Archive of Our Own

She’s only three the first time she sets foot on the ice.

“Смотри, Mama! Look! It’s so fun!” Immediately, she falls on her rear and holds back the tears in her eyes. It didn’t hurt, she just doesn’t want to be bad at this. Not when Mama is so good at it and Papa wants her to learn how to do it just as well.

Mama glides over quickly, worry in her bright blue eyes. “Юлия! Yulia, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she insists, trying to stand. There’s a funny, jagged little thing on the toe of her skate. Maybe if she just… There it is. She’s on her feet now-- wobbly, but standing. “I did it!”

Her mother claps her hands in excitement, face flushed bright pink from cold. “Yes you did, Yulia! That’s my clever little girl.”

She smiles at Mama brightly and tries to glide just like she does. She falls quite a few times, but that’s fine. She knows how to pick herself up now, because she’s her Mama’s clever girl. Still, for some reason, that doesn’t quite sound right to her.

She’s five when she gets into her first fight at school.

“Boys can like skating too!” she says, more mad than she’s ever been in her life as she stands in front of a crying Stepan. He’s disgusting, she thinks, snotting all over himself and snivelling. But he’s not the one who’s wrong here.

Vera flips her hair over her shoulders like Mama does if she sees something weird on the street. “Skating is a girl thing, Yulia.”

“But I like skating,” Yulia insists. She can almost skate the whole way around the rink three times now, without falling. Mama and Grandpa say that maybe soon she can learn how to skate backwards.

“But you’re not a boy!” Vera says, as if Yulia’s an idiot. She points at Stepan, still crying on the ground. “He’s a boy, so him liking skating is weird. For you, it’s okay. Even if you’re weird and you play with boys, you’re still a girl.”

For some reason, this really bothers her. Why is it okay for Yulia to like skating, but not for Stepan? What makes the two of them so different? Besides, aren’t there boy skaters?

She says that out loud. “But there are boy skaters who skate all over.”

“All over where? ” Vera demands, as if this information is an insult.

“All over-- All over… All over everywhere!” Yulia says hotly. She doesn’t know. Not exactly. All she knows is that there’s an annoying kid crying and getting boogers all over her sneakers, and that Vera doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

Vera is the one to make it physical. She reaches out and pulls hard on one of Yulia’s braids, and Yulia snaps. She leaps at Vera and scratches down her arm, leaving raised red lines on the girl’s fair skin. In less than a minute, there’s a teacher pulling the two of them apart.

“Good girls don’t fight,” the teacher says firmly, and proceeds to call their parents.

That still doesn’t sound quite right to Yulia, but she tries to ignore it. Tries to ignore the funny feeling in her stomach that she gets every time someone calls her that, and the swooping, happy feeling that she gets whenever the boys treat her like one of their own.

She’s six when she finally gets the courage to ask the question that’s been bothering her for so long.

She’s become quite the problem child in school, getting into fights once or twice every week. Usually it’s with other girls, but sometimes even boys try to get a rise out of her. Grandpa had to be put on her contacts list now because the school was calling home too often for her parents to come get her.

But he’s teaching her how to skate backwards now and Grandpa is a much better teacher than the ones at school because he actually knows her and praises her. So she asks him, not Mama because Mama isn’t here, when they’re tying their skates before practice. It’s a Wednesday, she’ll remember later in her life, and she’s just been suspended for giving Vera a black eye.

“Grandpa, why am I a girl?”

Grandpa freezes, hands going still. “What do you mean, милая?”

Yulia’s tongue is stuck out in concentration as she ties a loop-de-loop knot in her laces. “I mean--” she pulls the knot too-tight in leftover irritation “--what makes me so different than the boys? I get in so much trouble for acting the way they do, but they don’t.” She moves to the next skate. “But then they tell me that girls shouldn’t act like I do. So why wasn’t I born a boy?”

There’s a really long time where Grandpa doesn’t say anything. He just puts on his skates and skate guards before shuffling over to kneel in front of Yulia, who’s just finishing tying her skate. He takes her hands in his gigantic ones and looks directly into her eyes with a smile.

“I don’t know, sweet. All I know is that your name is Yulia, not Yuri. That means that people are going to see you differently, and they’re going to want you to act differently too. You have a pretty face, so they don’t want you to ruin it with bruises. You have soft, shiny hair, so they don’t want it sullied with mud. Because you are Yulia, they want you to be pretty and proper.”

Yulia slouches and glares down at the black floor. “What if I don’t want that? What if I want to be Yuri?”

There’s something painful in Grandpa’s smile; it’s like that smile that Papa gets when he’s lifting something heavy and doesn’t want to ask for help. But it doesn’t seem like he’s mad, just struggling with something. Grandpa drops her hands and cups her cheeks, kissing her forehead.

“Then Yuri is who you are.”

It’s like a massive weight has been lifted from her small shoulders. She’s not Yulia. He’s Yuri.

Grandpa makes him promise not to tell Mama or Papa yet. That’s a little weird, but Yuri doesn’t mind. He’s over the moon already. Grandpa also makes him promise not to fight Mama if she tries to make him wear skirts before she knows. That part, Yuri sort of gets because it wouldn’t be fair to fight her if she doesn’t know any better.

Yuri does get a little bit upset when Grandpa tells him that he can’t tell his teachers ever, and that he’ll have to keep being Yulia at school.

“It’s for your safety,” Grandpa says, but Yuri is still only six and doesn’t know how being a boy could be dangerous. Especially in school. The worst thing that happens in school is that you get in a fight and there’s maybe some hair-pulling or, if you’re Yuri and “have no self control,” you hit someone. Still, he’s pacified when Grandpa says that he’ll talk to Mama about letting Yuri get his hair cut. Mama’s been putting it off for months because she thinks “it’s a shame to cut off such lovely hair,” but it’s been falling into his eyes for ages now.

