Chapter Text
The visions started when he was 17.
He stood in front of the mirror in his room, absent-mindedly brushing out his long hair. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the glint of gold. Setting down the brush, he turned to pick up the medal, letting the long, heavy ribbon hang down as he stared down at it, unseeing. In his mind, the roar of the crowd still echoed, the announcer’s voice barely registering…
“Only 17 years old, Victor Nikiforov has just secured a World Record as well as Olympic Gold here in Paris! What an incredible future this young man has ahead of him! All of Russia, and indeed the world, have their eyes on him after today!”
He dropped the medal back onto the dresser, then turned to check his appearance one last time before heading out to meet his coach for yet another interview for yet another news station he didn’t recognize. Or maybe it was a photo shoot? He kept getting it all jumbled in the swirling media chaos that had enveloped him in the wake of his surprise win at yesterday’s free skate.
In the mirror, something moved at the far edge of his vision. His reflection seemed to twist, eyes and hair suddenly dark as the room tilted.
“I’ll take it all away from you, someday.”
Victor gasped as the words echoed in his head. He blinked, hard, the disturbing image shifting back to his own features as quickly as it had appeared. Shaken, he snagged the medal and stumbled out of the room, anxious to seek the comfort of his coach’s presence.
***
Yakov, as it turned out, was less than comforting.
“Vitya, there is no ghost in your mirror.”
“Yakov, I didn’t say ghost! Maybe…maybe it’s a demon! Or…I don’t know, maybe it’s some sort of warning?”
The Russian coach heaved a deep sigh, the wrinkles in his forehead suddenly deeper, more prominent as he gripped Victor’s shoulder. “It’s just stress, Vitya. You’re tired, you’re overly excitable right now with everything that has happened…”
“But Yakov…”
“Enough. Do you wish for the media to catch wind of this… hallucination of yours? They have claws, boy. They’ll use any excuse they can find to tear you apart!”
Victor flinched at the unexpectedly harsh tone, hunching in on himself. “I…I didn’t think…I…”
Another sigh, then Yakov’s expression softened. “Right now, you are the golden child, but they will turn in an instant if they think they have a better story. Remember that.”
Victor straightened his shoulders, flipping his long, silvery hair out of his face as he flashed a shaky, heart-shaped smile. “Of course, Yakov!” he chirped. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint my fans, now would I?”
Yakov glared at him, suspicious of the skater’s sudden capitulation. “Yes, well then. Good,” he harrumphed. “Perhaps after this interview, we should postpone appearances for a day or two. You clearly need to rest.”
Victor nodded, struggling to maintain his affable façade. After all, if his coach didn’t believe him, he knew someone who would.
***
“So, you’re saying it spoke to you?”
Victor valiantly restrained himself from rolling his eyes. “Yes, Gosha. I said that. Three times. Now what was it?”
It had been three days since closing ceremonies, but this was the first day Yakov had allowed him back at the rink. ("Take a break, Vitya. You don’t want to burn yourself out. Worlds is soon, you need to be well rested to perform at your best…”) He’d cornered Georgi as soon as Yakov let them off the ice, dragging the other teen to an abandoned corner of the locker room. The other Russian skater was a trifle melodramatic, but he was Victor’s oldest friend. (Your only friend, whispered a voice that sounded far too familiar.) Plus, Georgi came with the added benefit of a passion for the supernatural that was rivaled only by his obsession with romance.
“Well,” Georgi said slowly, dragging the word out as he thought. “It doesn’t sound like any sort of classic Russian demon.”
“Well, duh, Gosha. I was in France,” Victor replied, rolling his eyes. The sarcasm was lost on his friend.
“Right. It could be some sort of fae being, but honestly, I’m banking on a haunted room.”
Victor sighed, disappointed. “It was in the Olympic Village. The room was brand new. Nobody could possibly have died in it already.” To his mild horror, Georgi didn’t look convinced by that logic. Before the other teen could start positing morbid ways in which someone could have died in the previously unused room, he hastened to continue. “Besides, that’s not the only time,” he admitted nervously.
Georgi looked at him sharply, his blue eyes suddenly concerned. “You mean you’d seen it before?” he asked.
