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It's been four seconds. Four seconds since Victor's heart beat its last; four seconds since he breathed out in one last, painless sigh. Yuuri holds his hand, feeling the denial, the anger, the sadness tear through him. He can't see, even with his glasses on. The tears that roll down his cheeks and sting his eyes with heat steal visibility from him, but that's okay, he thinks. Four seconds is too soon, he thinks. Too soon to learn how to carry forward.
His fingers clutch Victor's still warm hand.
Four seconds. They're the hardest four seconds of his life.
*
It's been four minutes. Four minutes of family at his back; of his daughter's hand on his shoulder. Of his son-in-law's quiet words spoken by his side. Of mentions of rings and swelling, and he nods, dumb, unable to speak past the pain that has paralyzed his throat. Yes. Of course. Whatever it is, he is sure it is right, or as right as it can be now. Right in a world without Victor living and breathing at his side. As right as a world bereft of such brightness can possibly be.
He fights when his son-in-law lifts their right hands. Looks up, immeasurably angry, immeasurably distressed. He wants to yell, to tell them to go away. Through his tears, he wants to say leave us alone. He wants to say, don't leave me, too.
His daughter holds both shoulders. His son-in-law waits, patient, pain showing in his own dark, dark eyes. Yuuri remembers that he likes this man. He loves this man, because he loves his daughter; because his daughter chose to love this man in turn. He trusts this man with the most precious lives he's ever helped protect in this world. He trusts him with his daughter, and his grandson.
He trusts him with Victor; with what is left, when the life that had made the man has left.
Yuuri swallows, angry still, and allows his son-in-law to gently pull Victor's hand out of his own. Watches, disconnected, as the golden ring is slowly, methodically wiggled free. Past aged knuckles and familiar spots; over nails carefully manicured and tended by Yuuri when Victor's hands no longer were steady enough for him to do so on his own. He watches as Victor's hand is returned to his. As his right fingers curl protectively around the familiar shape. As his daughter reaches down and cradles his left hand with her own, turning it palm up.
He breathes in, sharp and unsteady, as his son-in-law sets that golden band in the palm of his left hand.
A good luck charm to tie us together.
It's been four minutes, and Yuuri breaks down sobbing, hand shaking, fingers curled over that band of still warm metal. Never, ever wanting to let go. Never, ever wanting to lose that warmth.
But he has. Four minutes ago, and growing colder still.
*
It's been four hours. The morgue has come with their white body bag and their stretcher. He has allowed himself to be surrounded by friends and family; he doesn't hear them, but he feels them, so many bodies that move around him and his space, around the bubble of his pain. He denies this reality. He denies that it's possible. He believes, so strongly, he will look up, and he will see Victor waving off the unfamiliar men and their unfamiliar tools. He'll smile that smile, which has aged so well; he'll brush his thin bangs off his face and turn, catching sight of Yuuri. He'll hold open one arm in invitation, and he'll laugh. What a poor jest. What a laughable, terrible, hideous jest.
"Yuuriochka."
It's not Victor's voice he hears. He looks up, eyes dry for the moment, too shocked to remember to cry after the last round of sobbing had left him feeling empty and hollow. Every breath echoes in an empty chamber. Every heartbeat resonances in the aching silence. Yuri stands there, facing Yuuri; Yuuri tilts his head back, looking up at the taller man.
He's always been surprised at how Yuri had grown. How he'd managed to stay competitive in spite of the way he'd shot up, counter-intuitive to so much of what seemed to count on the ice. He'd always been beautiful, but that had lent its own stateliness when he'd finished growing. In a much older man, the man he was now, it was an austere elegance. Almost sharp if you didn't know him. Surprisingly warm when you did.
He stares into the face of this man he's known for a lifetime, and he sees an echo of his own grief, his own rage, in those green-blue eyes. Hears the growl in Yuri's throat before he steps forward, and pulls Yuuri into a fierce hug. Shaking, just a little. Grieving, and it hurts, it hurts, because that makes it real.
Please, Gods, take me instead. I'd give anything. Anything. Don't take him now. Yet all the bargaining in the world hadn't done a thing. He lifts his arms, then lets them fall again. He shakes, crying without tears. Finds a voice somewhere beyond the pain, pushing away.