Although Grandpa does ask if Yuri has any friends he thinks he’ll slip up and tell, Yuri just shakes his head. He hangs out with the other boys sometimes, but they aren’t really friends. It’s fine. Yuri doesn’t want any friends anyway, he tells Grandpa matter-of-factly as they get on the rink.

~oOo~

Yuri is seven when he realizes why Grandpa told him not to tell Mama or Papa. They don’t take it very well.

Ironically, it’s Grandpa who slips up. It’s one of the rare occasions that Mama is at practice with them; Yuri has a real coach now, a grumpy old man named Yakov who doesn’t care “if you’re a girl or a boy. Just do what I say and I’ll make you a champion, kid,” and Mama has the little one, Anna, to look after now. She doesn’t have time to watch him.

But maybe Mama is his good luck charm. It’s the first practice she’s come to since he started learning this routine, and he’s finally, finally nailed the double Salchow. When he does, Yakov nods approvingly, Mama cheers at how beautiful her daughter looks and Grandpa claps him on the shoulder and says “Good job, Yuri. I knew you could do it.”

Yuri preens for a moment before registering the look of confusion on his mother’s face. “Papa, that’s Yulia. Her name isn’t Yuri, are you losing it?”

There's a palpable tension in the air for a solid minute before Mama's eyes narrow. Yuri is mildly confused, but he has some understanding that there's going to be a Serious Adult Conversation happening and that Grandpa just told Mama the Secret.

“Oi! If you two are going to have this conversation here, take it outside!” Yakov, for all of his faults, is very perceptive. Yuri can hear muffled yelling through the doors, but nothing that interferes with practice.

Only, at the end of the two hour practice, they're still going. The tie is out of his hair and his skates are in his hand. He leaves the leggings on because it's hot today and jeans are going to be a pain. He does his obligatory cool down stretches, and even when all of that is done, they're still going.

“The way you let her act, I'm not surprised that she does think she's a boy!”

“Yuri is a boy.”

“Fine. I suppose you're right. With the way Yulia acts, there's no way she could be my daughter.”

Yuri’s skates drop to the floor, startling the adults into looking at him. The sound echoes through the nearly empty building even as her words echo in his mind. The venom in his mother's voice means more to him than the damn skates, than any pride he's managed to scrape together over the course of his life.

Yuri hasn't cried more than five or six times in the last few years, so the heat behind his eyes is unfamiliar and alien. He doesn't recognize the wetness falling down his cheeks, doesn't know that trying to force it back is only going to make it worse. Something is crushing his lungs and he instinctively covers his mouth, as if that will make it easier to breathe. His lips shape words into his hand, shape I'm Sorry and Mama and Why , but nothing comes out but quiet hiccups of sound. Stop, he tells himself. You're acting like a girl. Why won't you stop? If you stop, maybe she'll understand…

When a large hand grips his shoulder and steers him toward the men's lockers, he follows it without question. He doesn't know if he's even able to think straight at this point.

Yakov sits him down on a bench, but doesn't do anything else. Yuri is grateful that his coach knows him well enough to know that coddling isn't what he needs. He holds out a hand expectantly. Yakov snorts, darkly amused, and hands the boy a towel.

Yuri folds it as densely as it will go, smashes it against his face, and screams.

He screams for Yulia, for her to be enough for him. He screams for himself, to be enough for Mama. He screams for the secrets. For the pain. For his baby sister, with a disgrace for a role model. For Grandpa, for his skates, for the tears he doesn't want to shed.

When he finally stops, his throat is raw. His eyes are red and puffy. His hair's a wreck and his breathing is ragged in the worst kind of way. His face is sticky with salt. He hears the faucet running as if there’s cotton in his ears. When a wet cloth is dropped onto his head, he’s hardly surprised.

“Get that crap off your face, Yura. You look like shit. I don’t need my best junior skater looking like you do right now.” You’ll feel better if you wash your face, Yakov is saying.

“Screw off.” Thank you.

Yakov nods once before leaving Yuri to his thoughts. It’s a while before Yuri moves. He just tries to get himself under control. He wasn’t crying long, he doesn’t think, but the hiccups are still there. After a few minutes, he stands up and faces the mirror. It's as bad as he thought.

Instead of scrubbing at his eyes and making the redness worse, Yuri wipes away the dried tears and lets the cloth sit on his eyes for a bit. He's actively not wondering about what comes next. Instead, he's thinking. What made him cry? Mama. No, that's not quite right. It was his anger that made him cry. Once the tears are gone, that's all that's left. He's not sure why he's angry; Mama is just acting on the lie that he's been feeding her for years. It's irrational, but not necessarily uncontrolled anger.

Yuri lets out a breath and takes the cloth off of his eyes. The redness is nearly gone. His hair is still too messy, so he pulls it back the way he does during practice. His skates are on the next bench over; Yakov must have gotten them. Yuri grabs them and shoves the rest of his emotions down into the back of his mind. He'll deal with those tonight when he's alone in his room. For now, he walks out of the locker room with an angry spring in his step that’s as faked as the smiles he’s worn for years.

He sneers at his mother, who looks back at him with equal disdain. “Yulia. Have you come to your senses?”

He shakes his head. “Nye, матушка. I haven’t. It’s not my problem if you’re being stubborn.”

“Mатушка? You never call me that.” She looks shocked.

“Are you deaf, Mother ? I just did.” Yuri looks at his grandfather. “Take me home.”

