Work Text:
Viktor remembers his last practice on the ice before he left for Japan. He’s lucky the rink was empty that night save for him and Yakov, or else everyone else would remember it, too. He skated the beginnings of a short program, telling the tale of a playboy and the lady whose heart he stole. Because Katsuki Yuuri had stolen his heart. (But they’d made it beat again, too, so maybe Viktor’s heart was theirs for the taking.)
A step sequence formed in his mind, a flamenco on ice, like the one they’d danced together, that night. All these ideas that Viktor had been lacking for years sprung forward.
“All the jumps will be in the second half,” Viktor explained, poised over the notepad in Yakov’s hand. “To mimic the growing passion of a night together.”
Yakov rolled his eyes. “Are you sure you have the stamina for that? At your age?” he asked drily. He had always left Viktor to his artistry, only stepping in when Viktor was about to do something reckless.
“Yakov, you wound me,” Viktor pouted. “The first jump is a spread eagle into a triple Axel.” The triple Axel was Yuuri’s favorite jump, after all.
Yakov grunted. “Less talking, more skating,” he finally said, waving Viktor on.
Viktor smiled, like he always did, and pushed off from the barrier. As soon as his blades started cutting into the ice, all of his artistic inspiration shriveled up and died. The telltale shkkk, shkkk of his blades clung to him like white noise. He closed his eyes—he could skate the perimeter of this rink blind—and pushed forward, every movement like pulling teeth.
A step sequence, dance on the ice, foot over foot (move like air, be ethereal, inhuman).
All of his skin and muscle had been replaced with lead, being pulled down on his aching bones. He could feel his battered ankles buckling under his weight, gravity crushing his lungs. He still hadn’t recovered from Worlds only a few weeks before. His body and his mind begged for him to take a break. He wanted nothing more than to stop, to put his feet on solid ground and never step into the rink again.
Viktor Nikiforov didn’t get breaks.
Arms up, back straight, dance with the partner that isn’t here (even when gravity threatens to snap you in two).
He pushed harder, through the pain in his knees, dwarfed by the crushing weight in his chest. He was a legend and he had a throne to defend. There were duties and expectations he had to meet, an image he had to live up to. Even if he didn’t feel like he was living at all.
Bend your knees, breathe, don’t pass out (breathe when it’s fire in your lungs).
It had been building for years, the lead in his skin. As he gave the ice everything that he had and more, it asked for his blood.
Spread eagle, legs straight, dance like you’re the most seductive person in the room (your skin crawls but you have to keep acting).
For every bit that the memory of Yuuri filled him with life, the ice sucked it out of him. Standing on the ice, he could feel every last bit of inspiration being drained through his toes. The ice had taken his body years ago, now it sought after his mind as well.
And kick (launch yourself into the air and hope you never come back down).
He came back down.
His knees buckled and slid out from under him while his hands came forward to brace his fall. His chest smacked into the ice, taking the air from his already burning lungs. He slid, palms burning, rolling helplessly on the ice, as he struggled to gain traction. He finally rolled to a stop, collapsed on his back. He pulled his skinned palms to his chest. The ice was cool against his shoulders. His knee ached where it hit the ice, but otherwise he was physically fine.
His lungs still burned, his skin froze to the ice, and the weight of his body multiplied.
He didn’t rise.
“Vitya, get up!” Yakov barked. It had been months since Viktor had fallen. Yakov likely assumed it was an unexpected failure that gave Viktor pause.
Viktor stared at his hands, at the blood beading on his palms, seeing but not seeing. He covered his eyes, fingers digging into his scalp. And he screamed.
He screamed.
“Vitya, are you hurt?” Yakov called, mood shifting quickly to concern.
He was about to run out to Viktor on the ice, when Viktor shrieked, “Don’t touch me!” His voice was scratchy and raw.
Yakov stopped, staring in horror at Viktor, motionless on the ice save for his heaving chest. Viktor screamed again, palms pressed into the hollows of his eyes. The sound echoed in the empty rink, as Viktor’s screams devolved into dry sobs. His throat ached and his eyes burned and he wanted so badly to just cry because everything hurt but his weary body couldn’t even muster tears to shed.
Yakov watched Viktor in silence. He’d seen Viktor have meltdowns before; Viktor led a high stress life and was a diva even in the best of times. But it had never been like this. When Viktor’s screams and sobs finally faded into silence, Yakov dared to open his mouth again.
“What’s wrong, Vitya?”
Viktor barked out a laugh. Where did he even begin answering that question? “I’m dying,” he gasped, because that was what he felt like, there on the ice.
Yakov frowned. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
“This sport is killing me,” Viktor insisted. “If I keep skating, I’m going to die, one way or another.”
“Skaters flub jumps all the time, it doesn’t mean...”
“It’s not about the damn jump!”
It was about so much more. It was about Viktor’s loneliness, and ever present chill that sapped his life away. It was about everything he’d given up to be a legend, and everything that would be required of him to maintain that title. It was about the comfort of his bed, and the way these days it was all he could do to pull himself out of it.