Victor shook his head. “No, no, that was the first time but…when I got home from the airport…
He’d been tired, but thankfully not jetlagged thanks to the miniscule time change. Stepping out of the hot shower in his cramped, but blissfully private dorm room, he’d hesitated by the vanity. He had dumped the contents of his carry-on over the surface of the little table before his shower, searching for the little bottles of fancy moisturizer he’d indulged in at the Duty-Free shop. Now, laying in a jumble with the rest of his things, the Olympic gold beckoned. He picked it up, feeling that swooping sense of pride in his chest again and then…
Like before, the shift in the mirror happened almost too quickly to catch, his long, pale silvery hair shifting to something dark and short, a hint of red where sea-blue eyes should be.
And the voice in his head again…
“Even gold loses its shine…” Victor finished, his brow furrowed as he remembered the strange vision. Across the bench, Georgi looked as if he wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or frightened.
“I don’t know, Vitya,” the dark-haired boy began, “it sounds almost…personal.”
For a moment, Victor was worried that his friend was about to launch into a Yakov-esque speech about stress and mental health and…
“Until we know what it wants, you should probably avoid mirrors,” Georgi finished solemnly. “Maybe cover the ones in your room. I’d suggest silk since it’s less likely to hold negative energy, but a sheet should work for now, and we can definitely look into a sage smudging, there’s a shop not far from here that sells that sort of thing and…”
Victor tried to pay attention as his friend rambled, but he was too busy feeling an odd sense of relief. Someone believed him.
***
Time passed.
He avoided mirrors when he could, tried not to let the visions and the taunts get to him when he couldn’t.
Tried.
He won more gold. A lot more gold.
Soon, it didn’t really matter that he rarely saw his own reflection; his image shone up at him from television screens and magazines, from cardboard cutouts and the covers of programs. He began to worry about receding hairlines, about the tiny crow’s feet and laugh lines that had started to show up in paparazzi shots, though not in the carefully retouched professional images. When he eventually traded in his long, silky ponytail for a more traditional, more masculine, cut, he learned to style it practically in his sleep.
He learned, too, how to respond to every iteration of the same set of questions asked in every interview he gave. He learned the right angle to tilt his head in photos with fans, how to avert his eyes behind dark shades so he didn’t have to look at the phone screens in selfies, how to throw a wink and a smile that stole hearts.
He learned, in short, how to be perfect.
It didn’t stop the visions.
Or the voice.
***
Contrary to popular belief, Christophe Giacometti was not a vain man.
Well, not an overly vain man, anyway. He was aware of his own devastatingly good looks, obviously. However, he was also aware that there were at least two members of the men’s figure skating community that had him beat in that department. Luckily, one might as well be a cryptid and the other…
Well, he imagined it was rather lonely being the #LivingLegend.
And speak of the handsome, yet untouchable, devil...
“Victor,” Chris purred as he leaned against the wall beside the Russian skater. “You know, if I had just won my fourth World Championship, I’d be out mingling with my hordes of admirers, not hiding in the corner of the banquet hall.”
Victor flashed him a tight smile, the expression not quite reaching his icy blue eyes. “You’re welcome to my share of attention,” he said breezily, then shifted his gaze to the flute of champagne in his hand.
Chris pouted slightly. After years of friendship, he was used to Victor’s moods, but he was determined to pull him out of his head tonight. “Is that sage I smell? A new cologne, perhaps?” He leaned forward, daring to invade Victor’s personal space to sniff teasingly at the other man’s neck.
Victor pulled back, blinking in wide-eyed surprise. Chris couldn’t help preening slightly at pulling a real reaction out of the notoriously unflappable skater.
“I…n-no. Just…aromatherapy. To…ah…relax after the...um...competition,” Victor stammered, chugging his champagne to cover the panic in his voice.
Chris narrowed his eyes, suspicious at the strange reaction to his innocuous question. “Right…” he murmured, watching his friend closely. “Victor, listen, if you need to talk…”
“I’m fine, Christophe,” Victor interrupted curtly.