There’s a heavy feeling in his chest. He refuses to acknowledge it as pain. Boys don’t show pain. Boys don’t feel pain. Make it anger. Make her see. I’ll show her that I’m a boy.

~oOo~

Yuri is nine when he meets Victor Nikaforov for the first time. He’s not about to admit that he’s starstruck when his idol walks in during his practice and talks to Yakov like they’re old friends. Okay, he’ll admit to being a little bit in awe, but not starstruck. Just in awe.

At least, until he lands the triple flip-double Salchow combination that he’s been working on and Victor comments on it with a bright smile.

“That was beautiful.”

Yuri scowls, mood blackened immediately. “I’m a boy.”

There’s a split second when he catches Victor’s confusion, then slight embarrassment, before his face goes back to normal. There’s no judgement, though. He just cocks his head with an oblivious smile. “Who says that boys can’t be beautiful too?”

What…?

There’s a snort from behind him and Yuri is startled out of his shock. “Good luck convincing Yura of that, Victor. Now, what I wanted to talk to you about…”

And that’s all there is to it. Victor follows Yakov out of the rink and Yuri is still expected to practice his routine to Bells of Moscow as many times as practice time allows. Instead, he’s struck motionless.

Victor Nikaforov, world champion and skating genius, is an idiot .

Yuri’s half convinced that he just thought that he was a male who looked like a girl, instead of trans. Nobody’s ever been embarrassed to misgender him before. Beyond that, he thinks that boys can actually be beautiful.

Yuri is not beautiful. Yulia is. When he’s skating, Yuri steals her body, steals her grace and makes this body that he was cursed with work for him. He forces it into submission and combines her beauty with his passion. He hates that he has to depend on her for this, hates that he has to acknowledge a part of him that never truly existed. Because figure skating mandates beauty, and Yuri cannot be beautiful.

And yet… he can’t bring himself to hate Victor. He may be an idiot, but he’s also a genius, the best skater in Russia. It’s impossible not to have some measure of respect for him.

“I’ll beat him,” Yuri decides, and it’s as much a goal as it is a promise. “I’ll become better than Victor.”

~oOo~

Yuri is ten when he meets Katsuki Yuuri for the first time.

At this point, anger is an old friend. He’s more used to anger and irritation than to peace. Sometimes people call it depressing, but Yuri rather likes it. Anger keeps him centered, gives him something to focus on. Usually. Except times like now, when it unbalances him and makes him volatile.

He’s got enough self esteem to recognize a good skater when he sees one. There’s no harm in that. And Katsuki Yuuri is a good skater-- one of the best. So why the fuck did he lose his shit and forget how to skate when it mattered most? And to top it all off, when Yuri goes to demand answers, he finds the fucker whining in a stall.

Who does Katsuki think he is? There’s no privacy in a fucking public restroom, so he’s practically begging to be noticed. It makes Yuri sick.

Boys don’t cry, he thinks to himself even as he rages at Katsuki. And certainly not in a goddamn public restroom. Be strong, hide your weaknesses. Who do you think you are? If I can’t be weak, you certainly can’t. He knows it’s not true, that the fact that Katsuki has a dick means that he can cry as much as he want and still be a boy to the rest of the world. But it’s not fair. Weaklings like him shouldn’t be in the same class as people like Yuri.

He’s still angry when he gets back to the room he shares with Victor, who’s as oblivious as always.

“Did you learn anything, Yuratchka?” He asks as he changes into sweats and flops into bed. “Weren’t the skaters beautiful?”

“Tch.” Yuri doesn’t bother responding, instead pulling out his phone and playing Tetris. It’s his first time travelling with Victor, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t hoping for the man’s excitement to fade with exhaustion. So far, it’s just gotten worse. He’s yammering on and on about nothing.

Yuri’s phone buzzes and Grandpa’s ID picture pops up. “Oi, Victor,” he snaps. “Put a sock in it. I’ve got to take this.”

Victor mimes zipping his lips shut. Yuri’s suspicious, but still accepts the call. “Hey, Grandpa.”

“I’ve got a surprise for you, Yulia,” Grandpa says by way of greeting. The name sounds foreign and awful on his tongue, and Yuri balks for a second before realizing what it means. If Grandpa is calling him her name…

“Put her on,” Yuri says, anger forgotten as he softens his voice so he sounds more like her.

“Yulia!” a little girl’s voice blares through the speaker. “I miss you! When are you coming home?”

There’s a tightness in his throat-- the same tightness that always happens when he hears his sister’s voice. “I’ll be home as soon as I can, Annichka. I’m working right now, but I miss you too. Why are you with Grandpa?”

“Mama and Papa are going to see a movie.” Yuri can almost hear her pouting, and he grins a little. “They said I was too small.”

“How about this then? When I get back we can go see a movie without them. One they’ll be too big for.” He hasn’t seen his sister for months, so he can probably cut a deal with Papa, as long as he’s not himself while they’re out. He’s a little out of practice playing her for long periods of time, but he can do it for Anna.

Anna squeals in excitement. “And can we go to the park? And get ice cream?”

“Anything you want.” His voice cracks a little on the last syllable, either from strain or from emotion. He can’t tell. “We can do whatever you want.”

“But I want to talk to Yulia more, Grandpa! ...okay. Sorry. Grandpa wants the phone back. Don’t forget your promise! You’re the best sister ever, Yulia! I love you!”

Yuri’s heart splinters, just a little bit. “I love you too, Annichka. I’ll see you soon.”

There’s a pause on the other end, then Grandpa speaks. “I’ve sent her to wash up for dinner. Are you okay, Yura? I thought you might want to hear her voice.”

Yuri is very aware of the heat behind his eyes this time. “I did. Thank you,” he manages. “I’ll call you later.”

