Work Text:
"And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea."
There’s a story somewhere about Viktor Nikiforov’s rise to fame, beginning with his first hesitant footsteps with bowed knees on the ice and ending with a legacy that includes complete domination of men's singles. There’s a story that includes the construction of the Living Legend, the four-time consecutive Worlds champion, the Olympian, the skater who sits at the top of the podium and smiles winningly for the endless sea of cameras. There are stories of the journey he took to get there, the countless hours of grueling practice and dogged determination interlaced with wild nights on the town and all the benefits fame has to offer that interviewers eat up like they’re starved for it.
Viktor just wants to stop being a character in them.
When he wakes up in the morning, the expanse of his bed cool to the touch and sheets rumpled around his hips, he keeps his eyes closed for a few moments. He inhales, as if trying to suck the spirit of the man he has painstakingly created back into his body after it escaped while he slept, and then exhales, willing the remnants of his tired thoughts away. Outside, St. Petersburg is still quiet, the sun having yet to grace the horizon and the gentle twinkle of stars having faded away into the hazy gray of a morning just before dawn. He would like to call it the calm before the storm, but that would imply the day ahead to be filled with a sort of wonder he strongly doubted would ever find him. With heavy eyelids, he rises from bed, moving to grab his training bag and clothing before heading to the rink.
It’s not that he doesn’t love skating. Or — it’s not that he doesn’t think he should love skating. It’s something he’s done for over two decades, something that has shaped who he is and found its way into every corner of his life. He likes the creativity, the competition, the offer of improvement if only he’s willing to work for it. Maybe he’s just getting old.
He feels the cold now, something he couldn’t say five years ago. It leaves this awful ache inside of him that does nothing to fill the empty space he imagines his rib cage to be. His apartment is quiet and cold and his jog to the rink is chilled by the November air, his breath coming in little huffs that create visible clouds. He mentally reviews his programs, thinking through each component as a sort of warm-up as he approaches Yubileynyy. The Grand Prix Circuit is underway, and he already knows he’ll be the one to bring home gold at the Final.
He opens the door with the small key Yakov had given him along with a stern look years ago, demanding Viktor’s promise not to abuse the privilege. For all of their bickering, which mainly consisted of Yakov shouting nonsensically and Viktor smiling and unperturbed as he continued about whatever it was he was doing, he was grateful for the man. The rest of the Russian team would not be arriving for a little while, accompanied by Yakov and his horribly bitter coffee, so the rink was his and his alone for the time being. Slipping on his skates and removing his guards, he stepped onto the ice, fresh and glittering like a new page begging to be written on.
After a quick warm-up including a few laps around the rink, getting a feel for himself and what the day may be able to offer, he began working through aspects of his short program, marking jumps as he went. The silence was nice, giving him the ability to focus on only himself rather than the controlled chaos that occasionally broke out through the work of his rinkmates. He thought he may have overheard something about Georgi and a new girlfriend, and wouldn’t that be something. Anya, maybe? Or was it that she was a potential girlfriend? Or maybe an ex? Viktor hadn’t bothered to really try and find out, it didn’t seem important enough to warrant butting into a conversation he wasn’t already a part of.
The grind of his skates against the surface of the ice was the only music he danced to as he moved, arms fluttering through an array of poses and positions as he skated. There was time, he knew, to find his inspiration for next season. There was time to revise and develop the bare bones of the short programs he had begun, fleshing them out into something full-bodied and amazing rather than the collection of barely-connected thoughts he possessed. He wanted to do something with love, next. This season was defined by his own loneliness and longing, so a comeback story crafted with a sense of contentment would pair well.
His current short program was haunting, but he wanted something that lingered in a different way to come after it. Where he’d find the will to skate a program like that, he had no idea. But he was Viktor Nikiforov – the impossible was what he did best.
He worried it was predictable. Or, rather more accurately, if he was going to be completely honest: he worried he was predictable. There was nothing particularly wrong with stability and consistency, in his eyes, but in order to have that sense of satisfaction when he came off the ice, he was sure there needed to be some sort of grandeur to his ideas, something no one else would see coming. It had to have some quality to it that only he could have ever come up with in order to prove that he really was worth it all. The time the audience spent watching him, the labor of his coach, the medal around his neck – despite the fact they had all become constants in his life, there was only certainty that they were things that had to be earned, time and time again. To think otherwise was laziness. Viktor was a lot of things – prideful, confident, maybe a touch overdramatic – but lazy was not one of them.
So he practiced, and he created, and he hoped very, very quietly, that he may find the willpower to keep doing it. It was all he knew, and he was good at it. But as time wore on, each of the minute decisions that were integral to his progress started to seem less and less important, leaving him suspended in a state of indifference.
"And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse."
As Viktor sunk into the final gesture of Stammi Vicino, he knew gold was his just as surely as when he first stepped out onto the ice. He was always near-perfect, technically, and this routine was one he felt in his soul, the sort of thing that sat hungry inside of him as it waited to be let free as he skated. It was an opportunity to drop the facade, if nothing else – to slip off a portion of that mask he had become so accustomed to wearing.
