Chapter Text
March, 2016
The cameras flashed, and the reporters vied for their comments to be heard, and — “Vitya, smile!” — smile for camera one, smile for camera two — and it was all just тот же старый мусор.
“Victor! Victor! What are you planning for next year?”
“Are you going to try and keep your reigning title?”
“Twenty-eight is getting up there. Are the rumours of your retirement true, Victor?”
Victor Nikiforov, six time World Championship gold medalist, had a moment just then. He felt the intense desire to get up from his seat and simply...walk out of the press release. Walk out of the building even. Leave Boston, leave the US — hell leave Russia if it meant never having to answer the same damn questions for the thousandth time. It was all so stale, and suffocating, and if he were honest he really just wanted to go back to the hotel, curl up with some wine, and watch a film. Sighing, he clenched his eyes shut briefly trying to stave off a sudden headache.
His long-time coach noticed, thank god, and before Victor could lose his temper, he swooped in with a stern but polite “Viktor would like to make no comment at this time in regards to his career status, and would like to thank you for your time,” thus ending the god awful round robin of questions.
“Yakov, I could kiss you,” Victor muttered through his teeth as he plastered on one last smile for the cameras.
“Do it and I make you walk back to the hotel,” he muttered back, thick eyebrows deepening into his patented scowl. He stood alongside Victor as they shuffled their way out of the press room. They were almost to the door when his coach was halted with one last question:
“Mr. Feltzman! What about Yuri Plisetsky? Anything to say about his sudden disappearance after the Grand Prix Final?”
“No comment,” Yakov said, voice steely. His expression brokered no argument, and the crowd parted for him like the sea.
There once was a time when Victor would hang around and take pictures and sign autographs. Maybe he was getting too old, but whatever the case, he didn’t have the stomach for any more fake pandering, and gladly slipped out the side entrance with his coach as a veritable bulldozer.
It wasn’t until they got into a taxi that he felt like he could actually take a breath.
The relief was short lived, however, when he caught Yakov regarding him with a narrow, calculating look. He tried to hunch in on himself, and turned toward the window.
“Vitya...” he said, wearily.
“Yakov, you promised —”
“No, I know I said I wouldn’t bother you about your plans, but at least hear this from me.”
Victor sighed again, and faced his coach. His coach, who was more like a father to him than anything. “Yes, what is it?”
“I wanted to tell you...I understand what you were trying to tell me last year. I didn’t listen because I only thought about you as a skater, about your potential, and forgot who you are as a person. Watching you skate has always been my joy, however not if it is killing you. The Viktor I saw today was superb, as always, but your heart — там нет света — you are dying inside.”
Victor blinked, stunned. “I thought I was the dramatic one,” he mumbled, trying for levity, and falling flat. He wasn’t the most comfortable with emotional conversations, and he shifted in his seat when Yakov only kept staring at him with that deep concern that was at odds with his normally austere demeanor.
He swallowed, and gave him a weak smile. “I’ll be fine, Yakov. I think I just need a vacation, you know? Some time to relax a little, find my groove again. Next season isn’t off the table just yet.”
“Hm,” Yakov grunted, frowning. He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push the matter — which Victor was eternally grateful. The quiet resumed, less strained than before, but still heavy.
“How is Yura?” Victor said into the silence after a moment.
“He is finally skating again. He takes orders from Lilia, but he still hardly speaks.”
“Even to Beka?”
Yakov grunted again, neither confirming nor denying. He crossed his arms over his chest, grumbled something under his breath, and Victor knew he wouldn’t get anything else out of the old man.
His fingers itched to immediately pull out his mobile and text Otabek for a status update, but he knew it wouldn’t really amount to anything aside from a one word answer here or there. If he was lucky. The young Kazakh skater was another strong, silent type that had little patience for nonsense. Curiously, however, he made it his goal to start a friendship with none other than Russia’s persnickety ice kitten right before this year’s Grand Prix Final.