He hangs up without waiting for a response and glances over at Victor, who appears to be asleep. He’s faking, Yuri knows. Trying to give him some semblance of privacy. It’s the slightly confused twitch that his mouth made that gave him away. Every time he heard her name from the other end of the line, Victor twitched in confusion.

Fuck it, Yuri thinks. “If you need to piss, do it now. I don’t want to wake up from the fan at one in the morning like I did last night.” Please for the love of god let me have the bathroom to myself for a while and pretend not to hear anything.

But Victor, of course, takes it at face value. Yuri can’t blame him, really; they don’t know each other well enough for Victor to recognize when Yuri is sending a silent message.

“The acoustics in there are pretty good, aren’t they? Sorry, Yura.” Then he disappears into the bathroom.

Yuri sighs. Well, now is as good a time as any to get dressed for bed.

He sits on the floor, facing away from the bathroom, and takes off his shirt. The tape is still tight around his torso, and he knows from experience that leaving it on overnight is just asking for trouble. He’s sure puberty is going to hit before he reaches eleven. Yuri was an early bloomer, starting to develop breasts a few months after his tenth birthday. He unwraps them slowly, doing his best not to touch the skin or pull on the tape too much. When it’s off entirely, he hurriedly puts on a too-big shirt that he got from the lost and found once at school. He tries to move his arms as little as possible; it hurts if he rotates his shoulder too much. He peels out of his skinny jeans and puts on a pair of joggers before realizing that the tape still isn’t thrown away yet. He hears the toilet flush and tries in vain to gather it all in the time it takes Victor to wash his hands and open the door.

Of course, he freaks out when he sees the tape. “Did you break something, Yuratchka? When did this happen? Does Yakov know? Why didn’t you tell me? Are you okay?”

“Shut the fuck up already!” Yuri snaps, face flushed with humiliation. “Nothing got broken. I’m fine. I’m not hurt.”

“Oh.” Victor cocks his head to the side. “Does this have to do with the little girl who called you Yulia? Is that what you want to be called? Should I start--”

“No!” Yuri doesn’t mean to shriek, doesn’t mean for her voice to come back to the surface, scratchy and overused though it may be. Victor looks shocked, and Yuri is surprised at his own vehemence. “Sorry,” he says quietly, lowering his voice so that he sounds like himself again. “Please… don’t call me that. Ever.”

“But the little girl--”

“Anna doesn’t know. She can’t be allowed to know. Just… if you can help it, don’t call me that name. Please, Victor.” He’s begging now, in a way that he would have been ashamed to do earlier. He’s begging his idol not to see him any differently, he’s begging God to give him this one thing.

And it’s granted. Victor looks like he understands now, and nods once. Yuri sags in relief and winces at the sting on his torso. “But Yura, can you do me a favor?”

Anything. “What?”

“Let me check something.” Victor puts a hand on the right side of Yuri’s ribs.

He hisses in pain and flinches away immediately. “What the hell, Victor?”

“You are hurt. I told Yakov that you shouldn't be flinching when you land your jumps.” Victor lifts the back of his shirt, making sure only to look at Yuri’s back. “Oh, Yura.”

“It’s not that bad,” Yuri mumbles. He knows he’s lying through his teeth; he’s seen what Victor’s seeing. When he’s alone, looking in the mirror, he sees the angry red stripes of skin criss-crossing his torso. He’s used to it.

Victor sighs. “It’s pretty bad. Why aren’t you using wraps? Why duct tape? It’s not even athletic tape. That wouldn’t hurt you this much. If the back is this bad, the front must be--”

“The front is fine,” Yuri bites out. It’s not fine. It’s damn raw from the constant tapeing and untapeing, and the chafing that comes with it. There’s probably bruising under all of that too. But it doesn’t bother him. It doesn’t. “That much athletic tape would be too expensive.”

Victor lets the shirt drop. Yuri refuses to look him in the eyes, but he can hear the man shuffling around in his bag. Something soft hits Yuri in the back of the head. When he looks, it’s a bundle of cloth: a white tank top, some gauze, and a roll of soft tape.

“This is going to sound weird,” Victor says, sounding more serious than Yuri’s ever heard him, “But take off that shirt.”

Yuri instinctively balks at the idea. “But I’m not wearing--”

“You can’t reach your back.” Victor interrupts. “Besides, what does it matter? We’re both men.”

There’s that heat again, behind his eyes. Yuri blinks it away, but he can’t force down the feeling that bubbles up in his chest.

He doesn’t say anything, just shrugs out of the shirt carefully. Victor dresses his injuries with gauze and some odorless jelly substance. Yuri’s face burns every time Victor sees his breasts, small though they may be, but Victor is acting… very mature about this. Almost clinical. He doesn’t even give them a second glance, beyond making sure that he’s not wrapping them too tightly, and he makes sure not to touch, instead making Yuri put the ointment on himself.

When Yuri’s shirt is back on, Victor holds up the roll of tape. “Use this instead of tape, and only when you’re on the ice. It’s fashion tape, the kind that women use when they wear low-cut dresses.”

Yuri doesn’t even question why Victor has something like that in his bag (later, he would explain that it can help ‘keep everything in place’ out on the ice). “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you can’t just make me walk around without--”

Victor puts a hand over his mouth. “You don’t need it right now unless your clothes are tight. There are lighter-weight binders that we can get for you when you’re old enough to need them while you skate. We’re going to get you an actual binder when you need one. I just don’t want you wearing it on the ice and hurting yourself. Until then, use the tape.”

As soon as his face is released, Yuri sneers. “As if I’d be stupid enough to wear something like that when I’m fucking skating.” Thank you. Thank you so much.

