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Victor kept a wish in a ring box, and its name was Yuuri.
The ring box was bright blue with a faded gold-embossed heart on the lid, its hinges creaky and stiff. Inside, wrapped in a piece of crimson velvet, was the wish: it was small, no longer than Victor’s thumb, made of black clay in the rough shape of a bird. He found it in Fukuoka, on the last day of a competition trip; while his teammates slurped bubble tea and shopped for lucky cat statues, Victor ducked away to find a quiet moment and stumbled—almost literally—into a hole-in-the-wall shop that didn’t even have a sign announcing its name. The old woman who ran it didn’t speak English, and Victor’s Japanese was painfully bad, but through pointing and gesturing he managed to acquire the little box for two hundred yen. Victor didn’t expect there to be anything inside; he wasn’t even sure why he bought it, except that the colour had caught his eye, and he was nothing if not an appreciator of pretty things—himself included. So even as his teammates teased him lovingly over his odd choice of souvenier, Victor found himself gently stroking the heart pattern with the pad of his thumb, trying to memorize the contours by touch alone. He liked the heft of the box, the weight as it sat solidly in his palm, how his fingers curved instinctively around its rounded edges. It wasn’t until much later that night, when Yuuri spoke to him, that Victor even realized he’d bought a wish at all.
“What do you mean, you’re a wish?” he whispered, blinking into the unfamiliar dark of his hotel room. “Like a genie in a lamp?”
Something like that, Yuuri replied.
It was terribly strange; the wish lay in Victor’s hand, an inanimate lump of clay. Without the light, it was difficult to know what Yuuri was even supposed to be; there was the approximation of a head with a beak on the end, and a slightly plump body with a pair of uneven leaf-shaped wings carved into each side. There was no warmth to imply a heartbeat encased within Yuuri’s plain exterior, and the ring box didn’t come with instructions or explanations. And yet Victor couldn’t deny that there was a voice in his mind, a concrete sense of presence, which manifested as a rather pleasant buzzing feeling that made him bite back a shy smile.
“What could I wish for?” he murmured in the direction of where Yuuri’s ear might be.
Think of any one thing you want, Yuuri replied, and I can give it to you.
Victor cocked an eyebrow. “Anything?”
Within reason, of course. I can’t change the course of world history or anything.
“Really? Why not?” he asked, surprised at the giggle mounting in his voice.
I’m not that important, Yuuri replied, and for a moment he almost sounded embarrassed about it.
“But you’re a wish. You’re—magic.”
Yuuri hummed. Lots of things are magic. I’m a dime a dozen wish, to be honest—good for personal growth and gain, but not much else. There are plenty of Japanese businessmen with corner offices and well-behaved children thanks to me.
Victor’s breath caught in his throat as a flash of wild and irrational jealousy flared through his chest.
“Why only one wish?” he heard himself sputter. “Don’t genies usually give three?”
The tickle in Victor’s mind rippled in a way that could only be described as a shy chuckle.
Because that’s all I am. Just one single wish, nothing more.
Victor paused as a yawn overtook him, so strong it made his shoulders shake. “What if I wish for more wishes?” he mumbled around it.
That’d just be a waste of your wish, I’m afraid. It doesn’t work that way.
“Are you sure? Has anyone ever tried?”
He could sense Yuuri’s exasperated huff, like a gust of wind across the surface of his brain. I didn’t make the rules. I just have to follow them.
“Do you know who did? Make the rules, I mean.”
There was a too-long beat of silence before Yuuri’s voice buzzed in Victor’s head again:
No. I don’t remember.
“Oh,” Victor breathed. “I’m sorry.”
It’s fine. Just...let me know when you’ve decided on your wish.
And then, before Victor could say anything else, the pleasant tickling sensation faded; the little figurine in Victor’s hands now felt dormant and silent in a way he couldn’t quite explain, but Yuuri had clearly retreated back to wherever he came from. With sleep crawling over the edge of his mind to spread like a shadow, Victor folded the wish back into its crumpled velvet cloth, shutting the ring box with a muffled snap and tucking it under his pillow before finally succumbing to the seductive pull of his dreams.
The next morning, Victor was sure it had all been a dream; he almost forgot the ring box entirely, tucked away as it was under the hotel pillow, and he had to run back to the room to get it just as the elevator doors dinged open to take him to the lobby. On the plane ride home, Victor found himself turning the box over and over in his hands; he took the wish out, setting the velvet cloth on his leg, trying to discern any other details in the faint overhead light above his seat.
