Work Text:
Everything was grey.
The ever-present flashing of the reporters’ cameras filled his vision, blinding him from the moment he appeared on the ice to accept yet another gold medal, another accolade in a long laundry list of awards.
Not one meant anything to him. Not anymore. Not for a long time.
“How does it feel to win a fifth straight Grand Prix final?” a reporter called out to him from among the throng of vultures clamoring for some piece of him to immortalize in their next edition.
Empty, he wanted to say. Instead, he turned his camera-ready smile in their direction. “It feels great!” he said out loud, pushing his true thoughts down so that they didn’t threaten to spill overtop his carefully concocted media persona. They wanted to see Viktor Nikiforov, the winner, the untouchable champion who inspired awe and desire in all he met. No one wanted to see the pale imitation of that man who lay just beneath the surface. He suppressed a rueful laugh. If only they knew that their untouchable champion was, in reality, broken so far beyond repair that there was little hope for him now. He went through the motions, giving them what they wanted, letting them chip him away piece by piece until all that was left was the plastic smile. A commemorative photo? Sure thing! The rest was hollow, a deep chasm that threatened to swallow him up entirely.
Maybe he should just let it. Maybe it was time. The media circus would tire of him as soon as he stopped producing results, after all. A year, maybe two, was all he had left at best before injury or old age pulled him from his pedestal. They would forget him quickly. People were fickle, fleeting creatures, after all. Always searching for their next thrill.
It would be the ultimate surprise should he take matters into his own hands when he was on top of everything, wouldn’t it?
It wasn’t always like this, he remembered as he fell into his cold hotel bed at the close of the night of the Grand Prix free skate and medal ceremony, where he clinched a fifth consecutive victory. The gold medal lay limply in his bag, discarded and forgotten. He knew the feeling. When he was younger, skating had been his greatest joy, his passion, his everything. A younger version of Viktor would wake up every morning excited to hit the ice, pushing himself forward to achieve new heights simply because he loved defying expectations. And so he did. Again and again, he skated harder, jumped higher, and poured every ounce of his passion into his programs. He became the winner his name always hinted he would be, the ultimate champion.
But no one warned him how lonely it was at the top.
He was a happy child in the beginning. When the scout for the Russian Skating Federation approached him at age six after a local competition, he was overjoyed. He would be able to dedicate his life to gliding across the ice like the beautiful, angelic skaters he watched in awe from his family’s tiny living room television every opportunity he got. It was like a dream come true. But then he realized that the dream came with strings. His parents shipped him off to St. Petersburg to work with Yakov, never looking back. They never tried to contact him, never visited. It was like he simply ceased to exist to them. They’d sold him off to the state, washing their hands of him. He didn’t even know if they were dead or alive. But he did know one thing. He was no longer wanted, and it hurt.
Growing up as a skater in St. Petersburg was exciting, and his naturally cheerful nature did not allow him to brood upon the absence of his parents for long. He was treated well by all, and even developed friendships with his rinkmates. They seemed to like him, a mixture of friendliness and admiration, and he basked in the praise, fed off it, cherished it. Admittedly, it took him a while to notice that there was an edge to the admiration that others gave him. As he pulled away from the pack by winning more competitions, those who he thought were friends pulled away from him. His rink mates, the closest thing he had to family, began to treat him with detached coolness instead of the friendly camaraderie that he’d grown to depend upon. Every time he came home with a new medal, he saw the old admiration now replaced with a flash of jealousy in their eyes. Still, he tried to bridge the gap with his usual cheer, but then there wasn’t any room for him at lunchtime, or invitations for social gatherings never seemed to make it to him anymore. Outwardly, he acted the same as always, charming and upbeat, untouchable and unbothered. But inside, the distance stung. He understood that rivalry was a fundamental part of the sport, but while he was willing to leave all of that on the ice in favor of personal connection, no one else seemed to share his perspective. So the friends of his past melted away, leaving shallow cordiality, fake smiles, keeping up appearances, but nothing below the surface.