Victor chuckles, right back to his normal goofiness in the blink of an eye. “I know, Yura.”

You’re welcome. It’s clear as crystal to Yuri’s ears, and if a few tears slip out when he’s supposed to be sleeping, Victor never has to know.

~oOo~

Of course, that’s part of why it’s so hard when Victor just up and leaves Russia five years later for-- of all people --the fucking crybaby from the Grand Prix Finale.

Yuri is fuming when he sees the post that confirms that Victor is in Japan. Fucking Victor. He thinks he can just do whatever the fuck he wants because of how good he is. He promised me a goddamned routine.

He doesn’t let himself think about the real reason that he’s so angry. He’s not weak like Katsuki, that damned pig. He can perform his own routines. He can control his own emotions.

Yuri doesn’t tell Yakov where he’s going, but he does tell Grandpa. He’s expecting the call that he gets soon after Yakov’s; he’s already warmed up his voice.

“Hey, Annichka.”

“Yulia! You were supposed to take me shopping for picture day!” She still sounds so small, but she’s already nine.

“I know, милый, and I’m sorry. Something came up with work at the last minute.” He can’t help Victor’s stupidity, but he’s going to be damned sure to steal the man’s credit card and buy his sister a whole new wardrobe for this. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“You work too much. You never come see me anymore,” Anna whines, and it nearly breaks his heart.

“I’ll try harder,” he promises. It hurts, being Yulia. It’s almost too painful to bear. But he would do anything for Anna.

“You always say that, but you never keep your promises. I hate you!”

“Annichka--” He knows even before he finishes her name. She’s hung up.

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

The words echo infinitely in his head, swirling themselves into his soul and shattering him. They don’t mean anything. Anna is nine; she throws the word “hate” around like candy. That doesn’t stop his heart from throbbing painfully in his ribs. That doesn’t stop a swell of emotions from fighting to be released into the world. Yuri shuts them all down, shoving them into the deepest, darkest part of himself.

Only anger shines through, and only when he sees Katsuki running to the rink, to Victor, as if he has any right to Victor’s attention. As if a man weak enough to let one defeat stop him from performing at his best for five years has any right to ask a legend for help. Yuri explodes. His foot is in the imposter’s face before he even knows what to say.

It’s his fault. If it wasn’t for the pig, Victor would have stayed home. Anna wouldn’t hate me.

Then Victor, the idiot, has the nerve to make Yuri compete with the pig. After everything else, he has to be subjected to this. Fine. If that’s what he wants, that’s what he’ll get.

They get back to the imposter’s place. Before bed, Victor comes to Yuri’s room. He leans on the doorframe, arms crossed. “There’s something else I forgot about, isn’t there?”

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. The words still haven’t lost their edge. Yuri throws a shoe at Victor, which he easily avoids, totally used to this kind of thing by now.

“I missed a family day because of this, you bastard.” I broke a promise to my sister.

Victor’s eyes widen in sympathy, but he knows better than to try to show pity. “I’m sorry, Yura.”

“Yeah, whatever. It was just shopping, anyway. If you’re going to apologize to anyone, apologize to her.” Yuri holds out his hand expectantly, stamping down the swell of emotion again.

Victor complies, handing over his card with a rueful grin. It’s as bad as Yuri expected: he’s not regretful about coming to Japan at all. He’s just sorry for the inconvenience he caused Yuri. “Whatever it takes.”

Yuri already has the site on checkout on his phone, so he just types in Victor’s information and hands it back, clicking Pay. “You’re coming back to Russia.”

“You’re too sure of yourself, Yura.” Victor flips his hair haughtily. “Yuuri might surprise you.”

“Tch. Whatever. Either close the door or get out. I need to change.”

Victor shakes his head with a laugh and closes the door. Yuri shrugs out of his new tiger shirt and carefully takes off his binder, letting out a long breath. It’s been five years and at this point, Victor’s seen it all already. There’s no point in being embarrassed.

“You’re not wearing that one during training,” Victor warns him.

“You think I don’t know that, idiot?” Yuri snaps, pulling on a shirt that used to be Victor’s. As he’s gotten older, his loose shirts have had to get bigger. “You’ve even got Yakov nagging me about it.”

The older man shrugs. “We just don’t want you getting hurt again.”

“I’m fine. I was ten, and stupid.” Yuri pulls off his skinny jeans and rummages through his luggage for a pair of sweats. Victor holds up a pair of leggings questioningly. Yuri shakes his head. “Panty lines.”

Yuri tried boxers for a while, but they don’t work very well with a lot of the clothes that he has to wear as a skater. He has a few pairs of underwear that he uses specifically for practices, but today wasn’t a practice day. He wears boyshorts normally, but they ride up when he wears leggings. He holds up a pair of sweats triumphantly before putting them on.

“Aren’t you getting a bit old for kitty print underwear?” Victor teases. Yuri just flips him off. That may or may not be the main reason he tolerates the necessity for girls’ underwear.

There’s a buzzing noise from across the room. Victor checks his phone. “It’s yours.”

Who would be calling him? Yakov, probably. Yuri gets the feeling that he’s not going to be hearing the end of this for a long time.

But no, it’s… He clears his throat and swipes the green Answer button. “Papa?”

“Yulya! Yulya, I’m so sorry!”

“A--Anna?” Yuri is startled by how loud the sobs are from the other end of the line. Anna almost never calls him Yulya unless something is really wrong. “Annichka, what are you sorry for? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I don’t hate you, Yulya, I promise! I was sad that you missed our date but I was too mean. I know you have to work,” she adds, hiccupping. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s okay, милый,” Yuri says gently. “I know you didn’t mean it--”

The phone is plucked out of his hand and Yuri straight up growls at Victor. Taking his phone is dumb enough on its own, but when Anna is on the phone? Yuri is seeing red.