Do you know what you’re going to wish for yet? Yuuri asked.
Victor jolted, nearly dropping the wish on the floor.
“What?” he whispered fiercely, rubbing his eyes with his other hand. With a frown, he raised Yuuri closer to his face; the little bird was immobile, giving no indication that it had whispered anything at all, never mind the strangely warm buzzing whisper of Yuuri’s voice.
Maybe I’m going insane, Victor thought. Maybe this is how it starts. The stress is finally getting to me.
“Are you really a wish?” he breathed, almost hoping Yuuri wouldn’t hear.
Of course I am. What makes you ask?
“You seem to just be a voice inside my head,” Victor leaned his forehead against the window, letting the rattle of the plane wash through him. “What if that’s all you are?
There was a terrifying clutch of silence before Yuuri hummed tunelessly, his voice vibrating at an entirely different frequency than the airplane that was making Victor’s teeth chatter.
I don’t know if I can do anything to convince you otherwise. Other than to grant your wish, when you make one.
“Oh.” It wasn’t a very reassuring answer, but Victor supposed it was the best he was going to get. “Okay.”
So. What’s your wish?
“I…” Victor stopped, furrowing his brow. What could he wish for?
A few years ago, the answer would have been obvious: to win. Victor had been working since he was a child, honing his craft and sculpting his body and mind towards one singular goal of winning. His first gold medal had indeed felt like a wish come true; his second had been just as thrilling, as had the third. The Grand Prix Final had always been pitched to him as an impossible dream, reserved only for those skaters who achieved something akin to godhood. But he had practiced and practiced, had missed birthdays and weddings, had accrued more passport stamps than friendships, had watched typical adolescence play out on televisions in hotel rooms across the world—a glimpse of normal life snatched in spare moments out of the corner of his eye. And now there were four Grand Prix gold medals sitting on his mantlepiece; there were certified world records framed like school diplomas; there were accolades and sponsorships and adoring fans everywhere he went. What could Victor wish for?
“I wish…” he whispered, but he couldn’t think of what to say. He could wish for his seatmate to stop snoring so loudly, but that seemed like a waste, especially since they would be touching down in just an hour. He could wish for better skates, but now he had a sponsor to buy them for him. He could wish for a hairline that never receded, but that would require having the problem of a receding hairline in the first place, and Victor was certainly never going to admit such a ridiculous thing could be possible.
“I guess I don’t know,” he finally mumbled, as the seatbelt signs lit up with a ding . But Yuuri’s presence had already faded from his mind, so Victor tucked him back in his box and slipped the box into the front pocket of his carry-on bag.
Do you know what you’ll wish for yet? Yuuri asked him the next night, back home in Saint Petersburg.
“Not really,” Victor mumbled under his breath, reaching for the ring box just beneath his pillow, opening it to place the little bird-shaped wish on his palm. It was absurd, but it somehow seemed rude to talk to Yuuri without looking at him. “Is there a time limit? I’m starting to feel a little performance anxiety.”
No, Yuuri answered, but most people don’t take very long to use their wish.
“So that’s what you want, then?” Victor knew he sounded petulant, but he was damned if he was going to let a tiny voice in his head make him feel insignificant.
For a moment it seemed like Yuuri was offended, but then his voice tickled through Victor’s mind again: I didn’t say that.
“I’m sorry,” Victor whispered. “It’s been a long week. I only just got home, and to be honest I didn’t expect you to keep talking to me once the jet lag had faded.”
Oh? What do you do?
“I’m—a figure skater,” he blinked, stumbling over the words, suddenly unsure as he tried to pinpoint the strange pulling sensation in his sternum. It had been so long since Victor had had to explain himself to anyone; the notion seemed stiff and strange, like trying on an old jacket only to find it too small across the shoulders. He puffed out his chest: “I’m a world champion, actually.”
Are you really? Yuuri seemed both intrigued and amused. That must be glamorous.
“It is, thank you,” Victor replied. “I just came from a competition in Japan, actually.”
The NHK Trophy? Yuuri’s voice brightened. Did you win?
“What? N-no,” Victor sputtered. “It was a preliminary competition, the season’s only just begun. Next up is Russian Nationals, then Worlds, and—how do you know about the NHK trophy?!”
Just because I’m a wish doesn’t mean I live under a rock, Yuuri replied. Are you going to the Grand Prix Final, then?
“That’s the idea, yes.”
And are you going to wish to win it?
Victor couldn’t help but chuckle. “No,” he replied.
Why not?
