Chapter Text
Only now, in the unflinching glow of the rink’s fluorescent lights, did reality begin to sink its teeth into Yuri Plisetsky.
It was subtle at first. A strange, creeping heaviness in his limbs, like he had waded through snow instead of skated upon carefully resurfaced ice. His calves screamed with every push, his thighs felt filled with sand, and each attempted jump ended in a clumsy, graceless skid that made his teeth clench on instinct. The echo of his blades scraping unevenly against the ice rang out through the emptiness of the rink, sharp and humiliatingly loud, and he hated it. Hated the way it seemed to mock him, to taunt him in the wide, hollow silence where applause should have been.
Again, his body refused to obey.
Yuri sucked in a harsh breath through his teeth, the cool air burning his lungs. He forced himself into position for another triple axel, jaw set tight, viridian eyes blazing in the reflection of the glass around the rink. He counted the beats. Calculated the timing. Ordered his muscles to remember—remember what they’d done a thousand times before.
They betrayed him.
His landing faltered. His ankle buckled with a sharp twinge of pain, and the world lurched sideways. He hit the ice hard, the impact rattling up through his spine and knocking the air from his lungs in a startled, panicked sound. For a moment, he couldn’t move. Just lay there, staring up at the ceiling, watching the lines of steel beams blur and double in his vision.
Pathetic.
The word slithered through his mind with venomous clarity.
Yuri dragged in a breath, then another, trying to force the pounding of his heart into something more manageable. It did little to help. Every inch of him ached—not just in the familiar, satisfying way that came with hard work, but in a deep, stretching way that made him feel as though he were being pulled apart and reassembled wrong. His bones felt too long for his body. His center of gravity, once perfect, had shifted into unfamiliar territory. Even his balance, once so innate he barely had to think, felt foreign.
And the worst part was that it wasn’t just physical.
His mind, usually sharp and honed, had become fogged with frustration. A hair-trigger temper that had always been there now burned hotter than ever, flaring without warning. Tears sat constantly behind his eyes, an embarrassing, traitorous weakness that he crushed down as hard as he could until it hurt. He didn’t cry. He didn’t fail. That was the rule. But lately, his body had been betraying every law he had ever lived by.
With a sharp hiss, Yuri forced himself upright, trembling hands pressing against the cold surface as he pushed to his feet. His reflection stared back at him in the ice—all sharp cheekbones and pale skin, but his face had changed. The angles softer in some places, sharper in others. His chin-length blond hair hung messily over his right eye, longer than he would’ve ever allowed it to be before. Strands clung damply to his temple where he’d started to sweat again, despite the chill.
He barely recognized himself.
“Get up,” he muttered to the empty rink, voice echoing faintly. “Get it together, Plisetsky.”
His usual fire was there, flickering, but it felt… strained. Smaller somehow. As if it had to fight through a storm just to breathe.
He tried again. Another jump. Another failure.
The impact when he landed this time sent a jolt of pain biting up his shin, and something hot stung his eyes before he could stop it. He turned his face away, shoulders curling in on themselves as he fought the sensation with every bit of stubbornness he possessed. No one was here. No coaches. No other skaters. No witnesses. And still, the tears slipped free. Hot and furious, they trailed down his temples and disappeared into damp hair. Yuri clenched his jaw so hard it hurt, a breath shuddering out of him that sounded dangerously close to a sob.
“This is stupid…” he whispered hoarsely. “Get a grip.”
But his hands had started to shake, and suddenly the silence of the rink was unbearable—crushing, suffocating in its vast, empty expanse.
He hated this. Hated that his body no longer felt like an extension of his will. Hated that height was creeping into him, stretching him thin, stealing the compact strength he’d relied on all his life. Hated the way his thoughts spiraled at night, leaving him staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping. Hated that food made him nauseous and exhaustion made him dizzy, but the scale still taunted him every time he stepped on it. Hated that he had started crying when he was alone, and hated even more that he couldn’t stop.
By the time he finally left the rink, the sky outside the windows had long since darkened into inky twilight.
He didn’t remember the walk back to his apartment—only the dull ache of his legs and the way every step felt heavier than the last. When he shut the door behind him and leaned his forehead against the wood, the quiet of the small room crashed around him once more.
And that was when he reached for his phone.
The screen lit up with familiar notifications, familiar time differences. His chest tightened immediately, and for just a second, the knot in his throat shifted into something softer. Something warm.
Otabek.
Their usual call came through minutes later, the soft, familiar ring slicing through the stillness. Yuri answered without thinking.
“Hey,” he muttered, turning his face slightly away from the camera as the screen filled with Otabek’s image. His boyfriend sat on the edge of a bed, the dim lighting of a hotel room softening the sharp lines of his face. Dark eyes lifted, searching.
“…Yuri.”
Just his name, and somehow it undid him more than anything else had all day.
“You okay?” Otabek asked quietly. There was something careful in his tone, something that went far deeper than simple politeness.
Yuri scoffed weakly, eyes flicking back toward the screen despite himself. “I’m always okay.”
But even as the words left his mouth, Otabek’s gaze sharpened. “You’re lying.”
There was no heat in the accusation. No judgment. Just simple, devastating truth.
Yuri swallowed. The silence stretched between them, thick and loaded. He could see it now that Otabek had pointed it out — his own eyes glassy, rims red, dark shadows smudged beneath them. He looked... wrecked.
“When was the last time you slept?” Otabek asked after a moment.
“Does it matter?”
“When did you eat?”
He looked away again, fingers tightening in the fabric of his hoodie. “I’m fine.”
A beat of silence. Then, softer. “Yuri… please.”
That was all it took.
The dam broke before he could stop it. A choked, helpless sound tore from his throat as his face crumpled, and warm tears spilled over his cheeks in a rush he hadn’t allowed himself in weeks. He scrubbed at them angrily, half-sobbing, half-furious with himself as his shoulders shook.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he choked out. “I keep messing up, Beka. I can’t land anything. My body feels wrong—like it’s not mine anymore. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, and every time I look in the mirror, I don’t even recognize myself.”
Otabek didn’t interrupt. He just watched, dark eyes full of aching concern.
“I’m getting taller. My balance is different. Everything hurts all the time, and I can’t fix it. I’ve never not been able to fix it before,” Yuri whispered, voice cracking on the last word. “I’m supposed to be the best. I’m supposed to be unstoppable, and I can’t even make it through a clean run without screwing up.”
He dragged a hand through his overgrown hair, fingers tangling in it in frustration. “I’m scared,” he admitted finally, the words so quiet they almost vanished into the air. “What if this is it? What if this ruins me?”
For a moment, Otabek just looked at him.
And then, with unmistakable resolve, he shifted, reaching for something out of frame. “I’m coming to you,” he said.
Yuri blinked. “What?”
“I’m booking a flight tonight.” His voice was calm, unwavering. “You’re not doing this alone.”
“You have training—you have—”
“I’ll figure it out.” A pause. Then, gentler, “You need me.”
Yuri’s throat tightened painfully as fresh tears slipped free, but these were different. Softer. Relieved.
“…Okay.”