Victor puts a hand on his head to keep him quiet. “Nyura? It’s Victor.”

“V--Victor?” Anna sounds confused.

“Yes. It’s entirely my fault that you and Yulia couldn’t go out today. If you want to blame anyone, feel free to blame me.”

She can’t blame you for anything, Yuri thinks sourly. She fucking loves you.

“It’s okay, Victor,” Anna says, predictably. “I’m not mad at anyone anymore. It’s nobody’s fault.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that.”

“But could you talk to those board people about fixing Yulia’s name and where she should be skating? She’s always with the boys.”

Yuri chokes on air. Mama said that Anna wasn’t allowed to watch him skate. How the hell--

Victor glances at him out the corner of his eye. “I’ll see, but those kinds of mistakes are hard to fix, Nyura. I’ll give you back to your sister now.”

“Has Grandpa been letting you watch my competitions?” Yuri asks immediately.

“Nye. Papa told me I could,” Anna says. “He said there was a mistake in your registration and that’s why your name’s wrong.”

“Does Mother know?” No, of course not. She would never allow--

“Yeah. We watch them together.” Anna seems tired of talking about it, despite turning Yuri’s entire world on its head. “So how long are you going to be in Japan?”

“A little less than a month, it looks like.” There’s a quiet knock at the door. Without waiting for an answer, the pig opens the door. Yuri doesn’t pay him any mind. “I have to compete to get Victor to go back home like a normal person. I did get you a present, though. It should be there before I get back.”

The pig looks at him in surprise, probably from hearing Yulia’s voice coming from Yuri’s mouth. Yuri glares daggers at him. “Hold on, Annichka.”

“Victor, out,” he snaps in English. “The pig wants to talk to you.”

“Tell her I said goodbye.” Victor stands up and dusts himself off.

“I won’t.” He switches back to Russian when the door closes. “I’m back.”

“Japanese people know English?” Anna sounds surprised.

Yuri chuckles. “They can learn.”

They chat for a while, until Anna starts yawning. Yuri makes her promise to go to sleep, then hangs up. His throat feels raw as he gets up and stretches, back popping. He brought tea bags and honey with him, so he heads to the kitchen to heat up some water. He’s not alone, despite the hour. As he’s rummaging through the cabinets to find a mug, something clinks. When he looks over, it’s the pig, who puts a mug down on the counter.

“We have lemon, if you want any.” He sounds nervous, which is stupid. Skating talent and temper aside, Yuri knows that he’s a fifteen year old boy. No self respecting twenty three year old should be afraid of him.

Yuri would say something, but it’s not worth it. He takes the mug and puts the tea bag in, covering it with boiling water and avoiding the imposter’s eyes. It’s dark except for the one light that’s on, and the pig is swirling something in a bowl with a bamboo whisk.

“It’s called matcha,” he says, noticing Yuri’s stare. “It’s traditional Japanese tea. I’m supposed to drink it every night because it’s good for weight loss.”

The snort that comes out of Yuri is as unintentional as it is painful. He winces and puts a hand to his throat without thinking about it. As soon as he realizes what he’s doing, he drops his hand. Boys don’t show pain. This isn’t anything you’re not used to. Don’t show the pig that you’re weak.

The imposter looks at him with a soft smile. “If you ever want to use the onsen, you can use Victor’s pool. Nobody else does.”

The tea is done. The imposter hands him a spoon and he stirs some honey into the still-hot liquid. He throws out the tea bag and sips it. It’s warm, but not scalding. Good. It soothes the sandpaper feeling in his throat that’s always leftover when he spends too long acting like her.

“So... is there anything you want me to call you in particular, or…” the pig asks him awkwardly as Yuri is taking a sip.

He’s so caught off-guard that he spills tea down his front. His shirt clings to his chest. “Call me whatever the fuck you want,” he rasps, glaring. “I’m going to beat you, so it doesn’t matter.”

The imposter panics a little, grabbing napkins spluttering out apologies. It’s then that Yuri realies that he hasn’t looked at the shirt once, and not out of politeness; the pig hasn’t even thought about it, despite the truth being bared in front of him.

“Tch.” Yuri snatches the napkins out of Katsuki’s hand and wipes off his face before dabbing at his shirt. “Great. It’s stained now.”

“S--Sorry,” Katsuki manages to say. He glances at the stain, but doesn’t stare. “Baking soda and warm water should get most of it out…”

“Stupid pig,” Yuri mutters, grabbing his tea and walking toward the door. He stops for a moment and considers. “Call me by my name. Yuri. You should know who’s going to beat the crap out of you next month.”

When he turns the corner, he catches a glimpse of the tiny, bewildered grin on Katsuki’s face.

On the day of his competition, he refuses to acknowledge that he’s nervous. Grandpa isn’t his true agape. Yuri knows that, okay? But he can’t seem to make himself picture Anna, who doesn’t even know the real him. Who might not love the real him.

He doesn’t want to open that can of worms when he’s on the ice, and when he knows that Anna and Mother are watching. Besides, he does love Grandpa unconditionally. It’ll do. It’ll be just fine. Come crunch time, the adrenaline will take over and he’ll just be going on instinct anyway. There won’t be any names or faces when he’s on the ice. It’s just be the music, the routine, and Yuri. It’ll be fine.

Except that it’s not.

His performance is much closer to perfect than Katsuki’s. He knows that. Victor knows that. The whole world knows that. But Victor was looking for emotion. He wanted agape, not perfection. The result is clear by the end of Katsuki’s eros.

Yuri is gone before the results are announced, wondering if maybe that can of worms was a missed opportunity.

