Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In late November, Yuri Plisetsky receives news of the death of his grandfather. It isn’t anything like the long, slow process of waiting for days by a hospital bed, holding a hand and saying your final goodbyes, sharing tears and laughs until your loved one slips from you. This was a colossal train wreck, with no privacy and no forewarning, no time for closure or preparation. Dedushka hadn’t even been faring particularly bad- in fact, in the last month his illness seemed to wane, giving him more opportunity to come to Yuri’s rink and watch him practice new routines with pride evident in his thin smile. There was one doctor to warn him, about the “surge”. A burst of energy in a terminally ill person, where they become more lucid, more lively, and show signs of improvement shortly before succumbing to their condition. Some people say it’s god’s way of giving people a chance to say goodbye in a stable mind. Others claim it’s the last ounce of life leaving the body all at once. But Yuri’s grandfather had been doing so much better, and the idea that you could get better before becoming worse made no sense to him. He’d paid it no attention.

Now, with Yakov’s voice still ringing in his ears and the bite of ice on his left palm from an earlier fall being all to ground him, Yuri wonders what could have come if he had listened, and taken advantage of every moment they had left together. Should he have stayed at his home instead of Lilia’s? Picked a home rink closer, spent more time with the old man? Was there anything he could have done to keep this from happening?

He is reminded, in the odd fashion of timing only his mind would have, of his performance of Agape at the Rostelecom cup. How all the noise and voices around him coiled together and faded into a sharp whine, Yakov’s usually dull and scratchy commands never finding him before he threw himself away from the wall and into his performance. It was difficult to be calm and focus on his love in that moment. He couldn’t pinpoint the unconditional love he felt for his grandfather when he was leaping from the ice, or when he kneeled to the ground for a spin. Thoughts of his competition and all the anger that instilled in him had filled every crack in his mind at the time; there was little room to feel anything near agape.

In this moment there are no cracks, no spaces in his mind open to feel. Not agape, nor the anger he finds himself wishing was there. Being angry is easy, within his norm, something he is used to. His anger is as familiar as the ice- prickly, harsh when you’re not used to it- and in most of his life, it’s a protective blanket of cold rage that shields him from pain. It’s home, just as this rink is his home, holding his time and devotion like no person ever has. The clean, freezer-burn tang in his sinuses and the back of his throat when he gasps is home.

Sobbing hysterically on hands and knees at the edge of his rink is not Yuri’s home. When he attempts to turn around to escape from the prying eyes stabbing him in the back of his head from all angles of the rink, he finds that he is shaking too hard to move his body from their line of scrutiny. They can see how he’s pulling at his hair like it itches his brain, trying to piss himself off enough that maybe he can storm away. The ringing in his ears begins to abate, and the whispers from a few meters behind where he is collapsed begin to reach him.

“What do you think happened?”

“Poor Yurio. It’s been coming for a while…”

“What should we do?”

They can all see how wet and splotchy red his cheeks are from tears, how puffy his green eyes have swollen, when he lifts his head to see who’s talking. The rink silences, some of the older skaters averting their eyes respectfully once they understand the situation, while others continue to stare holes in him. Yuri, perhaps on instinct when anything goes wrong and he’s looking for a culprit, turns to catch the astonished eyes of Victor Nikiforov. He stands only a few meters away, arms at his sides with fists clenched. He almost looks angry, but Yuri recognizes his pensive stance.

Yuri swallows, feeling he should find something to say, but the angry rawness of his throat says otherwise. An affliction of somersaults infects his stomach, rolling around with increasing intensity as he maintains eye contact with Victor. He snaps his eyes to Mila, the closest person to Victor, as if maybe looking at someone else would be any better- would give him better direction. He pans his gaze around the room, so maybe he can patch together a feeling out of the emotions the other skaters exhibit and use it to settle the floating numbness that’s sunk deep into his bones. The reaction to the scene is nearly unanimous- shock, pity, confusion all around. Those aren’t things he wants to feel. Why can’t someone tell him what he’s supposed to feel already?

When he meets the other Yuuri’s eyes he almost skims right over him, because what else would a softie like Yuuri “I genuinely care for everyone I meet” Katsuki be feeling other than something disgustingly pitiful?

What he finds there is something he may never understand- the soft, open gaze, arms held up to his chest with one outstretched just a little, as if he’s reaching for Yuri. His rival wears an expression Yuri has only ever seen on the stress-wrinkled faces of skate moms whose children had just taken a nasty fall and cost themselves a win. It makes no sense to him at this time why, when he locks eyes with the furthest person from him on the rink, he finds himself dragging his stone heavy body to its feet- refusing Yakov’s help, ignoring the many hands reaching for him as though he can’t even stand on his own- and skating himself toward Yuuri Katsuki while sniffling and bawling like the child he hasn’t been for years.

To his credit, Yuuri doesn’t express his shock verbally when he’s latched onto, he doesn’t ask questions or make any witty comments in an effort to incite humor to the tension. He lays his arms across Yuri’s shoulders and pulls the boy close to his chest, allowing him to cry first and explain later.

For someone so small, Yuri Plisetsky could make a handful of very big sounds. Usually involving yelling, screeching, other aggressive tunes. One that none of his rink mates had heard from him before this day, one he can’t even recall himself making, is the high wail leaving his trembling mouth as he buries himself into Yuuri’s hold. He clings to the dark athletic material of the shirt he’s soaking as though if he doesn’t weave himself with every thread then he’ll float away. For the second time in a year, the two ‘Yuri’s find themselves in the middle of a mostly unreciprocated hug as a stand-in for someone else.

Victor wasn’t around after Yuuri’s anxiety-riddled performance to encourage him. Yuri’s parents aren’t alive to hold him, and teach him how to grieve. While no one can quite match the presence of Victor Nikiforov, leaving Yuuri to seek out reassurance in everyone he saw, Yuri had few distinct memories of his parents- leaving his mental slate lenient enough for him to find something akin to maternal comfort in Katsuki. Standing there, his blood echoing in his ear pressed tight to Yuuri’s chest, warmth seeping into his face and his small body shaking like a leaf, Yuri fears that he might be pulled under the ice. His ankles twist, knees buckle, and somehow his whole weight comes to be supported by Yuuri, whose black wool sweater is scratching Yuri’s burning cheek and seeping the warmest scent into his nose- something between cloves and old books, like the scent he can almost recall from his first home. As his breath picks up pace with the panic settling in, fingers curling into the wool tightly, solid arms squeeze his shoulders tight enough to pop his spine and stall his cries. And Yuri isn’t floating away anymore.

Chapter Text

So it's been a while since I've touched this fic- and I swear I haven't abandoned it yet. But within a few weeks of beginning this fic, my grandfather passed away. It's been difficult to continue writing this, and I hope you'll understand if it takes me a while to get back to it. I appreciate the understanding, and will try to continue it soon. Yuri deserves closure and peace, the kind I'm finding.