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It's easy, Yuuri thinks, when Phichit's around.
His roommate is the human form of a ball of energy, and when he's tugging on Yuuri's arm and begging for them to go out for dinner, or tugging Yuuri down with him onto the ice when he falls and Yuuri skates over to see if he's okay, or when he's screaming just as loud as Yuuri when they watch Viktor Nikiforov perform a flawless free skate at Europeans, it's easy to smile.
It's easy to laugh, to push back that tiny little voice in his mind, to pretend that he's having fun, that life is okay, that even if he decided to move halfway across the world to a country where he doesn't know anyone, he's handling it well, he's fine, he made the right choice.
It's easy when everything's bright and loud and Yuuri can drown out himself with everything else.
It stops becoming easy when the lights turn off and people go to sleep, silent and still, and there's no roommate asking Yuuri to watch another rerun of his favorite movie. It stops becoming easy when Yuuri's staring at a disconnected Skype call and can see his reflection in the dusty screen.
Phichit mumbles something in his sleep when the creak of Yuuri leaving the bed disturbs the silence of their room. It could've been Thai, it could've been English, it could've even been the bits of Japanese Phichit is trying to pick up - Yuuri wouldn't have been able to tell.
"Just going out for fresh air." Yuuri mumbles, either way.
Phichit falls silent again just as Yuuri closes the door behind him.
It's dark outside. A few miles away, a taxi ride away, some of their friends are partying. Phichit and Yuuri had been invited, and Phichit had turned them down, saying he and Yuuri needed rest after a long day of practice.
There was no long day of practice. Phichit had lied.
Phichit's a good friend.
The small pond they have on campus isn't anything like the seaside that Hasetsu offers. In Hasetsu, Yuuri would sit on the beach and listen to the sound of crickets chirping and a dog barking and maybe a car passing by. In Hasetsu, he'd run back home to his mom offering him a hug and asking him if he had heard the crickets. In Hasetsu, his dad would ask him if he had heard Vicchan barking all the way from Yutopia. In Hasetsu, his sister would pry him for details about the sports car they had heard whizzing by.
They don't know what it sounds like in Detroit. They don't know what it sounds like outside Hasetsu, outside Japan.
"I'll take you to my competitions." Yuuri had promised, when his mom and his dad and his sister stood at the airport. "I'll show you what it's like outside Japan."
His mom had smiled, his dad had gripped him by the shoulders and told him how proud he was, and his sister had looped her arm around his neck in her semblance of a hug.
Another promise that he couldn't fulfill.
When he first started competing, when the television happened to land on a viewing of a small competition he happened to join, that was all that his mom and dad would talk about. They'd point to the television, nudge their regulars and go "Look, there's our Yuuri, isn't he great? We're so proud of him."
Yuuri hadn't even made the podium.
When they had first referred to Yuuri as Japan's Ace, Mari had called him up and boasted about how people kept asking after him. "I'm going to embarrass you when they come to ask about your life before fame." she had laughed.
There had been no one to come and ask about him.
There's a strong breeze that sweeps past the trees and lands a bunch of dead leaves in Yuuri's hair. He doesn't bother to take them out, and stares as leaves start to fall into the pond, creating a ripple that seems to go on forever and ever and ever.
"I could ask for a ticket so you could watch the NHK Trophy." Yuuri had offered. "Just one, though."
"Ah, sorry, Yuuri." his mom says, giving him a smile. "Stuff is busy at the onsen. Another time? But we're always cheering you on. Do you want us to send you anything to bring back to America?"
Yuuri finds out from Yuuko that the only employees left at the onsen are his family. He doesn't ask them to go to any more competitions.
"And how's Japan's Ace tonight?" his mom had asked him that night.
"I didn't make it to the Grand Prix Final." Yuuri says around what feels like a ball of cotton stuffed up his throat. "I'm sorry."
"You'll make it next season. Don't fill your thoughts with worrying so much about that when you're studying, too." Mari had quipped.
There are three missed requirements Yuuri has yet to submit. He'd been called and informed that he needs to take an extra year to complete his degree.
"And don't say sorry!" his dad had waved away, still grinning at him like he wasn't a disappointment. "You've made Katsuki a household name! You always make us proud."
There are countless articles looking for more promising skaters in the juniors and novice divisions. Japan has given up hope on Katsuki Yuuri, their lone, useless chess piece in figure skating.
"Don't work too hard and hurt yourself, okay, Yuuri?" his mom had said.
Yuuri wonders how long it's been since the three of them had been on a vacation.
It's easy, when the lights are on and the ice is beneath them and his rinkmates spin him around and giggle and chase each other, to pretend that things are okay. It's easy, when they smile at him and give him hugs and say, "It's okay, Yuuri, we all have our own pace." and joke about failing grades and missed podiums, to pretend he's doing the right thing. It's easy to believe that he made the right choice, that he's made for the ice, for figure skating, and that his time is coming.
"It's going to be hard, okay?" his dad had told him, when Yuuri was ten and had told them he wanted to be a competitive figure skater. "But I don't want you to give up."
It had been easy, then, to nod his head and promise that he wouldn't give up for anything. It had been easy to imagine himself and a life of success.
It's still easy, if Yuuri forgets -
the money wasted on his skates, on his degree, on his move to America, on therapy, on his career,
the effort wasted to call him up every night and ask if he's okay, to reassure him that they're proud, to hide the fact that the onsen is failing and they're losing money,
the promises he's made about bringing them to different countries, about making them proud, about making them believe that they made the right choice to support him
- it stops being easy when Yuuri remembers.
It stops being easy when Yuuri realizes what he is.
There's a buzz in his pocket. Yuuri turns to their dorm building and spots the light coming out of his and Phichit's room, sees the way the door creaks open and Phichit peeks out to look.
Yuuri knows there's a future that's close by, where everything stops being easy, where he'll bow down to his parents and apologize, where he asks for their forgiveness for taking all their money and love and effort and time and not be able to give anything back to them.
But Yuuri is selfish.
He's not ready for it to stop being easy. Not yet.
He raises his hand to wave at Phichit, watches his roommate break out into a smile, and makes the walk back to their room.