hairbrush, running it through his recently tangled hair. It's getting long, now, down to the middle of his back. He should cut it, maybe, to settle the whispers about his sexuality that are already starting up online. The brush catches on a knot, and Viktor huffs as he yanks the brush down through the rest of his hair. He hisses at the sting, but otherwise pays the pain no mind. It doesn't matter. He's mostly numb, anyway.
He’ll go to practice. He’ll perfect his routines. He’ll pour his entire soul into skating. He’ll do what everyone wants him to do. He’ll never show anyone who he truly is.
And everything will be normal.
—
Viktor is twenty seven years old when he meets his soulmate.
And maybe things aren't normal – with their lavish Russian apartment, celebrity status and abundance of gold medals – but they're definitely perfect. And Viktor, he wouldn't change a thing.