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Victor Nikiforov was not a man.
Emphasis on the was. He is one now. He isn't allowed to be anything other than a man. Nothing about him is feminine. Nothing about him says 'female'.
But here's the thing.
Victor had always liked to play into his feminine side, and the media had lapped it up when he was a teen. He was the fairy of the ice, a majestic creature that a typical boy could never play, for the typical boy would never be able to perform the intricacies that Victor managed to merge into his performances.
These bone deep intricacies came from years of practice, yes, but they came from something different too.
Victor had known since those teenage years that he was not a boy, and would never grow up to be a man. He wasn't born a boy, despite what his birth certificate read.
Victor really wasn't special in that regard though. At 16, in 2005, he might not have had the words for it, but knew now that the term would probably be somewhere under the 'nonbinary' umbrella. And plenty of people were - are - nonbinary.
But at 16, in 2005, not only was there no language for how Victor felt readily accessible for him, he also knew he could never talk about it. Victor might be viewed as empty headed, but he is by no means that stupid.
Transgender people were allowed to compete at the Olympics in 2004. But Victor was 16. His career was just beginning.
He was massively talented, yes, he knew this, he was told at every competition, every banquet, every new sponsor opportunity, every fan meet and greet, every time he passed the receptionist at his rink, and on the rare occasion, by Yakov himself.
But he could, and most probably would, lose that all if he came out.
So Victor Nikiforov decided at 18, in 2007, that he was a man. He chopped off his hair, chose more masculine costumes, worked on the muscles in his shoulders, pronounced his chin more, and most importantly, ignored the nagging voice in the back of his mind lamenting it all.
The media lapped it up.
And Victor was happy. Victor was the best. Victor was the perfect skater, shattering his own records left and right. Victor was the rugged bachelor so many wished to have, or wished to be, or both.
Victor is crying in his white tiled bathroom, clinging onto a blue towel for the life of him, while he agonises over having to look in the mirror again.
Victor is no longer any of the things he once was. Victor has Yuuri now, a lovely engagement ring settled on his right ring finger, he no longer holds the short or free program world records, and even though he is happy more often than not with Yuuri and Yurio and the rest of the Russian team he's just started working with again, the way that he is curled up in a ball, lodged between the corner, where the bathtub and the tile wall meet, says otherwise.
And Victor is still not a man.
He isn't sure why the thought had started bugging him again recently. It's usually quite dormant, sparking subtly when Victor passes a window display of dresses, or when Mama Katsuki referred to Vicchan as "such a good girl", but Victor's easily able to brush it off most days and carry on with his normal manly life.
But since Yuuri had moved into Victor's St Petersburg apartment, it was as if his mind could not shut up about his stupid gender identity. He couldn't do anything nowadays that didn't remind him that he was living a lie.
The mirror had become his worst enemy.
It was a decent mirror, Victor had paid good money for it, and had lights on the side that kept it from fogging up when someone was using the shower. It was set up to be parallel to the shower too, and while that was perfect for some of Victor and Yuuri's showers together, Victor had quickly come to loathe it anytime he caught a glance of his naked body after a one man shower.
Which led him to the here and now, on the floor, alone, with nothing but a blue towel wrapped around him.
He'd managed to dry off before seeing his reflection. And he looked exactly like himself.
The same blue eyes with silver hair. The same perfectly aligned teeth and thin lips. The same nose, cheeks, chin, forehead, everything. He looked like Victor Nikiforov.
He looks nothing like himself.
He can't explain it, won't be able to find the words that fit, and even when he does, they just get caught in his throat, amalgamating into an ugly sob as he slides to the floor, trying to escape the man looking back at him. That man is a coward, Victor thinks desperately to himself.
Victor Nikiforov is a coward.
Victor Nikiforov doesn't cry often. He cried when receiving his first Olympic medal, and when Yuuri perfected his quad flip, but Victor Nikiforov did not cry out of shame, or guilt, or sadness. Only Victor did that.
Victor cried over pictures of puppies, over dumb soap operas (that we're actually really good if you switched your brain off for a bit), over Yuuri threatening to leave figure skating, over the person looking back at him in the mirror.