"I need to walk."
Yuri nods. His own hurt flares, but he's an older man now. He's well in control of himself, and that acceptance is almost enough to feel like a balm over an impossible wound. Everyone changes, don't they, Viten'ka? Yura, me, you. It catches him by the throat again, an insistent predator. Yuuri moves for the doors, shuffling his way down the polished wood of their hall (his hall, now), leaving his slippers on the ledge and stepping down into their entranceway (his entranceway, now). Sliding his feet into the silly looking loafers that Victor had bought for him twelve years ago, for New Years.
He hears Yuri deflecting people. He feels, more than sees, Otabek opening the door, a quiet, silent guard.
It's been four hours, and Yuuri finds himself walking under blue, blue skies, the sounds of the living world muted. A dog barks in the distance; a child laughs. A car zooms by, and Yuuri tips his head back, tears beginning to flow. They're less desperate, but no less pained.
Victor is gone.
He will change, in a world already changing. He will live, in this world without Victor, and it breaks his heart. He doesn't want to, but he will.
"It's not fair that it's a beautiful day, Viten'ka," he says, and he chokes, swallowing. Bites his lower lip, watching the far off horizon. Barely seeing the splendor of the trees laden with blossoms here in April. Heavy and poignant; waiting in their fragile beauty before they, too, fall. Crying, as he admits into the sanctuary of his hands pressed up against his eyes, "You would have loved it."
Four hours, and it's too fresh, too permanent. Yuuri walks on, aimless. He'll return to his family, his friends, before long. Before the skies drain of colours and he's left in the embrace of a night he's not sure will end.
He clutches Victor's ring, slipped onto the same hand, the same finger, as his own. He curls his hands over his heart, tucks his chin in, and walks on.
Four hours without him, and stretching longer.
*
It's been four days. Four days, and the house has quieted down to the sounds of his daughter and her family, their son tearing through in pursuit of their dog. He laughs, loud and spontaneous, hushed a moment later by Yuuri's daughter.
Yuuri wishes she hadn't. Yuuri's glad she has.
It still startles him. When he wakes up on these new sheets, in the same bed, and there's no spread of silver hair on the pillows next to him. There's no arm thrown over his waist; no cold feet tucked up against the back of his knees after an early morning shuffle to the bathroom. There's no warmth on half of this bed, and it feels too big, too vast, a sea he's lost in without any clue how to guide his raft to shore. He curls into himself, and he reaches one hand out, before he forces himself forward. Loses heat from his body as he warms Victor's side of the bed, dragging his favourite, stupid pillow down, crushing it against his chest as if it can fill the aching there. As if he can patch himself up; as if this makes the world easier to bear.
Eventually, he lets go. He pulls the blankets off, because if he does not, then eventually his daughter will come. He shuffles the long way around the bed back to his side. He picks up his glasses, examining them critically for a moment.
Places them on his face. Pushes them up the bridge of his nose. Stares down at the rumpled mess of the covers, and swallows. Is this really just his bed now? No, he decides, shaking his head, frowning with a ferocity that rises almost out of nowhere. It's theirs. It will always be theirs. Like this house; like these rings; like their little girl and her husband and son sitting one room over. Theirs.
Nothing will change that. Four days, and Yuuri still looks up, expecting to find Victor in all his familiar places. Still expects to find him sitting on the deck, calling on the phone, fumbling with the universal remote control because it's unsynched from the entertainment system again. Four days and he aches through all of them, finding himself in tears before he even knows it. Finding himself numb without realising. Finding himself, in moments, smiling. Laughing. A hairs breadth away from being okay. A hairs breadth away from breaking down.
Four days, and it's still sinking in.
*
It's been four weeks. It's just him and the ghost of Victor in their home; that, and the tip-tap-tap-tip of canine claws on polished wood. His daughter's dog, officially here by her request; they're renovating, and she gets into trouble being kenneled all day. They both know what this really is.
Yuuri only smiles, says you're welcome. Means, thank you.