Of course, when the music stopped and he drew his first breath without the soulful aria behind him, his practiced charisma slid back into place. He waved, and grabbed at whatever had been thrown nearest to him, and made his way to the edge of the rink to receive his guards and Yakov’s feedback.
It was a routine he had grown well-accustomed to. It was familiar, the moments that had once left his fingertips tingling with anticipation and excitement now sitting heavy on his shoulders with lingering exhaustion. Yakov slapped him on the back as he launched into a tirade about Viktor’s free leg and some sort of sloppiness in the second half of his performance. He smiled all the same, knowing the physical show of joy would have to convince his brain to catch up eventually. He still had the exhibition and the banquet, now was not the time to feel relief.
When he took his place on the podium, medal around his neck and the flag of Russia behind him, Viktor couldn’t help but be slightly concerned. Where was the pride for his country, the pride for himself? Before, he may not have been wholly enthusiastic before or after his competitions, but at least he was accompanied by that sense of pleasure at a job well-done. Where was it now?
Instead he was already dreading what was to come – Nationals, Worlds, and god forbid next season. It was only December – this should not weigh on him yet. Was this what had driven skaters to retirement? The monotony?
No, retirement wasn’t an option. He was in great shape, he was winning, and the idea of change was even more exhausting than simply embracing continuity. He would not – could not – retire. That would be the kind of surprise no one wanted to see, an unexpected development that left a sour taste in the mouths of the audience rather than leaving them alight with wonder.
It occurred to Viktor then how selfish he must seem. Here Christophe was, holding silver yet again, and the smile he wore was genuine in a way Viktor could only admire. It shone with accomplishment, even if deemed less prestigious by the smooth medal weighing heavy around Viktor’s own neck. He should have been more grateful than he was – so why did it not seem to matter this time around?
He felt like his motivation just continued to wane every time he stepped out in front of a crowd. He didn’t dare take a break, though – that was what often spelled the end for skaters. Get too comfortable, and you’re suddenly on the road to being a has-been who only stayed somewhat relevant by appearing on vaguely popular YouTube channels to offer commentary on the new, better, more exciting skaters.
As long as the audience couldn’t tell what he was thinking, he was safe. He worried he was becoming paranoid, constantly observing himself in his mind, endlessly focused on his posture, how his hair fell, whether he should tuck his hands into his pockets or leave them free to wave. Could they tell, though? The concealer under his eyes and the color he applied to his cheeks could only do so much. He refused to drop the facade for even a second, maintaining the image of the carefree victor until he felt like himself again. If he stopped to wallow, it would only become more difficult to hide away the pieces of himself he felt chipping off. If he presented himself as whole and satisfied, it would have to become a reality eventually.
He may have found himself in a box, but it was a prison he had chosen for himself and one he had become acquainted with. Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t, isn’t what they always said? Sure, he may feel a little trapped, if he let himself think about it, but being listless was better than being directionless. He had a purpose.
The exhibition, the banquet, and then he could get out of Sochi. At least being on his own back in the consistency of practices in Saint Petersburg would offer him the comfort of routine. He’d figure out a way to pull himself together before his next competition.
"And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?"
The banquet held for the skaters after competitions existed largely for the sake of publicity. It was a time to socialize, snap a few good photos, and bask in the glory of completed programs. This was when he was most often approached by representatives for potential sponsors or people looking to network, congratulating him as they attempted to edge themselves into his limelight. When Viktor first started attending these events, he was amazed by the fine tablecloths and excited to have the company. The way the lights shone off of the glasses and the flooring creaked gently under his heels was really his first introduction to this sort of luxury, a far cry from how he had spent his childhood. But with several seasons under his belt, they had just about lost their novelty, instead becoming a mandatory event at which he must keep up his branding and smile amicably for the cameras.
So there he stood, pressed into his (very well-tailored, very flattering, if he did say so himself) suit, standing close to the wall and attempting to look approachable enough that he wasn’t seen as hostile, but intimidating enough that he wouldn’t actually have to deal with talking to each individual that wanted some piece of Viktor Nikiforov to tell their friends about. Yakov had stepped out to answer a phone call and Yuri Plisetsky was glaring daggers at anyone who so much as looked in his direction. Even if it wasn’t the most flattering thing the young skater could be spending his time doing, it was assisting Viktor with his mission of getting out of there without having to listen to the endless strings of congratulations that no one actually meant.
It was from his cleverly chosen wall-adjacent space that he surveyed the room, and just as he considered walking over to grab another glass of champagne, he noticed the figure lurking silently next to the table. Standing rather stiffly, an army of empty glasses in front of him, the man appeared rather unassuming. Slightly agitated slope of his shoulders, suit likely purchased off the rack, messy hair – nothing about this figure screamed “I’m looking for attention and/or someone to talk to!” So Viktor assumed he was in the clear to cross the room and grab his next glass, not particularly at risk of being stopped for a conversation by the mystery man.
In front of him, Yura was rambling about something, and Viktor was almost certain it involved the Junior Final. Probably his frustration at a lack of real competition. At some point, humility would become a skill he desperately needed to learn, but Viktor Nikiforov was not the one that was going to try and teach him that. With a smile and a promise to return quickly, he began to step away as Yura rolled his eyes, but when he next looked at the champagne table he was met with a surprise.
