Chapter Text
Viktor brings the flute glass to his lips, closing his eyes as he immerses himself in the silence of the balcony, away from the bustle of the closing banquet.
Over the years, he has developed the habit of sneaking off these events. It's a routine he knows by heart. He distributes smiles and handshakes to sponsors and skaters he barely knows, he politely accepts praises with a thank you and ignores the envious glares that seem to say ‘When is he going to retire? There’s no suspense anymore at this point’, more persistent after each victory. He eats, drinks, pretends not to be bored while waiting for the ideal time to slip away unnoticed.
Tonight, however, the call of solitude manifested much later than it usually does.
When Yuuri Katsuki left the dining room, in fact. As soon as he was gone, all the magic that he insufflated into the boring, predictable banquet vanished with him. There was no point in staying any longer.
Viktor smiles against the rim of his glass before putting it down on the balustrade, his gaze wandering across the snowy horizon as he loses himself in the memories of the evening. Yuuri’s drunken, tender smile and his warm hand in Viktor’s while they danced a tango. His body, previously undulating around a pole, pressed against Viktor’s and his strong arms clinging onto his neck. His enthralled expression lighting a spark in his brown eyes, so sad and lost one hour before, as he begged Viktor. Be my coach, Viktor!
Viktor unconsciously wraps his arms around himself as if to preserve Yuuri’s warmth. He can’t remember the last time anyone hugged him like that. With all that champagne in his system and those successive dance-offs, it’s a miracle Yuuri managed to stay on his feet for so long. Still, Viktor wishes they could have spent more time together. Share the view and petits fours stolen from the buffet and get to know each other, hidden from public view. Maybe tomorrow, before he has to leave for the airport. He would be ready to pull an all-nighter just to be sure to catch Yuuri at breakfast. A short moment is better than nothing, and may be enough to exchange phone numbers.
Viktor sighs, exhaling a small puff of air. He doesn't recognise himself. Tonight was his first time actually, properly interacting with Yuuri, and he already can't stop thinking about him. The silence feels heavy all of a sudden. There’s not even a single car noise in the distance. Viktor leans over the balustrade, expecting to see down below people braving the cold to have a chat or a smoke in front of the hotel’s main entrance.
Nobody.
How long has he been standing here? Longer than he thought he would, certainly. Yuuri must be safe in his room by now. Just to be sure, with no ulterior motive, he opens his conversation thread with Christophe and types a quick text.
Is Yuuri okay?
He presses send, bracing himself for the inevitable salacious insinuations regarding his blatant crush. He suspects this is why Chris was so quick to volunteer to bring Yuuri back to his room. Just to annoy Viktor. Granted, Chris has known Yuuri longer and, unlike Viktor, he knew the room number. Still, it was impossible to misinterpret the shit-eating grin Chris had sent his way.
The text disappears before it goes through. Viktor frowns, retypes it and hits send again.
And again.
“Oh, come on,” Viktor mutters. Every time, the text seems to delete itself, yet not once does he get a ‘Not delivered’ alert.
It might just be his phone acting up, though he’s never had that kind of issue before. Maybe it’s coming from Chris’s phone? He scrolls through his messages, searching for someone to text as a test. Yakov? Georgi? Mila? His hairdresser Andrei? He has many contacts, but very few he actually talks to. He eventually picks his dog-sitter Anna. She is used to being pestered for real-time info about Makkachin and she always replies within minutes even at ungodly hours.
Everything going well?
The text disappears, confirming the issue isn’t coming from Chris’s phone.
Now that’s really weird. After thinking for a minute, he opens Google. Surely he isn’t the only one who has encountered such a problem, he'll find a solution online… But the app freezes as soon as he touches it and he’s left with a bright, blank page glaring at him without even doing the courtesy of showing an error message. He gets the same result with every other app.
Then he notices something strange: beside the time and the battery level, there is nothing on the top screen. No carrier name, no signal alert, like his phone is stuck on airplane mode – except that airplane mode is definitely not on. He enables and disables it nonetheless, hoping it will set something off. He restarts the phone. Nothing changes.
Signal is purely and simply gone.
A sense of unease washes over him. Which is absurd. Phones crash all the time, it’s probably nothing serious. Besides, he’ll be back to Saint Petersburg tomorrow. If it doesn’t get better until then, he’ll bring it to a phone repair center, it’s that simple. It's not like he urgently needs his phone right now.
He blames his shaky fingers and his heartbeat speeding up on the cold and shoves the phone back into his suit’s pocket. He's getting tired of being alone, even though the only person he wants to see has probably fallen into a drunken slumber by now. He finishes off his champagne in one gulp and walks back inside, dawdling through the hallways and down the stairs.
He puts on his mask of proud and social Grand Prix Final gold medalist as he pushes the heavy banquet room door open… and freezes.
