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Yuri is eight when he begins training under Yakov, and is already sure that he will be the best skater Russia’s ever seen. The rest of the rink, however, still needs convincing. So Yuri makes the decision to train harder, faster, longer than any of the other children in his division. This decision lands him in a fair bit of hot water, but only once he reaches the age when staying at the rink past closing becomes a viable option. At first, the extra drills and stretched out practice time are enough, and go generally unnoticed. But Yuri needs more. He gets the idea from watching the older skaters, the ones he’s watched on Grandpa’s television since he was old enough to sit up on his own. He decides that singles are boring, and if he’s ever going to improve he needs a double loop. Yakov, of course, thinks this is a terrible idea.
“Yuri! I swear to God, if you attempt that jump one more time you will no longer be my trainee!” The spittle flying from his mouth blends with the shards of ice dispersed by the skaters’ blades, and Yuri’s mouth quirks into a smirk. Stupid Yakov and his stupid rules. Yuri needs this, needs to be better, needs to prove his worth to everyone who said he’d never be a skater, never amount to anything. He does the loop.
Or at least tries to, what actually happens is he launches with too much force, his feet get tangled, and the amazing Plisetsky prodigy slides across the ice in a defeated heap. The fall itself isn’t bad, but the bruising to Yuri’s ego doesn’t fade for months. He heads Yakov’s warning after that, at least till Viktor comes around and makes Yuri’s life go to shit.
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Yuri is ten years old when he decides that he hates Viktor Nikiforov. It had been easier to ignore the obnoxiously cheerful man when he’d been sequestered away in private practice, to be seen and not touched by lowly Yuri and the other babies, but now that they had officially met, Yuri’s expectations were shattered. He wanted the man he was destined to beat to be... well... eviler? There was no denying the strength behind Viktor and his skating, but he was too good, too nice, too willing to accept Yuri into his giant family. It was naive, but Yuri needed someone he could feel great about beating, someone he could despise and use as motivation. So, if Viktor couldn’t be a stand alone villain, Yuri was going to have to alter the narrative.
Hating Viktor was easy from a distance, but more difficult up close. The man was more than willing to assist Yakov with coaching. Yuri suspected this was a way to shirk his own practicing duties, but Yakov seemed more than relieved to get some of the rug rats off his hands. So, on his third practice with the famed legend Nikiforov, Yuri decided to show him just how good he was. Yuri never slacked during practice, but there was something special behind his work ethic today. The others noticed it, and were annoyed. Perfect Yuri and his perfect skating, getting in the way of their fun. As the youngest of the group, Yuri was already the target of disdain. It had never turned physical, but the pressure of skating for Viktor did strange things to prepubescent boys.
They were drilling lutz’s, as one does, and all was going smoothly. Viktor’s method of correction was vastly different to Yakov’s, and he aired on the side of pleasant commentary laced with lethal jabs.
“Now now Benji, use your arms!” He would chirp, voice increasing in pitch with each iteration. The boys were angry, tired, and annoyed with the whole affair. They wanted water, and to be done, so when Yuri stepped up to continue the endless assembly line, one of them snapped.
“God dammit Plisetsky! Give it a fucking rest. You’re still going to suck after today, and sucking up to the coaches isn’t going to change anything!” The boy, whose name remains unimportant, skidded to a halt before Yuri, and looked down into his eyes. Yuri clenched his fists, and prepared to smack the jerk into next Tuesday, but two hands on his chest stopped him. The boy shoved him, not hard enough to injure, but hard enough so send him to his ass in front of the very man he was meant to surpass. Viktor shook his head complacently and placed his hands on his hips.
“Boys will be boys, I guess. I’ll speak to Yakov about that.” Yuri glowered at the silver haired man from his seat, as freezing water soaked his leggings. Viktor extended his hand to the boy, but found it shoved away in disgust.
