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Viktor cried openly in front of the mirror as he pulled the brush through his long hair, perhaps over brushing it to relish the movement. He hadn’t realized how much of himself, his identity, relied on his hair until Yakov gave the order to cut it off. It was nothing new; he and Yakov had fought over his hair ever since Viktor moved into the senior bracket.
“It’s just hair, Yakov. No one cares about my hair like that!”
“This will come back, Vitya. I may accept you, but Russia will not.”
Somehow though, Yakov’s prediction was proven right at the Russian nationals this year. Despite both his flawless programs, despite his rich choreography and storytelling, despite placing silver at the Grand Prix Finals, he had walked away from the national competition with bronze. Bronze. The medal was a disgrace, a blight on his growing career. Everyone knew it was wrong, even the other competitors spoke out about it, but the decision stuck. Russia had denied him. Russia had shown him what it thought.
And it told Viktor one thing: no matter his talent, no matter his dedication and perfection, no matter his dreams, Russia would not accept him as he was.
It tore at him as he stared at the silvery white hair in the mirror. For years, he could explore his gender, his orientation on the ice with the guise of innocently defying gender roles. Now though…now he was told he couldn’t continue to walk the line. He couldn’t be both or neither or whatever he was. Not in Russia. Not ever.
Makkachin pawed at the door, sensing Viktor’s unrest. The skater smiled sadly, reaching over to let the poodle in. He didn’t hesitate as he dropped to his knees and embraced him. “You’ll still love me, right?” he whispered, letting his tears fall into the brown fur. Makkachin barked and licked at the tear tracts marking his master’s face in reply.
They cut off too much, Viktor thought when he caught sight of himself in the mirror.
Yakov and Mila had gone with him for the transformation, picking out the hairstyle and making sure he didn’t run off before the deed was done. Mila seemed opposed to it, but she knew that he had agreed to go through with this, so she stayed to comfort him like the friend, the sister that she was.
His hair was short now, shorter than it had ever been in his life. It clung to his scalp as if afraid the barber—butcher, Viktor corrected in his mind—would remove what was left. Mila placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, running her fingers through the long bangs that Yakov allowed to stay.
Hideous.
Disgusting.
Masculine.
He hated it. It felt wrong. It felt like everything that had anchored him to this world had literally been taken away from him.
He had a hard time listening to Yakov after that.
It wasn’t until two years later, as he stared into the bathroom mirror in his hotel room, that he began to come to terms with the change. Not only had he taken the Worlds by storm that year, he had won two consecutive golds at the Grand Prix Finals, one proudly around his neck now, he had nearly triple the fans now than he ever did before the incident, and he had many more sponsorships than any other competitive skater to date.
It still felt wrong when he looked in the mirror. He had always seen just himself with long hair. Neither male or female, but not quite androgynous. When he first had his hair cut, he saw a stranger in every mirror. A man. Definitely a man. Now though…
It felt wrong. It would always feel wrong, but Viktor had realized that it was just how he had to be. He had to embrace it, learn to love it. He had to become what every expected to surprise them.
He had to love himself again.
Warm, gloved hands caressed his face before they slid into his strands. There was a chuckle and a kiss, sweet and soft. He returned the embrace, burying his hands in the dark hair of the other being. “Yuu~ri,” he sang happily. “Your hair has grown out. Don’t you think you need a trim soon?” The other laughed, a rich sound that reflected the year between them, a clear note that resonated through Viktor’s entire form.
“I think I’ll grow it out. What about you, Viktor?”
The man paused and thought for a moment. On one hand, Yuuri had expressed fondness for his hair in any shape, on the other, he knew this was his chance. He pulled away to look into the dark eyes that had watched him for so long, taking in the subtle browns and reds in the hue.
“I think I’ll let it do what it wants for now,” he decided, earning himself a kiss and a shred of self-respect that he thought he had lost long ago.