Chapter Text
Plisetsky was dialing his coach's number for the third time, getting no answer.
"Yakov, by the time I'm back in Russia, the ice had better be polished to a wax shine!" he left yet another voicemail and, deciding to check his social media feed, stumbled upon the local news.
Against the backdrop of the Ice Castle, the monotonous voice of a reporter sounded.
"Junior League champion Yuri Plisetsky has dropped out of the race for the coaching of figure skating legend Victor Nikiforov. Nikiforov will now choreograph the Japanese skater Katsuki Yuri's national exhibition program. For his former student, this must be a significant loss. Will Yuri be able to defend his title as the next-generation figure skater on his own, without..."
Plisetsky locked his phone, tossed it into his bag's pocket, and pulled his hood down to his eyebrows. Closing his eyes, Yura tried to shut out the noise of the airport. Even though he had moved to the very end of the departure hall, any sound was irritating him now, and he couldn't get Katsuki's performance out of his head. He never thought that naive fool could almost fly, all while thinking about... food? Or was his mind occupied with something else? Plisetsky remembered particularly well the smirk, copied by that swine, which Viktor answered with a whistle.
"He fucking whistled," Yura hissed angrily through his teeth, as a corrosive bitterness spread through his body like a fine web. "The Grand Prix will be mine anyway. I won't surrender my title to some pork cutlet." This resentment and injustice tightened around his chest like a powerful blow to the gut, and a haze of disappointment clouded his eyes—it all forced Plisetsky to clench his fists until his knuckles turned white.
"Left without even saying goodbye. I'm upset," a painfully familiar and, as always, gentle voice came from the side. Yura gave a bitter smirk without looking up.
"Why would I say goodbye to you?" he snapped. "You'll come back on your own once that idiot fails to live up to your expectations."
And he himself realized that the words he'd spoken were a lie, but right now, his wounded pride was speaking for itself.
"Yurio, Yurio, you still haven't learned how to lose," Victor said, drawing out the vowels and approaching him with his weightless gait.
Yura looked like a bristling animal driven into a corner. His legs were braced against his suitcase, his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket, his face hidden by the hood, with the blond hair sticking out from underneath it looking like needles. And he himself was literally pressing himself into the bench.
"Don't call me that, it sounds as fucked up as your dog's name," he snarled.
"Hey, what's wrong with..."
"Just shut up," Yura hissed rudely, almost sighing from helplessness.
Victor silently sat down beside him, threw a cautious, understanding look his way, and then squeezed the boy in a hug. The fragile body under him twitched sharply and unpleasantly, Plisetsky growled threateningly, shoving back, but then immediately bit his tongue—it wasn't that the tight embrace caused physical pain, but morally, it was just killing him. And Yura himself lacked both the strength and the desire to break free.
After long minutes of suffocating silence, his flight was announced for boarding. Without delaying another second, Plisetsky got up from his seat and headed for the gate.
"I'll be back, I'm swear," his former coach smiled kindly in farewell.
"Your promises mean nothing," Yura replied with irony from the doorway.
"Because you don't need me," he added mentally.