Yeah, mystery man was drunk. And had begun stumbling away from the table towards the middle of the room, babbling something inaudible to someone Viktor did not recognize. And, mystery man was definitely Yuuri Katsuki, the skater from Japan who had for some reason refused to take a photo with him. God, what tie was that? His coach should have said something before letting his skater walk in looking like he shopped exclusively at department stores. Fortunately for Katsuki, there was something rather alluring about him, so he could probably get away with the sloppiness. Viktor valued the details, though, and would have said something about the fashion tragedy and maybe offered one of his own ties if only Katsuki had not snubbed him earlier.
It was just as he had finished sizing him up that Yuuri seemed to sense Viktor looking at him, rolling his head in his direction as they locked eyes. With that, Yuuri’s mouth fell open and his eyes widened as he began making a beeline for Viktor’s exact position.
Well, this was likely not going to end well.
Yura chose that moment to yank Viktor back by his sleeve and shove his finger into Katsuki’s chest, snarling a threat about what would happen if two Yuri’s had to continue sharing the ice. Great, here is where the man would turn tail and leave, another victim of the Russian Ice Tiger’s attitude. Viktor would be able to return to his evening of mind-numbing boredom, albeit without that drink he had been wanting.
Instead, Katsuki broke into a watery smile, grabbing Yura’s wrist with both hands as he laughed. When he straightened up, he put his own hand on the center of Yura’s chest, still smiling as he said “Come on! Dance off right now… let’s prove who the better Yuuri is!”
The perfect cocktail of rage, shock, and determination came over Yura’s face and he watched as Katsuki immediately dropped to the floor.
Was he breakdancing??
Yura got with the program quickly, never one to back down even in the face of confusion. He quickly leapt through a series of ballet moves, which Yuuri soon sprang up to match with grace that would be incredible even if he was sober. His lines were exquisite, how he managed to make it look so effortless was nothing short of astounding.
This was, at the very least, unexpected, and Viktor found himself grinning if only from the sheer absurdity of it all. Katsuki’s eyes were alight with an emotion Viktor could not even hope to name, but the way he barked out a laugh as poor Yura fumbled a landing was enchanting.
Suddenly, he was captivated. Others in the room seemed to be trying to maintain their conversations for the most part, but Viktor could see their resolve breaking.
To hell with being nonchalant, Viktor whipped out his camera and started cheering. The best thing about a dance battle fought by two individuals with the same name was that he could cheer for them both at the same time! Yakov would have had an aneurysm if he was here to witness this, especially considering Yura was definitely losing.
After a rather embodied series of moves, Yura finally resigned himself to the loss and went to catch his breath by the refreshments, at which point a seemingly still energetic Yuuri who had kept dancing grabbed Viktor’s hand and drew him onto the dance floor in Yura’s place, immediately falling back into ballet steps. Viktor stumbled along, trying to recall his training as he leapt and spun alongside Yuuri, who had already become the greatest thing to ever happen to a banquet.
The other skaters had long since stopped pretending they weren’t watching, and as he whirled around Viktor spotted Yura taking pictures that he would definitely need to get ahold of later.
Yuuri suddenly wrapped his arm around Viktor’s waist, tilting him forward and pressing his shoulder into the warm muscle of his chest, stretching Viktor’s hand in his out in front of them. He felt his heart skip a beat, and then possibly stop altogether when Yuuri dipped him.
When he felt Yuuri’s hand come up to cradle his head as he moved their faces closer, noses almost touching, he found himself waiting for a kiss before he realized that was completely crazy. But Yuuri laughed, joyful and carefree and he was so beautiful that any thought of proper behavior flew so far out of his mind Viktor was sure he would never see it again.
When he was sweaty, exhausted, and faintly aware that his cheeks hurt from how much he was smiling, Viktor listened as a very drunk, pantsless Yuuri wrapped him tightly in a hug and babbled about his family’s onsen back in Japan. When he looked up at Viktor, tie wrapped around his forehead and eyes wide, and asked him to be his coach if he won the next dance off, all he could think was “anything, if you keep making me feel this way.”
It had been a long time since he had felt excited about anything. It had been longer still since he felt eager to see what his future looked like. But now, he felt.
When Yuuri pulled off his shirt and tossed it to Viktor, requesting he hold onto it for safekeeping with a wink and a flash of that grin Viktor was quickly learning to be deadly, he only held it closer to his chest and resolved to never take his eyes off of Yuuri Katsuki.
And then he wrapped his thighs around a pole, and Viktor’s heart definitely would’ve stopped if it hadn’t already earlier. In his peripherals, he still saw Yura with his camera, and so he remained staring at the scene before them without fear that it would go undocumented, even as Yuuri grabbed another bottle and became some sort of sex-god that emerged from champagne bubbles like Aphrodite from sea foam.
Eventually, as all good things must, the night came to an end, and Viktor managed to slip past a furious Yakov busy with Yura, arms wrapped around a still wildly drunk Yuuri Katsuki. Yuuri was absentmindedly running his fingers across Viktor’s hair as they walked, Yuuri slumped against him as Viktor carried some of his weight.