It helps, a little, having someone with no expectations. A dog who looks nothing like Makkachin, or Vicchan, from decades earlier. Looks nothing like the canines that have paraded through their lives since; the standard poodle Timtam who had helped raise their daughter. Guppie is black furred, miniature, with a white splotch uneven on her chest. She is named by Yuuri's grandson, and she is utterly unaware of the contrast in natures. She likes toy balls and stuffed birds. She sleeps on her back with her legs splayed, the furthest thing from elegant.
But she's warm, and she's there. She hurls herself into bed and circles around at Yuuri's side. She perks her head up to listen when he comments on the programs he flips through on television. Listens to him when he combs through old recordings, tapping through links on the internet video sights. Licks at his face, distressed, when he cries. He lets her. No dog born on this world has ever felt pity, just love.
He's thankful for his daughter's kindness. He kind of hates it, too.
It is Guppie who helps him find the photo album amoung the clutter of Victor's desk. Yuuri hasn't had the heart to tackle this room yet. He'd refused to allow his daughter or son-in-law to cross its threshold. It's too personal, too fragile a reality. Too much of the man he loves lingers in this space, almost tangible enough to be felt.
Guppie doesn't respect boundaries of human grief. Her ball rolls, and it bounces. Chance guides it in through the crack of the open door, rolling, coming to a stop under the chair tucked up against the desk. She digs, and she whines, tail thumping on the ground behind her when she resorts to crawling. It's so close. So close.
Yuuri finds himself startled into a run for the first time in ages. Near sliding, catching himself on the frame of the door, looking aghast down at the black poodle as the tenuous stack of papers on the desk fall forward, then spill down in a mad rush. Books fall; Guppie yelps and panics, squirming and bolting for Yuuri in her surprised terror. He's aghast, yelling, and then not; he breaks into a coughing fit, then finds himself laughing. Laughing, as Guppie first shivers pressed against his legs, then slowly wags her tail, uncertain.
Victor would appreciate this, he decides. Maybe this was even Victor's influence, if Yuuri chooses to believe in such things. He hadn't been sure before. Not with his parents; not with the other losses of love and people and pets in his life. Influence of the dead on the living was in what the living remembered and carried with them.
Yet right then, he feels Victor here. So strongly, he gasps, carefully lifting his head and looking toward the desk. To where so many times, he remembers seeing Victor sit, glancing back over his shoulder and smiling. Reaching a hand out, and saying, "Yuuriochka, come here!"
"Viten'ka," he says, and he's stepping forward, rubbing one wrist across the back of his eyes. The laughter has ebbed away, replaced by the shark spike of pain, the dull ache of tears he sheds a little less often now. He manages to keep a ghost of his smile on his face. Love surges, more powerful than grief. Getting down on creaky knees, he starts the careful process of collecting all the papers; a mix of paid bills, of letters to friends, of sketches and choreographies he would have handed off to those still active in figure skating circles. The same circles they'd both belonged to for most their lives. Still did, when well bundled and huddled in the stadium seats.
Guppie edges back into the room, glancing between Yuuri and her ball. She settles on her belly, content to wait. She knows things will be okay now. The human is here, and all humans make things better, don't they?
He's touched by that small show of absolute trust. The faith that things will work out. He smiles, resolves to pull the chair out and retrieve the poodle's ball, once he's done with the papers.
There's a book in the midst of it all that gives him pause. He blinks, recognising the back; turns it over, seeing the blue sticky-note with his name on it in three languages. It's the scrapbook album Victor had given Yuuri for a wedding anniversary gift years before. He'd spent the better part of a year printing out photographs from over the years, matting them, adding stickers and sparkles and quotations and all kinds of over the top, loving nonsense. Each page had been an eclectic work of art, as vivacious and whimsical as Victor could be. As beautiful and elegant, in another turn; the mood followed its own choreography across the pages.
It hurts right now. Seeing this collection of such wonderful moments in their lives, and finding, and knowing, and feeling that end. There are no new photographs to add. No new memories to make. Nothing he can share, now, except in talking to his family shrine, in offering prayer and benediction to the whole of the world around him.
Yuuri finds himself cradling the album in his arms, papers set in a neat pile on the floor. He sits, and he cries, and he holds the album close, squeezing his eyes shut. "Why?" He asks, and Guppie edges closer. "Why did you have to die, Viten'ka? Why did you have to leave?"
