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“Damn it!”
Skaters and observers alike winced as the irritated cry echoed through the rink, accompanied by the inelegant impact of Victor crashing onto the ice. Another unsuccessful quadruple flip attempt. Victor was blinking back tears of frustration as he staggered to his feet, wincing at the impending bruises on his hip. He was starting to think he’d never land it, that he’d reached his peak at the tender age of fourteen. Nothing could be more terrifying.
“That’s it, I’m never going to skate again!”
Yakov sighed wearily as he watched his student trudge over to the entrance of the rink, snatching his skate guards from the edge and quickly securing them, before collapsing on the bench with an exasperated huff. Any coach would be horrified to hear those words fall from their student’s lips, but this happened surprisingly more than you might think. Whenever Victor hit a particularly difficult wall, he’d fall apart, false promises of retiring early or staring a new sport falling from his pouty lips, his eyes shining with ushered, angry tears.
Yakov just assumed it was a teenager thing, and that he’d grow out of it once he reached adulthood. Sadly, that meant another four years of a stroppy Victor.
He swallowed thickly, eyeing him carefully. When Victor was in a mood like this, it had to be handled with the utmost care. Yakov had unfortunately learnt this the hard way.
He approached slowly, crouching in front of his student, cringing slightly as he watched him aggressively pull at his laces, swearing under his breath when the tight knots refused to budge.
“Vitya, slowly. Here, let me…”
Victor didn’t say a word, instead grumbling inaudible nonsense as his hands reluctantly retreated, letting Yakov speedily untie the skates, tugging them carefully off of Victor’s battered feet.
“Thanks, you can keep them! I won’t be needing them again anyway…”
Yakov couldn’t help but chuckle at his passive aggressive tone. Even when he was like this, Victor never failed to make him laugh. He was a beautiful skater, talented and inspiring, truly a joy to teach. If anyone asked him, Yakov would deny ever having favourites. Deep down he knew that this was far from the truth.
“Vitya, you do realise you make this same threat every month. Then a few days later, you nail whatever it was you were struggling with. You’re just having a bad day, it’ll pass-“
“No! You don’t get it! I can’t land this! It’s too hard! You don’t understand anything!”
Breathtaking blue eyes glowing with rage, he stood abruptly, storming off to the changing rooms, doors slamming behind him as he went. Yakov deflated. He couldn’t even be mad at him, understanding that the pressure on him was immense. The skating pride of Russia wasn’t allowed to have bad days. He couldn’t miss jumps, couldn’t fall, couldn’t fail. He couldn’t cry, couldn’t falter, couldn’t show any kind of weakness. He wasn’t allowed, not with the whole world watching. He had to be perfect.
And Victor wasn’t perfect.
No one was. That was the hard truth of figure skating. And a truth which Victor was finding particularly hard to grasp in his overwhelming rise to fame.
Ignoring the staring eyes, Yakov begrudgingly picked up the abandoned ice skates, the plush material warm in his withered hands, heated and damp from Victor’s hard work and sweat. Many other coaches would’ve refused to touch them, idolising and chasing only the most glamorous aspects of the sport. But Yakov didn’t mind cleaning up after Victor, his unwanted paternal instincts screaming in full force. He loved seeing Victor at his best, aiming to see him succeed in everything he did. But he knew this was unrealistic, and over time, had learnt to accept every messy part of him, every failing quality. Everything that made him human. Everything that made him perfect.
Forcing the fond smile off of his face, Yakov kicked open the door, watching as Victor jumped in surprise, caught in the middle of stripping his sweat soaked shirt off of his bruised body. His eyes were wide and alarmed at the sudden commotion, quickly shifting back to the irritated glare from earlier.
“Did you need something?”
Yakov gritted his teeth, an agitated sigh leaving him, forcing himself to take a slow, deep breath. He needed to be the mature one here.
“I was thinking of making borscht for dinner tonight. Does that sound good?”
Victor had been living with Yakov for a few years now, an unspoken arrangement born from countless acts of mistreatment from his real parents. It started with his father forgetting to pick him up from practice, resulting in a ten year old Victor sobbing his eyes out over the phone to Yakov, cold and afraid, abandoned in the dark. The older man had taken him home, lending him his warmest jumper and harnessing the best of his cooking skills to make him zharkoye.
Yakov could see it clear as day, even after all this time. His heart still squeezed lovingly at the memory of the boy drowning in his oversized woollen blue jumper, beaming happily as he scoffed down potatoes and beef, his eyes glued to the small television screen where Barbie and the Magic of Pegasus was playing.
This happened more times than Yakov liked to think about, the worthless excuses his parents gave never failing to make his blood boil. They didn’t care about him, their own son. A child so exceptional and amazing, and they couldn’t be bothered to care for him. There were even some times when Victor would arrive for afternoon practice, pale and exhausted, having eaten nothing all day. It made Yakov sick to his stomach, watching in horror as he swayed on the ice, blood sugar levels far too low for someone so young, shaky and dizzy.