Chris barely kept himself from snapping back. “Right. Of course you are. I was merely going to suggest going elsewhere for a finer selection in beverages, but if you aren’t interested…”
The tension in Victor’s shoulders eased somewhat. “Sorry, Chris, I’m…I’m didn’t mean…” He slumped slightly. “I’m just tired, I think,” the skater admitted, running a hand through his silver-blond hair.
“Too tired for that drink?” Chris asked, raising a well-groomed brow.
Victor flashed him a small but genuine smile. “No. That sounds perfect, honestly.”
Between their combined star-power it took longer than Chris would have liked to exit the stuffy banquet hall but, after extricating themselves from yet another ISU official, the pair made their escape. Victor kept his eyes on the ground as they entered the mirror-walled elevator, a tic that Chris had long since grown used to.
“You know, for an international heartthrob, you don’t seem terribly fond of your own reflection,” he teased lightly, startled when, once again, his words drew a stronger reaction than he’d anticipated.
“I’m aware of what I look like, Chris,” Victor snapped, his tone grim. The doors bounced open and the Russian strode out of the lift, not waiting to see if the Swiss skater would follow.
Of course, there were few people in the world that wouldn’t follow where Victor Nikiforov led. In that, Chris supposed, he was no different than the rest of his friend’s fans. He caught up to the other man just past the revolving doors, nearly barreling into Victor when the Russian halted in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Merde! Warn a fellow, mon ami!”
Victor grimaced, shaking his head ruefully. “Gods, I’m sorry Chris. I’m…I’m being an ass and you don’t deserve that…”
Chris allowed his lips to twist into a smirk before waggling his eyebrows in an outrageously suggestive manner. “Lucky for you, I’m rather fond of asses,” he purred. To his delight, Victor let out a hysterical bark of laughter. “Ah, there you are, love. I’ll admit, I was a bit concerned. You don’t seem yourself tonight, Vitya…”
Victor slung an amiable arm around Chris’s waist, steering them towards the nearby cluster of bars and restaurants. Chris settled his own around his friend’s shoulders, allowing the comfortable silence to stretch between them for a long moment. Finally, Victor let out a deep breath. “Is it worth it, Chris? All of…” he flapped his unoccupied arm in a vague gesture, “this?”
Chris hesitated, unwilling to break the easy comradery that had finally been reestablished. “Darling,” he began delicately, “I’m afraid I don’t know. You’re, very literally, the only person in the world who’s ever won four World Championship figure skating titles… not to mention three Olympic golds…”
Victor snorted indelicately. “Four.”
“Ah, yes. I’d forgotten about the Team Skate.”
“Most people do,” Victor muttered. “Do you know, in the last month they’ve never once invited Georgi to join me for interviews? Despite the fact that he’s an Olympic gold medalist now, too?”
Chris winced. “Ooof. That must be rather frustrating for him. He’s a damned fine skater.”
Victor nodded. “Yes. He is. As are the rest of the skaters that fought for that medal.”
The men paused, having reached the cluster of brightly lit store fronts. Chris jutted his chin towards one of the smaller ones and the pair continued on, entering a surprisingly quiet bar. In accord, they made their way towards a corner booth, conversation on standby as they perused the menu offered by the server.
When they had made their selections, Chris shifted his gaze to his friend. “Listen, Vitya, I’ll be blunt. As charming as your concern for your friend is, I somehow doubt your mood is entirely to do with Georgi Popovich.”
Victor flinched at the blunt statement. Bingo, Chris thought to himself. Out loud, he continued, “So why don’t you tell me why, precisely, figure skating’s Golden Boy isn’t sure if success is, ah, how did you phrase it? ‘Worth it?’”
They paused as their server arrived, rather full martini glasses held carefully between his practiced fingers. The men accepted the drinks, smiling their thanks in the server’s direction before toasting each other. Victor took a rather lengthy sip, clearly gathering his thoughts while Chris settled his glass on the table, waiting patiently. Finally, Victor set his own drink down, though his fingers continued to play idly with the rim.
“Georgi hasn’t talked to me since Sochi,” he murmured, not meeting Chris’s eyes.
“So, this is about Popovich?”
