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"Olya, I'm sorry about what happened!"
"Fuck you, Volodya! And take your fucking things!"
Yuri closes the balcony door behind him, opening the plastic window at the same time. The evening autumn air unpleasantly invites him into its embrace, and the minus five degrees celsius shown on the phone feels like the whole minus twelve. His favorite leopard-jacket, of course, warms him up, but a pair of sweatshirts under it would clearly do no harm, but fuck them, Yuri is here for a while.
Taking one of the six remaining cigarettes, he lights it and takes the first puff right out the window, watching as the aforementioned Olya throws her husband's clothes, suitcase and laptop from the third floor.
"Fuck you yourself!"
"Fuck both of you," thinks Yuri, but he doesn't want to yell or swear right now. All he wants is silence, and that the loneliness does not press so hard. But Otabek is still in training, and he obviously won't answer before ten o'clock in the evening.
Actually, it's not recommended for skaters to smoke very much. Actually, Plisetsky gave a huge fuck about the rules. Smoke unpleasantly burns his throat and lungs, but it's the only thing that helps not fuck up right now; it helps to feel alive.
Yuri Plisetsky is nineteen years old. Yuri Plisetsky has dozens of competitions, trainings and gold medals under his belt. He couldn't do anything less and wouldn't settle for anything less. Gripping the gold with his teeth through hours and hours of daily trainings is fucking grueling and fucking boring, but it's the only thing Yuri is capable of at all. He was prophesied a successful career and first places since childhood; he wasn't taught since childhood that there's life outside the ice rink too, and "hey, you shouldn't actually ignore it, lest you feel morally inferior and empty." Plisetsky consists of skates, ice, cold, cat fur, gold, heavy rock, and pretty much ends the list there. It would be sad if it weren't so damn unbearable.
But Yura Plisetsky gets by because he hasn't been trained to lose. And if he has to beat the fucking life just to be the best at everything, then the hell he's going to let those unpleasant and lingering feelings drag him down. Yura Plisetsky is used to fighting, he just can't do it any other way.
With one awkward movement of the hand ash falls past the cup right on the carpet, and now all the neighbors can hear a symphony of "fuck" and "shit". He is careful only on the ice, but outside it he is afraid to touch things so as not to break them. Not to make them like himself.
"Pyrokinesis" fits in so perfectly and atmospherically this evening, but even behind the loud "don't love me, bitch, I'm cursed" you still can't ignore the insistent ringing and knocking on the door. Who the fuck is there, Yuri does not know; he is only sure that this jerk will not leave his apartment with his nose intact. And opening the door, Plisetsky is more confident than ever in his decision, and so he slams it with all his might, clearly hitting the man in some part of his body, if the loud shouts and foul language are to be believed.
"Yura, don't act like a child!"
It feels as if everyone thinks he is still fifteen years old; as if he is still that uncontrollable teenager with a thirst to prove to everyone that he is better, and most importantly with the aim to rub Nikiforov's nose in it and trample the poor Japanese man to ashes in front of him.
Speaking of Nikiforov.
" What are you doing here?"
Puberty is a real miracle. At least, it is what allows Yuri to look Victor straight in the eyes, without cocking his head. He has matured, and in many ways has long outgrown and overtaken him.
"Don't you read the news? I thought they're yelling about it from every corner, and every other rat is talking about it."
Nikiforov, like those rats, quickly and stealthily sneaks into the apartment, leaves his suitcase in the hallway, takes off his shoes and in rapid stride goes straight to the kitchen, running into the bathroom to wash his hands.
"Put the kettle on, please."
"Shove your "please" up your ass."
And yet he goes to put the kettle on. Not for Victor's sake, of course not, but the thought of dinner makes him sick, and his body asks for something to keep him going. So he needs green tea.
"So how long are you going to stay here?"
"Till I find an apartment to rent. Or until I get back to Japan. Whichever comes first."
Yuri Katsuki's sudden change of coach was really the talk of the town. "The union didn't even last five years," "Personal squabbles affect career," "Is the famous figure skater Viktor Nikiforov single again?". Plisetsky isn't interested, really; he doesn't give a deep fuck about what's going on (or was going on) with this interethnic couple. But everyone at the rink keeps discussing the subject on a daily basis, even Yakov can't help but make a couple of "I told him so" comments.
"So you broke up?"
"More like taking a break."
In nineteen years of his life, Yura has never been in a relationship, but even he knows that the break is just one last attempt to delay the inevitable; as if if Victor didn't stare at his Katsudon daily for a few weeks, he would get bored and suddenly all his feelings would come back, if not even stronger. "This is so fucked up," Yura thinks, but stays out of the discussion. Fuck it. He knows full well that Vitechka Nikiforov quickly loses interest in people or activities. Figure skating lasted the longest, and it got boring when there were no strong competitors, as well as the inspiration to come up with new programs to please the fans.
And that's when Yuri came to the rescue. He interested Victor, lured him to be his coach, asked to put the program, fell in love, proposed, played a wedding and got a new dog. So many new experiences, so many interesting things, Vitya almost pissed his pants with happiness that life again sparkled with new colors, that life became interesting again, at least some sense and motivation appeared.