A minute passed in silence. “Can you get up?” Yakov finally asked.
Viktor didn’t want to. He wanted to lie there until the ice finally took the one thing he had left to give. But that wasn’t what Yakov had asked. On weary bones, he pushed himself up, fought against the pull of gravity to stand. He skated to the edge of the rink, let Yakov put his blade guards back on and untie his skates. Yakov sat him down, put disinfectant on his palms, flexed his knee to make sure it wasn’t damaged.
“I can’t go back out on the ice,” Viktor finally said, as Yakov knelt before him, hands on his bruised leg.
Yakov stilled. “The ice is all you have.”
And Viktor bit back hot tears because it was true. Yakov sent him home with an order to take a day off and be back the day after. By that time, Viktor found himself in Japan.
“Here’s the part where you lift me,” Yuuri breathed, back pressed to Viktor’s chest. “Are you ready?”
Viktor didn’t respond, too busy grabbing the sides of Yuuri’s chest and lifting. Yuuri gasped breathlessly when their feet left the ground, Viktor’s skates bearing down on the ice as they took their combined weight. Viktor turned, a perfect 180, slowly lowering Yuuri back down like they were crystal in his hands. Yuuri’s skates touched down, and they took their weight off of Viktor’s hands, momentum carrying them both forward.
The music carried on, Yuuri turning in Viktor’s arms to smile like he’d hung the moon. “You did it!” they exclaimed, skating backwards.
“Finally,” Viktor laughed, recalling all the times he’d dropped Yuuri so far.
“Finally,” Yuuri echoed, rubbing the bruise forming on their back.
Yuuri broke from Viktor’s embrace. “I need to go ice all the bruises you put on me,” they teased. “Think that’s enough for today, coach?”
Viktor hummed, skating spirals into the ice. “I suppose. I could always put more bruises on you, if you like,” he teased, licking his lips. Viktor pushed off on the ice, gaining speed before transitioning into an arabesque.
Yuuri rolled their eyes, skating to the exit and slipping on their guards. “Maybe I should put some bruises on you since you’re not the one in competition.”
“Now there’s an idea!” Viktor laughed, lifting his leg into a Biellman before launching into a spin.
“What am I thinking, you’d just show them off,” Yuuri huffed, leaning against the side of the rink as they watched Viktor.
Viktor came out of the spin, lowering his leg and moving into an Ina Bauer. He bent his spine as far back as he could, giving Yuuri a show. Yuuri eyed the elegant curve of Viktor’s back, beautiful even in just a shirt and sweats.
Viktor’s back popped, loudly. “Oh my!’ Viktor laughed, straightening up.
Yuuri chuckled into their hand. “I can hear the arthritis coming on.”
“Don’t tease!” Viktor pouted. “It’s been awhile since I tested my flexibility.”
Yuuri hummed in agreement. “I haven’t seen you skate by yourself in a long time,” they agreed.
That’s when it hit Viktor, as he went into a spread eagle. He was skating again, and for the first time in months it didn’t feel like torture. He immediately launched into a celebratory double flip (child’s play, really). But when he landed, he didn’t crumble under the weight of his bones and that was all that he cared about in the moment.
He laughed, moving into a step sequence like the one from Yuuri’s Eros. Viktor’s step sequences were never up to par with his technical mastery; Yuuri had him beat there by leagues. But in the waning light of the Hasetsu sun, it was like dancing with an old friend.
Hello, there! Viktor’s body said, his arms reached down as if to shake hands.
Hello! The ice replied. It’s been so long!
Viktor bent his knee, moving forward while his free leg dragged behind. I know, I thought I would never find you again.
We never left! We’ve been waiting this whole time!
He danced again with his first love; the love that had come before anything else, before Viktor Nikiforov, before Yuuri. For so many years it had just been him and the ice. And he had loved it so deeply, so fully, burning white hot in his chest. And the ice had loved him back.
This was why he had chosen this life. The weightlessness of moving on the ice could never be matched on land. The ice twirled him in circles, spinning him like a top as he laughed. He launched himself into a jump, and trusted the ice to catch him safely in its arms. How could he have forgotten?
He had given his life to the ice and it had given it back. More important than anything else, the ice gave him...
“That was beautiful!” Yuuri called, clapping from the edge of the rink.
Viktor drifted toward them, still in a daze. Yuuri’s smile lit the room, cheeks and the tip of their nose rosy in the cold. Viktor’s eyes burned, a lump in his throat where tears threatened to eek out.
The ice had given him Yuuri, and Yuuri had given him his life.
Hands on Yuuri’s cheeks, Viktor pulled them into a bruising kiss. Their lips were chapped and cold, the salt of sweat still hanging on them from practice. But it was perfect, it was Yuuri.
“Thank you,” Viktor breathed into their mouth.
Yuuri pulled away. “What are we thanking me for?” It was their turn to look dazed.
For the life and love you’ve given me, Viktor didn’t say. Instead he pulled Yuuri into another kiss.