A slow, proud smile crawled across his face. “Because I don’t need to,” he answered. “I’ve won it the last four years in a row. I can win again this year.”
You’re confident, Yuuri said evenly. That’s—interesting.
“Why?” Victor frowned. “Do you know something I don’t? Should I wish to win?”
I couldn’t tell you that. I’m a wish, not a fortune-teller. Didn’t you ever read fairy tales as a kid?
“Of course I did!” Victor shot back. “They never said that magical wishes knew about competitive figure skating!”
I know about lots of things, Yuuri said. We don’t have to talk about skating. But now I confess I’m really curious what your wish is going to be. You’ve already done what a lot of people would wish for, you know.
“I know,” Victor mumbled, unable to keep an edge of bitterness from sneaking into his voice. “I’m sorry.”
There’s no need to be sorry. You should be very proud of yourself.
“I am,” he nodded. ‘But...I don’t know what I’m going to wish for yet. I’m sorry. Can I think about it?”
Of course, came the response. Take your time.
Victor swallowed. “You won’t be bored?”
Not at all, Yuuri said softly. To be honest, it’s nice to have someone to talk to.
“Same,” Victor whispered before he could stop himself. He lay back down, wrapping Yuuri’s body back up in its velvet covering.
Can I ask you something? Yuuri whispered, sounding as if he was just as tired as Victor.
“Sure,” Victor yawned, tucking the box underneath his pillow.
Will you bring me to the rink tomorrow? Show me your skating?
Victor winced as he imagined the looks on everyone’s faces if he were to set up a viewing spot for an inanimate piece of clay. “I’ll try,” he said. “But no promises.”
Then...will you tell me about your skating? Everything you do?
He sounded so earnest, so full of hope, so incredibly fascinated. He sounded like he genuinely wanted to know, and it melted a little part of Victor that he didn’t even realize had been frozen.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Tomorrow I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
The season was picking up in pace, with longer days and harder work; but even as the humans in his life faded to the edges of his consciousness, Victor found himself eager to talk to the wish that he kept under his pillow. So after each practice session, Victor would curl up in bed with Yuuri on his palm and talk about his day: a jump he’d hit particularly well, or a new take on choreography he was trying out. Yuuri quickly lost his businesslike demeanor, revealing an earnest and adorable side that Victor found utterly fascinating. Yuuri knew about all sorts of things that a magical wish surely couldn’t have known: he had opinions about all the recent movies and celebrity gossip, provided thoughtful insight into world events, and jabbered excitedly about video games and comic books that Victor had never even heard of. Yuuri could tell stories that made Victor laugh until tears streamed down his face, and he always seemed to have a kind word that would cheer Victor up exactly when he needed it most. Yuuri knew about Victor’s new routines before anyone else did; they listened to the music he commissioned together, and Victor made an enemy of his downstairs neighbour by marking out his routines on his living room floor, where Yuuri could see them from his perch on the mantlepiece. It was easy to forget sometimes that Yuuri was a wish at all; and when the subject came up, it always seemed to grind all the fun to a screeching halt. Because while Victor could wish for anything he wanted, the creeping truth was that he couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
“What happens when I’ve made my wish?” he asked the night before Russian Nationals, curled up in bed with Yuuri resting on the pillow beside him.
I go away.
“Where?” the question slipped out of Victor’s mouth before he realized how intrusive it sounded, but Yuuri didn’t seem concerned or upset.
To be someone else’s wish, came the nonchalant reply.
“And after that?”
After the next person has made their wish, I go on to be someone else’s wish, and so on and so forth.
“That sounds kind of boring,” Victor said, frowning. Why was he thinking about medal ceremonies all of a sudden?
Oh, no. I get to meet all sorts of interesting people.
“And have you always been a wish?” Victor scratched his nose.
Now Yuuri paused; the presence in Victor’s mind didn’t leave, but the silence made him feel like someone had taken a rubber eraser to his brain.
I think I remember being something else...someone else. A long time ago, he eventually whispered. Victor moved his head closer, closing his eyes as he touched his forehead to the little bird on his pillow.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, blinking as Yuuri seemed to shake himself out of his reverie.
Do you know what you’re going to wish for yet? Yuuri sounded stiff and formal again.
“No,” Victor had to admit, wincing slightly as he felt Yuuri’s voice vanish from his mind. The business of having a wish wasn’t at all what Victor expected; instead of being imbued with the possibility of getting anything he wanted, he just felt strangely hollow and empty when he tried to think about it. Yuuri was so much fun to talk to, but Victor couldn’t seem to stop saying things that made him upset—and that was the worst feeling of all.