Guppie cuddles close, licking at Yuuri's face, licking at his arms, nosing in closer, laying across his lap. She refuses to leave him alone even as he sobs; stays with him as the sobbing quiets into crying, and his nose runs, and he thinks, I've always been a messy crier. But he doesn't mind. Guppie doesn't mind, either. She simply stays with him, and once the worst of it passes, he breathes in, shaky, determined. Makes himself stand even when it hurts, joints protesting, bones creaking. Hobbles forward, placing their album on Victor's desk, swallowing past a lump in his throat.
He can't. Four weeks, and he can't quite find sanctuary in the memories of their love. Not quite yet.
Four weeks, and he walks back out of Victor's office, heading to the kitchen; putting the kettle on, making tea. Taking Guppie out for a walk, and remembering, acknowledging, that he's still alive.
And Victor's forever with him, even if not held, hand in hand, arms around each other. Even if he can't see him when he opens his eyes each morning. Even if the place he sees him most is in his dreams, healthy, strong, and laughing.
I love you.
The wind whispers by, humid and warm, and he almost imagines he can hear, I love you, too.
*
It's been four months. Four months, and he's returned Guppie to his daughter and her family. He's consented to speaking with the local prefecture's poodle rescue group. Has agreed that one old dog might, in fact, be perfect for another old dog. He doesn't want to leave any dog pining after him, after all.
He has found he remembers to smile more than he remembers to cry. Remembers Victor every morning; remembers him near every hour. It's an ache, but it's one he embraces. Love doesn't end, simply because death has come, inevitable as it always was. He remembers late nights curled up against Victor, fingers entwined. Staring down at wedding magazines, flustered by the tuxedos and the planning, and the lists, and everything involved. Overwhelmed, and happy, and so very, very in love.
"I don't like it," Victor had said one night, fingers threading through Yuuri's hair as they read over another article together. "All this nonsense with these vows. 'Until death do us part.'" He'd frowned, flipping to the next page. So many cultures; so many different ways of saying stay by my side and never leave. "What does that mean? I love you until you die? That a heart can only hold so much love? It's ridiculous," he'd decided, pulling Yuuri a little closer, turning his face in to nuzzle behind Yuuri's ear. Yuuri had shivered, squirming. It was almost ticklish, but he loved it, hunching his shoulder a little in reflex. Loved it, and Victor, and the closeness.
"All right, what would you say?" he'd asked, and Victor and smiled. Had near purred his answer by Yuuri's ear, close enough for Yuuri to feel the warmth of his breath.
"To love and to cherish, to have and to hold, and to remember, when death comes, my love still means forever."
He remembers that night as he drowses in the car, hearing his grandson chatter on about school, listening to his son-in-law answer questions from his daughter. Letting the warmth of sun through the car's windows paint pictures in light against the inside of his eyelids. He's here for the dog, today. An old poodle, named Francois. He doesn't find he has any trouble with the French. He feels his phone vibrate in his pocket, forcing his eyes open as he pulls it out. Phichit has sent him a text. Is it today?
He smiles, texting his reply back. We'll see.
The hamster emoji he receives in turn makes him nostalgic for a time decades earlier. He shuts that down, and when the car stops, he opens the door. Creakily pulls himself out of the back seat, glancing at the small house and the neatly fenced in yards.
It's such a surreal day. He listens to his daughter chat with the rescue worker, the young man intense and soft spoken. His eyes are bright, curious and intelligent like the dogs he caretakes. Francois, he says, was turned over to him when his former owner had to move overseas. The stress on quarantine and travel had been too much for a dog who had never traveled well. He's anxious, but sweet.
Yuuri stops in the doorway leading in to where Francois is sleeping on the warm tiles in the sunlight kitchen. He is a delicate sprawl, fur kept short and orderly, but for a waving length of it at his tail. His eyes are closed, and he is beautiful. Silver fur, darker than Victor's hair had ever been, fades to a lighter grey down the length of his lanky legs.
"Yes," he says.
"Yes?" his daughter echoes.
"Yes?" the rescuer echoes.
