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The first time Victor sees it, it’s because he invites himself into Yuuri’s room, not listening to Yuuri’s shaky pleas, just laughing and reassuring him on the way that it doesn’t matter how dirty it is! Then he's too distracted by the posters on the wall and the boy on the bed with his face miserably set in his hands to notice.
The second time, he's busy carding his hands through his lover’s hair, content to lie together in a shared space, in Yuuri’s childhood bedroom. Despite the only light being Yuuri’s lamp and some glow-in-the-dark-stars— he begins to notice it a lot more, to see the small things, about it. About the wall.
It's glaringly different than the posters of his own face smiling at him from all sides. Almost several feet in length, plainer (compared to him), and faded against the colorful paint. Papers tacked onto each other right above Yuuri's desk—a significant amount of space all dedicated to— what? Victor squints in the darkness, and Yuuri mumbles at Victor’s hand stalling in his hair. It's not important, he relents, resuming his adorations. I have time.
The third time, he gets it.
They’re sitting in Yuuri’s room, in the late afternoon sun—like how they spend multiple afternoons together. Either talking or on their phones or simply enjoying each other’s company. Now, they're sitting on Yuuri’s bed, the man himself with his head ducked down, listening to different compositions and constructing a story for himself out of choreography. They’re working on Yuuri's programs for next season, their themes and meanings, and Victor's supposed to be working on his too. But he's always been easily distracted from formalities and Yuuri knows him too well than to attempt to reign in his attention span when they have so much time before competition.
So, Victor walks to the wall, curious. Then he sees it, he truly sees it. Different colored notes and paper, all faded with time, some more so than others—almost lacking any color at all. Written in the same handwriting, getting clearer and more legible as he continues reading their inscriptions along the wall. Written in pencil, in pen, in marker, in clear Japanese, then shaky English, then confident lettering. Layered on top of each other, next to each other, creating a timeline. Sticky notes, paper, magazine articles, journal entries ripped out and held in place with flimsy, peeling, washi tape that are placed over each other in a sad attempt at hanging together.
Victor dazedly touches the wall, reading the inscriptions plastered chronologically on fading sticky notes and taped scrap paper.
Chu-Shikoku-Kyushu-2014-Gold
Barcelona 2016 - Silver
Tokyo 2018 – Silver
He stares, confused. In a room with posters, photos, and keychains with his face, with walls dedicated to him, the small section covered in paper sticks out. He reads the papers from the beginning of the wall, near the edge of Yuuri’s desk, spanning to the other end of it. "These aren't mine..." Even though Victor isn't well versed in Japanese Figure Skating, he's sure someone as accomplished would've caught the world's eye. Would've caught his eye, especially given the amount of idolatry in Yuuri's room-- Victor would know about this skater by now.
Yuuri tenses, across the room, still sitting cross legged on his bed with his headphones playing. He startled ages ago, when Victor stood up and began walking around, but reconciled with himself that it was just another one of his boyfriend’s flight of fancies, that he’d sit down and ask questions (endearing, endless, interrogation-esque questions), but ultimately forget. It was something inconsequential.
"Of course they aren't yours, they're Japanese qualifiers, regionals, shows—"
"—going as far back as Junior level…” Victor squints, eyes darting to the far left of the timeline, “No, even before that."
Yuuri swallows and tears his eyes away from where Victor is intently reading every note spanning the wall above his desk in chronological order.
"Who—What is this?" He holds down one of the papers where it’s curling in on itself, one of the first ones added, if it's position on the wall is anything to note, the edges of the paper warped from constant retaping and replacing.
First Ice Show – Phantom of the Opera, Cello arrangement - 2006
"They're mine."
Victor guessed that much, but the chronicling, the sheer amount of dedication to both the sport and the archiving is baffling
"Why?" Noting all of his own accomplishments, with years and titles, even newspaper clippings and praises from magazines, hardly seems like something Katsuki 'self-proclaimed-dime-a-dozen-skater' Yuuri would do.
"Well… It's a bit pitiful, honestly," Yuuri chokes out. Victor waits for him to continue, surveying the wall, and Yuuri takes a deep breath as he prepares to do so. "Feel free to laugh but—I…” He coughs, “listed all my accomplishments since I began figure skating competitively. At first, it was at my mom's insistence. L-Like scrapbooking, you know? And after competing for a few years, you just… forget the small competitions in between,"
Victor hummed; he understands the feeling. At one point, after years and years, competitions blur together, but that doesn’t explain the level of chronicling Yuuri put into this… it almost feels, intimate, in a way, to read the dates, the accomplishments, the pieces of himself that Yuuri deemed important enough to write down and place above his desk for years.
Yuuri breathed in 1, 2, 3, 4—hold it, 1, 2, 3, 4, release and continued. "But it became more than that. More than scrapbooking—After that it became.... a reminder"
"A reminder," Victor echoes at the wall.
Though his back was turned, Yuuri nodded in agreement. "A reminder. It wasn't about remembering the competitions; it was about remembering myself." Yuuri fixed his eyes on the ceiling, looking for an explanation, words, an escape, a way to fast-forward this embarrassing conversation.