“I wish…” he mumbled to himself as his eyelids got heavy, knowing that he wouldn’t have to finish the sentence once sleep took hold. “I wish…I wish…”
Are you nervous? Yuuri asked the next day, as Victor laced up his skate.
“Maybe a little,” Victor confessed out of the corner of his mouth. He’d slipped Yuuri into his bag that morning, thumbing absently at the embossed golden heart as he watched the other competitors skate.
Will you wish to win?
“No,” Victor replied. “That’s not why I’m nervous.”
Then what’s on your mind?
He sighed. “I used to get nervous before every skate,” he said. “But now...I think I’m nervous because I’m not nervous. If that makes sense.”
Not really, but it’s okay, Yuuri said. I know you’ll do great. And please tell me everything about it, when you’re done.
“I promise,” Victor nodded. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to win my first gold medal of the season.”
And he did, showing off the medal with pride once they got home that night. Victor told Yuuri every detail of his performance, every flash of emotion he saw on a judge’s face as he whipped by them during the buildup for his jumps, how the refrigerated air felt as it whistled by his ears and touched the back of his neck like a parent’s cool hand soothing a fever.
I’m so happy for you, Yuuri gushed as Victor tucked them both into bed. I knew you could do it.
“Then why did you ask if I would wish to win?” Victor asked.
Did you think you needed it?
“I told you, no.”
He could almost imagine Yuuri shrugging, even as the bird figure remained still. I had to be sure. I am a wish, after all.
Victor smiled. “Are you going to ask me that before every competition?”
Do you want me to?
He thought for a moment, pressing a finger against his lips. “Maybe. But that’s not my wish; that’s just for good luck.”
Yuuri’s laughter always felt like the whispering of wings taking flight.
I’ve never been a good luck charm before, he said.
“I know. You’re just a wish, nothing more.”
Yes, Yuuri agreed, but...I think I could be both, at least until you’ve made your wish. I should at least do something to earn my keep around here.
Victor opened and closed his mouth, a hundred words clamoring at the tip of his tongue. “You don’t need to earn your keep,” he eventually stammered.
Well, you haven’t had much need for a wish, Victor. What do you want me to be?
“You’re—you’re just you, Yuuri,” Victor ran his finger gently over the bird’s little head. “That’s all you need to be for me.”
From that point onward, Victor brought Yuuri with him wherever he went. They spent entire plane rides arguing over Oscar nominations and phone upgrades; Victor spent an entire night in a hotel room in Warsaw trying to convince Yuuri of the merits of Alexander McQueen, but Yuuri was stubbornly against all haute couture purely on principle. They giggled at cheesy local television ads and cried over celebrity deaths in the news, and just before every competition, Yuuri would ask Victor the same question:
Do you wish to win this one?
“No,” Victor would reply, every time.
As the season progressed, Victor found himself at the head of the pack, just as everyone expected. His press conferences stretched on longer, and his sponsorship commitments first doubled and then tripled, until his calendar was booked solid from morning until night. Sometimes Victor was too tired to even talk to Yuuri, falling asleep as soon as his body hit the mattress, with only enough energy left to tuck the blue ring box beneath his pillow and not much else. But Yuuri didn’t seem to mind; he was always happy to chat when Victor needed someone around. While his pre-competition question had seemed rather ignorant at first, soon Victor came to relish it, because out of everyone in the whole world, it felt like Yuuri was the only one who never expected him to win—he was just there, no matter what, overjoyed at Victor’s successes as if each one was something shiny and wondrous and new.
Do you wish to win this one? he asked before Worlds.
“Nope,” Victor replied with a grin.
Do you wish to win this one? he murmured as the crowd roared at Skate Canada.
“Don’t need to!” Victor called back as he clomped out of the room.
And so it went, on and on, until the day that Victor was running for his plane to Seoul and bumped hard into a businessman going the opposite direction, sending them and their respective luggage scattering across the terminal floor. In his haste to grab everything and make his flight, Victor didn’t even realize anything was missing until just a few minutes before his routine, when he went to enact the now-familiar ritual only to find that Yuuri wasn’t in his usual spot.
“Where—where is it?” he plunged his hands into his jacket pockets, turning them inside out. Yuri Plisetsky scowled.
“Where’s what?” he grunted. “What are you melting down about now?”
“My ring box,” Victor heard his voice hitch with panic as he rifled through his bag. “The blue one. Where is it?!”
