Work Text:
Oh satellite above
(Where are you?)
So many things I have to tell you of
(Please come back soon)
--Blue and Red, Sky Sailing
—He’s surrounded by darkness.
Objectively, he knows there are people on either side of him, coaches watching with baited breath to see what kind of miracle Viktor and his protégé would pull off this time. They watch as closely as he does because they are afraid. Because Yuuri is competition. Viktor knows this, but he can’t see anyone else.
The spotlight shines on Yuuri, black sequins glinting and calling all attention in the rink to him. That’s right, Viktor finds himself thinking. Do not avert your eyes. He should be the center of your attention. He is everything.
Viktor’s not quite sure if he’s talking to the spectators or to himself.
And then, Yuuri dances. He dances like he’s not afraid of falling—no, like he can’t fall. He carries himself with a head held high and confidence enunciated with every flawless sweep of his arms. He makes the program look effortless, gliding into jumps and executing them without an ounce of hesitation. Yuuri skates like he was born on ice, like he commands the rink from the ice his skates bite into to the steel teeth of his blades. Every tiny expression that crosses his face tells a story, both to the music he dances to and to the music inside him that has guided his entire journey.
Viktor knows why the skating looks effortless. He’s not punched breathless in the chest by Yuuri’s performance. He doesn’t go weak at the knees. Instead, his heart beats steady, almost angry drumbeats and his frame is made of the same steel as the blades of skates.
Behold, Viktor wants to say. Behold the one you doubted.
He’s seen the drops of sweat, the bruises, the blisters, the abrasions and skin rubbed raw, the occasional blood and excessive volume of tears that make Yuuri so strong. He’s been there when Yuuri felt like quitting and when he felt on top of the world. He worked those muscles until they shook and then worked them languid in the baths. Viktor knows every inch of Yuuri’s body and the depth of his psyche. It’s a closeness that transcends friendship, that transcends mentor and student, that transcends figure skating itself…
Well. This is about Yuuri now. As he goes into his final jump and lands it with grace, Viktor is gripped with an emotion that he can’t seem to keep caged in his chest.
It’s over, but Viktor doesn’t feel that way at all.
It gets worse when other coaches pat him on the back, when Yakov smiles and nods, when the faces of Yuuri’s competitors change from awe to wry, what-can-you-do expressions of acceptance. It grows worse when Yuuri sees him, worse when they embrace, worse when Yuuri’s score is announced. And then, when Yuuri is crowned as the victor, standing high above the others on the winners’ podium, it becomes unbearable.
Viktor has to take a breather. He’ll go crazy if he stays in the rink any longer.
It’s nippy outside; it helps him to clear his head. Viktor feels the emotion in his chest recede, if just for a moment. It’s something like satisfaction, like contentment, like fulfilling a goal he never knew he had or itching a scratch that could never be reached. It clogs him up like a cold, sitting heavy in his body and refusing to leave. It’s something he caught the moment he saw the smile spread across Yuuri’s face at the end of his program.
Take responsibility, would you? Viktor thinks. At this rate, it’ll be you taking care of me.
As if answering his prayer, the universe gives him Yuuri. Or at least what looks like Yuuri, hair still combed back and black sequins glittering like light on dark water. “Oh?” Viktor says. “Yuuri?” He’s not quite sure why he’s seeing the man before him.
But yes, it is Yuuri, and his shoulders quiver just enough that Viktor realizes he’s being impulsive again and has wandered out without a jacket. Viktor clicks his tongue.
“What are you doing outside without your jacket?” Viktor asks. “Did I raise an idiot? You’ll catch cold and get sick; that’s no good. You still have so many interviews and you’ll look disgusting if you’re snotting everywhere. Where is your sense, dearest?”
He hands his coat over to Yuuri without a second thought. It’s a bit too big on him, in the shoulders and in the cuff length, but Yuuri isn’t perturbed. Like skating into his final jump, he has no hesitation when takes the lapels from Viktor and he pulls them to his chin. His cheeks are rosy.
Viktor thinks dearest, but he thinks it in a different tone. A different meaning.
“Honestly,” Viktor tuts, but it feels more like self-criticism than any scolding of Yuuri.
“What am I going to do with you?” Viktor asks, voice low. He should—he needs to drag himself out of this fiction. He blames it on the feeling in chest, his Yuuri-cold. It might be a terminal illness, though. It’s settled itself pretty firmly in his body, warming him from the inside out.
“I just wanted to see you,” Yuuri says. He blushes at his boldness.
“We don’t have to do critiques until tomorrow,” Viktor says, giving him an out.
“No, ah, I—” Yuuri says. “I just wanted to see you.”
“Oh,” Viktor says.
Oh. The words sink through flesh and blood and muscle and bone until they pierce his heart. He bleeds out, just a little, but it’s pure light instead of blood. Viktor knows this feeling—hope. It’s a symptom of his Yuuri-cold and must be repressed immediately. There’s nothing to be hopeful about. There’s no light at the end of this tunnel.
But Yuuri does blush so pretty, and his voice when he said it, the inkling of hesitation, make Viktor want to ask what were you going to say, tell me, tell me.
“Yuuri, I—”
“Viktor—”
Viktor has to laugh. It’s like a sitcom, and twice as ridiculous. Two men, made famous by their successes, standing alone in the cold, shivering together with ruddier cheeks than the situation called for and only about six inches and a few awkward lines of dialogue between them. It’s like the setup for a really funny joke, but Viktor can’t read what the punchline will be.
“After you,” Viktor says.
“No, no…I insist,” Yuuri says.