"Yes." He nods, leaning on his cane. "Yes." He takes three steps inside. Four. Stops, looks to the dog. He's not asleep. His ears have twitched, listening to who comes into the area. Slowly, the dog lifts his head, curls his neck to look back at the gathered people. His tail gives one nervous wag. Thump.
"Francois. How would you like to come home with me?"
The dog has beautiful, dark eyes. Eyes that are white rimmed, but only for a moment; the old dog groans, slowly pushing up to sit. His tail thumps again, ears perking forward, their formidable fluff aimed toward Yuuri. Francois glances between Yuuri and the rescuer. Hauls himself to his feet, and slowly, carefully, click-clack-clatters his way across the tile.
Yuuri waits. Holds out his hand, bending forward, relying on his cane to keep him steady. At his back, his daughter holds her breath. Her husband, his son-in-law, wraps an arm around her shoulders.
Francois stretches his neck forward, sniffing. Licking at Yuuri's hand, then as slowly, as deliberately, sitting down at Yuuri's feet. Then turning, and leaning into him, and waiting.
Yuuri's shoulders shake. Just once. His eyes water, and he straightens, leaving them to water as they will. "Yes," he says once more.
Francois becomes his.
Francois doesn't travel well. He whines and cries in the car; he vomits, and Yuuri simply holds him while his grandson starts to whine too. Simply strokes down the poor dog's back, murmuring nonsense. Stroking his ears, murmuring in Russian. Murmuring in English. Saying the few words he ever learned of French. Passe-moi le vin.
He brings down a bowl for water. Nods to his daughter saying she'll come by in the morning, so they can go shopping for dog supplies. He has enough food for the next week, courtesy of the rescue organisation. He'll have to mix foods; he'll have to watch for stress; he'll have a hundred little details to attend to, and they're all meant to help him live in this lonely house, without his lover.
But he thinks that night, as he invites Francois to sit with him on the couch, he's not without his lover. Victor echoes in every corner, even after the subtle rearrangings their daughter had insisted on. Victor is in the way Yuuri moves. Victor is in the gardens that surround their home. Victor is in his heart, and it is not enough, it cannot be enough, but he is not gone.
That night, Yuuri walks into Victor's office. He picks up their album. He carries it back to Francois, already nervous and whining, going quiet once he sees Yuuri in the room. Yuuri opens the album cover, fingers tracing over the words Victor had written there in beautiful golden ink. Fifty years of memories. More than fifty years of love emblazoned on Yuuri's heart.
Page by page, he relives the memories. Tells Francois about the time they'd got lost tobogganing in Switzerland, visiting Christophe after his retirement. About the time they'd had to turn down Phichit's offer to spend time clubbing because their daughter was barely a year old and suffered from separation anxiety. How that may have been Yuuri more than their daughter, but how Victor had never contradicted him, had let him believe otherwise. How Phichit had instead shown up with their friends, carting ribbons and stuffed animals and balloons and a karaoke machine, insisting that they would at least celebrate until it was his daughter's bedtime. How his daughter had stayed up way too late that night, but it'd been worth it, watching her and Victor babble along together, singing. "Oh yes, sweet darling," he sang, kissing her forehead. She lifted her hands to pat his cheeks, cooing, emulating the ing. "So glad you are a child of mine."
Francois is patient when Yuuri has to stop, voice choked with emotion. He waits when Yuuri tugs his glasses down and sets them on the album, rubbing at his watering eyes. He nudges into his side and waits when he cries, unable to repeat the words Victor had so lovingly written on the pages.
It helps. He feels lighter, in this happy sadness; he feels closer to the memories of the life he's loved so dearly. Of the people, so many people, who have made it matter. To Victor, and he slings his arm around Francois's shoulders, and he presses on. Turns pages the dog doesn't understand, and embraces the clean hurt of the happinesses he finds there.
He remembers the last photograph. It's of him and Victor standing on the podium at their first World's Championship. Yuuri, highest, beams down at Victor. Victor has his face turned so that he's smiling back just as hard, so proud, so in love. They'd both been teased for having trouble looking at the cameras like they were supposed to; for how tightly Yuuri's hand had cradled the gold metal, that season before the world was ready to face the Olympics once more.