He trains like hell when he gets back home. The consolation calls that he gets from Grandpa and Anna remain unanswered, as do the voicemails. He can’t deal with their pity right now, doesn’t want to hear the inevitable “you should have won” speech that they’re going to give him. Because the fact is that he shouldn’t have won. Katsuki, the damned pig, is better than Yuri expected.

So he throws himself into skating. He shows up to practice earlier than anybody, and stays later. He pushes himself to the breaking point daily, going to bed with an exhausted sigh. He doesn’t want to think about anything but beating Katsuki in his senior debut and becoming an even better skater than Victor. He will do it.

“I’ve never seen Yuri this focused before,” Mila tells Yakov once, when she thinks Yuri isn’t listening. “He used to hate training.”

I still do, he thinks, pulling his leg into a standing split. But it fuels his anger: he has to do all of this because of Katsuki. And maybe, if he puts enough anger and masculinity into his skating, his family will-- Nope. He shuts that train of thought down quickly and lowers his leg, transitioning seamlessly into a floor split. Think agape. Unconditional love. Positive emotions.

“He’s never had a rival before,” Yakov says, and he’s lying through his teeth. He knows what’s going on; Yuri is sure that his grandfather has talked to him about all the missed calls. “It’ll be good for him.”

He trains harder. He has to prove to them that he’s working hard if he’s going to justify ignoring them later. Stretch further. Jump higher. Be more precise. Bend farther. Be more graceful. Be more like her. Make Yulia work for you.

Yuri wants to take off Yakov’s head when he’s approached by a ballerina. He wants anger, not beauty. His beauty comes from her body. But he finds himself agreeing to her terms, and the look on Yakov’s face by the end of it is almost worth it.

He throws himself into ballet now as much as skating.

Plie, pirouette, pirouette again, assemblé, attitude en pointe. Dance. Dance, damned body. Make Yulia dance. Make her hurt. Make them all see Yuri through Yulia.

“Tear yourself down,” Lilia says. “The people who can tear themselves down and rebuild as many times as necessary are the only ones that are truly strong. Again!”

Plie, pirouette, pirouette again, assemblé, attitude en pointe. Plie, pirouette, pirouette again, assemblé, attitude en pointe. Again, again, again.

“Be strong!” Lilia demands. “Rip yourself into pieces.”

Plie, pirouette, pirouette again, assemblé, attitude en pointe. Rip yourself apart. Already done. Pirouette again, assemblé… Rip yourself apart again. Again. Again.

The routine is improving every day, but it’s not good enough to bag him gold in Canada. He fumes silently, already aware of what happens when he explodes at Lilia.

She notices anyway. “Don’t blame me, Yura. Your performance was fractured. Piecemeal. You’re lucky you even got silver.”

“Of course it was fractured!” Yuri yells, rage boiling over. “You told me to tear myself down. Rip myself apart!"

“And put yourself back together again,” the Prima snaps. “Which you failed to do, time and again. You can’t do half the work and expect a good result. Idiot.”

I don’t know how, he thinks, glaring at the floor. I’ve never done it before. I’m doing the best I can.

There’s a long silence, then Lilia lets out a long sigh and puts her hands on Yuri’s shoulders. “Look, Yura. Your movements are too conflicted. You are sharp, angry. Then, in the blink of an eye, you’re graceful. Beautiful. You cannot be two people on the ice. You have to choose: will you be Yuri? Or will you be Yulia?”

He stays silent, until Lilia sighs and leaves him alone in his room. She should know, if she thinks she can tell so much about him just from his skating, that he can’t choose. He has to be both. For Anna.

But Anna doesn’t care that I skate with the boys… But that’s because she still thinks I’m a girl… Would she really care though?

Mama did.

Yuri buries his face in his pillow and, for the second time in his life, he screams himself hoarse.

~oOo~

He works his ass off, practices until he can barely move, and that still doesn’t compare to the amount of thinking that he’s had to do since Canada.

Yuri? Or Yulia? He’s so tired of thinking it, so tried of rolling the question around in his mind over and over, but he can’t stop. Anna will be watching, and he has to make her see that he’s been working hard. But at the same time, he has to compete against Katsuki. His Eros routine has gotten much, much better since they last met, and Yuri is actually convinced that it has a chance against his Agape.

Which makes it all the more important that he consolidates his routine. He’s ripped himself to pieces a million times in his life; now it’s time for him to decide what he wants to become, and damn if that’s not a lot of pressure.

“Yuri,” Yakov says before the Roseltam short program, and Yuri knows that something happened if Yakov is calling him that.

“Eh?” He tries to look engrossed in glaring at the crowd, but he's sure Yakov isn't buying it.

He's right. Yakov forces him to look forward. “Yura. Your grandfather just called. He got into a fight with your parents, so he and Anna won't be able to make it tonight.”

Yuri hears him as if through an earful of cotton. He doesn’t quite know how to feel. On one hand, he’s relieved. He still hasn’t consolidated the routine enough to be proud of showing it off to them live.

On the other hand, he wants to see her. She’s never been in the crowd before, and she talked his ear off the other day about how excited she was to see her big sister perform. Some of it definitely rubbed off on him, especially since Grandpa hasn’t been to any of his competitions in years either.

“Yuri Plisetsky!” the announcer calls. The crowd roars.

He tries to focus, but he can’t hear Lilia or Yakov over the pounding of his own heart.

“Yurio! Davai!” The cry cuts through the fog in his mind and his head whips around in surprise. Katsuki is waving at him, as if they’re actually friends.

“Yurio, ganba !” Victor yells with a bright grin.

