Chapter Text
“‘Wow, you look so sexy in that dressing gown. Ravishing. Take me,’ said no one ever.”
The fabric that fell shiftlike over Yuuri’s frame brushed awkwardly against his ankles. It restricted his movement as he paced anxiously around his vast and empty bedroom, trying to wind down the energy that had built up, raw and restless, in his chest. His first night in Barcelona had been a whirlwind of greetings, public appearances, and gratitudes.
“You will show gratitude for the luxuries your embassy has provided on this visit,” Minako replied curtly. “When you are in your own home you may behave however you want.”
“An old tee shirt,” Yuuri sighed, imagining the comfort of wear-worn jersey against his sides. “Just an old tee shirt.”
Minako’s distaste was clear in the subtle quirk of her eyebrows, but she said nothing.
“Preferably not mine,” Yuuri continued, rather pleased that he’d gotten to her nerves so quickly. “Do you know some people go to sleep wearing nothing at all?”
Minako flashed a warning glance at him and he bit his lip. He’d gone a step too far, which was all he’d been aiming to do, but it changed nothing. He stepped out of his slippers as Minako began to read off his duties for the following day.
Why did this have to be right before bed? Every night, Yuuri carried the weight of far too many high-importance interactions into a space that ought to have been full of peace and rest. Every night, his advisors made it impossible for him to release the steam that had built up inside him, to recharge from giving himself away to every filthy public figure who thought they had some right to his company.
“...at the Royal Canadian Embassy, where you will be presented with a grove of maple saplings.”
“No, thank you.”
Yuuri threw himself down onto a goosedown mattress. He was surprised they even made them like this anymore; in so many embassies he’d slept on memory foam and pillow-top and cooling gel. None of the contemporary alternatives had anything on the slow, immobilizing sink that pulled him back into his pillows. He supposed this was meant to be comfortable, but as the soft cushion sucked him in, all Yuuri could feel was trapped.
He tried to keep his gaze fixed on his hands clasped tightly in front of him. The ornate decorations in this room were just like those in every embassy he visited. Fourteen ancient statuettes of fourteen fat, doughy cherubs, twenty-eight eyes trained in his direction. They’d been giving him nightmares since he was just a boy, the way the candlelight flickered off their gilded faces.
“When I lay me down to sleep,
Fourteen angels watch do keep.”
Always under scrutiny, and not just that of the angels. Yuuri watched his knuckles go white as clasp turned into clench.
“You will accept the gifts from le Roi regardless of your sour relationship with his son,” snapped Minako, her stern tone suggesting she was finished with his nonsense.
Yuuri, too, was finished with his nonsense. It didn’t seem to work, anyway. It didn’t change a thing.
“Thank you, then,” he corrected. He peered up for just a moment to see the flash of disapproval in Minako’s eyes as they scanned down tomorrow’s page in her pocket calendar.
Yuuri did not hate Minako. At times, she was closer to him than his own family, particularly now that Mari was engaged in the senate and training closely with the King and Queen to succeed the throne. Yuuri had taken on her duty of touring their allied nations and making public appearances, spearheading humanitarian efforts and attending empty, meaningless publicity meetings with foreign officials.
This year’s tour followed the opening of several youth sports complexes across the globe, all stamped with his name, all promising extracurricular services to underserved children. None of it had been his idea. The public knew Prince Katsuki had chosen figure skating as a discipline that suggested dedication and skill as well as culture; Minako had meticulously crafted his image in that way.
“10 am, you’ll make your usual speech at the dedication of the new rink.”
“Trade relations,” Yuuri parroted, letting rote carry him through his responses. “We strive for a market that values and empowers--”
Minako tutted impatiently. “The other one, Your Highness.”
“Youth and progress are the keys that open the door to life and love--”
“Good, good. At 11:30 we’ll return here to rest. Wait no, at 11:30 there will be an interview at the rink.” Minako quickly scanned the added note she’d missed, muttering to herself. “You’ll be photographed skating Lohengrin on the newly-dedicated ice.
A laundry list of to-do was rattled off rapidfire as Yuuri sipped at his lukewarm herbal tea. If he’d wanted, he could have tossed it on the floor, demanded a freshly-made cup that was hotter, verbally abuse whoever had allowed his drink to go cold. He sort of wanted to, somewhere in his mind. Somewhere underneath the ‘Thank you, no thank you’ and the ‘decency and dignity’ and the calculated nods and gestures, Yuuri was beginning to crack.
Suddenly the fine material of his dressing gown was far too uncomfortable against his skin. Perhaps it was the fine, needle-like quills of the goosedown mattress poking into him like tiny claws digging at his flesh.
He screwed his eyes shut, tossing and turning as he recited memorized responses to predictable duties, trying to find a position that relieved the build of the white-hot light that thrummed just beneath the surface of his skin, that threatened to expand outward, to break him at the joints. He was exploding in slow motion. He curled his feet in, tucked his knees up to his chest, rolled to his side to put some weight on his shoulder, rolled again. He wished he could be pressed, flattened underneath some great weight that would purge him of the restless blaze that made him ache.
When pressing and rolling didn’t work, Yuuri found the root of his frustration and pulled.
“Thank you--no, thank you--a pleasure to meet you--charmed, so happy--I pray I find you well…”
“Your H--Yuuri, breathe.”