Every time this happened, Yakov would refuse to let him skate, sometimes even dragging him off the ice and forcing food down his throat, ignoring the heartbreaking comments the ten year old would make.
“No, Yakov, I can’t eat this! Mother says it’ll make my thighs jiggle! The audience won’t like that! It’s fine, mother says it’s good to be a little dizzy and pale anyway!”
"Sorry Yakov, but mother wanted to get me a smaller costume. I know the other one fits, but she thinks I can lose some more weight to fit into a smaller one"
"Hey Yakov...what does 'obese' mean? It's just...mother says if I don't start skipping meals then I'll become obese and won't be able to skate anymore! She said my stomach is already fatty and my thighs are getting too big. Is that true?"
It was at that point Yakov went to the police, reporting the inexcusable behaviour and taking custody over Victor. Neither spoke much about it, instead falling into a natural domestic rhythm. Victor didn’t call him dad, and Yakov didn’t need him to. They were surprisingly good at unspoken communication.
“Borscht sounds good”
Victor was quiet for a moment, his hands hesitating slightly as he shoved his shirt into his bag, guilty eyes shooting up to his coach.
“…thank you”
The rest of the day was spent in relative silence, Victor quickly showering and getting dressed, before the pair left the rink. The car ride back was quiet, and Yakov found himself glancing at the passenger seat far too often, his eyes full of concern. Of course, a loud, dramatic teenager claiming early retirement was never good, but a quiet Victor was even worse. It meant that he was thinking, stuck in his own head, listening only to the thousands of screaming voices telling him that he wasn’t good enough.
Victor didn’t hang around once they arrived home, giving Makkachin a quick pet when she approached before wordlessly making his way to his room, leaving Yakov to cook, alone with his own thoughts. Having made the dish several times before, it wasn’t long before two steaming bowls of soup were sat on the table. Swallowing his nerves and bracing himself for the next half hour, Yakov reluctantly made his way to Victor’s bedroom door, gently knocking on the wood.
“Vitya? Dinner’s ready”
After a few moments, the door opened, the sight making Yakov’s heart twinge in his chest. He had clearly been crying, not that Yakov would ever mention it. Eyes red-rimmed and puffy, he awkwardly slithered past his coach to the dinner table, his movements slow and sluggish. His long, stunning hair was tied messily in a bun on his head, a few strands loose in his face. Yakov tentatively took a seat next to him, planning his next few words carefully in his head.
“You’ve been quiet since your outburst on the rink, so just spit out whatever’s bothering you already!”
Intense eyes were on him in seconds, glaring angrily as a spoonful of borscht was raised to his frowning lips. Yakov instantly kicked himself, he should’ve known better. He took a mouthful of soup himself, finding it tasted far too bitter with his Vitya angry at him. Swallowing thickly and setting his spoon down, he tried again.
“Vitya, please talk to me. I don’t remember the last time you’ve been this upset over skating”
An awkward silence hung in the air, the teenager refusing to meet his gaze. Yakov pushed his bowl aside, leaning forward on the table in a desperate attempt to connect with the boy.
“As your coach, is there anything I can do?”
Victor shrugged, staring aimlessly into his bowl, a shaky sigh leaving his lips. His eyes shone, tears slowly starting to spill over, and Yakov took a deep breath, bracing himself. He had seen Victor cry many times before, but it was something he could never seem to get used to, the sight tugging painfully at his heartstrings without fail. He wordlessly made his way over to the now sobbing teenager, wrapping an arm around him and gently patting his back.
“Shhh, Vitya, stop that. Is this really worth crying over?”
“Yes! If I can’t skate then I’m nothing!”
“Vitya!”
Horrified was an understatement as to how Yakov was feeling. He fell to his knees, ignoring the aches and clicks that came with the action, tugging a surprised Victor off of his chair and into his arms.
“You stupid boy, how could you possibly think that?! Skating is what you do, not who you are!”
Victor just shrugged meekly, seemingly unconvinced as tears still rolling down his flushed cheeks. Swallowing his pride, Yakov took a breath before continuing.
“Vitya, do you know what I think about when someone asks me about you?”
That got his attention, the teenager’s sore eyes shooting up in confused interest, a small shake of his head following a long pause. Aged hands moved up to brush away silver strands from the boy’s face, wiping away a few stray tears with his thumb as a fond smile tugged at Yakov’s lips.
“I think about you dozing off in the passenger seat of my car after practice, drooling and muttering about blini in your sleep. I think about you talking to Makkachin whilst you braid your hair for bed in the evenings, telling her all about your day even though she can’t understand you. I think about you screaming your lungs out as you sing off key to Rihanna in the early hours of the morning, even though I’ve told you a millions times to stop”
Victor giggled at this, sniffing and rubbing his nose as he blushed in embarrassment. Using his sleeve, Yakov wiped under his nose and eyes, removing the last remnants of him crying from his flushed face, his hand moving up to stoke his hair.