Victor Nikiforov is the man staring at him through the glass. Victor and Victor Nikiforov are the same person, at the end of the day. They fit into the same body, they both love and hate it, they both share a brain and despise the fact they have to live like this.
Victor Nikiforov would love to just be Victor.
He takes a lot of his traits from Victor, because there are certain things that could not be taken out of either counterpart, even if one of them wanted to. In his younger years, Victor Nikiforov borrowed his media friendliness from Victor's kindness, along with his graceful edges from Victor's insecurities.
But Victor lives with Yuuri now. And Yuuri loves Victor and Victor Nikiforov. So, the only logical thing Victor can think of was to let Nikiforov's traits seep into Victor's, and a new persona was born. Vitya, both Yuuri and Victor call him.
And now Victor is left crying alone, naked, in his white tiled bathroom, with the blue of his towel his only respite before he can realise that there is a knocking at the door.
All of Victor's towels are white.
"Vitya, are you alright in there?"
Time for Vitya to wipe over Victor's self loathing. Heart shaped smile, full of emotions Nikiforov never dreams of having, and still hiding, pretending he doesn't despise the adjective handsome.
Had there not been tears still streaming down his cheeks, the transition from one character to another would have been seamless. Instead, Victor manages to choke out another sob and scrub at his face with the blue towel, trying in vain to rearrange his features into someone unrecognisable. Into someone he knew. Into someone he could love.
"Vitya? Vitya, I'm coming in, okay?"
No! Victor wants to scream, because Vitya isn't here. Not yet. There's just Victor and his mess.
But Vitya and Yuuri live in an apartment domestic enough that neither locked the bathroom door anymore, so Yuuri has no trouble pushing the door open and seeing his blue towel gripped around his fiance as Victor tries desperately to change himself. And Yuuri's on the floor in half a second, trying to reach out to Vitya, but Vitya isn't here.
"Vitya, can you breathe with me?"
And even though Vitya isn't here, Victor can pretend he is. So he breathes with Yuuri, and although his mind is still too messy, he is able to stop crying. He let's Yuuri take his hands and soothe him, and pretends that feeling like Victor in the company of Yuuri doesn't terrify him.
Once Victor's breath is back to the steady rhythm it usually is, and Yuuri's wiped all of his tears away with effortlessly gentle hands, Victor let's Yuuri slowly dress him into an oversized, washed out red tshirt that used to belong to Mama Katsuki and is older than Victor and Yuuri combined, and some of Yuuri's turquoise pyjama trousers, and Yuuri takes Victor's hand and leads him out of the bathroom.
The moment they're out, Victor takes a deep, dizzying breath. It's so much quieter without the echoes of the bathroom, and so much darker as well. No more blinding white tile, instead replaced with dark grey flooring covered in brown furniture and green and red rugs. The bookshelf opposite the bathroom is full of orange and navy spined books. The air smells of katsudon - a treat for Yuuri placing first at Four Continents a few days ago - and it's instantly so different to the cloying mint of Victor's bodywash his nose had become acclimatised to Victor almost feels lightheaded.
Victor didn't leave the bathroom a lot.
But, he lets Yuuri lead him through the living room, into the kitchen, where the stove gets switched off, then carry on together to their bedroom. Victor never goes into their bedroom.
He sits on the bed, and Yuuri sits beside him, and it is quiet. Victor's head is still too rowdy, but he focuses on Yuuri's hand, still woven tightly in his, and waits.
"Do you want to talk about it, Vitya?"
They'd come to the mutual agreement after Barcelona that their communication skills needed work. Between Sochi's banquet and Yuuri's almost-retirement scare, the two of them still had some way to go before they officiated their partnership, but that was fine. Their relationship up to the Grand Prix Final had felt like a whirlwind, and both were relieved to step away for a second and work on themselves before any marriages happened.
Victor remembered the talk they'd had about their communication. But Victor never thought he'd have to work on this part of himself. He is not a man, but why can't he pretend he is one for... the rest of his life, perhaps?