Yuuri wasn’t in any of his regular spots. Victor turned the entire bag upside down, sending clothes and supplies scattering across the locker room floor. His eyes roved over the mess: black skate guards, a roll of green athletic tape, various and sundry crumpled receipts, five lip balm tubes, the warmup gloves he kept meaning to throw away—but no blue box.
No, Victor felt panic bubbling up in his chest, pulling tight against his ribs, squeezing him so hard he thought he might burst. No. No. No!
“Where—” the words caught in his throat, his eyes darting back and forth as he tried to mentally retrace his steps: the cab, the customs agent, the plane, the terminal—
“Yuuri?” he whispered fiercely, squeezing his eyes shut, “are you there?”
“Hey asshole, I’m standing right in front of you. God, you’re getting senile.”
Victor scrubbed his hand across his mouth, swallowing bile as the truth dawned on him: his wish was gone. He’d lost it.
“Vitya!” Yakov stuck his head into the locker room. “It’s time. Are you ready?”
“Fuck off, Yakov,” Victor snapped before he could stop himself. There was a crash as Yuri dropped his water bottle.
Yakov’s face turned bright red, and he exhaled with barely contained rage. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that,” he hissed. “You have exactly two minutes to pull yourself together and get that gold medal. Are we clear?”
Beyond Yakov’s shoulder, the arena crowd was already cheering his name.
There was no time. There was no way to explain. Victor could only numbly shuffle down the hall, wincing as the bright lights hit him and he was all but pushed onto the ice. Overhead he could hear the PA system announcing his name; applause washed over him from all sides as he took his starting position, and in the last few seconds of silence before the music began, Victor exhaled a single shuddering sob.
“I wish…” he whispered to himself. “I wish…”
The music pulled him out of his reverie, snapping him into the choreography like a wind-up toy. As he moved through his opening step sequence and wound up for the first quad, Victor realized that he’d never truly understood the sorrow of his chosen aria until this very moment.
“Sento una voce che piange lontano / Anche tu, sei stato forse abbandonato?”
He’d just abandoned Yuuri, without a single thought. He was out there somewhere, all alone, waiting for Victor to come back, and Victor had absolutely no idea where to try and find him again. He never even got to make his wish.
“Orsù finisco presto questo calice di vino / e inizio a prepararmi / Adesso fa’ silenzio…”
Victor could have wished for anything. For riches beyond his wildest dreams. For strong knees and ankles that wouldn’t wear out for a while longer. He could have wished for everyone to forget him, for a quiet cottage somewhere in the country where he could just read books and walk his dog. He could have wished to make Makkachin immortal. He could have wished for someone to love him even if he never won another medal again.
“Con una spada vorrei tagliare quelle gole che cantano d'amore / Vorrei serrare nel gelo le mani che scrivono quei versi d'ardente passione…”
Victor screwed his eyes shut as he lifted up into a combination jump, unable to keep from picturing Yuuri’s rough-hewn teardrop wings. How bitterly ironic that, of the two of them, it was Victor who came the closest to flying.
He could have wished to keep Yuuri with him forever, to never leave his side. Instead Victor had squandered his chance, and now he’d never be able to make a wish at all.
“Stammi vicino, non te ne andare / Ho paura di perderti…”
Victor proceeded to skate the best routine of his career: every jump landed perfectly, every limb held in place, every point earned with flair. The applause of the crowd barely registered through the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears, as he poured every ounce of sadness into his body and imagined it streaming in sparks out of his fingers like the tail of a shooting star.
I’m sorry, Yuuri, Victor thought. I miss you.
The rest of the Grand Prix Final passed in a dreary blur. Victor let himself run on autopilot, wearing his triumphant smile like a grotesque comedy mask. As he posed with his gold medal, he was hit with the sudden memory of Yuuri asking: are you going to wish to win the grand prix final?
Never, Victor realized in that moment, as the cameras flashed and he bit playfully into his medal. Never again. This is the last time.
Many months later, Victor awoke one night with a start as a familiar tickling sensation rippled through his mind.
Did you decide on your wish yet? Yuuri asked.
Victor sat straight up in his bed. “Yuuri?!” he whispered fiercely. “Are you here?”
Not exactly here , as it were. But I can hear you.
“Where have you been?”
Waiting for you to make your wish. Did anyone ever tell you that you take a very long time to answer these things?
Victor instinctively reached underneath his pillow, searching for the ring box even as he knew he’d come up empty. “I thought I lost you,” he said, his voice thick with tears. “I’m so glad you’re back.”
I’m not really back, Victor.