"When… when my anxiety gets really bad, I have to remind myself it's not a fluke.” He pauses, thinking of words, “And…in the moment, it is easy to forget how hard you worked, how you can't push yourself any harder, even though you think you haven't done enough. It feels like you started skating yesterday instead of your whole life, like there’s no way you can measure up,” He attempts to relax the tension he can feel building in his body, “to the international skaters, to the famous, to the multiple-time medalists.”
He returns his eyes to the wall filled with tape and yellowing paper. "I have to remind myself how hard I worked. That I deserve to skate on that ice too, just like the rest of them. I don’t need to prove it. I can take a break, I can rest, even if my brain doesn't remember who I am, you can't take years out of my body."
"Sometimes I..." Yuuri stops, then restarts, "it's easy to forget who you are sometimes, in the midst of it all." His eyes finally find the strength to look at Victor’s back, still turned to him while his boyfriend’s fingers play with the frayed edge of a sticky note on his wall.
Chu-Shikoku-Kyushu-2013-Gold
"…and I need to remind myself that I deserve this. Despite everything, despite my brain telling me otherwise." Despite the rotting and sickening feeling in my stomach of not being good enough every time, despite standing on the ice, seeing everyone’s expectations, and wondering if I could ever compare, “I worked hard and I deserve to be here.”
Victor pauses, fingers toying with Barcelona, 2016, Silver he can’t say he understands—or at least not the extent that Yuuri feels. In fact, he can feel Yuuri’s eyes on his back, and suddenly the unknown decision is made.
“Okay”, he says, not turning from the wall. “That’s okay. You’re right. It is hard, sometimes.”
Yuuri’s glare on his back deepened, "Why are you so calm about this? Isn't it stupid? Isn't it c-childish? Or self-absorbed? To have to write down your accomplishments to ground yourself, or even write them down to even remember you did them?"
There was a pause. "Is that how you think of yourself, Yuuri? Self-absorbed and pitiful?”
Yes! Yes, it is. I feel weak for needing a constant reminder, a reminder that my brain refuses to regulate itself, that my own body refuses to accept me, and weak for needing a reminder that I’m worth something from aging paper. Instead, he digs his teeth into his lip and stays silent.
"I'm," Victor chuckles and Yuuri clenches his fists where they're lying on his lap. He stopped his music ages ago, in order to give him space to process his thoughts, to stop himself from tipping into overstimulation to pair with the gnawing discomfort in his own vulnerability. "I'm actually quite happy for you, Yuuri."
Yuuri looks up, and Victor turns to meet him. "I'm proud of you. And I'm glad that you have this. That you're trying—even if it takes an accomplishment wall to remind you that you are capable of great things— I’m glad that you are taking steps toward seeing yourself the way the world sees you." he tacks on sheepishly, "and the way I see you."
“The way…. You see me?”
Victor nods, “It’s unfair, isn’t it? That the world admires, the world celebrates you, and you can’t even see yourself in that light.”
Yuuri grits his teeth against each other, “I don’t write them for you, I won’t be infan—”
“I’m not babying you, Yuuri. I’m being serious. It’s unfair. That we, that the world can see you one way and you aren’t able to face your own prowess, your own skill and beauty, unless it’s physically looking you in the face.” He touches the wall lightly, not jostling the precariously taped papers, “but if that’s what it takes, then I’m glad it exists. If taping journal entries from 5th grade—”
Yuuri flusters, waving his hands out, “T-that was my first ice s-“
“—is what it takes, then I accept it. Not that you need me to accept you, but I do, for what it’s worth.” He pauses, contemplative, before reaching out and pressing his lips to the wall in an unsurprisingly Victor-Nikiforov-Way of showing affection and appreciation, and Yuuri makes a strangled noise, “then I should thank it for treating my boyfriend so well, huh? For constantly reminding him what he’s worth, when no one else can.”
Yuuri smiles because he doesn’t know what else to do. He doesn’t know what he expected either, other than complete and wholehearted acceptance, as it often times turns out to be when he unravels parts of himself to Victor Nikiforov—every jump of faith is met with an eager catch, and a strong support. He wishes he could give Victor more than this… this lackluster grin, show him how grateful he is to be understood, or at least, an attempt to understand.
“I’m a bit… emotionally wiped out, sorry,” he chuckles, digging the palm of his hands into his eyes. “I usually don’t… explain the wall to people, or people don’t ask about it, like you have. It just started as a way to mark important points in ti—”, hands gripping his wrists cut off his rambling as Victor gently takes his hands away from where they were over his eyes. Victor leans down into his lover’s space, and murmurs, “It’s okay. It was a lot, you’re right—but in any case, I love learning more about you,” he winks flirtatiously and just like that, any discomfort evaporates, like it always has. The casual confidence and trust settling in the air over them like a familiar blanket.
Yuuri smiles, then tips his head forward and leans against Victor’s shoulder. “Sorry, I wish I could give you more” Victor pats his hair and leans into the warmth, “You don’t need to,” Victor murmurs into Yuuri’s hair, “you’ve already worked hard today.” Yuuri hums in agreement, before answering, “But you haven’t, Vitya. So, I suggest you take this time that I’m down for the count to finish your own program.” Yuuri pushes the notebook and playlist in Victor’s direction, then makes himself comfortable for a nap on Victor’s shoulder.
Victor sighs and bites back his whining, allowing Yuuri to win this time. And then he picks up the pen and writes.