The large tables covered with white cloth, the service platters, the mess of glasses and champagne bottles… Everything is as it was when he left, with one notable, worrying difference.
The room is empty. The guests, the sponsors, the waiters… not a single soul around.
Viktor’s shocked laugh echoes in the thick silence. He takes a few cautious steps, his head slowly moving from side to side as though he expects people to spring up from under the tables like a surprise party. Well, a surprise party with all the lights on and a half-consumed buffet.
“Come on, it’s not that late. Was the party really that boring without me around?”
He continues smiling and joking into the void, not dropping the mask. He’s worn it for so long, he never learned how to remove it completely. Yet he can’t shake off this terrible, chilling sensation seeping into his bones.
Hard to believe all his fellow skaters have collectively decided to go to some random bar in Sochi, or back into their rooms all at the same time. And that the employees have collectively decided to take their leave right in the middle of such an important event. Even if they had, Viktor would’ve come across at least one of them on his way back.
So… Where is everyone?
While there is still no apparent signal, a visceral need to hear a familiar voice pushes Viktor to dial the first number his thumbs find in his contact list, namely Yakov’s. Never mind if he gets yelled at. A part of him hopes he will.
There’s no grumbled “What do you want Vitya, evening’s over for me”, nor Yakov’s annoying default voicemail alert. No typical, omnipresent humming noise on the line, and no beeps indicating the call couldn't get through. Only utter silence.
Viktor gets the same type of response when he dials emergency numbers, and only then does he fully realise the gravity of the situation. If even calls to emergency services that don't depend on signal don't get through, none will. Taken over by a strange frenzy, he starts calling everyone in his contact list, then dials random numbers in the hope that someone, anyone will reply to his increasingly desperate missives.
“Okay, that’s not funny anymore. Hello? Anyone here?”
Almost on their own volition, his wobbly legs carry him out to the kitchens. Then the bathrooms. He inspects every corner, even the most improbable ones like inside the fridges and under the sinks. In the suite area, he knocks at Yakov’s door, Chris’s, and after failing to remember Mila’s room number and trying several doors at random, he ends up banging on every door on his path, bouncing from one side of the hallway to the other like a pinball. First floor, second floor… The dimly lit hallways that seem to be stretching out forever only aggravate the feeling of having been projected into one of his old horror novels.
An eternity later, drained from distress and from running everywhere, he lets himself slide down the wall in the middle of the hallway after one last weak knock. He has no idea which floor he’s on. He holds back some helpless tears and focuses on his breathing, his head resting on his knees.
“Calm down. You’re fine. You’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine. There has to be an explanation…”
The sound of footsteps behind the door he last knocked at makes him stand up so fast he stumbles. “Hello!” he practically shouts. “Is anybody in there? Please open up!”
More footsteps, coming closer. Viktor’s heart bursts in relief. He could leap for joy. He is not alone. He is not alone!
The door slowly creaks open, revealing the dishevelled silhouette and the brown, drunkenly confused eyes of Yuuri Katsuki.
***
“Yu–”
“Shh,” Yuuri whispers, his finger on his lips. He frantically gestures for Viktor to come inside, and Viktor complies without thinking twice. “Thought it was Chris.” With a giggle, he closes the door behind them. “We’re having a secret party.”
“A… secret party?”
“Shh!” Yuuri giggles again. “Not so loud! D’you wanna stay?”
It sounds more like a plea than a suggestion. Unsteady on his feet, Yuuri takes Viktor by the wrist and drags him to the middle of the room, keeping on talking.
“You're looking for Chris? He went downstairs. To steal food. Hope he gets me beetroot pie…”
“Uh… Not exactly. And… I don’t think the buffet has beetroot pie.”
“No beetroot pie?” Yuuri’s face falls, his mouth forming an adorable disappointed pout. “That suck. Sucks? Yeah, sucks. No beetroot pie,” he mumbles, shaking his head like he’s never heard anything so absurd, the tie that is still looped around his head flapping in the air with the movement. He steps closer, peering at Viktor’s face. “You look sad. Why are you sad? Was someone mean to you?” He knits his eyebrows. “Give me a name and I’ll fight them.”
Viktor chokes out a laugh. Somehow, Yuuri giving a piece of his mind to people denigrating him, with his loud voice and his makeshift warrior headband, is a very easy scene to picture.
“No, no. No one said anything to me.” Quite literally.
“You. The best.” Yuuri taps the center of Viktor’s chest with his finger after each sentence to reinforce his point. “Most beautiful skater, most beautiful man. In the whole world. Don’t let anyone tell you any different.” He slides his hand under Viktor’s lapel to rest his palm over his heart. “Viktor should always be happy,” he mutters to himself.
Maybe Yuuri is too drunk to feel Viktor’s heart drumming against his palm; in any case, he makes no mention of it. Viktor takes Yuuri’s hand, gentle, and holds it a few seconds against his chest before dropping it. “I’m not sad, Yuuri. Just a bit… shaken.”