“I like you so much, you know.” Yuuri said, and Viktor’s heart jumped.
“I like you a lot, too.” He threw in a little wink, and he may have been imagining it, but he thought Yuuri may have flushed a shade darker.
He managed to get them all the way to the elevator with little trouble, before Yuuri stopped moving and grabbed Viktor’s face.
“Viktor.”
Viktor stopped. Was this it, their perfect romantic moment? He had always been a bit old-fashioned, he would have preferred to take Yuuri out for a proper date, but if he wanted to make things official and ask Viktor to be his boyfriend – or husband, or really whatever he wanted – in this elevator, he supposed he could go along with it.
“Yes…?” He said expectantly.
Yuuri looked up at him, brows furrowed together. “You seem sad. I’m worried.”
Viktor paused. This had to be the alcohol talking, because clearly he was elated at that moment. “I’m very happy right now. I had a great night.”
Yuuri mumbled something.
“I didn’t catch that,” Viktor said.
Yuuri slumped against his shoulder once again, face turned towards his neck. He could feel his breath ghosting over his skin. “Not now… on the television. And on the ice.”
Ah. Viktor stayed there silently for a moment as Yuuri managed to hit the button for his floor. “We can talk about this another time, if you want. But don’t worry about me.”
Yuuri slurred something quietly that sounded like “I worry about everything,” but he had no good response to that even if he hadn’t misheard it.
They made it to Yuuri’s hotel room, which he so kindly pointed out with a vague nod of his head. Viktor took the key from his jacket pocket and unlocked the door, maneuvering them inside and easing Yuuri onto the bed. He deposited Yuuri’s shirt and jacket on the chair (Yuuri’s pants had gone permanently missing, it seemed) and removed his shoes while the man slumped backwards against the sheets.
“Yuuri?” Viktor said quietly.
Yuuri only groaned in response.
“I’m leaving my number on the notepad. Call me tomorrow, okay?”
Yuuri gave a small nod, before mumbling “I won the dance-off, right?”
“By a landslide, Christophe never stood a chance. And… if you meant what you said, well. We can talk about it when you wake up, okay?”
There was no response, and as Viktor straightened from placing Yuuri’s shoes next to the chair, he saw that he was already asleep. With a smile, he quickly wrote his phone number on the hotel provided stationary, drawing a small heart next to it. Heart full and mind hopeful, he shut the door behind him as he headed to his own room.
It had been a week since the banquet. A full week, and even though Viktor had practically glued himself to his phone for the entire day after he dropped Yuuri off at his hotel room, as well as several days after, he had not received a single text, phone call, email, or instant message from the man.
At first he tried to rationalize it. He was sleeping off the hangover and just hadn’t woken up yet. Then, he made the excuse that Yuuri must just be deciding what to say. Eventually he started considering that he had put his number down wrong – but Yuuri could’ve reached out over Instagram, and his messages were painfully empty of contact attempts from the skater.
So, it had been a full week, and he was starting to accept that Yuuri was not going to reach out. He really should’ve expected this, honestly, if his reaction to Viktor’s offer to take a photo with him had been anything to go off of. Drunken actions did not equate to any sort of continuity in feelings when sober, as he had unfortunately learned.
It still hurt, though. A lot.
He had been so ready, finally, to move towards something different, to have something that mattered to him in a way he had long forgotten. And it wasn’t like he was only chasing this because of the impact it had on him, either. He liked Yuuri. He was beautiful, and interesting, and saw him.
Viktor had become addicted to watching videos of Yuuri’s old routines, confused as to what had happened to utterly ruin him at the GPF. He almost always performed worse in the free skate if he performed well in the short program, but this was a catastrophe on a whole new level. But Yuuri fell like he planned it sometimes, which is what really captivated him. He wasn’t sure if it was the sort of practiced grace he had seen in his dancing at the banquet, or if Yuuri had already decided he was going to fall beforehand, his lack of confidence bleeding into his skating before he even completed the jump.
When Viktor fell, it was an accident. It may not have happened frequently in competition, but it did happen. It was a surprise, every time. When Yuuri fell, he moved with the mistake, almost as if his anticipation of the error had allowed him to already blend it into his routine. It was consistent. The irony of this beauty was not lost on Viktor – he always went for the unanticipated route, but here was a sort of beauty found in expecting the unexpected.
When he dreamt, it was of big brown eyes and breathy laughter. It was of the feeling of arms around his waist and the promise of a future worth experiencing. And yes, he had been told over and over again how immature it was to put so much value on one evening. Yura had watched him grab at his phone several times during practice one day and loudly chewed him out for it.
There was no amount of sighing as he skated through his programs or dramatically laying himself across the walls around the rink that could make Yakov touch the mess with a ten-foot pole, only yelling at Viktor to focus up.
Mila, who had witnessed the whirlwind that was the banquet, was his best option for advice, but he quickly exhausted that avenue. Even Makkachin was starting to look fed-up.
When Georgi started shooting him sympathetic looks, he knew he had a real problem.
