Chapter Text
When Yuuri wakes up, it wasn’t to the room he was used to. He peels open his eyes, his head pounding, expecting to see the familiar blue ceiling of his shared apartment in St. Petersburg. However, what he got instead was a white wall with pieces chipped from age. Yuuri blinked—once, twice—desperately trying to remember what happened last night to land him in a situation where he wasn’t home. His head throbs and it felt as if someone where taking a knife and stabbing it repeatedly.
He groans, flipping over on his side. It was then that he noticed the other details. His bed was small, his sheets were too thin to keep him warm and the room was much too small to be his bedroom.
And most importantly, Yuuri thought with a sinking feeling in his gut, there was no warm body sleeping peacefully next to him.
Yuuri blinks a few times, trying to clean the fog in his mind. It wasn’t uncommon for Viktor to get up before him, though the three years that he and Viktor had been married had taught him that Viktor definitely wasn’t a morning person. Yuuri gropes around for his glasses and hisses in pain when his hands connects with a bedside table that was much to close to be his own. Luckily, he was close enough to just be able to make out the blue rims of his glasses and hurriedly put them on, only to blink in confusion at the surrounding area.
It looked like a dorm room…a very, very familiar dorm room. Yuuri’s eyes widen and he turned to face the wall behind him with barely masked horror.
For there, on top of the crumbling white plaster and food stains, were hundreds of posters of Viktor Nikiforov. Hesitantly, he touches the corner of one to assure himself that, yes, this is real. This is happening. He doesn’t know how, but this was his dorm room in Detroit. There was no way it couldn’t be.
“What . . .?” He wasn’t even able to get out a sentence before a groan from the other side of the room took all his attention. Yuuri jumps, not realizing that there was another person there.
Yuuri turns his attention to the other person, as they sit up. He doesn’t believe his eyes. “Phichit . . .?”
But no, this wasn’t Phichit. This person was much too young to be the Thai skater that had been his best friend since college. Though, something at the back of his mind urges Yuuri to look again because there was no way he wasn’t Phichit. He had the same face, the same hair, the same voice.
The young-Phitchit glances at him, clearly groggy. “Yuuri what..?” It takes him a second to reach over and grab his smartphone before an inhuman screech comes from his mouth and he jumps out of bed as faster than Yuuri though possible. “OH SHIT! Yuuri! Yuuri we have practice! We’re going to be late! Ciao Ciao is going to kill us… Why didn’t you wake me up earlier—WHY ARE YOU STILL IN BED?”
The shout at the end startles Yuuri. Young-Phitchit is looking at him with such an incredulous expression that Yuuri shrinks into his skin a bit. Phitchit either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care as he grabs Yuuri’s hands and yanks him up, pushing him towards the closet before going back to gathering his own stuff. Yuuri stares at him for a few more seconds—long enough for Phichit to give him another look—before deciding that he’ll probably have to figure this out later. He turns his attention to the closet, grabbing his old skating sweats (Pitchit did mention practice, right?) and pulling them on.
By the time he was done, Phichit was already waiting by their dorm room door, scrolling through his phone impatiently. Yuuri grabs his old skating gear (how long had it been since he’s touched these skates? This bag?) and his phone before meeting Phichit. Phichit gives him a smile as if nothing had happened and the two of the head out into the chilly Detroit morning.
Phichit is chatting away at something that Yuuri isn’t quite listening to—too absorbed at looking around at the sights that he hasn’t seen for years to actually understand what his friend is saying.
An idea suddenly bursts into Yuuri’s mind as he looks down at his poodle-decorated phone. It was also not his current one—this one had been broken about a year ago after Viktor had dropped in into the toilet on accident.
He hesitates, his finger hovering over the “on” button. Taking a deep break, he clicks it.
He looks at the date, then promptly drops his phone.
For on his home screen was not January 10th, 2019, but instead October 15, 2015.
Eight weeks before the 2015 Sochi Grand Prix Final.
They do manage to make to to the rink in time. Yuuri doesn’t know how, nor does he remember much of the trip after the phone incident. Phitchit had looked at him weirdly for a while after that, but had not tried to talk to him which Yuuri was grateful for. He didn’t know how (if, his mind corrects) he could explain what was happening right now.
Celestino greets them warmly, his hair still long and his eyes not quite as old. He was missing some wrinkles, yet he held the same kindness that Yuuri had known all those years ago. He gives them both a brief update and then tells them to warm up on the ice.
Phichit takes off immediately, talking to some others that were already skating figure eights around the rink. Yuuri stays a bit longer on the bench, looking down at his skates. Thousands of thoughts were swirling around in his head.