It’s an understatement, yet it’s enough for Yuuri’s eyes to get wider behind his smudged glasses.
“I don’t know how to tell you this… I think we have a problem. A huge problem.”
Yuuri steps back and slumps on the couch in front of the large window, patting the spot next to him in invitation with what he probably believes to be a firm expression, undermined by his heavy eyelids.
Viktor sits at the furthest spot on purpose and Yuuri, having none of it, shifts swiftly and presses his thigh against Viktor’s, lightly stroking his arm. The gesture is soothing and Viktor, in need of comfort, goes along with it.
“Yuuri, when did you see Chris for the last time?”
“Hmmm… Don’t remember. ’S been gone for a long time now…” Yuuri’s fingers pause on Viktor’s bicep. “Ooooh. I see. He didn’t want to stay. Didn’t want to party with Number Six. Food was just an excuse.”
Viktor’s heart twinges. Number Six. Clearly, the emotional stage of drinking is taking over. “No, not at all. Chris likes and admires you a lot. He told me so.”
Yuuri gives a disbelieving nod. Yet it’s the plain truth. As soon as Yuuri appeared with his coach’s arm around his slumped shoulders, he became their main conversation topic. He didn’t get the chance to know about it though, because by the time they agreed on offering him to join them, he’d already downed his sixteenth glass.
“This is very important. Do you remember seeing him leave?”
“Mhh…” Yuuri tilts his head, his hair brushing up against Viktor’s shoulder as he does. “I was in the bathroom. I think.”
Viktor sighs. He might as well go straight to the point. “Yuuri, Chris disappeared. No, not just Chris. Everyone. There’s no one left in the hotel, and believe me, I checked everywhere I could.”
He recounts how there wasn’t a single car on the road, which is definitely abnormal at this hour. How he tried to reach out to everyone he could think of, both in Saint Petersburg and overseas, which led him to the conclusion that the phenomenon is not restricted to the hotel, nor the city, nor the country, but is happening worldwide.
Yuuri stares at him, his expression serious as if Viktor’s speech has sobered him up, even though the flush on his cheeks lingers.
“So… You’re saying… We’re the only two people left in the world.”
“It sounds unbelievable, but… I think so.”
Yuuri nods to himself longer than necessary, then, when Viktor least expects it, snorts and dissolves into giggles again, unsuccessfully stifling them into Viktor’s shoulder, his arm limply resting over his chest.
Well. Definitely not sobered up, Viktor thinks, warmth spreading across his face and neck.
“Yuuri… Did you understand what I said…?” Viktor asks, hesitant yet patient.
“Yessss. Viktor and I, alone in the world. ‘mazing. Sounds like a dream I had years ago,” Yuuri mumbles, his slurred voice hot against the fabric of Viktor’s suit. He says something else in Japanese, his voice getting quieter and quieter and eventually melting into a light snore.
Viktor’s whole body goes stiff, not daring to put a finger on the beautiful, sleeping, dead drunk man draped over him. “Yuuri…?” If he turned his head a few millimeters to the left, his cheek would touch Yuuri’s forehead. A bit louder, he calls again, “Yuuuuri…?”
Yuuri jolts awake, his glasses lopsided and his arms still circling Viktor’s shoulders, disoriented until he sees Viktor, and tenderness blooms on his lips.
No one has ever looked at him like that.
Viktor smiles back, his throat tight. “It’s okay. Forget it. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay?”
It would be pointless to insist. Yuuri is in no condition to listen and be receptive to the extent of the problem. It can wait until he gets some rest and has sobered up.
Upon hearing the word ‘tomorrow’, Yuuri buries his face in Viktor’s neck with a groan and clings on for dear life like a limpet to a rock. Viktor slides an arm under Yuuri’s knees, securing him before getting up and carrying him to the bed. He doesn’t have too much difficulty laying him down on the mattress: Yuuri’s grip loosens and his arms slide down Viktor’s back, as though liquefied by fatigue and alcohol. Viktor removes the tie from his head, puts his glasses on the nightstand and arranges the covers over him.
He goes to the bathroom to fill a glass with water and finds an empty bucket under the sink, probably forgotten by the cleaning service.
“It’s… you know. Just in case,” Viktor informs, putting the bucket down by Yuuri’s side.
In reply, Yuuri brushes his finger down the bridge of Viktor’s nose and boops it when he reaches the tip. The glass of water almost slides off Viktor’s suddenly clammy hand. He puts it on the nightstand.
“Such a good nose. Ten out of ten,” Yuuri says, his voice half muffled by the pillow. “D’you know what they say in Japan about long noses?”
Viktor shakes his head no, and braces himself when Yuuri gets closer, snorting as he does, to whisper in Viktor’s ear.