Victor shrugged. “Yes. No. I…You know Anya Stepanova? The ice dancer?”
Chris nodded. “Bronze in Sochi, but the pair pulled out of Worlds. I’m familiar. Why?”
“Gosha is convinced she’s the love of his life. They’ve been together a little over a year.”
Chris hummed thoughtfully, encouraging Victor to continue.
“She’s cheating on him,” Victor said brusquely, taking another long sip of his drink. “I saw her with one of the Russian hockey players, in Sochi.”
“Ah. I don’t know Popovich well, but he doesn’t deserve that,” Chris replied. “Have you told him?”
Victor shrugged, looking suddenly very young and very helpless. “I told him he should break up with her. But…I didn’t tell him why . I didn’t…I didn’t want to hurt him.”
Chris sighed. “You must have given him some reason?”
“I…It was after the free skate. He didn’t do as well as he wanted and…I…I told him that Anya was a distraction. That if he wanted to do better, he needed to decide whether he wanted to focus on romance or on his career.”
Chris winced. “Tactful, darling.”
Victor looked frustrated. “I was trying to be tactful!” He drained the rest of his glass in one long gulp, then looked around for the server to obtain another.
A fresh round ordered, the Swiss skater returned to the issue at hand. “I’m guessing your intervention didn’t go over so well?”
“You could say that,” the other man muttered before tipping his head back against the booth, blinking up at the bar’s tin tile ceiling. “He said…he said that there was more to life than winning medals. Said I wouldn’t know love if it, ah, ‘bit me in the ass’. There was more, but you get the gist. He hasn’t talked to me since. Hasn’t broken up with Anya, either.” Victor pulled his eyes away from the ceiling, dropping them instead to the drinks that had been delivered. “Maybe I should have just been honest with him,” he concluded.
Chris pondered for a moment, nursing a long sip of his whiskey. “I’m…not sure it would have changed things, Vitya. Romance is tricky enough when it’s going well, but when there’s trouble in paradise…” he trailed off for a moment.
“Love will destroy everything you thought you wanted…” Victor muttered, almost as if to himself.
“That is rather morbid, darling. Wherever did you hear such a thing?”
To his surprise, a light flush appeared on Victor’s face, highlighting the bridge of his nose and his high, porcelain cheekbones. “Ah. It’s nothing. Just…just something I heard once I guess. Say, have I told you about the junior skater Yakov’s been working with? He’s only thirteen, but just the other day I had to help Yakov convince him to stop throwing quads into his routines…”
Chris narrowed his eyes, but allowed the change in subject. As he listened to his friend chatter on, he vowed to keep a closer eye on the Living Legend. Despite Victor’s breezy attitude, he had a feeling that something was simmering under the surface, something that was bound to come to a head sooner or later.
***
“What’s up with the depressing music? This shit is boring.”
Victor sighed. “Good morning to you, too, Yura.”
“Da, da, whatever. Tell me that’s not your new free skate.”
Rolling his eyes, Victor skated to the edge of the rink and pressed pause on the iPod he’d left sitting on the edge of the wall. “It’s not my new free skate,” he parroted teasingly.
Yuri Plisetsky, actual teenaged embodiment of angst and melodrama, collapsed against the side wall. “Ugh. Whyyyyyy? I’m going to have to listen to this bullshit a million times this season! And since when do you do play the emo card? You always skate to happy crap, I thought you were supposed to be, like, the living avatar of sunshine or some shit.”
Victor chuckled, risking his fingers far too near the boy’s mouth in order to ruffle the golden floss, still growing out of the youthful bowl cut he’d sported the previous season. “I thought I’d mix it up. You know me, I do…”
“Love surprises. Yeah. I know. I’ve only heard you say it every day, ever.”
Victor pursed his lips. He wasn’t sure he liked being so predictable. “Yes, well. Why are you here so early? Yakov usually doesn’t bring the juniors in until later.”
Yuri scowled down at the ice. “Tch. I can’t do any cool shit around the rest of the juniors. I want to move up to seniors after this season, I should get used to skating during senior hours.”
