Chapter Text
When Mari called about Vicchan, Yuuri was convinced that things couldn’t possibly get any worse than they were at that moment. Then he’d skated – if you could call that skating – and realized that, for once in his life, he’d actually been too optimistic. After that, not only had he been caught crying in the bathroom by the Russian Punk, but the encounter had been so unsettling that he had accidentally summoned his soul beast to his side. Like a frightened child, as Plisetsky had been so kind as to point out when the silver-white wolf had materialized between them. Fortunately, Mochi had only yawned in the Russian prodigy’s face, which triggered an explosion of foul language, but nothing worse than that.
Eventually the boy stalked out of the bathroom, and Yuuri heaved a sigh of relief. Mochi cocked his head and gave a brief whine.
“I’m fine,” Yuuri hastened to reassure the wolf. It was an obvious lie, and fooled neither of them. Mochi stayed pressed to Yuuri’s side as they left the bathroom, his presence more of a comfort than Yuuri had any right to, but it would be pointless to send him away again now that they were leaving the arena. And at least this way he’d be able to avoid the other skaters who were picking up their own soul beasts from the green room.
Coach Celestino was waiting in the hall outside the restroom door with Yuuri’s roller bag, a bird on each shoulder. The Moluccan cockatoo was looking around in interest and clucking quietly to herself, a cloud of animated cotton candy, while the scarlet macaw sat sad-eyed and silent. Phichit leaned against a wall nearby.
“I was starting to wonder if you fell in,” he remarked cheerfully when Yuuri emerged. He knew what it meant when his roommate disappeared into a bathroom, of course. Everyone at the DSC did, probably all the way down to the janitorial staff and the Zamboni girl. But Phichit also understood that, to Yuuri, the only thing worse than giving in to his mental weakness was to have that weakness acknowledged. So he pretended that nothing was wrong, and that allowed Yuuri to pretend that he hadn’t been sobbing in a toilet stall, and hopefully now he’d be able to get back to the hotel with some shred of his dignity still intact.
Celestino immediately started in on his usual post-competition pep talk as they made their way to the arena lobby. He praised Yuuri’s steps and spins, the way he had recovered after he’d fallen, pretty much anything the coach could sound even remotely enthusiastic about. The relentless positivity sounded like even more of a lie than usual, and Yuuri tuned him out without guilt. He already knew his free skate was the worst performance of his life, and no amount of sugarcoating would change that. Honestly, it only drew attention to the parts of his skate Celestino wasn’t talking about.
Phichit bumped his shoulder. “I said you should come out to dinner with Chris and me. There’s this Irish pub that’s supposed to be super authentic, and we’re going to sample like the entire menu. And liveblog it, obvs.”
Yuuri almost smiled. Phichit never ate the cuisine of the country he was actually visiting if he could help it, claiming that it would be too sad to fall in love with the food when he wouldn’t be able to eat it again ‘properly’ once he’d left. So it was a Cuban restaurant in France, Ethiopian in Canada, and American-style barbecue in Japan. And now, apparently, Irish in Sochi. Yuuri wondered if he should point out that potatoes and cabbage were big in Russian food as well.
He shook his head. “I’m tired and sore, and I really don’t need to be a third wheel on your date.” Been there, done that, got the eternal memory of being trapped in the corner of the booth when he’d realized that Chris had turned his and Phichit’s cute little game of footsie X-rated. “You two have fun.” And when it looked like Phichit was going to protest, he added, “Maybe we can do some sightseeing tomorrow during the gala practice?” As a medalist, Chris would of course receive an automatic invitation to the exhibition skate – and Yuuri definitely wouldn’t. He could let Phichit try to cheer him up without having to feel guilty that he was getting between soulmates. They saw each other so rarely during the competition season.
Phichit didn’t seem convinced. “Okay, but I still think—”
“Yuuri!”
He was looking over his shoulder almost before he’d even realized that someone had called out his name. But it wasn’t just someone, was it? Not with that accent. Not with that smooth, sexy baritone.
Why on earth would Victor Nikiforov be calling Yuuri’s name?
The answer, of course, was that he wasn’t. As Plisetsky had pointed out in the bathroom, there were currently two Yuris in men’s singles, and one of them wasn’t a failure. It made sense that he’d be worth Victor’s attention, and they were rinkmates besides.
Victor seemed to be berating Plisetsky about something as they rolled their gear through the crowded lobby. The junior champion’s bags were in a cart that doubled as a perch for his soul beast; it was common knowledge that Coach Yakov wouldn’t allow Plisetsky to carry the golden eagle on his shoulder while he was still growing, and seeing them together it was little wonder why. The bird absolutely dwarfed the delicate boy.
Victor’s own beast was a dark shadow at his feet, and Yuuri found himself craning to get a look at the little fox. He’d seen it before in the green rooms at Worlds and WTT, of course, and had once even dared to pet its silky black fur while the attendant wasn’t watching, but never when it was with Victor. Never when Mochi was with him. Never when there was a chance, no matter how unlikely, that—
“Commemorative photo?” His eyes snapped up, and oh. Victor was talking to him, now. Looking at him. Smiling. Without a hint of recognition in those crystalline blue eyes. “Sure!”
Mochi barked happily and nudged Yuuri’s leg with his nose. The little black fox was watching him with bright eyes, its tail starting to wag. Victor’s face was expectant.
And Yuuri… Yuuri just couldn’t. So he turned away, trudging toward the glass doors.
Suddenly, behind him, all hell broke loose. Mochi, barking. Someone else’s beast crying out. Shouts in angry-sounding Russian. Phichit swearing. Celestino’s birds screaming and beating their wings in unison. And then something collided with Yuuri’s back, knocking the wind out of him. He fell forward with a cry, the world spinning and shifting, stretching around him, until he was on the floor, tangled in a pile of his own Mizuno sponsor gear, his tiny body swimming in what suddenly seemed like meters of nylon fabric.
No. No no no no no. Not now. Not here, not like this. Not in front of—
Yuuri managed to squirm out of the track suit. Everyone was staring; at him, and at someone behind him. A woman was standing in the doorway, seemingly heedless of the winter air that rushed past her into the vestibule even as she angled her phone down to focus on Yuuri. Into whatever he’d turned into.
More barking behind him. Mochi, sounding happier than Yuuri had ever heard him. Except, it wasn’t Mochi, was it? Not anymore. Yuuri’s soul beast was gone, just like Vicchan. Just like every single one of Yuuri’s hopes and dreams. Leaving him, what? A stranger in the body of his beloved wolf, someone else for Yuuri to let down?
Swallowing a sob, Yuuri did what he was best at. He ran.