Chapter Text
Gold was Yuuri’s color. The gold of his ring, of the medal hung around his neck the day before- it warmed his skin and brightened his eyes. Viktor thought of it that way- but Yuuri wasn’t thinking of his newly won gold, but of Viktor. Nothing felt better than a win, a short trip home and a restful night in your own bed… with your own boyfriend. (If Yuuri ever said it aloud, Viktor would correct him’ fiance-- although they hadn’t planned anything about it. Viktor had said it since Yuuri had moved to Russia the season before, and even after a year in Russia, they were still far too busy to stop and think about a wedding.) Yuuri, of course, was quiet about what made him glow with happiness-- as if speaking the words into existence would solidify it into something physical, something breakable.
“I’m not wearing it outside,” Yuuri laughed when Viktor hung his medal around his neck as they got ready to leave for Yubileny.
“Why not?” Viktor faked a pout. Yuuri pulled at the ribbon and stood on his toes to kiss Viktor’s cheek.
“Because it’s over.” Yuuri smiled shyly. Viktor pulled him closer and kissed the curve of his neck. Yuuri swatted at him. “You have to practice, Vitya.” Yuuri rested his hand on Viktor’s shoulder without pushing him away, his eyes drifting closed as he kissed Viktor. Viktor deepened the kiss until Yuuri’s phone vibrated and alarm rang.
Yuuri pulled away and blindly grabbed for his keys hanging by the door. Viktor squeezed Yuuri’s waist in protest. “We’re gonna be late,” Yuuri said, a little more stiffly. Yuuri had become the steward of time keeping-- making sure they made it to the rink on time, that they ordered medication refills on time and any bills not on auto-pay were covered. Viktor hadn’t paid any late fees in months.
“Okay, okay.” Viktor couldn’t help but smile and give in. He followed Yuuri down the stairs (it counts as a warm-up) and onto the rink. Sometimes they drove, sometimes they ran, but usually they walked. After all, what world champion wouldn’t live in the closest condo to a world-class sports center?
They were halfway up the cement stairs to Yubilenyy when they both heard a metallic jingling.
“Aah-” Yuuri turned back. “My keys-” His hand slipped out of Viktor’s so he could go down the few steps his keychain had tumbled down to and retrieve them. Yuuri stood back up at the same time an unfamiliar woman ran up to the bottom of the steps. Yuuri frowned-- he could tell the woman was rambling, but he couldn’t compute the words in Russian. Viktor couldn’t either- whatever she was talking about, it was too disjointed to understand. She climbed the stairs and tripped on one and tumbled onto her knees.
Yuuri, never street-smart but always kind, stepped down and moved to help her up. At the same time, Viktor recognized his name in her ramblings-- her words turning sharp and barbed. She yanked at Yuuri’s arm hard, screeching Viktor Nikolailevich Nikiforov . Yuuri caught himself on the railing, his worried expression turning into confusion. He expected that the woman would let go, but she began jerking Yuuri’s arm, her grasp white-knuckled around his wrist.
Viktor and Yuuri met eyes-- and Viktor started to descend the dozen steps between them. But it was not enough. The woman threw her entire weight at Yuuri and knocked him off his feet. The metal railing rang like a bell-- Yuuri’s head had bounced off of it on the way down. The woman pulled him down several more steps, and Yuuri’s limbs flopped like a fabric doll.
“Yuuri!” Viktor screamed- the first sign to the front desk of Yubileyny that something was going on. Viktor hopped the stairs two by two, his knee crying out in pain as he rushed to reach him. The panic was smoothed at the corners when he saw Yuuri move-- his hands cradling his head. Viktor felt fingers flutter at his ankle, and he accidentally-on-purpose threw an elbow into the woman’s face. The noise around them told Viktor that there were others nearby now, but it didn’t matter. Only Yuuri did.
“Yuuri? Yuuri!” Viktor knelt on the next landing, moving Yuuri from the stairs to a flatter area. He moaned softly, but he allowed Viktor to pull his hands away. Blood leaked from both nostrils, but Yuuri’s head felt dry and intact. His cheeks were wet with tears, but Viktor expected that.
“What hurts?” Viktor made a quick inventory of the rest of Yuuri-- his limbs were facing the right way. He wasn’t sitting oddly or babying a joint. “Yuuri? Look at me, please.” Viktor fretted.
He lifted Yuuri’s chin, his eyes squeezed shut in a deep furrow. After a too long beat, Yuuri opened his eyes. His gaze was unfocused and his eyes stuttered, the brown irises shaking side to side.
“Vichya,” Yuuri slurred and squeezed his eyes shut. He said something else, but the sounds put together didn’t make any words.