He briefly debates if this was all a joke, but dismisses the thought. None of his friends were committed enough or good enough actors to pull of a stunt like this. That didn’t account for his phone or their changes in appearance. It didn’t account for how Phichit looked at him like he was crazy when he asked for the date again and again.
Nothing made sense.
“Yuuri!” Celestino’s shout echoes across the rink. Other skaters pause to look at him. “Are you going to warm up?”
Panicking, Yuuri shouts back, “C—coming!” and ties his skates the rest of the way. He takes off his guards and takes to the ice.
It was soothing, in a way. The ice always was. But even now it felt new and unfamiliar. His body didn’t quite respond how he was used to. He felt slower, not as flexible. He knew he’d been lacking in his stretches recently, but Yakov usually kept him on his toes.
He quickly skates a few laps, lost in thought yet again. He knows something isn’t right, deep in his gut. Everything about this situation screamed bad, bad, bad. There was no logical way to explain this morning.
Time travel briefly filters across his thoughts, but he was as quick to dismiss that as he was this entire thing being a joke. Time travel is impossible. There’s no way that would happen.
Celestino calls all the skaters on the rink over, separating them into groups. Yuuri pauses and skates over with the rest of them. Some were to practice their Short Programs, while others worked on their Free Skates. A select few were sent off to work on something special, like footwork or jumps.
Yuuri considers himself lucky when he’s told to work on his jumps in the far corner. He skates away as fast as possible (though, he did hear Phitchit try and talk to him before he was pulled into a different group). He skates around in circles a few times before starting off with smaller jumps. Then he slowly transitions into his favorites—a triple axel, a double Lutz, a triple toe-loop. Even though he’s practiced them thousands of times, they feel off. He lands them shakily. Sometimes it takes more force than it should to push himself off the ice. He doesn’t fall, but he feels like he did.
The longer practice goes on, the more Yuuri thinks that the “time travel” thought might not be so far fetched. He doesn’t have any other explanation for what was happening. Everyone kept looking at him, whispering. Some ask how he improved so quickly.
Even though Yuuri’s jumps were sloppy at best, Celestino still came over and shouts praises. Sometimes the other students would chime in with agreement. He tries not to cringe—was he really that bad when he was younger?
He knows he’s not preforming his best. His half-hearted jumps and shaky step-sequences were not something that should have been praised. They are sloppy, sometimes under rotated, and he couldn’t land them without shaking. He almost trips on his feet a few times. Viktor would have—
Viktor.
Viktor, who wasn’t here. Who didn’t know this happened. Viktor, who had been in bed with him last night whispering sweet nothing into his ear. His coach. His friend. His husband. His everything.
Oh, god. The thought made his stomach crawl. Viktor. Would he notice that Yuuri was gone? Did he come back in time with him? The questions swirl around his head like a miniature hurricane of thoughts. He doesn’t notice that there are other skaters on the ice until he crashes right into Phichit with enough force to send them both sprawling.
“I’m so sorry!” Yuuri bursts out, though Phichit just laughs.
“You seem really distracted today, Yuuri!” His friend helps him back to his feet when Yuuri didn’t make any move to get up. “The Grand Prix is in eight weeks. I know you’re nervous, but you’ll do great!”
That was another thing to worry about too. The 2015 Sochi Grand Prix was a complete and utter failure. He knows this. No one else does. He could fix it, of course, but he doesn’t know if he should. There are no time travel pamphlets for him to pick up and read. What if he fucks something up and destroys his future? What if he destroys time? That could happen, couldn’t it? He didn’t know.
“Yuuri!” Celestino calls him over and Yuuri obeys without a second thought. His body works almost robotically. Celestino grins at him and Yuuri sighs. If either of those were the case then, well, he’s already changed things. His future is no longer determined. Everything that happened—from Viktor to winning gold at the last GPF—none of that applies here. He stops, realizing that Celestino is talking to him.
“I’m sorry, what were you saying, Coach?” The word feels weird on his tongue. He hasn’t called anyone coach in a long time.
“You seem very distracted today, Yuuri. Are you sure you’re okay?” Yuuri nods and Celestino seems to think of that as an acceptable answer as he continues on. “As you know, the Grand Prix Final is in eight weeks. I want you to go through your Short Program and Free Skate for me so we can try and refine all of your jumps.”
Yuuri’s stomach sinks. He doesn’t know how to respond. He should’ve expected this, really, but he didn’t. He doesn’t remember either of those programs anymore. He blocked them from memory after the 2015 Grand Prix, thinking that would be the last time he would ever need to see them in his mind again. That came back to bite him in the ass, apparently.
So he panics. He darts off the ice, shouting “I feel sick! I’m going back to the dorm!” before ripping off his skates. He leaves before anyone can catch up to him.