In order to staunch the emptiness and sadness, he sought connections elsewhere. His combination of good looks and celebrity meant that it was never difficult to find people to share his bed with, and for a while, he delighted in the attention it brought to his touch-starved life. But none of it rang true. They never wanted him, he discovered. Not really. They only wanted a piece of glamor, the opportunity to grasp onto the coattails of his fame. They were shallow, selfish, grasping, fake. When he reached out for more, he was too much, unreasonable, spoiled. Eventually, even the prospect of being touched wasn’t alluring enough to go through with the dance of deceit anymore. Because not one of them was capable of touching the one thing that cried out for a true connection: his lonely, desperately lonely heart. He let them fade away into the ether in the end. And once again, he was alone.
Over the following years, he continued to pour everything into skating. The ice understood and never judged. It gave him the acceptance that he had never received anywhere else. He brought the fractured pieces of his soul to the ice and let it embrace him, soothing the ragged edges as he glided across its pristine surface. But the ice could only give so much, and when the championships began to pile on top of the other, the crushing weight of everything off the ice began to chip away at the peace he found in his only refuge. Then the ice wasn’t enough anymore. It had begun to leave him, too, like everyone else already had.
That morning, the morning of the exhibition skate for the Grand Prix Final in Sochi, he made a decision. He would skate one last time, give the ice the last remaining piece of himself, and he would let the emptiness take him at last. He was so tired. It was time, he realized. Time to give in to the darkness and finally find rest.
After practice, he visited the medics, complaining of knee pain. It wasn’t a difficult lie to tell. Knee pain was a common complaint amongst elite athletes. The medic didn’t even bat an eye when they gave him a bottle of prescription-strength painkillers, enough to get him through the exhibition skate and the next few days before he could follow up with his doctors at home. Pocketing the bottle, he left the arena behind with assurances to Yakov that he would be back with ample time to spare before the performance that afternoon. After a brief walk through the crowded Sochi streets, he spied his destination. He pulled the tweed newsboy cap further down around his distinctive silver hair and slipped inside.
The liquor store was quiet but not completely empty. Men and women mulled about the aisles, selecting their poison of choice in nonjudgmental silence. The atmosphere matched Viktor’s mood perfectly. He selected the bottle of vodka from the hundreds of different varieties available. Nothing too cheap or too expensive. Just the right balance of middle ground to not be remarked upon. He paid quickly in cash, placing the bottle in his bag before hurrying back to the hotel to unload his items. Fortunately, between the cap on his head and the sunglasses covering his vivid blue eyes, no one paid him any mind. Once he slipped inside his room and shut the door, he allowed himself a grateful sigh for the temporary anonymity.
He padded across the carpet to the small table perched against the window overlooking the Sochi skyline. Digging through his bag, he produced the two bottles, one of pills and one of alcohol, and set them next to each other. They looked so innocent just sitting there that one almost wouldn’t think that they were capable of ending a man’s life. But they could, and that evening, they would snuff Viktor Nikiforov, figure skating champion and media darling, out of existence. He wondered if anyone would shed a genuine tear at his loss. Likely not.
Leaving his fate sitting there on the table, he moved to get ready for the exhibition skate. He took the time to style his hair and makeup, letting the persona of the unshakable Viktor Nikiforov wrap around him one last time. With a last nod at the person in the mirror, who both was and wasn’t him at the same time, he grabbed his skate bag and costume and headed to the rink.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, your five-time Grand Prix champion, Viktor Nikiforov!” the announcer’s tinny voice blared across the rink, followed by seemingly endless cheering from the home crowd. Viktor gave them his best plastic smile in response as he glided to his starting position, arms raised as if to embrace their fleeting devotion. Come tomorrow, they would find a new idol to worship on the altar of crushing expectations. He took a deep breath, briefly closing his eyes to center himself before the first pulses of music resounded from the rink’s speakers. When he opened his eyes again, he was in the zone, skating atop his only love, the cold, unforgiving mistress to which he’d devoted his hollow existence, with nothing left for himself. He jumped toward the stratosphere, spun in dizzying circles, and crossed the ice with power and grace. As he sank into his final pose, he lifted his arm and pointed upward with one finger, proclaiming to all that he was number one even if being number one meant that you were irrevocably alone.