So he’d just have to stop thinking about him. Easy enough.
(If the pale slope of his neck, or the contours of his thighs, or the image of a bright smile that crinkled brown eyes continued to haunt him… well, no one had to know.)
"And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid."
Viktor knew, logically, that it wasn’t a big deal. It did not have to mean anything, and it especially should not have shaken him like it did. The creeping sense of trepidation that had followed him back to his apartment, back to his couch, as he left the rink was wholly unwarranted. He knew this.
But he had fallen.
It wasn’t even a bad fall. He got up immediately, unharmed except for the soreness that radiated from his hip, and continued with jump practice. This had happened hundreds of times – to him, to other skaters, to literally anyone that set foot on the ice no matter their level of talent.
But he fell. On a quad flip.
Things happened. People fell. He ate ice on a regular basis, he would know. But he hadn’t fallen on a quad flip in a little while, and he had already been feeling a little self-conscious because he swore there was a small line next to the corner of his mouth when we woke up that he didn’t remember having when he went to bed. Was this the beginning of the end? First his beauty leaves, and then his talent?
The flip was his signature move. It was the thing unique to him, the jump that solidified his place as the champion of men’s figure skating. He put it into just about all of his routines, almost as if imbuing them with a bit of that extra Nikiforov-charm that raised him above the competition. What would happen if he stopped being able to land it?
Viktor was getting older and he knew it. He was practically ancient, by many people’s standards, at least when it came to skating. He felt the weight of his body in a way previously unknown to him, his knees popping loudly when he crouched or took a step in a specific way. But what could he possibly do?
They won’t let him retire, of that he’s basically certain. Not while he was winning. He was a clear victory for Russia, their champion who never failed to bring home the medal, carrying their flag as he did so. He was Yakov’s favorite, even if he’d never admit it and would keep grumbling about Viktor causing him hair loss. And while yes, Plisetsky definitely had potential, he was still young and relatively inexperienced in a way that did not make his path as Viktor’s successor entirely clear. Skaters who performed very well in Juniors fell apart when they reached Seniors all the time, and if Yura continued to be driven solely by that fiery rage he never seemed in short-supply of, Viktor worried he would fizzle out.
So that was it then. He’d have to skate until he dropped dead on the ice, or began wasting away to the point that it wasn’t even worth sending him to competitions anymore. Maybe he could commission a zombie-inspired costume and pretend it was some sort of inside joke, skate his next season on a theme that was indirectly linked to his impending failure.
Makkachin was fast asleep next to him, worn out from her difficult day of eating high quality dog food and sniffing various buildings during her short walk. The grey around her muzzle was a visible reminder of her own age in a way that tugged at Viktor’s heart – she had been with him for so much. When he called for her, he had to speak up a bit more now, and she didn’t play as excitedly as she once had. She was fifteen, long past being considered old.
He needed to rearrange his priorities, something that was becoming very clear to him. He could not keep going like he was, something needed to change. He was getting older, and his best friend was too – it was important that they started spending some more time together. He needed more from this life than just the ice, his medals, and the unending days spent adhering to his strict practice schedule and nutrition plan. What that could be, he had no clue, and didn’t feel like he really had it in him to find out. He refused to think about the banquet at Sochi, the feeling of arms wrapped around him, the fullness in his soul that he had long since learned could not be produced only through the ingestion of several glasses of champagne.
Viktor really hoped Yakov was exaggerating about stress causing his hair to fall out, because if he wasn’t, Viktor was becoming increasingly more concerned for his own luscious locks. Now that he thought about it, was his hair looking a little more thin? Was it more silver than it had been? Maybe he should grow it out again in order to have a wig made before it was too late. Oh god, no one wanted to see a bald zombie fail to execute a quad flip.
"And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”
Friday tea was a tradition that had carried over from the time in Viktor’s life where he had still lived with Yakov. It was a welcome moment of respite in both of their schedules, an occasion they carved out time for if they could help it. The conversation, like their lives, mostly revolved around the ice – Yubileynyy may be getting a new Zamboni, Yura’s quad salchow was really becoming quite good, Yakov’s office was still gathering dust, and so on.
Some years ago, Friday tea had been an event for three. Lilia’s absence was no longer notable, but still felt by both of them.
Viktor’s apartment was not really equipped to host guests, given that he only owned one set of dishes and largely resorted to using plastic cutlery. When he first moved in, he had eagerly suggested they could help him break in his new place, buying a box of scones from a local bakery as a special treat to commemorate the occasion. When Lillia had seen she was expected to use a paper towel to dab at her mouth and clean her fingertips, Viktor’s apartment was permanently added to a blacklist of spots worthy of spending time at.
Since then, Yakov’s house was the designated tea-time location. Viktor had his seat, Yakov had his, and they spent their quality time together over their cups. It was a nice tradition, but occasionally inconvenient, given the fact that Yakov – and maybe Lilia, he thought, but she never let on enough for him to know for certain – was the only person truly capable of seeing Viktor’s carefully constructed face for what it was.