Victor narrowed his eyes, hearing the words left unspoken. Yuri was brash and abrasive, but it was his grace and staggering talent that left him alone in a crowd of his so-called peers. Victor understood. He’d been lucky, meeting Georgi and then Chris. They’d helped him in his teenage years, had given him someone other than coaches and trainers to talk to. Something twisted in his gut as he realized that his already shallow pool of friends had been cut in half ever since his faux pas at the Sochi Olympics. He couldn’t stomach the thought of Yuri walking the same path.
“Yura…you know, you can always talk to me if there’s anything on your mind…”
Yuri shot him a half-hearted sneer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, old man. I just wanted a chance at some fresh ice for once, that’s all.” Victor felt a smile stretching his lips as the boy shoved past him to head towards the center of the rink. “Oi! Mudak! Are you gonna skate or just laze around all day?”
The smile stretched a little further. “Da, da, Yura. I was just going to work on combination spins. You don’t have to do them with me if it’s too boring…”
Maybe Plisetsky wasn’t quite a friend, but he treated Victor like a person. A barely tolerated, annoying person, perhaps, but it was better than being placed on a pedestal or, worse, feared.
***
“Victor! Will you tell us who you’re skating for with Stammi Vicino? ”
“Victor! Is there a special someone in the audience tonight?”
“Mr. Nikiforov! Three of the six men’s Finalists are first time qualifiers! Can you give us your thoughts on your competition this weekend? Any words of wisdom for those here for the first time?”
Victor grimaced at the banality of the first two questions but smiled gratefully at the third. Turning, he flashed his teeth in the reporter’s direction. “Ah, Morooka-san,” he said politely. “I’m always excited to see fresh faces at the Final! All it takes is one good day for a skater to surprise the world by climbing the podium!”
“Do you think one of those fresh faces can pull off an upset this week?” a lanky blond reporter called out, and he turned to her with a barely concealed grimace.
“It’s always possible, of course,” he allowed. “We’re all aiming for the same prize, after all.” Smiling magnanimously, he pushed his way through the crowd, finally reaching the relative safety of the hotel lobby. The reporters’ questions echoed in his mind as he made his way to his room. Could one of these newer, younger skaters finally topple him from his place on the podium? He pulled up the ISU page once he reached the elevator, thumbing his way to the listing of the skaters competing against him. Chris and Cao Bin had been around nearly as long as he had, he knew their abilities nearly as well as his own. The Crispino kid and the Canadian skater were rank tyros in the senior circuit, but the Japanese name gave him pause.
Yuuri Katsuki. Known in the competitive world as a bit of a wild card. Good edges, tight spins, wildly inconsistent jumps. At 23, this was his first appearance at a senior level Final, though he’d landed on the podium at Four Continents a couple of times. Japan’s Ace.
“Bit of a late bloomer,” Victor murmured to himself as he finally reached his room. Still, the guy had some impressive perseverance to have stuck it out this long despite so few major titles under his belt. What, he wondered, would it be like to lose to someone like Yuuri Katsuki? Still preoccupied with his perusal of the Japanese skater’s profile, he managed to stumble into something. Startled, he glanced up, realizing too late that in his distraction, he’d managed to bump into the side of the bulky full-length mirror. The length of silk he’d draped over it slithered to the ground at his feet and for a moment he saw his own reflection: blue eyes blown wide in shock, silver hair still so much shorter than he remembered…
Then the image shifted as he watched, frozen in horror. Wide, reddish brown eyes. Black hair. Sharp grin.
“Once you give up your throne, your world will never be the same,” the voice whispered in the back of his mind.
He clenched his eyes shut, squatting down awkwardly to grope for the cloth. Once the mirror was again safely covered, he let out a shuddering sob of a breath.
“Dermo,” he choked out, collapsing on the bed. He’d managed to do so well, to go for so long without seeing…him …
Out of habit, he reached for his phone, pulling up Georgi’s number before he thought better of it. His erstwhile friend didn’t need Victor bothering him right now, especially having just missed the cutoff for the Final.
Victor couldn’t imagine how Georgi must be feeling.
Literally.