Viktor gulps, the words catching him off guard, as Yuuri lets out a boisterous laugh, rolling onto his back.
“You’re blushing! Your nose is all red!” Yuuri points out, eyes sparkling with mirth. “So cute…” He hugs his pillow. “Are you gonna stay?”
Viktor’s first instinct is to say no, of course. On the other hand, he trembles at the idea of walking down the cold, long hallways by himself. Going through the almost hostile silence. Lying in his bed, alone, without sleeping a wink.
Yuuri caresses the tip of Viktor’s tie and continues with a much more serious tone, as though he read his mind, “You shouldn’t be alone when you’re scared.”
Yuuri is right. His mere presence makes Viktor feel safer, and in case something happens, whatever it might be, Viktor would rather be around to protect him. Unity creates strength.
Yuuri complains when Viktor settles on the couch instead of the bed, and passes out mid-sentence. Viktor loosens his tie and takes off his suit jacket before folding it into a pillow. He lies down and closes his eyes, letting himself be lulled by Yuuri’s snores.
***
Viktor wakes up to the sound of an alarm clock with a stiff neck and a headache from lack of sleep.
Briefly confused as to why he’s lying on a couch in last night’s clothes, the memories come rushing back when he spots Yuuri in the bed, hitting snooze with a painful groan before sitting on the edge of the mattress, his back to Viktor.
Mumbling, Yuuri massages his temples then drags his still socked feet to the bathroom, without noticing the man curled up on the couch to make himself smaller and peering at him through his bangs like a wild animal through tall grass.
A few minutes later, forcing himself to ignore the sound of the shower running, Viktor draws the curtains. Daylight floods the room and shatters his secret hope that it was all a nightmare into pieces.
The city looks just as static as it did last night. The morning sky is immaculate without so much as distinguishable cloud layers, similar to a blank canvas. Still not a soul in sight, nor signal on his phone. Everything is covered by a snow mantle, much thicker than last night. There's something strange about this snow, too white and too perfect. It only heightens the impression of stillness. The only thing attesting that they aren’t completely frozen in time, at least in appearance, is the colon blinking hypnotically on Yuuri's digital travel radio clock. 6:43.
It doesn’t reassure Viktor in the least. The world, his world has disappeared, yet the clock keeps ticking, relentless.
He's got another problem on his hands: what is he supposed to do right now? Stay here, awkwardly waiting for Yuuri to come out of the bathroom in a robe (or worse, only a towel), droplets of hot water dripping off his body, all flushed face and wet hair? The image makes Viktor's mouth dry. It seems a little too much for him to handle, but have they become close enough for it to be the normal thing to do, especially given the circumstances? Or, on the contrary, would Yuuri be shocked to find him awake and still here? Would he find it inappropriate? Viktor feels completely out of his depth and he doesn't have much time to make up his mind, Yuuri could get out any minute.
The coward's solution would be to lie back down and pretend to still be asleep, but Viktor gets a better idea as he spots a spiral notepad next to Yuuri’s glasses. He opens it at the end, tears out the last page then writes down the current time and a quick note:
Meet me in the dining room in half an hour
Much as Viktor dreads stepping out of the room, it's the best compromise. It saves him the awkwardness and it gives them some time. He places the note under the glasses so that Yuuri doesn't miss it and dashes off right when the water stops running.
After he took the shower he urgently needed, brushed his teeth and changed into clean clothes, Viktor walks back in the banquet room… or rather its vestiges. Not like some student party that ended hours earlier and that everyone sneaked out of before getting trapped into helping clean up. Something classier. And colder.
He sits at the table nearest the door, pushes away the dirty cutlery in front of him, and waits.
Too long.
When they woke up, Yuuri didn't strike Viktor as particularly hungover. He didn’t throw up, and he seemed to have enough strength to take a shower. Besides, if the bucket by the bed had been used during the night, Viktor would've noticed. Now though, he's wondering if it isn't some case of delayed hangover.
He gets up from his chair… and immediately sits back down.
He can't go back to Yuuri's side to ensure he's okay, and not just because he forgot the room number. When Viktor is hungover, he can’t stand having anyone near him, holding his hair back or patting his shoulder. He’d much rather wallow in his shame in peace than have a single witness, no matter how benevolent, to the loss of his dignity. Not that Viktor is foisting his own experiences onto Yuuri, but he knows nothing about Yuuri's ways to handle hangovers. He knows so little about him, period. And the fear of doing something wrong petrifies him.
The world has disappeared, yet what scares him the most right now is what Yuuri might think of him.
An even more terrifying thought flashes into his mind. What if something much more serious than a hangover happened to Yuuri? What if he disappeared too?
Viktor should never have left him alone. Naked or not, hungover or not, given the circumstances, it was the worst thing to do. What on earth was he thinking?
“Viktor?”