After regaling him with the especially thrilling tale of Makkachin and the missing tennis ball (“It was in the kettle! How it came to be there, I couldn’t tell you, but I think it may have something to do with that sock I lost last week,”) they fell into a comfortable silence.
Yakov sipped his tea, raising his eyes to meet Viktor’s own in a way that signaled incoming questions he did not want to ask and Viktor likely wouldn’t want to answer.
“So, even though you’ve been sitting on my sofa for the last half-hour babbling away, all I’ve heard from you is stories about your dog and your rinkmates. Anything about you that I should know?”
Ah. One of those days, then. Viktor flashed him a smile and shrugged, “Nothing that’s of any interest. Just… enjoying the quiet.”
“No adventures with Mila? New restaurants you think I would like?” Yakov paused as he took another drink. “Met anyone, recently?”
Yakov knew. He knew, damn it. He knew about dark hair and brown eyes and the way Viktor bought a bottle of champagne last weekend and let it go flat after opening it because the smell was –
“No, I don’t believe so.”
Yakov sighed, a different sound than the huffs that came alongside his shouted criticisms and empty threats at the rink. “Vitya, I’m starting to worry about you.”
Viktor shook his head and laughed it off, knowing as he did that it was unconvincing. “Worried about me? I’m as great as ever.” He was starting to get tired of this conversation before it even began. If Yakov had not noticed he had been feeling off for months, if not years, there was no reason for him to start noticing now.
“I think we both know that greatness on the ice does not mean genuine happiness. You seem tired, lately.”
They were both quiet. Yakov seemed unwilling to depart from this topic of conversation and Viktor doubted he could distract him with more photos of Makkachin. “I’m not really sure what you’re looking for, here. I’m on time for practices, I’m performing well, I’m doing everything that’s asked of me. I’m fine. Better than fine, even!”
Yakov still looked unconvinced, with his slightly downturned mouth and the heaviness of his brow. Viktor would never say it aloud, but he looked like Lilia when he made that face.
“I am only asking for some honesty. If not with me, at least with yourself. I know how you get. You may be stubborn and overdramatic, but I also know you refuse to admit when there’s an actual issue.” Yakov shook his head. “No amount of time at the rink or luxury chew toys for your dog – why they even make those, I’ll never understand – will fix it.”
Viktor looked down at the bits of tea leaves in the bottom of his now empty cup. He didn’t want to drag his coach into this, especially since he couldn’t really put a name to what was wrong himself. But he saw no acceptable way out of this, knowing Yakov would either keep pushing or begin hovering in ways that were uncomfortable for the both of them. Regardless of the fact that he cared (both of them knew he did, but Yakov would never say it in so many words), being warm and gentle was not one of his strengths. Any conversations they had that veered into deeper emotion usually happened at tea, as they seemed to be doing now, and lacked any of the coddling that would have left them both filled with discomfort.
Their relationship was at a precipice, that was clear to him. And, deep down, if Viktor was only willing to admit it, there was a part of him desperate for someone to understand what he was experiencing. He had ignored it for so long and still this emptiness wasn’t going away. It was frustrating.
Yakov could be trusted. He had proved that time and time again over the course of Viktor’s life, always there for him when he needed it.
Viktor resolved himself. “I’m fine, I promise,” he said with a smile.
"No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool."
He flew to Hasetsu. How could he not, after that? After months of pining, even if he had refused to admit to himself that’s what he had been doing. How could he watch Yuuri skate Stammi Vicino with that longing thrumming under his skin and not throw himself onto the next plane?
Yakov was angry at him, but he’d get over it eventually. They may disagree on what exactly Viktor needed, but Viktor was certain in a way that he rarely was that this was the right decision.
Or at least he had been, before Yuuri had come barreling into the onsen.
Hasetsu was warm and humid, smelling faintly of saltwater no matter where you went in the city. The rush of the sea breeze through the trees produced this faint rustling outside Viktor’s room at night, the sounds of Saint Petersburg long gone. He didn’t know the language, but he knew how to smile at the strangers around him and how to dive headfirst into a new project.
When he arrived, he had assumed his reception would include arms wrapped around him and an eagerness to begin immediately. After all, Yuuri had asked for this. He had wanted him to come to Hasetsu, and even if their wires had gotten crossed somewhere along the way, there was no possible way he had changed his mind after skating like that.
So why was he still being rejected?
When he had met Yuuri, it had come with a sort of physical closeness that he had begun to hunger for. Prior to the banquet, the lack of physical contact he received had not bothered him, but after having the Japanese skater hang off of him throughout the evening – cupping his face, brushing a hand through his bangs, wrapping an arm around him – it was as if something was awakened inside of him. The last several months had been spent with him offering high-fives to his rinkmates and slinging an arm across their shoulders whenever he could get away with it. He was desperate for it. He wanted so badly for Yuuri to return his touches, to place his hand on Viktor’s shoulder when they stood close together, to sit near enough that their legs touched, to grab ahold of him suddenly. Anything would do, at this point, even the slightest brush of their fingertips.
There was this bubbling desire in his soul that would not stop threatening to boil over and ruin his calm demeanor. He craved it so badly, wanted nothing more than for Yuuri to hold him closely. Instead of this sweet affection that had plagued his imagination for months, he was fed with avoidant glances and clipped responses. Yuuri was clearly uncomfortable around him, while Viktor was completely at a loss for how to fix it.