He hadn’t missed the cutoff for the Grand Prix Final since his first year in the senior division. Hadn’t missed the podium in seven consecutive years. Gold for the last four. He couldn’t let this…vision (haunting/premonition/whatever!) derail him.
If he missed the podium, his life was over. That’s what it had said…right?
He’d long since given up wondering if the whispers were premonitions or threats. This one though…it hit close to home. How many times recently had he thought about his age, about the fact that, other than his dog, there was literally nobody who would be there for him without skating? He’d already lost Georgi. Once he was no longer relevant, Yakov and Chris and even little Yuri would move on, too. As for his family…
They were relieved when Yakov took you off their hands…
Trembling, he scrambled down from the bed and towards the little fridge in the corner of the room. He’d catch hell from Yakov, but the tiny bottles of vodka were a godsend right now. He twisted the first one open, determined to drown the voice out. A few burning gulps later, he was ready to pull out his phone again. Georgi might be lost to him, but he hadn’t chased Chris away yet. Surely, his Swiss friend would be up for at least one drink…
***
Yakov was, predictably, not particularly impressed by Victor’s excuses at morning practice the following day.
“You reek of alcohol, Vitya. What were you thinking?” the coach snarled after Victor did his official run through, his voice pitched low enough not to carry across the cavernous rink.
“Just thought it’d be nice to relax for a bit,” Victor muttered, tossing back another dose of ibuprofen. Yakov stared at him flatly.
“Relax. The night before the start of the Grand Prix Final. Relax to the point that you have to mark half your jumps?”
Victor shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I’m here, da? I have six hours until the competition starts, I’ll be fine.”
The older Russian man continued to glower at him for a long moment. Finally, he sighed. “Vitya, get off the ice.”
Victor’s head snapped up so quickly he heard his neck pop. “What?”
Yakov crossed his arms. “You heard me. Your head is not in the right place right now and I do not want you injuring yourself because of your own idiocy. Go back to the hotel. An hour on the treadmill, hydrate, eat, and then nap. In the meantime, I will have a talk with Karpisek.”
“About what?” Victor asked, suspicious.
“About his skater’s influence on your behavior,” Yakov answered gruffly.
Victor clutched at his coach’s arm. He couldn’t let Chris take the blame for this; he’d lose the only friend he had left… “No, this wasn’t Chris’s doing. I invited him out. He just…kept me company. Look at him, you can tell he wasn’t drinking!” He pointed out on the ice where, sure enough, Christophe was in top form. As they watched, the Swiss skater sped up before launching himself into the air in a textbook triple axel. Yakov’s frown deepened.
“If that’s true, then Giacometti is cleverer than I realized. You realize you may have just handed him the key to gold with this stunt? I’m sure he didn’t try to stop you from making an idiot of yourself,” Yakov said, sounding suspicious and somewhat disgusted as he continued to watch Chris out on the ice.
Victor shook his head frantically. He’d made a mess of this entire situation, all because he hadn’t wanted to be alone last night, all because he couldn’t keep the panic at bay... “He tried to stop me,” he muttered.
Yakov whipped his head around, narrowing his eyes.
Victor hunched his shoulders, feeling like a scolded child. “I wanted to go out. He told me I was an idiot for drinking so much the night before a competition, but he didn’t want to leave me alone. He just…he just kept me company, then walked me back to the hotel. Th-this isn’t his fault.”
The Russian coach glanced around, clearly taking note of the cameras. The audience and the media had obviously noticed that the ‘Living Legend’ hadn’t moved away from the rink wall after his run through, even though the other finalists were still out on the ice, taking advantage of the chance to get used to the rink before the competition began. Yakov’s face reddened, but he held back from the tirade he clearly wanted to unleash on his skater. “Get off the ice, Vitya. We will discuss this after you’ve rested,” he muttered tiredly.
Victor nodded, not trusting himself to speak. As he stepped off the ice, he glanced back over his shoulder. Most of the other men were still skating, but he thought he saw one, the Japanese skater, pause to watch him leave. Dark hair, wide brown eyes in a pale face…
…you can never go back to the life you have…
He closed his eyes and shook his aching head, trying to clear the sudden flash of memory. When he opened them again, Katsuki had turned away.