“I don’t need your help, old man. I can do it myself.” Yuri shoved himself to his feet, wiped his hands on his knees, and skated aggressively off the ice. He decided then that Viktor was to be hated, because letting him into his life would hurt more than falling on the ice ever would.
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Yuri was 12 when he discovered that that assumption was very very wrong. It had been a normal practice, on a normal day, with the normal people. He had graduated from group sessions, advanced to the private training circuit, and had begun to accept those who were once his idols as equals. Of course, Viktor remained a motivator, but not everyone was so bad.
“Yuri, again.” Yakov barked from the side, obviously displeased with the artistic state of Yuri’s program. It was technically perfect, but still lacked a certain something to make it truly beautiful. Yuri was pissed, all his jumps were landed and step sequences completed, but he launched into the beginning anyway.
Something was wrong. He should have noticed taking off, that the rotation was off and the angle of his blades were wrong, but on autopilot Yuri decided to muscle through it. Big mistake. His legs shot out from under him, and the back and side of his head hit the ice with a resounding and sickening crack.
Yuri had never been injured in a fall before, never passed out on the ice before, but suddenly everything was happening, and way too fast. It hurt, pulsating pain that radiated from the epicenter of his fall. Yuri hadn’t even had time to recognize his own fall before his vision had whited out, and his ears began ringing. His extremities were numb, and he masked the pricking of tears that he refused to shed. Not here, not in front of them, in front of him. He wanted to roll over, to stand up and try again, but the world was tilting all wrong and there were foreign hands everywhere. Eventually he managed to sit up, wipe his eyes, and begrudgingly accept the hands of those who came to help him. Even Yakov had rushed onto the ice after Yuri’s two minute period of stillness, and the other skaters who had been practicing had skated over as well.
The “omigodyuriareyouok”’s bounced around his head like Pac-Man characters, and seemed to accompany his newly acquired double vision. Concussed? Nope. The two hands that grasped his, Viktor’s he would realize later, moved to his elbows as he failed to stop his knees from buckling. They guided him off the ice, and gently placed him on a bench. His skates were off, and more hands held his cheeks to keep his head from lolling to the side. Yakov was watching his pupils, in quiet concern. Someone called his grandpa. Viktor produced an ice pack from God knows where, and moved behind Yuri to press it to the point of impact.
“Christ, Yura, there’s blood here.” Viktor quietly exclaimed, drawing his hand back to view the red, sticky substance against his pale fingers. The other skaters’ attention returned to their own practice, and Yuri proceeded to puke on Viktor’s new sponsorship shoes. They were ugly anyway, and that counted as a battle won in Yuri’s opinion. Viktor would wait with him, until his grandpa arrived to take him to the emergency room, and then accompany them there as well. Yuri would forget this detail, conveniently, and continue in his crusade to topple Viktor’s reign
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Yuri was fifteen, 2,000 miles from home, and wanted his grandfather. He’d stupidly followed Viktor on his mission to court Katsuki, and was now regretting it very deeply. It wasn’t the training, or the skating, or even the companionship for that matter. It was the stupid bug that Yuri had managed to catch on the flight over that was making his head spin and stomach roll. He lay on his cot across from Yuuri’s room, curled around a pillow, stubbornly refusing to cry. He could always call, or ask one of the Katsuki’s for assistance, but that was for weak people and Yuri was anything but weak.
Eventually the sun rose, and it was time to start a new day. Yuri successfully avoided breakfast and managed to sip some tea before they began their regiment, and was becoming confident in his ability to keep his insides on the inside. Of course, he hadn’t counted on the step sequence practice that Viktor had angelically prescribed them before floating off to do God knows what. It was already late in the day, and the perspiration coating Yuuri’s forehead was doubled on Yuri’s. They conquered the sequence again and again, until the constant pivoting tested Yuri’s self control further than he was prepared for. His vision spun dangerously, and the lights of the rink grew till they merged with each other in a mess of harsh white. Yuri was vaguely aware of his knees crumpling, as a sank to a seated position, but he was more focused on keeping his meager lunch in rather than out. Deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth, don’t puke in front of the competition moron.