He'd won gold. He blushes faintly even now, remembering the night that followed... the several nights that followed. Victor's cursive confession is distilled into a single phrase. Remember? He laughs, and it's a painful laugh, but it's freeing, too. "I miss him," he confesses to Francois, and Francois licks his hand. Nudges after that final photograph, lifting it up, and Yuuri smiles. Almost closes the book.
Hesitates. Smooths the pages down, and feels a difference, a weight. Turns the last photograph page over, frowning, and goes still.
Tears well and spill down his cheeks as he takes in what he sees. These are images of him. From the last year, him and Victor. In the few bright moments, and in some of the harder ones. Between them all, in a hand that had crown shaky and unsure, but no less powerful, no less beautiful for age, are words from Victor.
To love and to cherish, to have and to hold, and to remember, when death comes, my love still means forever. Remember to dance, Yuuri. You have always been the most beautiful when you move with the music of life flowing through you.
He cries, and cries, and holds the album to his chest. Something so precious, so fragile, he's afraid to let it go.
Francois curls up with him on their bed that night, the album tucked in next to Yuuri. It's the deepest he's slept in months.
Four months, and he's started to learn how to let himself heal. Not how to forget, but how to remember. How to find the good memories mixed in with the sadness. How to find the warmth in the sunlight that follows after the worst of the rain hits his heart.
*
It's been four years. Four years, and Yuuri has remembered smiling. He has remembered laughing. He has even, on a whim, helped choreograph his grandson's talent show dance. It's silly, but it's poignant. An ode to toys. He feels Victor would approve.
He witnesses the birth of their second grandchild, a little girl. He holds her in his arms, marveling at her size. Making his daughter blush as he compliments her; telling his son (he no longer thinks of him as a son-in-law; finally, after all this time, following Victor's example) embarrassing stories about his daughter's infancy. He changes diapers, and remembers quite clearly why he didn't miss this part of child-rearing.
He walks Francois every day, exactly as far as he can manage. Some days that's out to the back steps, so he can relieve himself. Some days it's blocks and blocks.
He attends birthdays; he picks up his youngest grandchild and waltz's with her, kissing her nose, her cheeks, her forehead. He pulls his daughter into a dance when they celebrate her anniversary; he manages to snag his son for a dance, too, feeling more spry than he has in ages.
He laughs. He makes memories. He travels, when he can find a good dogsitter for Francois. He's never gone for long. He doesn't like being far from home, and he doesn't like travel so much either these days.
He lives. And he remembers. Buys postcards he sends home to Francois, and to Victor, too. Signs off every time, "My love still means forever."
Four years, and he is alive. He is making memories to bring back to Victor. He is making memories to leave with all the people he loves. He is not healed; he is not whole. But he has learned happiness, and he does not allow himself guilt for living as Victor wished he would live.
He respects himself, and Victor, too much for that.
*
It was four months ago that he noticed how his heart stuttered, uneven in rhythm. A bit like feeling anxious, only without the emotions, until the uneven rhythms start. He swallows, and he looks to Francois. Francois looks back, an even older dog now, unwilling to do much more than wag his tail and sleep in the sunshine on his dog bed. They are both slowing down, Yuuri thinks.
That is the way of things, after all.
He stands up, and he goes to the doctor; it is nothing much, but they'll keep watch. They consider starting him on medication. He asks that they wait.
They do.
That was four months ago.
*
It was four weeks ago that he thinks his heart stopped. Just for a few seconds, but the panic that surges after has him thinking clear and focused, calling his daughter and saying, calmly, he needs to go to the doctor's. The arrangements are made. He tries to shrug off the tightness in his chest. The way he finds it difficult to breathe; how his left arm feels numb. He flexes those fingers, watches them move, and feels perplexed.
It was a heart attack, he's told. There are tests and medications and blood draws and doctors. There are regiments and recommendations; he feels a bit like he's remembering what it was to be young and competitive, except now the circuit is life, and there is only one consequence for when his body inevitably trips up.
He finds it's less frightening than he'd thought before. He finds that he can follow the recommendations, or he can turn away.