“I have never once thought about you on that ice rink. I think the world of you as a skater, how could I not? You are so very talented, and you have undeniable potential. But that’s not…”
A lump formed in Yakov’s throat as he struggled over his words, tears in his eyes threatening to spill.
“…that’s not the reason why you’re my pride and joy, Vitya”
A choked noise escaped the teenager, catching the coach off guard, loud sobs now escaping him as he hid his face into the older man’s shoulder. That’s what broke Yakov, his harsh, steely walls crumbling as he allowed himself to finally cry with his student, wrapping protective arms tightly around him, squeezing him impossibly closer.
“I…I- I thought y-you’d tellmtoleveifiwsnt…”
Victor’s words trailed off as he gasped for breath, a hurried jumble of nonsense that had Yakov pulling away, gently cupping his face in his hands.
“You’re hyperventilating, Viten’ka. Take a breath and try again…”
The teenager heaved in a shaky breath, desperately avoiding Yakov’s gaze as teary eyes glared at the floor.
“I…I thought…if I didn’t succeed in skating, then you’d kick me out…”
Yakov’s heart broke, tearing painfully in his chest as he shook his head in horrified disbelief.
“Oh malysh, my Vitya, how could you possibly think that? Skater or not, you’re my son, and this is your home…”
The world came to a screeching halt, both Russian’s pulling away from one another, eyes widening comically, a bright grin spreading over the younger’s face as the latter sighed tiredly.
“Did you just-“
“No! No…I did not-“
“You did! You called me your son-“
“Hush Vitya, just eat your borscht”
“Yes Dad”
Yakov groaned, face reddening as Victor smirked happily at the dinner table, eagerly picking up his spoon and digging into his meal, his eyes sparkling. The older man rose to his feet, wincing at the ache in his bones, resting a heavy hand on Victor’s shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze as he sat down.
The two ate in silence once again, although this time, it was far more peaceful. The gentle clacking of spoons against bowls, the soft pitter patter of Makkachin’s paws against the kitchen floor, the melodic splattering of rain outside. Victor raised the last mouthful to his lips, humming in thought.
“Mmm, Yakov? Could we go down to the rink again after this? There’s something I want to try”
The coach tried desperately hard to hide his happiness, failing miserably as his lip twitched upwards. He knew his boy would bounce back, solving his own problems and innovating his success. As his coach, he couldn’t be prouder of the man Victor was becoming. But as a parent, he knew he had to be responsible.
“No”
“What?! But-“
“It’s late Vitya, it’s been a long day. We can go tomorrow, alright?”
Victor pouted but didn’t argue, a yawn slipping out as he rose to his feet, taking both his and his coach’s bowls to the sink. He ran the faucet, adding a little too much washing up liquid, grinning mischievously when bubbles began to fly up, grabbing handfuls and throwing them in the air, Makkachin barking in excitement at the mess. Yakov sighed fondly, feeling an impending headache coming on. He knew he should’ve just done the dishes himself.
Victor eventually began scrubbing, humming softly to himself, nodding his head slightly as if he could hear the music. Yakov didn’t move from his seat, didn’t say a word, simply choosing to watch as pride blossomed in his chest. His Vitya really was amazing.
As if a mind reader, Victor abruptly stopped humming, his hands slowing to a halt as he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes twinkling playfully.
“Hey Yakov? If I’m your son, does that mean you’re going to walk me down the aisle~?”
Yakov just scoffed, rising to his feet and turning quickly to head for the living room, hoping against hope that Victor didn’t catch his eyes beginning to water.
“Stupid teenagers…”
It couldn’t have been a more perfect day. The sun was shining down, painting the scenery in a beautiful orange glow as birds sang beautifully in the distance. Victor looked himself over in the mirror, his face aching from a wide smile which refused to budge from him flawlessly visage. Careful fingers raised to fix a stray messy hair on his forehead as he checked his appearance for the millionth time that day. After a few moments, he sighed contently, pleased enough with how he looked.
Perfect or not, he knew Yuuri would happily kiss him once he made his way down that aisle.
Adjusting his collar one final time, he turned to the door…and his breath hitched in his throat.
“You still take forever to get ready, you know that?”
Yakov had been watching the entire time, leant quietly against the door frame, love and pride evident in his eyes. Victor couldn’t find the words, gawking in surprise as he stumbled over, falling inelegantly into his father’s arms.
“You’re here…”
Exhaling shakily, Yakov nodded, squeezing Victor tighter.
“Of course I am idiot, you think I’d miss this?”
He reluctantly pulled back, taking Victor’s face in his hands and bringing it down to kiss his forehead, the latter bending awkwardly so he could reach.
“I am so, so proud of you, son”
Yakov bit back a laugh when he pulled away, his eyes drinking in the sight of Victor blinking furiously, fighting back any potential tears that would spoil his face before his wedding.
“Thank you…for everything. I love you so much Dad…”
The older man let the tears fall at that, dripping down his face as he scowled, bringing him into another hug, rubbing his palms up and down his back.
“I love you too, malysh…”