“Stop, shut up, please…”
When the pressure became too much, the shell holding him in broke. Yuuri thrashed, trying to relieve his joints, and when he did, something dropped in his chest, something that tore a sob from his throat. When the tears came, there was no hope of controlling them. Yuuri buried his face in his pillow and wept, his legs kicking out behind him, his fingers clutching at silk sheets.
“I’m calling Dr. Cialdini.” Minako’s voice was dry and piteous.
“No, please don’t!”
“You’re unwell, Your Highness. He will help you sleep.”
“I don’t want to sleep, I don’t want to do anything, please, just let me die!”
The patience in his advisor’s voice was sickening. “You’re not dying.”
This time, Yuuri did throw his mug. “Go get Dr. Cialdini! I’ll be dead by the time you get back!”
It was strange, breaking down like this. Once Yuuri gave up control, he felt himself settle back and watch his frenzied self do things he hadn’t the guts nor the disrespect to even attempt. He could relax, let his Ugly Side take over, and give up responsibility for even a moment. It was not a relief; these breakdowns left him exhausted and traumatized. But while they were happening, they were like a drug, a feel-good button that replaced the more painful and difficult feelings that came from belonging more to the world than he did to himself. When he was like this, he was Minako’s problem. He was the Good Doctor’s problem. He could give up coping and hope to do better next time.
His heart rate was beginning to slow by the time Dr. Cialdini entered the room. His eyes, wide and wild, had no more tears to give, and his body felt heavy and rigid against the goosedown mattress.
Maybe, he thought as he listened to Minako’s hushed voice filling the doctor in, maybe this would be the time they understood. Maybe this would be the time they listened.
“Asleep?” Dr. Cialdini asked apprehensively.
Yuuri replied in a hollow tone. “Awake.”
The doctor performed all his usual proddings; a hand on Yuuri’s forehead, a quick assessment of the glands at either side of his neck, a brief listen to his heartbeat and his breathing.
“I’m very ashamed, Dr. Cialdini, I don’t know what came over me,” Yuuri mumbled. “One minute I was reviewing my schedule, the next I was crying.”
“Ah, we all cry,” the doctor said with an air of indifference.
“We can’t have crying tomorrow when we meet with the press,” Minako urged. “It is important that we are calm and relaxed tomorrow.”
Yuuri sniffed. At the mere suggestion of tomorrow’s duties, the familiar sting pricked at his eyes once more. “I’ll try, I promise I’ll try, I’ll--” A choked-off sob interrupted and betrayed him.
“Oh, there he goes again,” Minako huffed. “Do you have anything to give him for now, Celestino?”
So this time would be no different than all those previous.
Drugs to ease drowning and appease everyone but the drowned.
Yuuri didn’t even ask what was in the syringe that was inserted into his arm. He had nothing more to say. There was chatter around him; as he zoned out into the pattern of the wallpaper, his advisory team was no doubt discussing next steps in supporting their miserable charge through one more day, one more city, one more tour.
Whatever the doctor had given him, it wasn’t working. He still felt the anxiety creeping along the back of his starched collar. He was a volatile, vulnerable, breakable thing that stood for steadfastness and strength. He was a papier-mache idol equipped with a ticking time bomb.
He was lost in some distant nighttime music, some whir of Spanish guitar and clapping of hands, some distant singing that toed the line between celebration and mourning. The echoes of faraway locals drifted in through the open window and wrapped comfort around his shoulders, drowned out the distressing whispers of his handlers.
More than anything, he wanted to be out there. He wanted to feel the pull of that bittersweet song as it moved through his body, as it moved him along with its many twists and turns. He wanted the comfort of anonymity and the liberty to dance at night.
To dance the way he wanted to, anyway. And with anyone other than the Crown Prince le Roi.
There was a sort of freedom in music that Yuuri could not find anywhere else. Even in his most desperate of times, he could lose himself on the whims of a song, escape for just a few minutes into a world that existed to be heard and felt but never seen, that existed in subjectives. It was why he had chosen skating as a discipline. On the ice, no one could touch him. On the ice, he was free to move around in that world of subjectives without anybody feeding him lines or nudging him in the direction of ‘decency and dignity’.
On ice, he was the subject of whatever beautiful picture the music painted, and he moved in beauty according to what he heard. On ice, he danced free as one could only dance once they had loosed the bonds of earth and felt what it was to fly.
On ice, Yuuri could fly. No fourteen angels keeping watch. Who needed angels, among those blessed with wings?
The night was hot, and Yuuri was not on ice, but Yuuri had no need for angels tonight. He wanted to feel the music of Barcelona in his veins.
Waiting was the hardest. The prick of every quill of every feather in the goosedown mattress found his flesh as he listened to the stillness of the halls of the embassy, listening for the final ‘click’ at the end of the corridor that signaled his chance. Twenty-eight bronze eyes burned in his direction from all sides as he stilled his breath, waiting for his chance.
When he was certain that the guard had taken his leave, Yuuri sprang to his feet, scrambling through his wardrobe to find a casual outfit. Everything he owned was too clean, too refined, but there was nothing he could do except hope he wouldn’t be singled out. He settled on light linen pants and a tight, dark undershirt, on the sensible tennis shoes he kept for exercise only.
He did not want to shop, or enjoy street fare, or do anything other than dance. So with nothing but the clothes on his body, Yuuri hoisted himself up and over the window’s ledge, out into the sultry summer night.