He waved to the enthusiastically cheering crowd of nameless faces as he left the ice and, after a few perfunctory nods to the press, he escaped to the showers, then back to the hotel to change for the banquet. A large part of him wanted to skip it, but he decided to keep up appearances just a little longer. That way, no one would come pounding on his door until the following morning, and by then, it would be much too late. He would make his rounds, do what was expected of him one more time, and then he’d be free.
As he donned his black suit, he couldn’t help the morbid thought that popped up in his mind. I look like I’m going to a funeral, he thought to himself with a ghost of a smile that had no ounce of actual happiness in it. The dark, inside joke mocked him as he finished getting ready. At least he was appropriately attired on his last night on earth. Shrugging into his jacket, he left for the banquet.
These banquets were never any fun. Packed full of fake people and insincere, banal platitudes, it took all Viktor had not to scream instead of forcing the laughter that bubbled from his lips. This sponsor or that one sidled up to him as they always did, expecting him to perform like some kind of trained monkey for the money they tried to dangle in front of his face. The requests for that money ranged from straight business to borderline proposition, thinking that because he was a public figure he would be easily seduced by whatever they had to offer. It was all the same, event after event. He gave his plastic smiles and let the favor requesters down as gently as decorum allowed, always poised, always the perfect gentleman. Even though he’d really like to be able to tell them all to go straight to hell, where they belonged. It was worse when he had long hair. The greasiest of the sponsors liked to run their fat fingers through it, implying their ownership of him and expectation of favors returned for their good graces. It made him ill every time. One day, he just couldn’t take it anymore and chopped off his long locks to get away from those roving hands. The locks may have disappeared, but the air of expectation remained. He deferred and acted oblivious, moving away as quickly as possible every time. He might be a lot of things, but he wasn’t a whore, no matter how lucrative the deal sounded. It wasn’t worth the last of his dignity.
He polished off his glass of champagne and set it on the table, steeling himself. A cold semblance of calm began to settle over his body. Not anticipation, just resignation. Deciding that he’d had enough of this farce, he turned to leave. But a commotion from the center of the room crashed into his senses, demanding his attention. Curious despite his morbid mood, he walked over to the source of the noise. Then stopped and stared.
One of the other skaters, what was his name again? Oh yes, Katsuki from Japan. The skater was currently engaged in an all-out dance battle with none other than his extremely prickly rink mate, Yuri Plisetsky. Yuri was throwing himself across the floor in a series of angry, of course, they were angry, breakdance moves in an effort to crush his competition into dust. It was the way he handled everything in his life. Why would this be any different? But the amazing thing was that, despite his single-minded will to dominate and come out on top, he was losing. Badly, if Viktor was called upon to say so. Katsuki was wiping the floor with the younger skater, flipping his body forward and backward with a grace possessed by only a few in this world. It was mesmerizing. Digging out his phone, he snapped a few quick photos. Yura would definitely need proof of his humbling later on. Perhaps he should send them to Yakov as a tool to keep the boy in check in the future.
The snapping of the photo must have caught Katsuki’s attention, and he rounded on Viktor, lurching forward just as he hit the take photo button, filling the entire shot. His arms were open in an obvious challenge, with eyes half-lidded with inebriation. Viktor’s own eyes widened at the sight as he lowered his phone.
“My name is Yuuri. Yuuri Katsuki,” the man told him fiercely, his voice just on the edge of slurring. “You will remember me this time, Viktor Nikiforov! Now dance with me!” With that declaration, Yuuri turned to the open dance floor that Yuri Plisetsky had just stomped off of in a huff and twirled, beckoning Viktor to follow. How could he say no to that? Tentatively, Viktor began to dance. His movements were jerky, unsure at first, hardly deserving of fitting alongside Yuuri’s grace. But the more the Japanese man twirled and stretched his body, the more Viktor let himself enjoy the freedom of his own movement. This Yuuri Katsuki was enchanting. Soon, they were dancing alongside each other. Soon, Viktor’s face broke into the first genuine smile he’d been able to give in longer than he remembered.