Yuuri had looked up at the quiet thump from the other side of the rink, and had at first dismissed it as a manifestation of his practice mate’s age. He decided that Yuri required assistance when he neglected to rise, and grabbed a water bottle from the side of the rink on his way over.
“Yurio, are you ok? Do you need water?” He inquired softly, not wanting to anger the teen.
“I’m fine pig,” He managed between breaths, “just give me a minute,” one of Yuri’s hands moved to his stomach, while the other pressed at his aching temples. He leaned over, to place his head between his knees. Only then did Yuuri realize that Yuri wasn’t, in fact, being a petulant child, or an exhausted skater, but simply a sick teenager who was probably too stubborn to admit it. He placed a hand on the younger boy’s back, and offered the water again.
“Do we need to move to the bathroom? I-I could call Viktor...” Yuri’s head shot up at that, and what seemed to be anger flashed through his eyes.
“No! You can’t!” He exclaimed, before reverting to his concave position. “I’m fine, and he’ll just make a big deal out of nothing.” Yuuri considered this for a second, before putting his foot down.
“Fine, but we’re going home, now, and you’re going to let me help you. It’s not something to be ashamed of.” Yuuri could’ve sworn he heard a sigh of relief, before he offered his hands to the teen. They made their way at a slow pace to the hot springs, and Yuuri made his way to the kitchen to make tea as Yuri changed into sweats
Yuri pulled his hair back into a loose ponytail, not eager to soil his hair with any unexpected performances, and resumed his fetal position from the earlier night. The pain in his stomach had only worsened, and every time he opened his eyes the world spun around him to the point where it was impassible to stay upright. Yuuri returned with a steaming mug, and a cool cloth. His assumption that Yuri had an increasing fever was proved correct, and the cloth was laid delicately across the blond’s forehead. The minute Viktor reappeared would destroy the delicate balance and vulnerability both Yuri’s had achieved, but for the time being they sat together, Yuri wishing he was home and Yuuri wishing he was closer with the boy. After a period of silence, Yuuri spoke in a gentle whisper.
“It’s ok to not be ok-I won’t judge you. I always need help... from many people, and they’ve never held it against me. I-I just want you to know that you don’t have to be guarded with me,” he paused, “I’m here for you Yuri, no matter what.” With those closing words, the peace around them shattered with the shout of a particularly flamboyant silver haired man
“Yuuuuuuuuuuri!” He crooned, “I’m back - hey! Where did you two run off to?” Yuri groaned, more out of annoyance than pain this time, and curled deeper into his bed, hiding his face. Yuuri took pity on the younger skater, and discreetly turned off the lights in the room before shutting the door quietly. The ability to distract Viktor for extended periods of time was not something Yuuri lacked, and he felt Yuri deserved a reprieve from the attention.
And if he heard muffled crying later that night, or stifled Russian ramblings over the phone to a certain ‘Dedushka’ it was never brought up again. Katsuki’s are excellent secret keepers, and know how to help those who need it.
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Yuri was sixteen, and thanking whatever entity there was that this hadn’t happened to his leg. He was in France, for a qualifying event, when it happened. One second he was warming up for his free program, prepping for an axel, and the next one of the new rookies had slammed into him, sending both into the unwelcome embrace of the barrier. At first, all he could feel was pain: in his head, his knee, his hip, but then the overwhelming numbness in his left arm took over. He attempted to roll into a seated position, but his body was not having it. Thankfully, Yakov and others had noticed the crash and people were coming to help him. The rookie who had caused the collision was staring at him with wide and scared eyes, probably petrified that he had collided with such an imposing competition. Yuri wanted to glare at him, to offer some choice words, but all he could do was wonder what the fuck is wrong with my arm? As the cotton in his head began to clear, a familiar face appeared clumsily before him.