And then all these things became ordinary and, oh my God, Vitechka Nikiforov lost interest again - he took a break, returned to Russia and found himself in Plisetsky's apartment.
By the way, back to Plisetsky.
"Why me? Couldn't Yakov or Mila have taken you in?"
"Yakov lives with Lilia, and I have no desire to impose on a married couple. Gosha, in fact, for the same reason - he has a wife and child, where do I pry. And Mila has a new boyfriend, they moved in together two months ago, you should know that I am an uninvited guest there."
"So I was chosen because I don't have a love life?"
"Kinda."
Nikiforov chuckles slightly, dropping a tea bag into a mug with some anime character in it. The black eye patch, the hedgehog hair, the smile like a maniac, "well, Japanese animation is weird after all."
"And the hotel?"
"I had to discuss the situation at the rink and on the team anyway."
When Yuri found out that Nikiforov was coming back to his home team as a coach, he slammed one of the mugs against the tabletop with all his might, smashing it to hell. By the way, it was his favorite mug - the one Otabek brought back from Kazakhstan when he came to visit for a week. But Beck wasn't offended; he said he'd bring three more of the same kind next time. "The main thing is to live to see the next vacation," Yura consoled himself with this.
"Why didn't you stay in Japan to train someone else? You have a residence permit there, and acquaintances, and popularity."
"You know what they say: your place is where you were born."
But Plisetsky thinks that Nikiforov's place is on the other side of the world, far away from Yuri. Perhaps somewhere in Switzerland, right next to his friend with benefits.
Going through the cupboards and finding there a package of half-eaten mint gingerbread, Nikiforov continues to squeeze out a smile and pretend that everything is fine, as if he has not spent four years of his life on something that now makes him sick. As if his figure skating career doesn't end at 35-40, as if Nikiforov is not thirty-one, as if he's still young, full of energy and inspiration, and at any moment he can go back out on the ice and fuck everybody up with a satisfied smile on his face.
Victor ignores reality and the current state of affairs, otherwise he'll die and end up like Kurt Cobain a couple of years too late. And maybe that's why he's so desperately reaching for Yura - he sees himself in him, he's afraid that Plisetsky will repeat the same mistakes and manage to fit into the "club of 27" without even being too late in age.
Perhaps Yuri Plisetsky is the last thing Nikiforov can do right. Could save the day.
"It's going to be great! You'll train under my supervision like in the good old days."
Except that life doesn't give second chances, mistakes can't be corrected, and Plisetsky doesn't need to be saved. "Doesn't need" or "too late" Yura himself hasn't decided yet. Probably all at once.
"Practice for what?" Yura chattering with a bag of green tea in his mug, not looking at his interlocutor, focusing only on his fatigue and reluctance to go into aggression mode. Simply because he no longer has the energy. And no desire, in fact, either. "So you can promise me all kinds of fucking things again, and then tell me to fuck off and run away to someone else?"
"Here you go again."
Yura Plisetsky is no longer a fifteen-year-old who shows his fangs and thinks he is alone against the world, and therefore must attack first before he is attacked. He's already been attacked once; he won't let that happen again. Plisetsky no longer has the youthful maximalism and eternal aggression, even if justified. Now Plisetsky has only eternal fatigue - he is tired of fighting alone against the world, he is tired of seeing everyone as an enemy, he is simply tired of existing.
He's tired of blaming Nikiforov for everything, and in fact, he doesn't do that anymore. Yuri isn't angry, but he doesn't forgive or let someone else's fuck-ups be forgotten. He no longer demands explanations or apologies, and what the fuck does he need them for? Would they do anything but disappoint him at all?
"Besides," comes Yura's turn to chuckle. "What can you even teach me? The quarter axel? I learned it two years ago, without your help. Can you teach me step sequences? I don't see how those helped your pork chop win first place. Do you remember who won it?"
Plisetsky. All first places always belong to Plisetsky and no one else. Yuri had long since surpassed Victor, breaking all of his records, jumping much higher and putting in dozens of programs far more difficult than Victor ever could.
"You may be skating better technically, but your skating still lacks a basic love of figure skating."
"I don't love figure skating," Yura finally lifts his eyes, bumping into exactly the same ones - tired, understanding the situation, just not knowing what to do next. "All my life is figure skating. I literally have nothing but it. You'll never compare to me even in that."
Victor sighs heavily, putting the mint gingerbread aside. The conversation does not go well and even Vitya's natural charm and charisma have no effect on Yura. Vitya knows he's fucked up, he just hoped to the last that he would be forgiven for it, like they always forgive him everything else.
"You remind me of me in my twenties."
"Oh, the same age when you were beautiful and vulnerable, when you had power and success?"
The same age when Yura was eight years old, holding his breath, leaning against the television, watching every Nikiforov skate - memorizing every movement, jump, and step sequence. The same age when Yura fell in love with figure skating and its main star. The same age when he dreamed of becoming the second Victor Nikiforov. In the end, he almost became his protégé. Ended up becoming much more than Nikiforov ever could. Simply because the world doesn't need a second Victor Nikiforov, and Yura himself would never be satisfied with that. Yuri Plisetsky is one of a kind. There are no others like him. Yuri Plisetsky is much bigger and so fucking better than Viktor Nikiforov.
