Work Text:
Yuuri remembers running the numbers. When Viktor had fallen hard enough on the ice to spend a few days in a coma. Yuuri had been so scared he’d googled it, how many of Viktor’s years would be taken away from him, how many of Yuuri’s years that he’d have to spend alone.
The average life expectancy for a Japanese man is about 80 years.
The average life expectancy for a Russian man is only around 65.
When Viktor gets out of the hospital, Yuuri is too busy being happy to worry about those numbers but… maybe he should have paid them more attention.
Viktor’s hand in his is soft with old age, and Yuuri thinks that of course Viktor would surprise him even in death.
“You were supposed to die before me, you know,” Yuuri says, soft, throat choked with the stifling air of the hospital room.
Viktor snorts, gripping the hand in his as tight as his old bones can handle. “When do I ever do anything I’m supposed to, Yuuri?”
Yuuri hums and feels his heart stutter as he looks into Viktor’s face, aged but no less beautiful. “Promise me you won’t forget to feed Yurachin while I’m gone?”
Viktor’s smile turns wobbly. “Of course not, darling,” he says. “I promise.”
Yuuri smiles, thinking that it would be alright if that face is his last memory. “Viktor,” he says and he can feel the breath of his voice growing thin and strained but it’s important that he says this before it’s too late. “I have loved you for every moment you have been mine, and I will love you every moment afterwards,” he stops, blinking as Viktor’s eyes well with tears. “Oh, don’t cry, my love,” he coos, wishing desperately that he had the strength to brush them away.
“My heart is breaking,” Viktor says, striken. “How can I not cry?”
Yuuri hiccups a small sob, fingers gripping Viktor’s hand as hard as he can. “My darling, if your heart is breaking then take mine. It has always been yours, just as yours has always been mine. I… am sorry that I wasn’t able to take better care of it.”
Viktor shakes his head vehemently, hands too busy holding onto Yuuri’s for him to brush the tears away. “I don’t regret a moment of it,” Viktor insists, “not a single second of it. Please don’t say you do, Yuuri,” he dissolves into hiccupping sobs, pushing his face into Yuuri’s lap and Yuuri’s hands have just enough strength to bury into Viktor’s hair.
“My darling,” Yuuri says. “My moon and my stars and my fireflies, every good thing that has ever happened to me has happened because of you, my one regret will always be that your last memory of me will be so sad. I hate to leave you like this.”
Viktor’s face is pained as he looks up at Yuuri. “I wish you didn’t have to,” Viktor says and his voice is so quiet Yuuri strains to hear him. “I wish I could spend an eternity with you, my Yuuri, but even that wouldn’t be enough.”
Yuuri chuckles, and he feels his heart stutter more, breaths becoming more labored. “I don’t have much time, Vitya,” he says and he can feel himself slipping away.
“Yuuri,” Viktor says, hands coming up to cup Yuuri’s face. “Yuuri, don’t leave me.”
Tears are pouring down Viktor’s face and Yuuri feels a dampness on their own cheeks. He smiles, eyes cloudy and gaze unfocused. “I’m not leaving Vitya,” he says, voice dreamy and far away. “My heart will always be with you.”
The flatline beep of the heart monitor does nothing to drown out Viktor’s wailing sobs.
Yuuri’s wake is held in Japan and is well attended by their friends, family, and neighbors. Viktor tries to keep a bright face for all the people whose lives were made better by Yuuri Nikiforov-Katsuki but he can tell by the crinkle in Yuri’s brow that he’s not quite succeeding. Mostly he stands vigil beside Yuuri’s casket and tries not to let the blur of unshed tears grow too heavy.
It’s hard, but so is everything now that Yuuri is gone. Mari stands beside him, shoulders straight, and he’s known her long enough to know that this loss has hit her harder than her own husband’s death a few years ago.
“He was my little brother,” she explains to him the next day as they lift the pieces of Yuuri’s cremated remains into the urn. “He wasn’t supposed to pass on before me.”
Viktor hums. He’d looked up the numbers the other night. Yuuri wasn’t supposed to have passed on before him, either. The crematorium worker steps forward to gather the rest of the ashes but Viktor stops him.
“Wait a moment,” Viktor says, taking a small matryoshka doll out of his coat pocket. It’s a little bigger than his fist and Mari’s not sure how to feel about the fact that it’s painted to look like Viktor himself.
Viktor must catch her eye since he flushes and holds the doll to his chest. “It was an anniversary present,” he says, opening up the doll to reveal that inside it is another doll, painted to look like Yuuri. “There’s two sets,” Viktor says as he opens up the Yuuri doll. “One with me inside of Yuuri and one with Yuuri inside of me.”
Mari’s eyebrow quirks and Viktor’s flush darkens just a bit. “It’s symbolic.”
Mari hums but waves him on and Viktor presents the open Yuuri doll to the crematorium worker. “Could you please put the ashes from around his heart in here, please?”
Mari says nothing, and the worker nods.
When they put Yuuri’s ashes in the family grave, Viktor is surprised to see his name engraved next to Yuuri’s, filled in with red ink. He looks at Mari, and she just shrugs. “It’s cheaper to engrave two names at the same time,” she explains. “We’ll wash off the ink when… well, you know.”
Viktor cries for what feels like the eighteenth time that day.
It’s not too many years before Mari finds herself back at the crematorium, a matryoshka doll painted like her brother held in her hand. “Just a moment,” she says to the crematorium worker. “Could you put the ashes from his heart in here?”
It’s no good to break up a matching set, after all.