That’s not my fucking name, Yuri can’t help but think, whirling angrily toward the ice. Even though he’s sure that their obnoxiousness was just the two of them being themselves, they’ve cleared his head for the time being. He can hear the arrangement, see the steps, keep the tempo. He doesn’t skate his heart out, but he skates his feelings away with practiced movements and hard-won flexibility.

There’s not enough agape in the performance, and he screws up once or twice, but he taps into Yulia more than usual and that’s enough. He imagines that Anna is in the audience, becomes everything that she would want him to be. His arms are silk; his feet, wings. Everything that Yulia ever could have been, he becomes: beauty, grace, poise.

And then it's over.

It’s going to make him sick in a few minutes, he knows, chest heaving against his binder as he rushes off the ice. He can’t bring himself to care, because it was a good performance, even if he has to suffer the consequences. He scowls through the kiss and cry, fully aware of the cat ears on his head (they take the edge of the nauseating post-performance adrenaline, so he’s content to look like a moron, just this once; besides, they’re cute) and gets lightly scolded for his uncharacteristic performance afterward.

It’s all for show; both Yakov and Lilia look like they’re more worried than annoyed. Yuri tries not to listen, more preoccupied with the rolling of his stomach than with their concern.

“Can we just go back to the hotel?” he asks quietly, startling them both. His chest aches from the binder, there's a sour taste in his mouth, and he’s shaking. If he’s too energetic, he’s afraid of what will happen.

By the time they get to the lobby, it’s cleared out somewhat. That’s why it’s so odd that Victor and Katsuki are still here. Even stranger is the fact that they seem to be fighting. Then Victor catches sight of them.

“Yakov!”

Ten minutes later, they’re all piled into the car, Katsuki included. Yuri will grant that he’s become better at concealing his sadness, but that’s all he’s really noticing. He’s too absorbed in his own thoughts. Yuri, not Yulia. Yuri. I’m Yuri.

Katsuki is muttering something about being a big fan of Lilia’s, and insisting that Yakov doesn’t have to coach him at all, throwing Yuri a couple of worried glances out of the corner of his eye. It’s a little amazing that he’s able to be worried about anything but the dog, but he supposes that it’s Katsuki, after all.

“--that alright, Yura?”

Yuri blinks and nods vacantly, not entirely sure what he agreed to. Whatever .

It takes entirely too long to get back to the hotel, or maybe it just feels like that. I don’t regret it, he thinks fiercely crossing his arms to keep his stomach in place. I don’t regret this skate. I’m not her. I already know that. I’m not.

As soon as the car stops, he’s out of it, heading straight for the elevator to his room. Distantly, he hears Katsuki asking him if he’s okay. He ignores it, rushing through the lobby and to the elevator without so much as glancing at his surroundings. Even the slight lurch of the elevator is nauseating. I’m not her. Even when I skate, I’m Yuri. Why did I do that?

Even as he thinks it, the answer appears in his mind, taking the shape of a round-faced little girl with blond pigtails.

Yuri slams the keycard against its scanner and opens the door quickly, headed straight for the bathroom. But it was good, he thinks desperately, sinking down to his knees. His chest is heaving painfully; he needs to take off the binder, or he's going to get hurt. His hands shake when he takes off his shirt and fumbles with the edge of the binder. Once it's off, he throws it across the room and takes a deep breath.

He doesn't eat much on competition days, which is a good thing and a bad one. It means that when he lurches forward, head hanging over the toilet bowl, he doesn't have to deal with expelling much of anything. On the downside, it also means that painful knots in his stomach are there for longer, that he has to prolong his suffering.

I'll be okay. Just get through this. I'll just have to show them Yuri at the worlds. I'll be okay. I'll be fine. I know who I am. I'll be fine.  There are tears in his eyes. He's still retching when something is draped over his bare back. It feels like a jacket, but it's too small to be Yakov’s. Someone pulls his hair out of his eyes before rubbing circles into his back.

“You'll be okay, Yuri,” Katsuki soothes in accented English.

Yuri stiffens for a moment before a shudder goes through his body. He can't even protest his treatment, can't make himself be strong. The tears that have been welling up in his eyes finally fall.

I'll be fine. I'll be okay.

He shudders out a breath. “G--Go away, asshole. Leave me alone.”

“No.” Katsuki doesn't even hesitate, sounding more assertive than Yuri’s ever heard him.

He can't bring himself to fight it when Katsuki pulls him close. He goes boneless with exhaustion, even though his stomach is still rolling. His head throbs and his chest aches.

I'll be okay. I'm strong.

He doesn't realize that he's saying it out loud until Katsuki responds.

“I know you will, Yuri. You're the strongest person I've ever met. That doesn't mean you have to do it alone.” Katsuki sounds close to tears himself, and Yuri remembers that they've both had long days.

“Just… go to your own room,” Yuri mutters, moving away. The jacket is falling open, leaving his chest bare, but he's facing away Katsuki, too hunched over to be worried about the older man seeing anything. Besides, something tells Yuri that he wouldn't be judged much.

Katsuki, predictably, doesn't move. “I am in my own room. You agreed to split with me in the car, remember? Not that I'd leave you alone right now anyway,” he adds as an afterthought.

It's been a while since Yuri has felt genuine gratefulness to someone other than Grandpa and Yakov, so it catches him by surprise.

“We will never speak of this,” he warns Katsuki, turning toward him slowly and staring at the floor.

“Never,” Katsuki swears.

“It won't change anything.”

“Of course not.”

“I'm still going to beat you on the world stage.”

“We'll see.” Yuuri opens his arms again, a soft smile on his face.

Maybe… Maybe I don't have to be strong all the time, Yuri thinks hopefully, letting himself be pulled into the hug. Even if I'm not, I'll be okay.