“Yuri! Yuri, oh my god are you alright?” Katsuki fretted, fluttering his hands over Yuri’s frame,
“I’m fine, fine, pig...” Yuri began, out of habit, before pausing at the look on Yuuri’s face. He had gotten to his left arm, and by his expression, it was not pleasant.
“God Yuri can you not feel that?” He inquired, worried. Yuri moved to look over but Yuuri stopped him frantically
“Don’t! Please, you don’t want to see it.”
“See wha-“ oh. As Yuri’s eyes scanned his arm, it was as if a signal went off in his brain. All the pain that had been blocked off seemed to return in full force, as he took in the grotesque limb. Both his wrist and multiple fingered appeared to be broken, and the awkward protrusion from his jacket suggested another break closer to his elbow. The elbow itself seemed reversed, as his fingers were oriented in such a way that they could reach and touch his back. Dislocated, no doubt, and badly at that. Yuri fought to not scream, but the sickening level of pain made it difficult. He’d broken bones before, but none had felt quite like this. Instead of an arm he had a white hot source of pain, radiating through his whole body and throbbing in pace with his heart. Concentrating on Yuuri’s voice, or Yakov’s, or Viktor’s, or the medic’s became impossible. All that existed was Yuri, pain, and the thought that it was only his arm. Not his leg, not his ankle, not his knee. Vaguely, Yuri registered that the primary though of most injured people is not about their other extremities, and the conclusion made him laugh. A small chuckle erupted into an almost uncontrollable fit, that aggravated his chest and head and the pain stick attached to his shoulder. Someone said something about shock, and that was all Yuri could process before the drugs kicked in and he was off in la la land.
When Yuri woke from surgery, the four most meaningful people in his life were waiting. Yakov stood in the corner, silent and glaring, while Viktor and Yuuri took turns in one of the chairs. His grandfather occupied the final chair, and appeared to be in a deep sleep. Katsuki had won custody of the other chair, so Viktor was the sole sentient being for Yuri’s awakening.
“Yura,” Viktor spoke, almost the softest Yuri had ever heard. “You are lucky. There will be almost no permanent damage to your elbow.” Yuri nodded, before registering the fact that his sworn enemy was at his bedside.
“And the rookie?” He ground out, voice gravely from underuse.
“Older than you,” Viktor laughed, “but fine. Nasty concussion, and a hell of a lot of angry people, but fine.” His eyes changed, losing their joking light. “You had us worried there, when you didn’t get up.” Yuri scoffed. “I’m serious. I care about you Yuri, as much as you don’t want to believe it. We all do.” He sighed, and rested his hands on the bed. “You remind me so much of myself, all stubbornness and anger. You need to learn how to let me in.”
“I don’t need you.” Yuri spat,
“I know, but it never hurts to have support. I want to be that for you.” Yuri averted his eyes, and paused before speaking again.
“I used to hate you, for not being what I wanted. I wanted you to be distant, something I could use to motivate me, but you’re too human, too you. I couldn’t do it.” Yuri was embarrassed to feel tears in his eyes.
“Oh Yuri, you never needed me for anything. You’ve got enough spunk and determination to succeed all your own. Besides, not all motivation has to be born of hatred. You can move for love.” He smiled at that, gaze falling on the Japanese man behind him. “I should know. I spent far too much time on what I though was wanted of me rather than what I wanted. Now that I’ve changed, I’m truly happy. Maybe for the first time ever.
“Whatever old man. I don’t need your sentimental shit. Get out of my room.” And with that, Yuri banger his good hand on the wall and effectively startled everyone into action.
Later he would think about Viktor’s words, and about his own actions. What was motivation him? Who was motivating him? Eventually, he concluded that the only one with power enough to move a Plisetsky is himself. He had never needed Viktor, or any of them, but it was sure nice to have some help.