Impulsively, Viktor whipped off his jacket with a flourish and a challenging stare in Yuuri’s direction. Yuuri, in answer, put his hands to his head in a portrayal of a bull about to charge. It was all so ridiculous that before he knew it a laugh, a real laugh, escaped his lips. Yuuri charged forward and grabbed Viktor by the waist, spinning him around in a bubble of inebriated joy. When he dipped him, Viktor’s leg found itself raised high. The only thing that kept him from falling on the ground was Yuuri’s arm holding that leg, and his hand pressed against the Asian man’s back, almost caressing his lithe body. When Yuuri’s other hand raised to cradle his face, his heart stuttered. He threw his head back and let the pure joy course through him. It felt amazing. He hadn’t thought he could feel joy anymore. But somehow, this man, this inexplicably beautiful, vibrant man, had pulled it out of him. At that moment, he knew that he would do anything to capture the joy granted to him that night. To hold onto it and never let it go.
But let go, he did, if only temporarily, as Christophe sidled up to them and proposed the next dance battle. In true Chris fashion, this round was to play out on a pole. Where Chris managed to obtain said pole, well, that was a mystery for another day. Delighted, Yuuri accepted. But before he approached his next battle, he turned to Viktor and grabbed his chin, his lovely brown eyes boring into him with intense sincerity.
“Don’t take your eyes off me,” he said. “If I win this dance battle, I will come back to claim my reward.”
Viktor’s eyes widened, and his mouth hung open in shock. Lost in those brown pools that stared straight into his soul, he could only nod his agreement. When Yuuri’s face broke into a smile meant for him alone, he knew he was lost, and he couldn’t be anything but happy about it. This kind of loss was sweet, filling up all the dark, empty places that had been so long bereft and painful. This loss filled him with pure, liquid gold. Not the gold of his many medals, no. That gold was cold and unfeeling. This gold was sunlight, joy, and life. Dare he say it, maybe even love. He leaned toward it like a person who’d spent far too much of his life separated from the sun, desperate to keep it for even a little while.
But Yuuri, satisfied with Viktor’s agreement, pulled away and turned toward his opponent, shedding his pants with no reservations whatsoever. And when he began to spin around the pole, Viktor was enraptured. True to his word, he couldn’t look away if he tried. He tamped down the wave of jealousy that rose up in him as Christophe joined him on the pole, handing Yuuri a bottle of champagne, which the man proceeded to drink and then pour over himself and his opponent. If Viktor didn’t know that Christophe had a partner at home to which he was singularly devoted, he might be forced to take drastic action.
Wait, what?
He shook his head at the thought in disbelief. Since when did he feel possessive? He had no right to Yuuri at all. They weren’t together. Hell, they’d never even talked before tonight. And furthermore, why did he care? He pondered this new side of himself with confusion as he continued to watch the admittedly very lewd pole dance before him. What was it about that man that made him want to stand up and call him his own? He’d long since ceased trying to make connections because they were always disappointing. How was this any different? His eyes trailed downward. That’s right. Circumstances had taught him that reaching out to others wasn’t worth the pain of rejection. He wasn’t anything anyone really wanted. Who was he trying to kid right now?
Before his thoughts had a chance to travel further down that dark road, however, he found himself with an armful of a half-naked, very drunk Japanese skater.
“Viktorrrruuu,” Yuuri purred. “Did you see? I won, Viktor, I won! Now, what should my reward be, I wonder?!”
Viktor tried to ignore the fact that all of these words were being said while Yuuri was steadily grinding against him while wearing his tie on his head and not much else besides a pair of black boxer briefs. But he was, after all, only a man. And Yuuri was very, very sexy. And Viktor was very, very gay. The blush that crossed his pale cheeks couldn’t be helped.