Viktor offered multiple opportunities for them to bond, whether through deep conversations (which really had never been his thing, but he wanted Yuuri to know he would try for him!) or time spent together. He begged Yuuri to show him Hasetsu and went to impressive lengths to furnish the banquet room. If he didn’t want to get to know Viktor, the tourist, maybe he’d be enticed by Viktor’s taste in art. He had ordered several of the most wonderful marble busts to display around his room, but Yuuri had barely glanced at them.
Not even skating was something Yuuri seemed willing to share with him, sometimes. He was sneaking around behind his back practicing the quad salchow with Yurio, which, to be frank, was not nearly as sneaky as either of them seemed to think it was.
It was fine. He was assuming a new role, here in Hasetsu, one he had never played before. When he stepped into the airport in Saint Petersburg he left behind Viktor Nikiforov, frequent gold medalist and household name, and took up the mantle of Viktor Nikiforov, coach and dedicated assistant. His purpose was no longer to bask in the limelight, taking a bow on the stage, but instead had become one that worked behind the curtains, ensuring the show could progress while remaining out of sight. He was not the focus here. He was the instrument rather than the music.
And damn it, he really wanted everyone to hear the song that was Yuuri Katsuki.
"I grow old ... I grow old ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me."
Yuuri loves Hasetsu, and Viktor thinks that maybe he loves it, too.
Makkachin trundles along beside him as he trails along the water’s edge, seafoam lapping at his heels as the tide draws in and out in breaths slower than his own. She’s okay, but forbidden from ever eating anything that even resembles a steam bun ever again. He is so thankful for the Katsuki family, thankful for Makka’s life. Such a beautiful town should not have to carry the weight of two poodle spirits taken before their time.
The sky is grey, a dim color that reminds him of the view out the window of his apartment back home. The blue of the ocean is lost today, a silver sea stretching towards the horizon in its stead. Beneath his bare feet is the sand, damp and solid, his footprints clearly imprinted behind him as he continues to walk.
His pants are cuffed, rolled almost to his knees so he can wade into the water as he wishes. Makkachin is the only real burst of color on the beach, her warm chocolate fur brushed over with sand granules. His coat is black and his hair is dull, a color that matches the sea startlingly well. If Yuuri was here, he would have lit up the whole beach, Viktor was certain.
Instead, Yuuri is across the ocean in a foreign country, a place that Viktor should have been. Viktor left him to essentially fend for himself – sure, Yakov was there, but he and Viktor had hardly made up yet and, for all that he loved the man, he understood that he wasn’t exactly welcoming to strangers. Yakov’s affection was closely-guarded, a secret only available to those who truly knew him. Viktor just hoped Yakov would extend his love of Viktor to Yuuri as well, given how painfully obvious the depth of Viktor’s affections must be to him.
Viktor didn't know what came next.
His walk had been an impromptu decision, carried out with the purpose of formulating a sort of game plan and getting himself together. Yuuri would rejoin them soon enough and they would continue their work, but after the Grand Prix? After Worlds? Viktor wanted anything Yuuri would give him, but the fact that he was almost always kept at arms length concerned him deeply.
He didn’t really miss competing.
Sure, there were parts of it he liked. Holding a stuffed animal given to him by a fan in the kiss and cry, laughing with Yakov, the hush that fell over the entirety of the rink as he moved to begin his programs, anticipation heavy in the silence. But those were small moments woven between the despair he had begun to feel. He did not miss how his body hurt nearly every day and the fear of who he would become if he was not an athlete. He did not miss having to hire a dog-sitter when he knew he would be spending more and more time at the rink. He did not miss how little he had started to care.
Why would he return to the apathy that soaked into his life, as if he had picked it up from the dampness of the ice and never been able to fully dry off? He liked what he was doing now, and he loved the idea of what the future may hold with Yuuri.
Really, that was what it came down to. He just wanted Yuuri there.
There were sacrifices he had needed to make, undoubtedly. He no longer lived in his own space, for one, and he missed his book collection. He did not get to have tea with Yakov or see his rink-mates on the daily. He missed the Neva and his jogging route past the Hermitage Museum. He missed his grocery store – something he had never really expected. Here in Hasetsu, all of the foods were different and labeled in a script he still struggled to understand. The cashiers did not know him by name. He was trying to put down some roots, but he had failed to dig up the ones he had in Saint Petersburg and was now left torn between two realities.
He thought he loved Hasetsu, and he’s unsure that there isn’t truth to that. But nonetheless, he misses his own hometown. Hasetsu seems to have been built for Yuuri Katsuki, and in that aspect alone it has endeared itself to Viktor. Regardless, he wants to see Yuuri’s impressed look when he sees Viktor’s bathtub and listen to the grind of his skates as he whirls across Yubileynyy. He wants to watch Yuuri bite into freshly made pirozhki and ladle borscht into a bowl for him (he will use actual dishes, not paper bowls, he swears). In the same way that Viktor marvels at the Ice Castle Hasetsu stickers on nearly everything Yuuri owns and smiles fondly at the images of him framed on the walls of Yuu-topia Katsuki, he wants to show Yuuri every aspect of his life that no one has cared to notice before.
