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There are days that he forgets he’s out.
The chill of the ice grounds him, so different from the sweaty heat of combat, blade beneath his feet instead of in his palm.
There are days he forgets that he doesn’t have to just survive. That eating isn’t just to bring up his stats. That rest is not a seldom necessity but something he can indulge in. That IRL you’re relatively safe.
Still, going from the notoriety of being a clearer to the fame of being a dime a dozen competitive ice skater was a shift for sure.
But it was his passion, and though the prying eyes make his skin crawl, he welcomes them, knowing that they aren’t seeing him but the art that he is making on the ice.
He doesn’t tell Viktor at first. Doesn’t make a habit of telling anyone if he doesn’t have to.
It isn’t until one day when Yuuri is too deep in his head, too overcome with his anxiety, that the world starts to blur and he forgets where he is and when Viktor tries to ground him back into reality, Yuuri attacks.
Viktor isn’t hurt, can’t be when Yuuri slashes out with a weapon that doesn’t spawn in his hand, because of course it doesn’t, he’s not in the game anymore. But he’s frightened. Concerned.
SAO is unfathomable to those who weren’t in it. Was unfathomable even to those who were. But it changes you, molds you into something dangerous out of necessity. It also beats reflexes into you, things that become mindless responses to keep you alive.
How does he explain that to someone like Viktor? Someone who may understand the weight of expectation, the pressure of success, but not the dire gravity of fighting for your life, of the camaraderie made through shared suffering?
Viktor doesn’t need to understand what it’s like being in there. He just needs to understand how it’s impacted Yuuri.
So, he makes sure to poke Yuuri into eating regular meals. To take breaks and to not push himself into exhaustion. To remind him that he’s safe and when it’s the two of them on the ice, he will always be safe with him.
He also is there for Yuuri on the bad days. The days where he runs through his formations, spars with an invisible foe, and forgets that he can feel pain. The days where he feels aimless without his stats, unable to quantify what he needs and how he feels. The days where he can’t fight off the paranoia, the restlessness that makes him itch in anticipation for a fight that’s not coming.
There are days he forgets he’s out.
But the rest of them, he does everything he can to remember he is.