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It never ceased to amaze Viktor, how musically he could move his body. Each stroke of his skate on the ice was like a strum of a guitar, each swivel of his hips a drumbeat that sent Viktor’s heart fluttering to match the pace. Not to mention his grace and form; he stunned Viktor every time, whether it was in a skintight costume or loose-fitting training clothes. Sometimes, he couldn’t believe Yuuri was real; surely, someone so angelic couldn’t possibly be real.
Viktor leant forwards on the boards to get a better look as Yuuri slipped into an elegant spin, fast enough that he seemed to blur into one singular shape. Yuuri turned out of it elegantly, as if he were walking through a door, and Viktor couldn’t stop himself from calling, “Beautiful, Yuuri!” over the music fluttering through the rink. Spins had always been Yuuri’s strong suit, and this program certainly highlighted it.
Yuuri threw him a smile over his shoulder as he moved through a short step sequence, hips twisting on the beat perfectly.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Yuuri broke off from the step sequence, then built up speed as he moved across the ice. His knees tensed, as he approached the point where he’d be taking off for a triple axel. He turned once, twice, building momentum, before he pushed off.
It should’ve been fine. He had more than enough speed and momentum, and his body had been tensed just right to give him the right amount of height for the number of rotations.
Instead, there was a crack, a gasp, and a harsh thud that echoed through the rink. Viktor froze as he processed what he was seeing. At first, he saw only pieces.
A piece of shining silver, covered in shaved ice, laid on the surface, jagged and uneven around the edges. Yuuri, crumpled on the ice, with his head turned away from Viktor. A pool of red.
silver, ice, Yuuri, red, pooling, growing-
And then it all hit him, like a flood crashing over his head. He stumbled with the weight of it, breathless.
A beat passed, in which Yuuri lay still, unmoving, red puddle growing and growing, before he vaulted clean over the barrier. He skid across the ice, his leather shoes having little traction. He stumbled, tripping over his own feet in his haste to reach Yuuri. By the end, he was practically crawling, his hand skidding over the ice in an effort to achieve some sort of stabilization.
“Yuuri, Yuuri,” he chanted reverently, like a prayer. His words sounded like a whisper over the thudding of his own heart in his ears, but the scratching and burning of his throat told him he was probably screaming.
Finally, he reached Yuuri, sliding to a stop on his knees. His hands hovered anxiously over Yuuri’s still form as he took in the state of his fiancé, still motionless.
There was a gash on his forehead, starting from above his left eyebrow and moving to his temple. Blood flowed from it, staining the ice beneath him. The edges of his hair were soaked with it, There was ice crusted around the edge of the cut, as if he’d scraped his head along the ice on impact. Viktor pressed his hand gently to the gash to stop the bleeding, but the blood simply flowed through his fingers, around his palm, and fell to the ice.
“Yuuri, baby,” Viktor said. The lump in his throat made the words sound distorted and thick to his own ears. His other hand cupped Yuuri’s neck, searching for a pulse. He nearly sobbed when he felt the strong thrumming under his hand. It was faster than usual, but still there nonetheless.
As gently as he could, he pulled Yuuri onto his lap, cradling him upright. He held the bloodstained part of Yuuri’s head close to his chest, so it wouldn’t flow down and stain his neck. He could feel the flow of blood against his own chest, now; he felt as it soaked into his sweater and ghosted over his skin like a lover’s kiss. Viktor really lost it, then. A sob broke through his clenched jaw.
“Yuuri, come on, baby,” Viktor cried, shaking Yuuri’s shoulder’s gently, “you have to wake up. Please, Yuuri.”
A hand landed on his shoulder, and Viktor nearly jumped out of his skin. He cradled Yuuri closer to him protectively. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Yakov, with the rink medics behind him.
“Vitya,” Yakov said, and Viktor must have really been sobbing, because his usually gruff coach’s voice was soft and thick. “The medics are going to help him, but you have to let go of him so they can do their jobs.”
Viktor glanced back to Yuuri, whose face was still lax and unmoving. His neck was smeared with blood from where Viktor had fumbled for his pulse, and Viktor made a distressed noise deep in his throat. Yakov put a hand on the back of his neck, a warm, solid pressure compared to the biting cold on his knees.
“It’s alright, Vitya. He’s going to be just fine.”
Viktor took a shaky breath, then turned to look over his shoulder.
“Take care of him, okay?” He said, directing his words to the two men standing behind Yakov.
“Of course,” the younger man said, smiling reassuringly, moving to kneel beside him and take Yuuri from him. Viktor hesitated only for a moment, before he guided Yuuri into the other man’s hold and shuffled backwards. Yakov pulled him up to stand by his biceps, and steadied him when he almost fell.
“It’s going be okay, Vitya.” Yakov murmured, pulling him into a rough hug. Viktor heaved a breath, chest shuddering under the force of withholding his sobs, and he nodded the best he could.