“Call an ambulance!” Viktor barked at the second Yubileyny security guard.
“Come on-- I’ve got you.” Viktor’s hands hovered around Yuuri as he attempted to stand up. He swayed, and Viktor held him upright when he retched. Vomit splashed onto Viktor’s shoes, but he didn’t care.
“You hit your head,” Viktor whispered more to himself.
Yuuri insisted on staying on his feet, so Viktor held him tightly and gingerly maneuvered him, blind and dizzy, down to the driveway in front of the sports center. “He hit his head!” Viktor repeated to the paramedics that arrived too long after. He watched a dazed Yuuri sit on the gurney and get a neck brace snapped on. They shone lights into his eyes, expressions grim even before Yuuri knocked the flashlight out of the EMT’s hand.
They made Yuuri lay down and unzipped his jersey. Viktor stepped up onto the truck-- Yuuri had forgotten to take the medal off earlier that morning. Now the ribbon was caught under the brace-- and the only female EMT handed it to Viktor after they cut it off.
“This too,” She said softly, handing Viktor Yuuri’s ring. “They will take everything off if he goes into surgery.”
“Surgery?” Viktor repeated hollowly.
“If,” The paramedic repeated, and the back door to the ambulance slid shut.
~
Viktor’s cuticles were bloody when the orderly came out to tell him that Yuuri was awake. It had been two long hours, where Viktor had sat in the waiting room with a pager with a worn out number on it. The number corresponded to one on a much more modern screen, which displayed who was in surgery, recovery, or worse. Viktor left the pager in the waiting room and he walk past the nurses when he saw Yuuri. Still in the recovery room, he was in a bed in a room seperated by half- curtains. His neck brace was gone, and so were his clothes. He lay in an ugly hospital gown, gauze taped around the back and right side of his head. Pressure built in Viktor’s chest as he noticed the uneven shave they had given Yuuri’s hair. His face was clean, but there was still dried blood in his nostrils, and the whole place stank of hospital.
“Yuusha,” Viktor whispered, pulling his fingers down through Yuuri’s uncut hair. He half wished he had listened to the doctor when they pulled him into an office. Yakov would tell him later, anyway. All Viktor needed to know was that Yuuri was still breathing.
Yuuri’s hand twitched on top of the blanket, his thumb rubbing against his ring finger, a subconscious fidget he often did.
“Sedation wears off differently for everybody,” A nurse tried to comfort him.
They had said something about a brain bleed-- why they had to cut into Yuuri, to release the pressure in his skull.
They made Viktor leave again, this time to another waiting room. A new set of nurses replaced the old one. “Mr. Nikiforov? This way,”
Yuuri’s room looked too permanent. Instead of a metal stacking chair, there was a bonafide recliner. A coffee table. Yuuri.
A doctor.
“He doesn’t speak Russian that well,” Viktor interrupted. Yuuri still looked dazed, but it made sense. Training took precedence over language lesson. “English. Or Japanese. He’s Japanese.”
The doctor stepped back and arranged an interpreter. They held a phone out to Yuuri, even though the doctor faced Viktor this time.
“The surgery went well. Like we shared earlier, the area of the injury is associated with short-term memory and balance. So it is likely his balance will be effected. He probably will not remember what happened. The likelihood of long-term damage is low, thanks to how quickly the pressure was addressed.”
Viktor nodded dumbly. Yuuri stared at the phone, still looking dazed. Viktor just wanted to kiss him.
“Mr. Katsuki, can you tell me your full name?”
“ Okay,” his voice was soft, but relief flooded Viktor. He wasn’t slurring or drifting off.
“Your name?” The doctor repeated, and the interpreter parroted in Japanese. Yuuri looked between the doctor and the nurse, silent.
“Do you remember your date of birth?” The doctor asked a painfully long minute later. Yuuri’s eyes dropped to his lap. His mouth twisted, and he picked at the fibers of the blanket draped across his lap.
“How about what day is it?”
Yuuri shook his head.
“Ah, alright. What color is this pen?” The doctor waited for the interpreter to translate. Viktor’s blood ran cold, freezing him in place.
“ Black ,” Yuuri said in Japanese, then in heavily accented English, a soft u sound at the end of the word.
“What am I?”
“Doctor,”
“Who is he?”
“Viktor Nikiforov.” The surest answer.
Viktor felt sick.
Instead of feeling it, Viktor pushed forward. He took Yuuri’s hand and slipped his ring back to its rightful place.
“He’s my fiance,” Viktor spoke out loud, voice a little too loud. Yuuri pulled back his hand.