He enjoys himself. Slowly, carefully, as careful as Francois when moving around. But he smiles. He remembers. He calls, and tells his daughter, "I love you." Writes to friends. Stays in touch.
That was four weeks ago.
*
It was four days ago that he started feeling heavy, like he's moving through water instead of air. Like he can't quite breathe, and his lungs are slowly filling with liquid. He sits down, texts his daughter. Let's Francois out to relieve himself, then sits back down, the door left ajar.
His daughter arrives. Closes the door, after checking on Francois. Helps Yuuri stand, and walks so slowly, so carefully, with him to the car.
He's admitted to the hospital that day. Congestive heart failure. Funny. All his heart feels like right now is full; and he's sorry, as it gets more difficult to stay awake, that he cannot do more to let his family know it's okay.
He closes his eyes, drowning out the beeps of the monitors. Ignoring the IV's strung up at his bedside. The catheter that makes him feel embarrassed, in the part of himself that still cares. He lets himself drift away, and in his mind's eyes, to the staccato beat of the heart monitor, he dances.
That was four days ago.
*
It was four hours ago that he was last lucid. Yuuri had opened his eyes, seeing blurry shapes, seeing light. Seeing shadows, but they felt so inconsequential compared to the light. He feels his daughter take his hand; he smiles at her, giving her hand a squeeze.
He feels so weak. He feels so tired. He wants to speak, but he barely has the energy. "My love still means forever," he says instead, and he watches his daughter smile, and watches her cry. It doesn't mean the same thing to her as it does to him, but he can deliver these words for the both of them. For him and Victor.
She presses a kiss to his bare forehead, and he closes his eyes.
It's the last time he ever wakes.
That was four hours ago.
*
It was four seconds ago that his heart stopped. He feels no pain. He feels no awareness, at first. No difference. Just a lightness, after a great heaviness. Feels for the first time in a long, long time, like he can stand. Like he can spin around, leap; like he can dance in the way he had when he was a much younger man.
He sits up, and he is no longer the old man taken off his life support in the sterile hospital room, surrounded by the people he loves. He is Yuuri, and he is young, and fit; he glances over at their faces, at their tears, and sadness, and his heart wrenches. He loves them. He wishes he could tell them he's sorry, but he's okay. He's better now. It doesn't hurt.
He can't. His hands won't touch them. His words won't reach them. And it's difficult, then, to even make them out. The light that has entranced him for hours has slowly taken over, warm and insistent. He hears a sound so familiar, it strikes a chord bone-deep: blades of skates as they cut through the ice. He turns, and he sees what his heart has been longing after for more than four years. Sees Victor, standing young and healthy in the middle of Hasetsu's Ice Castle, hands on his hips, jacket tied around his waist. Sees Makkachin, resting in front of the entrance to the ice. Sees the rest, too. Vicchan poking his head up from near Makkachin's hip; the rest lifting their heads in unison as they sight Yuuri. They sniff, a few tongues panting.
A soft woof sounds at his side. Yuuri blinks, feeling tears spill down over his cheeks. Happy. He's so intensely, insanely happy. He stares at Victor, longing, and then Victor is moving, and he's not skating, he's running, running toward him. Smiling, throwing his arms wide.
"You have a new friend, I see!"
He glances down, and there is Francois, looking more spritely than Yuuri can ever recall. The dog bounds forward, barks a welcome to Victor, and then barrels on to the rest of the poodles. Skids past them onto the ice, spinning in a slow, distressed circle. Makkachin looks around the corner to watch his newest friend go.
Victor pauses, smile warm and soft, waiting. "I've missed you, Yuuriochka."
Yuuri cries out, and he flings himself forward, barreling into Victor's arms. Slamming him backward, hard enough that they both fall down. "Viten'ka," he says, "Our love still means forever," and he's crying, and he doesn't care. Holds tight to Victor and squeezes, and feels the hole in his heart slowly begin to mend as Victor's arms close around him, hold him close in turn.
"Yes," Victor says, laughing, smiling, pressing a kiss, a dozen kisses, to Yuuri's hair, to his face, to his soul. "Our love still means forever."
That was four seconds ago. They're the most beautiful four seconds of Yuuri's life.
And they will last forever.