Yuuri paused his grinding as if to consider his question, then turned and grabbed his hand with a smile and twinkling eyes. "I know! Be my coach, Viktor! Come to Hasetsu and become my coach!”
Of all the things he was expecting Yuuri to ask for, it was certainly not that.
“Why?” he asked in abject bewilderment.
The question seemed to take Yuuri aback, his drunken mind searching for the right words. He offered a wide smile. “Well, why not?” he settled on.
Why not, indeed?
As he looked into those pleading brown eyes, he considered the request. It was a way forward. A path that he hadn’t even considered. But more than that, it was an olive branch reaching, offering to pull him out of his self-imposed hell.
Did he want that? Or, more importantly, would he risk tainting this bright soul with the overwhelming greyness that surrounded him? He thought about selfishly reaching out to grasp that olive branch, taking it for himself and letting it pull him into the sunlight. But just as quickly, he let the thought seep through his fingers. He wasn’t selfish. He couldn’t be. Yuuri deserved so much more than the paltry fare he had to offer.
He turned his gaze away in order to not burn from the intensity of Yuuri’s beautiful eyes and gently pushed him back. “You couldn’t possibly want that,” he murmured and began to move away, walking to the exit. He would go to his room and finish what he’d started earlier that day. He hated to disappoint, but the prospect of staying, of fulfilling Yuuri’s wish, which he would come to regret, would be an even greater disappointment. It was best that Yuuri didn’t get the chance to discover that. He couldn't bear to witness the moment those bright eyes dimmed when they realized how pathetic he really was.
The exit was mere steps away when he felt a strong grip close around his wrist. Confused, he turned around to meet Yuuri’s gaze once again. It wasn’t a look that conveyed disappointment or accusation, which is what he’d expected it to be. Instead, the eyes were softened in something that inexplicably resembled understanding, as if he could actually see the raw, fractured pieces of his glass heart. But that was impossible, wasn’t it?
Yuuri’s other hand rose to cup his cheek. The palm was so warm, and Viktor longed to lean into it. He only just managed to restrain himself. Instead, he looked back, his eyes searching for whatever answer the other man could provide.
What he got was a question that swept him away.
“Why are you so sad, Viktor?”
Viktor gasped. How? How did he know? He’d been so careful. The plastic smile was flawless. He should know; he’d practiced it enough. He forced a laugh as if to play off the ridiculous notion.
“What do you mean? Why would I be sad?” he asked with a flick of his silver hair and another plastic smile.
Yuuri snorted without humor. “You can’t lie to me,” he said with the confidence only a drunk man could muster, not letting go of either his wrist or his cheek. “I’ve seen you, watched you. The light in your eyes. It used to be so bright, your smile so wide. But not anymore. So tell me. What’s made you so sad?”
Viktor searched Yuuri’s face for a trace of the typical calculating insincerity that he was so used to but was surprised to find none. Instead, he saw openness, honesty, and genuine care. What had he done to deserve that, he wondered?
What would it hurt to be honest in return, just this once?
The fact that he wanted to peer out from behind the mask and let someone, no, not merely someone, Yuuri, see what lay below the surface just once surprised him. It was an interesting experience. People had long ceased to surprise him. But Yuuri, Yuuri had managed to keep surprising him over and over.
“Not here,” he replied and pulled Yuuri out of the banquet hall. The slight stumble of the man as he lurched forward was the only indication that he was still quite drunk. He led Yuuri to his room in silence, up the elevator, and down the hallway. Not once did Yuuri let go of his wrist. Not once did Viktor want him to. Only when the door had closed behind him did he let go. Viktor rubbed his wrist, missing the warmth of the contact.
When he turned away from latching the door, he found Yuuri staring forward, his expression somber. Then, Viktor realized what he was looking at.
The table. The products of his plan were carefully arranged as if in invitation of oblivion. He’d all but forgotten.
Viktor studied Yuuri’s face, waiting for him to rage or just observe him in cold, bitter disappointment. But he didn’t receive either of those things.
Instead, Yuuri began to cry.
The reaction startled Viktor so badly that he shook. He didn’t know what to do. He was never good with crying people. How was he supposed to handle this?