Yura was in love with the technique, the skills, the tracks, the jumps, the costumes, the music and Victor's smile. Nikiforov opened to him the whole new world of figure skating, making him forget about everything extraneous, making him devote his whole life to it. Only if Vitya could be what he pretended to be. But Vitya broke down. Vitya got bored. Vitya didn't love figure skating enough to break through the glass ceiling and keep jumping even higher and proving himself worth all the medals, first places, and fan love.
Vitya couldn't, unlike Yura. He can do much more than Nikiforov can imagine.
"I'm capable of everything you've seen at competitions. You can't teach me anything, just because you're not at my level now. You're left somewhere behind."
Yura thought that since Victor was counting stars, he could do anything. But Plisetsky doesn't need stars if they're just a new land that Nikiforov would colonize, ruin, and abandon, losing interest again. Plisetsky himself would have quit figure skating long ago - a strong start and giftedness never came easily and made him burn out too quickly. Plisetsky was a metaphor for a burned-out star. But he doesn't want to repeat others' mistakes, he doesn't want to follow a well-trodden path and end up where Vitya is sitting now.
Victor Nikiforov is so traumatized it makes Yura wanna cry. Yura tasted that damn apple because he believed Nikiforov, and then tortured himself for a long time with the question, "Why did you lie?". And then he realized. It's just that Victor is as naive as Yura himself. And that mistake Plisetsky would not make again - naivety and infantilism remained somewhere behind, somewhere around the age of sixteen.
"Stop pretending that we have nothing in common and that I'm nothing to you at all."
"And who are you, Vitechka? I can think of a few words, but I don't think you'll like them."
Yura does not want to "eat the rich," for then he would have to start with his idol. His studies were paid for with blood and sweat, something that cannot be returned. Perhaps Yuri deserves the same fate as Victor, if not worse. At least Nikiforov tried to do something good for others - Yura immediately shut himself off, afraid that he would repeat others' mistakes. Yura was alone against the world, simply because he couldn't trust anyone else. He tried once, and look how it ended. Yura deliberately chose other paths - he didn't try to avoid mistakes, just wanted to make his own so that he would stop being fucking compared to his former idol.
So who is Viktor Nikiforov to Yuri Plisetsky?
He's the one who built Yuri's personality from start to finish, leaving him to deal with the consequences and try to find his own way; to try to find himself. And Yura figured it out. Yuri took his balls in a fist and built himself a new identity - a shattered, broken, traumatized by betrayal and dashed hopes. And that's why he doesn't want fucking anything from Vitechka Nikiforov - no training, no personal programs, no super-cute step sequences. And when he says that, he can swear he's not lying.
"You can have the couch in the living room, just stay out of my bedroom. Training starts at nine, but the rink is open from seven, if you want - you can come early, as the other coaches do."
Plisetsky carefully gets up from his chair, taking his empty cup to the sink. He'll wash it tomorrow, he has no power now. Now he still feels sick, but not because of the cigarettes or the lack of dinner - rather, because of the prevailing atmosphere in the apartment and the thoughts that he carefully ignored the past couple of years.
The worst thing about the whole situation was that Yura really loved Victor. Sincerely, with admiration and stars in his eyes. Not in the usual sense, without romantic overtones, but in a more important context - the kind that Yura is capable of at all. Plisetsky had only loved two things in his short life, and one of them broke his heart, leaving behind a wagonload of regrets, and thoughts that Yura wouldn't always be enough, that he never was good or interesting enough.
Yura is so ashamed of himself - he feels like he's been abused and taken advantage of. He is no longer fifteen - he no longer has the adolescent maximalism and perpetual aggression. All he has now is fatigue and the feeling that he just exists instead of living.
"I'm not going to fight with you or get angry and throw accusations. I'm sorry, but I don't have the energy or even the inclination to do that."
Before he leaves the kitchen, Yura looks at Victor as if for the last time. As if finally letting go. Not forgiving or forgetting, but letting go of something that has kept dragging him down for years and keeping from breathing.
"I don't pretend that we have nothing in common, but, Vitya," Nikiforov raises one eyebrow questioningly, completely forgetting about the long-cold tea in his mug. "You're really nobody to me. So be a friend, fuck off in a nice way, while I talk to you calmly."
So who is Viktor Nikiforov to Yuri Plisetsky?
He's the one who built Yuri's personality from start to finish; the one who gave him the love of figure skating and the meaning of a lifetime. He is the one who motivated him to move on and aim higher, only to rub his nose in it and prove that Plisetsky is the first and only one, that there is no one like him and never will be.
For years, Yura had only wanted to show Victor what he had missed out on - he hadn't seen it, hadn't noticed it, hadn't appreciated it. And now? Now none of that matters at all. Yura will surely find a new motivation and put on many more beautiful and complex programs, for which he will receive a huge number of gold medals - so many that they will have to allocate a separate room.
For the first time, it's easier to breathe.
Viktor Nikiforov is dead. And Yura finally lets him go.