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Something is wrong, and nothing is wrong, and everything is wrong.
By all accounts he should be proud, and by all accounts he’s failed entirely. The big picture is full of both, and neither seems to matter more. And neither seems to matter enough.
Yuri would like to break something.
He hasn’t talked to anyone today. He said his customary non-good-morning to Mila and Georgi, and pretended to pretend not to care about their conversations. And he did what Yakov told him to do, and then it was over, and he left. And his phone was lighting up with names, names of people he’s still trying to get himself to understand might actually want to talk to him, might actually want to hear about things besides scores and placements and records and odds and all those damn numbers, those stupid meaningless numbers that are everything he has.
He put his phone on Do Not Disturb at 12:30.
Then he thought about the face that kept coming back, something too old to be that serene and that pretty, a face surely made of lies, because if it had that many views, of course it would be. Some fucking random video the algorithm had recommended to him, and he’d fallen for it because, well, he was just that desperate, he guesses. He needed something, and there it was. And the face had talked about a cornfield in a place he’d never heard of, and it didn’t really have an expression, but the words sounded like they were supposed to be happy. Or nostalgic, at least. Maybe it was Botox.
But the story stuck with him, because he’s never had a cornfield. Yuuri Katsuki had a cornfield. He’s never had a cornfield.
So by 1:00, he found a lake.
It doesn’t have to be something big. It could just be a rock thrown into this ice beneath his feet. That would be enough. That would be enough to break him, to get him out of this stasis. And maybe then the whole surface would shatter, and he’d go under, and he would be cold. So, so cold. And god, he could feel something.
He doesn’t throw anything. He keeps skating.
He’s been at it for hours now; he doesn’t know how many. However long it takes for the sun to go from high-ish to low-ish. Those goddamn fucking numbers.
He’s working on a new mini-program, and he’s gotten damn good at it. It was Lilia’s idea, an exercise in self-expression, in meeting deadlines. In commitment. In self-reliance. Okay, sure, Yuri could do that. He’s game. He could probably change his name to Yuri Self-Reliance Plisetsky. It’s in his blood cells and bone marrow, this profession. This skater’s mind. This dancer’s heart.
He wants to go home. That doesn’t really mean anything.
He keeps skating.
Eventually it’s dark, and he doesn’t need numbers to tell him he’s been at it too long. He finishes a run-through. It’s pretty goddamn perfect. Lilia will probably have a lot to say about it, or worse, nothing at all.
He steps off the ice. It’s dirt, not floor, and he’s wobbly. He doesn’t quite remember how he got here. That’s fine. Google Maps exists for a reason.
He didn’t eat lunch today, he realizes. Or dinner. He had like five granola bars he brought with him, and that was fine, it kept him going. But it wasn’t right. He feels like he missed something. Like something is missing.
Yuri finds his way home, and it’s worse. Nobody saw him today. He might as well have not existed. It feels like today didn’t happen. He doesn’t have that kind of time to waste, and he has all the time in the world. He’s so young. He’s eighteen. The world is his oyster. He has everything he could ever need. Money stopped being an issue when he won gold with his senior debut. When Viktor Nikiforov started owing him, in every sense.
It’s not enough.
Maybe something will always be missing, he thinks. And then he remembers that doesn’t make sense, because yesterday he smiled and genuinely believed it. So what’s different?
Today was a waste, he thinks. But if he’d done everything right, he wouldn’t have done the thing that matters most, and he did it, so shouldn’t he be happy? Does it matter? Does it matter? Does it matter? Does it—
Oh.
Oh, he thinks, and he wants to cry laughing.
He’s tired.
It’s so ridiculous and obvious that his body could break at the thought. Suddenly the hole in his chest makes sense, and the sinking feeling is comforting, and he wants to laugh and cry and eat and drink and break shit and jack off and experience every pleasure, every catharsis, and cuddle up next to someone and just go the fuck to sleep. Oh, it’s so much easier when there’s a reason. For god’s fucking sake.
The names are still eating away at him, because there is no excuse. The names and the lights. And the faces. But somehow, at least, the numbers don’t seem to matter as much.
He laughs a little. Otabek would’ve known, he thinks. Otabek would’ve taken one look at his face and said, “Christ, Yura, when was the last time you slept?” And Yuri would’ve thought about it and gone, “Oh, yeah, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” And Otabek would’ve shaken his head in smirking disbelief at this engine Yuri always seems to forget he possesses, this fuel that feels like nothing, emptiness.
He could go for a hug right about now, to be honest. Not from anybody who’d be able to give him one, though. He might throw up at that prospect.
He looks at the clock. 11:52. Almost midnight. Almost tomorrow. It’s a lost cause, he decides. There’s nothing worth salvaging. He did some stuff. The day is done. Tomorrow will come.
Trying not to wince, he opens his phone. He blocks out everything that isn’t Otabek’s DMs. “Hey,” he texts. “I’m going to sleep now, but skype tomorrow?”
Almaty is three hours ahead, he remembers too late.
But then there are dots, and just as quickly they’re gone. “Sure.”
Yuri has to blink back tears. Surely everything can’t be this easy. Surely it can’t all have been like this from the start. Surely he’s not that fucking thick in the head.
“Cool,” he responds. And after a moment, “Night, Beka.”
“Night, Yura.”
He can’t stop himself. “<3.”
Nothing, for too many moments. His body turns inside-out. And then, “<3.”
And then he’s crying, he’s crying so hard he can’t stop, it feels like his ribs are shattering. His stomach might come out of his chest. Or the other way around. He’s crying every tear that’s ever been in his body and he is so. fucking. tired.
And then he’s asleep. It’s midnight, tomorrow, and he’s asleep. And today will be yesterday in the morning.