“Why did you wait so long to talk to me again?” he couldn’t help the emotion making his voice warble. “I feel so awful about leaving you behind. I searched everywhere for you, I promise.”
I know. I don’t make the rules, like I said; but even though I’m with somebody else now, I can’t really be their wish until I’ve finished being yours.
Victor screwed his eyes shut. “I wish…” he began, but then he stopped as he always did.
Do you still not know?
Victor shook his head. He did know, but it didn’t seem right. He couldn’t just wish for Yuuri to stay; it felt like forcing someone to be his friend, and Victor had had enough false friendships to last two lifetimes. Yuuri was wonderful precisely because he was so unexpected; he was stubborn and anxious and adorably enthusiastic about the things he loved. He disagreed with Victor without a second thought, his voice burbling in the most delightful way when he got himself flustered. Victor knew deep in his bones that he couldn’t make Yuuri stay that way forever; but if he wished for anything else, he’d never speak to Yuuri again.
Victor felt the too-familiar shrinking sensation as Yuuri’s presence began to fade from his mind, and his hands clenched desperately into the comforter.
“Wait,” he blurted, “I haven’t made my wish yet.”
The feeling stopped. So you’ve decided? Yuuri asked, his tone as businesslike as it had been when they first met.
Victor hadn’t decided at all, but as soon as Yuuri asked, he realized he knew exactly what to say:
“I wish you were free.”
The buzzing sensation that was Yuuri stopped as abruptly as a needle being yanked off a record, so quiet that Victor feared he was gone entirely, but then:
You...you what?
Victor swallowed. “I wish you were free,” he repeated. “I can do that, can’t I?”
Yes, but...wouldn’t you rather wish for something—else? Something for yourself?
“This is for myself,” Victor answered. “You being free is the best thing I could ever wish for. You’re—” he closed his eyes. “You’re my friend, Yuuri. You’re my friend and I love you and I don’t want you to be trapped anymore. Or—is there a rule against that, too?”
No, came Yuuri’s voice, positively bubbling with excitement. No rule against it. Not at all.
“Then that’s my wish,” Victor said, nodding into the dark.
There was a sudden shift inside his mind, as the sensation that was Yuuri began to spin around and around, becoming a mental whirlwind of his buzzing voice and a kaleidoscope of twinkling lights interspersed with the faint scent of cherry blossoms.
Free! Yuuri was calling, louder and louder. Free free free!
A weight thudded into Victor’s hand; he looked down to see the ring box laying open on his palm, and his thumb automatically moved to stroke the faded golden heart on the lid. It seemed so small, to contain so much joy, but sitting in the middle of the crumpled red velvet was the clay crow, its tiny black wings fluttering like a heartbeat as it rose up and up and up, twined with Yuuri’s voice ascending through the cacophony in Victor’s mind. He watched as Yuuri doubled, then tripled, then quadrupled in size; then there was an explosion of black feathers, his voice pealing like bells as he flew around and around Victor’s room before soaring out the window and into the night with one final triumphant caw.
Victor sat still for a very long time, watching Yuuri’s black shape fade into the equally black night sky, his thumb stroking over and over the heart on the ring box. His chest felt lighter than it had in years, the emotion bubbling up in his throat emerging as a delighted giggle instead of a mournful sob. He couldn’t say exactly why, but it almost felt like Victor had been the one trapped in a tiny box, and it was Yuuri who had freed him .
A tiny black feather floated down across his field of view, no longer than his thumb. With a smile, Victor reached out to pluck it from midair, placing it gently into the ring box before tucking it under his pillow. That night his dreams were filled with the rustle of black wings, with the wide open feeling of possibility over the horizon, and with the undeniable fluttering sensation of hope growing golden and warm inside his chest; and when he awoke the next morning to find an avalanche of texts and messages all linking to a single video, Victor somehow wasn’t surprised to find himself watching a skater with crow-black hair, doing Victor’s own routine, with the delicate beauty and captive sorrow of a bird who couldn’t quite remember how to fly.
“What’s this?” Yuuri asked one morning, many months later, as he picked up the old ring box from the bookshelf.
Victor came up behind him, wrapping his arms around Yuuri’s waist and planting a kiss to the side of his neck. “I found that a few years ago,” he said softly, plucking the box from his fiance’s hands and opening it, unfolding the velvet with delicate care. He took out the feather, letting it float lazily down to sit in Yuuri’s palm.
Yuuri stroked the feather with trembling fingers, his smile lighting up his whole face, his lips barely moving as he whispered:
“I had a wish once…”