Makka barks at a piece of seaweed and Viktor is called back from his thoughts. The beach stretches out in the direction he is heading and remains empty and beautiful behind him. He stops, toes digging into the sand as the ocean crawls along the shore to brush the sides of his feet, and stares out at the water. It is rockier here now than it was when he arrived, but enchanting all the same. He takes another look at his poodle as she noses at a fragment of a seashell before whistling to her and heading back towards home, following the gentle path of their footprints that has already begun to fade.
"I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown."
The seagulls still fly around Saint Petersburg, just as they did when he was a boy. When he leaves his windows open at night, inviting the cool breeze into their bedroom, sometimes he still thinks he’s in Hasetsu when the fog of sleep has not yet left him.
Only a little over a year ago, Viktor laid in this spot and found no reason for him to get up, other than the fact that people expected him to. Now, he didn’t have any desire to leave this bed, but only because these early morning moments were so incredibly precious.
To his left, Yuuri sleeps soundlessly, mouth half-open and face pressed into his pillow. His body heat warms the space under their blankets and his legs brush against Viktor’s own. In a few minutes, the alarm will go off, and they’ll both have to head down to the rink – but for now Yuuri sleeps, and Viktor looks on fondly.
Viktor’s not entirely sure how they got there. By all accounts, the journey they have taken is far from conventional, something that to him seems like it came from a story rather than real life. When he thinks about their life together, every moment exists with the yellow glow of a Barcelona church in the distance, a lingering presence that alludes to their future.
Viktor is getting married.
Sure, they haven’t even started planning the wedding (formally, at least, but Viktor definitely had ideas), but the event sits on the horizon nonetheless. His camera roll, consisting mostly of photos of Yuuri performing banal activities and Makka’s usual antics, is interspersed with photos of his gold band. Shining in the fluorescent lighting of Yubileynyy, pressed over Yuuri’s hand at their dinner table, holding Makka’s leash – any and every moment it catches his eye and makes his heart beat a little faster deserves to be immortalized.
When they head to the rink, they’ll have Yurio beside them and Yakov shouting from the sides. They’ll have Mila’s sly smile and Georgi waxing poetic about their relationship. But most importantly, they’ll have each other.
Yuuri has begun venturing into the city on his own, tentatively using his developing knowledge of Russian to explore their neighborhood. He takes Makkachin for walks while Viktor makes dinner some evenings, occasionally stopping by the flower shop to bring home a small bouquet he always sheepishly presents to his fiance. It doesn’t happen every evening, or even every time Yuuri takes Makka for a walk past the shop – he says he doesn’t want Viktor to expect it so that he can be surprised every time. Viktor loves him in a way he has never loved anything.
An unexpected consequence of the last year has been how much time Viktor feels that he has. Not the looming presence of endless hours skating and competing, but a blank stretch of his life that waits for him to mold it into something he’s satisfied with. The possibilities remind him of the beach in Hasetsu, stretched out before him with unmarred sand as he steps across it.
Before Yuuri, he was trapped in his own life, everything in the foreseeable future predetermined for him. And what came after wasn’t worth thinking about, almost as if the end of his career was the equivalent of his own death.
Now, even as he returns to competition, he can see a life beyond the ice. One filled with warmth and happiness and companionship – the kind of life he never thought he would have. Viktor Nikiforov, the living legend, still exists, but he is now only a single facet of Viktor’s character rather than the summation of him. What was once something he viewed as the overarching purpose of his life has instead become a footnote of sorts. He isn’t afraid to retire now, knowing that he will not lose what he has gained.
Sure, there are still uncertainties, and Viktor knew there always would be. Sometimes things just felt wrong for days on end, as if he had forgotten a piece of himself somewhere. But when that happened, he could just lean on Yuuri and lace their fingers together, trusting that the feeling would soon dissipate. When Yuuri was quieter than usual and his movements shaky, they did the same.
Viktor did not have all of the answers, but he has someone willing to find them with him. When he took to the ice now, it was not because he felt obligated, but because he had a story to tell and this was how he did it. They had goals to reach, things he knew they could achieve together.
Yuuri had always characterized his skating with his love, and now Viktor was learning to do the same. When he trailed patterns across the ice, movements hazily forming into something new he could eventually show to the world, he thought of him and Yuuri pressed together and dancing slowly in their kitchen, muted music from the evening outside arriving through their window. He thought of how Yakov’s shoulders shook when he said something unintentionally funny at Friday tea. He thought of the way the wind gently blew across Yuuri’s face and caused his nose to redden and his bangs to sway. He thought of Yura’s newfound steadiness and the grace in his passionate fury.
The alarm goes off, chirping as Yuuri stirs and moves to silence it. Viktor’s eyes follow the line of his arm and the soft curve of his hand as he rubs the sleep from his eyes. When Yuuri looks over, his lips stretch into a small smile.
“Good morning, Vitya,” he says, and Viktor exhales.