“Ah, alright,” Viktor says, but now he’s at an impasse. Viktor’s a direct person—if he thinks or feels something, he’s not afraid to share it. And with someone like Yuuri—only Yuuri—he has nothing to hide. But for the first time in his life, Viktor looks before he leaps. It manifests in the twitching of his fingers, the sliding of hands in and out of pockets until they find their place on Yuuri’s shoulders, rubbing up and down his biceps.
Nerves? Viktor doesn’t have those. He has only the words inside his heart.
He takes a breath. “Dearest, I just want to say…”
…But it’s still not the right dearest. He can’t make those words in his heart come out his mouth. He looks before he leaps, and he comes crashing down.
He exhales. “…You were magnificent. I wanted to…introduce you to some people who can help you more with your career. I have connections, of course. When I go back to Russia, I want you to be set.”
He sees the way his words work through Yuuri. The look on his face changes, like he’s coming out of a dream. “You’re going to keep skating, then?” he asks.
I’m not running away, Viktor tells himself, but he’s always been a horrible liar.
So he falls back on what he knows. He shrugs one shoulder and winks. “Gotta keep them guessing. I’ll train with Yakov and if it works out, I’ll see you again in the rink.”
“Ah, that’s…good to hear,” Yuuri says. “Congratulations.”
But…
“Come on now, don’t congratulate me,” Viktor huffs. “You’re the real victor tonight, act like it! Have a little confidence in yourself!”
Yuuri laughs and scratches at his chin. “I’m not used to being so immodest…”
But you…
“Oh, right,” Viktor says, resisting the urge to reach out to Yuuri, even though he’s already holding him. “What did you want to tell me?” His heart says hope. Viktor quietly squashes the feeling.
“Ah, that,” Yuuri says. “I thought it might be best to…get your email.”
“My email?” Viktor asks. Yuuri had his phone number, though. Why would he need Viktor’s email?
“International call rates, and all that,” Yuuri says. “It’s the cheapest way to get in touch, isn’t it? If you’re there…and I’m here.”
Oh. “Mm,” Viktor agrees. “Yes, that’s—that’s smart.” He pulls out his phone. Yuuri follows suit.
They exchange phones. Viktor’s fingers fumble over the keyboard as he types his email into Yuuri’s phone. It’s stupid—it’s so stupid—but Yuuri is close to him and his cheeks are so very pink that in the heat of the moment Viktor has to add a heart emoji to the end of his name. It means something; it means nothing. Viktor doesn’t have the courage to bring attention to it, to give a sign that the twin pink hearts mean anything more than his over-affection as a friend and mentor.
Yuuri’s eyes linger on it when Viktor hands him back his phone, and Viktor does what he does best when panicking: talk.
“It’s funny,” Viktor says. “When I was training you, I never even thought to get your email. Now here we are, trading phones like strangers. Isn’t it funny how the world works out?” He even tacks a light laugh on the end of the question. I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s fine.
“Yeah,” he agrees, and he sounds as empty as Viktor feels.
Ah, he’s gone and done it now. He’s made Yuuri sad on the night of his ultimate victory. Viktor chides himself for his senselessness. Of course Yuuri cared. If nothing else, Yuuri was a fan of his and they had built up—something—between them through training. Of course he would be sad that Viktor was leaving.
But if you asked me to stay…
Viktor smiles for the both of them. “That’s my little champion,” he murmurs, and leans in.
He means it to be platonic, something silly to make Yuuri blush harder and get flustered over, something to bring him back to even keel. Yuuri goes stiff when their cheeks brush, still so afraid of being casual with Viktor. Viktor means to kiss him as a friend, as a student, but the moment he presses his lips just below Yuuri’s cheekbone, he’s captivated. The feeling in his chest, the love-sickness he could never call by name flares up and he cannot pull away.
Viktor holds the kiss and imagines:
If I were a braver man, this would be one of many kisses. Endless kisses. If I were a braver man, I would pull back just a little, meet your eyes, then meet your lips. I would kiss you until the stiffness left your limbs and you became pliant in my arms, let your body trust me with loving you as it has with training you. I would cup your face and hold you close because there is nothing, nothing I have wanted more than this. I would take you home and make you mine as I am yours.
I would tell you how I fell for you, short and fast, the way it should be. How I can remember the instances that you endeared yourself to me from the moment I saw you on your rink, skating like you’d never loved anything more in your life. How I felt that love and how it was tied to your adoration of me when we met. How your hero-worship only made you sweeter. How your growing casualness make my blood run hot. I would tell you about dancing with you and how it feels, to have the other half of your soul at your side, how synchronicity feels like coming home, how guiding your movements is my Eros and my Agape, every form of love I’ve ever dared to feel.
If I were a braver man, I would have told you all that and I would have kissed you. I would have spoken to you how lovers do, with only honesty and softness in my voice, for all the times I’ve been harsh. And if it took giving up my career to coach you and stay, I would sacrifice it.
But Viktor pulls back, just as the voice of a reporter reaches them.
“Yuuri! Katsuki Yuuri!”
No. Not yet.
“Ah,” Viktor says, leaning away from Yuuri.
No, please.
“Your adoring public is calling for you,” Viktor says, laughing. “I shouldn’t steal you away for myself, as much as I’d like to.”
Don’t go.
And then, the tilt of his head, the shrug of his shoulder. “You’ll always be my star pupil, dearest. I look forward to watching what you become.” And he runs from that feeling, from Yuuri Katsuki, from the only thing he’s ever wanted and never been able to grasp.
Later, when the reporters find Viktor outside the rink and ask him about Yuuri, Viktor says, “He is the greatest success I have ever had,” and he lets him go.
Dreams never die
When we sleep
Leave the open sky
And the deep
Shades over head
Of blue and red
Is this the end?
Will you come back again?