The reality of his situation hits him as he’s sitting, curled up on his dorm bed. Everything that he’s worked hard for, everything that he’s fought to achieve in the last four years is gone. His friends are gone. His home is gone. His husband is gone.
Yuuri sobs. He buries his face in his pillow and hopes that he suffocates.
How could fate be so cruel? To rip away everything he loved?
The emotions were too much. Too much, too much, too much— he breaks down. There was no Viktor here to comfort him.
He hasn’t felt this bad since, well, the 2015 Grand Prix. Like all of his emotions just welled up inside and burst. It was all gone. All gone. And he didn’t know what to do. He was so, utterly lost.
“Viktor…” he cries out but his voice is barely above a whisper. He doesn’t look at his posters. Those were not Viktor. Not his Viktor. “Where are you?”
He apologizes to Celestino a few days later. Phichit had come back to the dorm room worried, but Yuuri insisted he was fine even though he was definitely not. His break down hadn’t helped much; he was still confused and scared, but he had promised himself that he would make this work.
He had to.
He didn’t know whether or not Viktor had come with him back in time. If he had, he’d be in Russia. If he hadn’t…well, Yuuri didn’t know where he was then. Even if there was a small chance that Viktor had come back with him, he had to let him know. Somehow. Some way. He had to let Viktor know that he remembered. That he remembered everything.
The idea comes to him a day after his break down. If he skates—truly, actually skates—Viktor would have to know it was him. Yuuri thinks back to their first year and briefly wonders if he should skate Eros, but decides against it. Without Agape, Eros was missing something. Besides, it wasn’t as personal. Eros’ story was not his own.
That’s when he thinks about Yuuri on Ice. Yuuri on Ice, which was about his life with Viktor. His love for Viktor. All the events that changed his life forever. That was what he would skate. He would change his Free Skate for the GPF to Yuuri on Ice.
He contacts Phichit’s friend immediately. He meets with her and tells her his idea. He hummed the familiar tune as she furiously scribbles it down, telling him that it should be ready soon.
“I’m sorry for putting you on such a time crunch,” he apologizes, but she waves her off.
He tells his idea to Celestino soon after.
It didn’t go well, of course, but Yuuri expects that. It’s hard to tell your coach that you’re changing an entire program seven weeks before one of the biggest events in figure skating.
“Please,” he says, trying to get Celestino to hear the desperation in his voice. “Please let me skate this program.”
It takes time and a whole lot of convincing, but Celestino eventually lets him skate it. Phitchit’s friend gets back to him a few days later with the finished product and Yuuri almost kissed her with how happy he was. It sounded exactly as he remembered. Some nights he could stay up and just listen to it, reviewing the program in his head time after time.
The closer it gets to the GPF, the more anxious Yuuri gets, but for an entirely different reason than the firs time. In just a few short weeks, he would see Viktor again. He would know if Viktor remembers him.
Yuuri doesn’t know what he’ll do if Viktor doesn’t remember him. He doesn’t want to think about it. But the thought always comes crawling back up, as if it were a monster from the depths of hell. It makes his stomach sink and his knees weak.
Sometimes he would type in Viktor’s number, ready to send a message, but stops at the last moment.
Other times he would stare at the posters that decorate his room and point out all the things that were true. How Viktor’s eyes are blue but not that blue. How he has a blemish on the side of his neck. How his hair sticks to his forehead when he’s sweaty after a program.
Yuuri would spend all night thrashing around in his bed as his life played before his eyes. From their first kiss, to his engagement, to winning the GPF. To all those moments that he and Viktor shared. The moments when he’d practice at the Russian ice rink with Yuri and Mila and Georgi and Yakov. It was too much.
Nights like those were the worst.
A few days before the Grand Prix, Yuuri says goodbye.
Phichit and a few other rink mates wave him off as he boards his place.
“Yuuri!” Phichit calls, grinning happily. “Get lots of pictures! We’ll be watching!”
A few others shout encouraging words like “Do your best!” or “I know you can do it!” or his personal favorite, “Bring back a medal for us!”
Yuuri sheds a few tears, happy that he has his friends at least. His time in the past hasn’t gotten any easier, but he’s come into terms with what’s happened. There was only one way to go and that was forward.
He texts his sister before he boards:
Please don’t let Vicchan out few the next few days. And watch for cars! -Yuuri
On the plane, he talks to Celestino about his programs. After the first few weeks of trying to remember his Short Program, he thinks he’s got it down. Celestino still didn’t understand how he improved so much within a few weeks, but doesn’t question it. They talk about his Free Skate and while Celestino still isn’t sure he can accomplish it, Yuuri is determined.
He knows that he can medal with these two improved programs. He doesn’t know if he wants to, still unsure of the rules of time travel, but he won’t let this year end up like the original.
This time he was determined to make it right.