But Yuuri had shown Victor his all, he was a man who was willing to put his heart on the line for Vitya, he'd been willing to give up his future for Vitya. It wouldn't be fair to keep lying.
"I'm not Vitya."
Yuuri didn't move.
"Did I do something wrong?"
"No," Victor smiles softly, "I did."
It was so like Yuuri to jump to the conclusion that he himself was the one in the wrong. His brain was a curse and a blessing, but without it, the two of them would have never met. Victor loves Yuuri and Yuuri's brain, no matter what character he dons.
"This doesn't seem like it'll have a simple answer, but could you try and explain what you did?"
Victor chews at his lip, trying to formulate his words. It's so simple in his head, but out loud?
He catches Yuuri's eyes, but drops them immediately. How can he put this lightly?
"I'm a liar. And a coward. You love Vitya, yes?" He feels Yuuri nod, "But Vitya's a front. Like Victor Nikiforov. A-And, I love you with all my being, but I'm scared you won't love me as Victor."
"I'm... not sure I understand," Yuuri doesn’t let go of his hand though, doesn’t move away.
"It's going to sound really stupid and unhealthy, but I imagine that I have three... characters in my head? It's not like I have DID, it's more like how an actor has different personas to slip into at any moment," His airways feel blocked, for some reason, "There's Victor Nikiforov, ready with his media smile, the handsome heartbreaker of figure skating. He's your coach at competitions, he's the cold shoulder you were met with at Yutopia. You can imagine- you know how much I dislike him, how far he is from my true self," Victor grimaces as Yuuri rubs circles across his knuckles, but he'd started now. He can't stop.
"Then there's Vitya. He's a man deliriously in love with you, whose allowed to smile and kiss and show his emotions. You know him best. You're the main reason he exists," Victor manages a watery smile, "And he is perfect for you."
"You are perfect for me, I love you no matter what," Yuuri argues quietly. There's a moment where Victor wants to laugh, but his lips barely twitch. After another moment passes in quiet, Yuuri speaks again, "You... said there were three characters? What's the last one like?"
"He's just... Victor, and he- he's like if you took all the parts of Nikiforov out of Vitya," Victor sighs, "He's not perfect. He cries alone and naked in the bathroom. He loves you dearly, but he's afraid to meet you, and for you to hate him for the coward he is."
"I want to love every part of you, I don't care if you're not perfect," Yuuri reassures immediately, and Victor's not sure why, but the statement emboldens him enough to ask the question that could make or break him.
"Even if I'm not a man?"
There's another silence as Yuuri processes what Victor is admitting. His question could mean several different things, but Victor knew Yuuri understands what he means.
As the silence continued though, Victor begins to feel chunks of his world collapsing around him. Shit, that question was a mistake!
"I'm glad I found you in the bathroom today," Yuuri says finally, bringing their clasped hands up to his lips for a soft kiss, and tugging Victor out of his reverie, "I'm glad to meet Victor. And I love him - them? - more with the truth."
Victor breathes, "He/him is fine. I'm just, you know, not a guy."
"Do you have a label for it?"
"Something around nonbinary. I never really delved into it after I cut my hair."
Yuuri shifts, brushing the hairs out of Victor's eyes. He looks... understanding.
"I'll always love you, no matter how long your hair is. No matter how you identify. I love Victor Nikiforov," Yuuri places a kiss on Victor's forehead, "I love Vitya," He smatters kisses along Victor's cheeks and nose, "And I love Victor," He places a final kiss on Victor's lips, "I am in love with you. Never forget that. Be whoever you want around me, just let me keep falling in love with you."
Vitya, Victor, Victor Nikiforov lets himself cry.
"I love you so much, my Yuuri," He gasps as sobs shake his body for the second time, but this time out of relief, out of joy, out of fear for what's to come.
What's to come.
Victor never thought he'd get this far. He would probably be content to never tell anyone else ever again, but Yuuri isn't likely to let him get away with that.
And because Yuuri is smart, and genuine, and because every character in Victor loves him completely, he'll follow along. The things he does for love.
Victor is not a man, and with Yuuri beside him, he'd never have to pretend around his love again. He'd never been more secure.