“Don’t you worry, Mr. Nikiforov,” the older medic said. His fingers flew over Yuuri’s forehead as he secured gauze over the gash across Yuuri’s head. “Head wounds always bleed a lot. This one isn’t too deep; he’ll be just fine.”
Viktor couldn’t respond. He just held onto Yakov tighter, buried his face in the man’s thick coat, and tried not to sob too loud.
—
After a hazy blur of movement in which Yakov had guided him into the back of an ambulance, a paramedic had guided Yuuri’s limp hand to his own bloodstained ones, and a nurse had gently directed him to a small room, Viktor found himself sitting in a hospital chair. The chair was right next to the bed where Yuuri laid, motionless. Viktor had both his hands wrapped around Yuuri’s, careful of the clip on his finger measuring his heart rate. Viktor took breaths in time with Yuuri, trying to clear the hazy feeling from his head.
A nurse had left him a white t-shirt and blue scrub pants to change into, since his own clothes were soaked with blood, but Viktor couldn’t bring himself to let go of Yuuri’s hand long enough to change.
There was a wad of gauze pressed over the gash on Yuuri’s head, and an IV snaking out of the crook of the elbow furthest from Viktor. The nurse had said it was saline, to help him rehydrate and recover faster.
When Viktor had asked her when Yuuri would wake, she had just smiled and said, “It could be any moment, now.” Of course, he heard the silent implication in those words; it could be any time, we really don’t know. And so, Viktor couldn’t leave Yuuri’s side. He wouldn’t let Yuuri wake alone; he couldn’t fail him again.
He’d already failed him after he’d failed to prevent his skate from snapping. He should’ve checked the blades before practice, made sure they were secured and stable. And now, due to his own failures, Yuuri laid unmoving in a hospital bed, his frame obscured and practically swallowed by the loose hospital gown.
Viktor raised Yuuri’s hand to his lips, pressing the gentlest of kisses to each of his fingers, before turning his hand over and pressing a long, loving kiss to his palm. He held it to his lips as he murmured, voice heavy, “I’m so sorry, baby.”
“For what?” A croaky voice. Uneven and weak, but undeniably Yuuri. Viktor’s eyes darted up to Yuuri’s face, and saw his eyes were cracked open. Viktor inhaled, and his mouth fell open.
“Yuuri,” he breathed. Yuuri offered him a shaky smile, and gripped Viktor’s hand gently. He jumped out of his chair and leant forwards. He moved to cup Yuuri’s cheek, but seeing the blood caked to his hands still, he opted to press his wrist to his cheek instead.
“How are you feeling, детка? Do you need anything?”
“I’m okay, Vitya.” Yuuri hummed, turning his face into Viktor’s touch. “Are you?” Viktor paused, stunned. Why wouldn’t he be okay? He wasn’t the one who had blood pouring from their skull mere hours before.
“Of course I’m fine, Yuuri,” Viktor responded. Yuuri drew his brows down, making his disagreement evident.
“You’re wearing blood-stained clothing and you’re very pale, even by your standards. You’re shaking, honey.”
Viktor looked down at the hand near Yuuri’s head and found that it was, in fact, trembling.
“Oh,” was the only response he could muster.
“I’m okay, baby, I really am,” Yuuri said gently, tilting his head so he could lock eyes with Viktor. “I’m sorry I scared you, but I need you to know it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. There’s nothing anybody could’ve done about a faulty skate blade, Vitka.”
Distantly, he wanted to protest, to insist that if he had just checked his skates before, he could’ve found a warning sign, could’ve changed his blades or insisted he not skate that day. But the more rational part of his brain knew that was stupid, and that Yuuri was right. It was an accident; an unlucky one at that.
Viktor bit his lip to keep from crying. He could still see Yuuri, lying motionless on the ice that was slowly being dyed red with his blood. He looked down at his clothes, his hands, and saw remnants of that moment clinging to him. He looked back up at Yuuri, eyes a little glassy but still awake, staring at him with a gentle kind of care that melted some of the deep fear that had taken root in his chest the moment he’d seen Yuuri boneless on the ice.
“I should change,” he murmured, reaching behind him for the clothes the nurse had left him mechanically.
Yuuri nodded, smiling.
“I’m not leaving, though,” he warned his husband.
Yuuri laughed, bright and gentle, and Viktor felt the last dredges of the fear thin out. He was still worried, and he probably would be until Yuuri was fully recovered and back on the ice, but at least he wasn’t terrified anymore.
“I wouldn’t ever expect you to. I assume I won’t be alone for however long it takes me to recover, huh?” Yuuri smiled up at him, so familiar and warm, that Viktor felt himself smile back involuntarily.
“You know it, зайчик.” His voice still wobbled a little, but he felt more normal than he had in hours. It was a welcomed feeling.
“Good,” Yuuri murmured, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”