“Shh, Yuuri, please don’t cry,” he said in as consoling a voice as he could muster. “I’m not worth your tears. Don’t you understand?”
That only made Yuuri cry harder. Viktor suppressed a frustrated groan.
“Yuuri please. I don’t know what to do here. Should I just kiss you or something?”
Yuuri stopped crying and stared at him in shock, his mouth gaping. Well, it was partly a win. At least he wasn’t crying anymore.
The Japanese man closed his mouth and shook his head in disbelief. “W-why?” he asked through hiccupping gulps of air.
Viktor led him to sit on the bed before seating himself next to him, close but not close enough to touch. He leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, and ran his fingers through his silver hair.
“Because I’m tired, Yuuri,” he replied. “I’m so damn tired.”
He felt a hand on his shoulder, comforting, real, warm. “What are you tired of, Viktor?”
Viktor responded with a mirthless laugh. “I’m tired of being so empty. No matter how much I succeed, how many medals I win, nothing seems to matter anymore. Everything is grey. It has been for so long and I’m just so tired of it. There’s nothing left.”
“But there is. There is something left,” Yuuri said softly.
Viktor turned to him then, his eyes searching. “What is left, Yuuri? Can you tell me that?”
Yuuri smiled his sunshine smile; the one Viktor couldn’t help but return despite the raw pain inside of him. “Now you have me,” he said.
Viktor’s eyes widened. “I do?”
Yuuri nodded. “All my life I have looked up to you, chased after you, pushed forward to just once have the opportunity to skate on the same ice as you. You’ve been my motivation, my passion, my drive and my most cherished dream. You’ve given me so much, Viktor. Now let me give a piece of that back to you. If going on for yourself isn’t enough anymore, move forward for me. Skate for me, win World’s for me. And when you’re done, come to me and be my coach. Let us skate together and build a better life. A stronger one. Together.”
Viktor sniffed, forcing back the tears that prickled the edges of his eyes. “B-but I don’t know anything about being a coach,” he reasoned weakly.
“Then we’ll figure it out together, won’t we? Let me carry you forward, Viktor. Don’t end it. Please. For me.”
Viktor stared into those deep, soulful chocolate eyes and knew he couldn’t ever deny Yuuri anything. His heart, which had always been crying out for a true connection, beat in happy recognition like it had finally found its missing piece. Awed, he nodded.
“All right. I’ll try. For you.”
Yuuri’s answering smile was worth enduring everything his sad farce of an existence had thrown at him thus far. Unable to help himself, he leaned forward and tasted that smile. It was everything he could ever hope for. Soft, sweet, and filled with promise.
They traded a few more kisses, their hearts connecting, healing, becoming whole. Far too soon, Viktor pulled away and stood, retrieving a pen and paper from the desk. Quickly, he jotted down his phone number and his name in Cyrillic before tearing off the sheet and placing it in Yuuri’s shirt pocket.
“Because I’m hoping that this is the first page of what I think will be a very good story,” he explained with a smile.
Yuuri grinned back at him. “It’ll be the best story, you’ll see.”
“I hope so,” Viktor replied. “Now let me get you back to your room.”
Hand in hand, they traveled down the hallway. Somehow, Yuuri had managed to retain his keycard and the memory of his room number. Far too soon, they arrived at his door. Viktor took Yuuri’s hands in his own, kissing the knuckles as Yuuri watched, blushing.
“Thank you, Yuuri. I can’t explain what you’ve given me, but I’ll always be grateful. It was...enchanting, to meet you,” he said softly.
Yuuri grinned. “See you at World’s, Viktor,” he replied.
Viktor returned the grin with one of his own, open and real. “It’s a date.”
They parted with one last lingering kiss before Yuuri disappeared into his room. If Viktor pranced a little, blushing all the way back to his door, that was his business. As he collapsed into his bed, he touched his lips with his fingertips, joy bubbling underneath the surface, along with something else.
Hope.
For the first time in forever, he was looking forward to what the future would bring.