Victor was admittedly surprised, but happy that someone wanted to actually spend time with Yuri. He himself had tried to take Yuri under his wing, but the age difference between them made him out as a big-brother of sorts, one that was only good for lecturing apparently. But Otabek was closer to Yuri’s age, and when they hung out it wasn’t just about skating all the time. They could share interests, and simply be teenagers, and Victor could tell Otabek was one of, if not the only person, who was with Yuri just for Yuri. Something Victor was sure his younger protege never had before.
And...after Yuri’s grandfather died in January, Otabek was the only one that could get him to — well. Do anything, really. Eat, sleep, talk, take care of himself. Which was why it was a relief when Beka came to St. Petersberg to broaden his training. He claimed it was because of Madam Baranovskaya and her rigorous technique, but those closest to Yuri knew otherwise.
Something heavy toppled over in his chest, threatening to drag down his beating heart. This year was...painful in so many ways. With Yuri’s grandfather, and Christophe’s torn meniscus during the European Championships, Victor felt a little ashamed for feeling like the world was coming to an end, given that for some people it actually did. Now — even with Yakov’s oblique approval and reserved blessing to figure out his life — he still couldn’t help but wonder if deep down the whole world was weighing him up and finding him wanting. Or if it was only himself.
The rest of the cab ride back to the hotel Victor spent in silent self-loathing, his hands clenched tightly where they were burrowed deep in his jacket.
He and Yakov parted ways in the lobby, his coach heading for the hotel bar, a stormy expression on his wizened face. He clapped Victor on the shoulder and gave him a stony nod.
Victor made it to the elevator without running into his fellow competitors, which was a blessing but not entirely unexpected. Tonight was a night for celebration, and he knew people would ask after him and wonder why he wasn’t at the center of all the action. The medal in his coat pocket felt heavier all of a sudden, weighted with other peoples’ expectations, and he wondered how much flack he would receive if he skipped the banquet tomorrow and caught an early flight back to St. Petersburg.
Probably a lot, he mused and opened his hotel room.
Just before he contemplated flopping face first onto the bed and not moving for a good hour in a pathetic display of self-pity, his phone chimed. It was Otabek, and Victor scrambled to unlock his phone, a flutter of anxiety settling in his stomach and reminding him to snap out of his own petty thoughts.
There was no text, only the clip of a video. Confused, Victor hit play and watched as Yuri skated into frame.
His hair was a little longer than Victor remembered, all but obscuring his face. He obviously didn’t know he was being filmed as he was simply practicing figures. It was methodical, technically sound, however — there was something off about it. It took a moment to figure out what it was, but when he recognized it, he had to abruptly sit down on the edge of his bed.
Yuri Plisetsky was broken. And Victor’s breath caught painfully in his chest, because there right in front of him was the literal manifestation of the black dog lurking inside his own soul. Devouring him bit by aching bit.
If this was anything like Yakov was describing, no wonder he called it dying.
It was almost too painful to continue watching this familiar fiery spirit diminished to just a flickering ember, and Victor was seconds away from turning it off. Before he could however, the Yuri on the screen jerked his head up as if knowing what he was about to do. Victor’s stomach actually gave a guilty lurch before he remembered that such a thing was impossible. Still, those intense green eyes bored into the camera, face transforming from tepid indifference to boiling hot censure in a second.
“Какого черта? — Beka, seriously, shut it off!” Yuri charged, furious and frustrated, and for the fist time in a long while — alive.
It was only for a second before the screen went black, but it was there, that undeniable spark of life simmering beneath. Victor was certain it was there simply because much like a tuning fork, a part of his own self he thought was dormant suddenly resonated high, and bright, and clear at the sight.
Nearly giddy, Victor watched the footage again, already making lists and plans in his head. He could feel the fugue falling away like the last of molting feathers. A new purpose was taking shape within him and breathing inspiration back into his fallow bones.
This could work, and if he could pull it off...well what a surprise that would be!