Chapter Text
Four-time champion and skating legend, Yuuri Katsuki, age twenty-seven, has just secured the gold at this year’s Grand Prix Final.
Four-time Five-time champion and skating legend, Yuuri Katsuki, age twenty-seven, is currently having a meltdown at this year’s Grand Prix Final.
Yuuri Katsuki’s winning routine always involved the following steps: receive the gold medal and bouquet, smile at the cameras, and graciously thank his supporters. But instead of participating in the after-podium charade, he finds himself at emergency step number four: take refuge in a bathroom stall.
Objectively, there is no reason for this—no reason for him to be doubled over and gripping his knees as he struggles to yoga-breathe his impending anxiety attack away.
This was his fifth consecutive GPF gold. He had won, but just barely—a marginal difference of .10 points separated him and silver medalist, Christophe Giacometti. A mere .10 points; this meant a wrong flick of the wrist could’ve had Giacometti in first place and him in second. It was a fluke.
Still, it’s the win that cements his title as the five-time champion, as The Skating Legend.
Objectively, he should be happy.
But his sister called him moments before his free skate, her voice tinny and cracking over the phone.
“He…he didn’t make it. The vet couldn’t do much because—because of all the damage,” his older sister, Mari, choked out.
Yuuri stood frozen in the middle of the empty corridor, his phone clutched tight in one hand, the laces of his skates wrapped around the palm of the other. In the stillness, he would have been able to hear the echoes of the crowd and the noise of the competition. But all he could register was the faint static feedback from his phone.
“Yuuri?” Mari said after a long silence. “Are you okay—are you still there?
“Sorry, I—” Yuuri fought to take a breath. He let it out, slowly. “Was he in pain?”
“No, the vet gave him something,” Mari said. There was a soft sigh on her end of the line.
“Was he scared?”
“We were with him the whole time,” Mari said, her tone reassuring, gentle. She chuckled weakly. “He…wagged his tail and did that little sniffing thing he does before he sleeps…and then he closed his eyes. And we said goodbye.”
“Okay, okay,” Yuuri said quietly, focusing on way the laces of his skates bit into his palm. “Okay.”
“We’re making him a little shrine when we get home.”
“Yeah,” Yuuri forced himself to reply. “That sounds nice. Mari-nee—” His phone buzzed in his ear and he pulled it away to check. It was a text from his coach: RINKSIDE NOW PLEASE. YOUR TURN IN 10MIN.
His knees buckled slightly when he willed himself to walk the long corridor, back to the rink. “I have to go.” He said softly. He blinked to clear the wetness from his eyes. “Thanks for telling me.”
“I’m sorry, Yuuri. I’m so sorry.”
Yuuri didn’t say goodbye. “Me too,” he said instead, before he ended the call.
That was his last memory of any conscious action. Everything after that was like he had taken a step back and watched things as they happened to him, as they happened around him. His heart was a heavy stone in his chest, and the grief washed the world into a blur. He didn’t even know when he let go of his phone, or how he got to the rink.
He stepped onto the ice someone else; not the talented champion who conquered the skating world, just a heartbroken little boy who lost his best friend.
Performing well under his circumstances was a testament to his training and twenty years of dedication to the sport, but anyone who was really watching saw would have seen the droop in his demeanor.
Somewhere in the blur, after overshooting his jumps and delivering a lackluster step sequence, Yuuri thought, this is it. This was where his career ended. There was no coming back from this; he wasn’t earning enough points. He registered glimpses of the lights, the ice, the crowd, and a phantom flash of the years-old adrenaline response to performing. It used to excite him, make him feel good enough to keep pushing through his instincts to run away from everything, and run toward it. But now he could only think of how he was currently failing, how he’s not sure if he wants all of this—how he’s not worthy of all of it anymore.
Halfway through the second part of his program, he was already running a meticulous assessment of his mistakes: the over rotation on his quad flip, the lacking grace in his Ina Bauer, the touch down after his quad Salchow, the stiff free leg in his combination spin.
At the final pose, Yuuri had decided: it was time to plan his retirement.
Now, he’s staring at his shoes in the bathroom stall, gripping his knees so hard he expects bruises tomorrow.
He draws a shuddering breath in an attempt to calm down. What were those breathing exercises again? Ah—inhale for five seconds, hold for five seconds, and exhale for five seconds. On his second round he fails to stifle a hitch in his breath before it develops into a sob.
Receiving the gold medal was such a surprise that Yuuri had almost backed away when one of the officials moved to put it around his neck. His performance for the free skate didn’t do justice to what the piece should have been and he didn’t live up to his usual standard. It was a dishonor to the sport and Yuuri feels undeserving of the win. The medal was still on him, the ribbon looped around his neck like a noose. He pulls it off and shoves it into his pocket.
Yuuri drops his head between his hands, allowing himself a moment of surrender, grief sinking deeper in him with each fractured sob. He forces himself to revisit the breathing exercises. Again. Inhale for five, hold for—
He’s interrupted by a knock at the door.
Rather, several kicks slammed against the cubicle in an incessant demand for his attention. A welcomed—albeit rude—distraction from his pending anxiety attack.
“It’s occupied,” Yuuri offers apologetically in what he hopes is an even tone.
The response is yet another kick to the door, a solid thud that makes the heavy red plastic jump on its hinges.
“It’s occupied!” He says firmly, realizing with a sinking feeling that someone might have followed him to the bathroom. Did they hear him crying?
The voice that speaks is vaguely familiar. “This is un-ne-ces-sary. Out of there, now. The press is looking to interview you.” The delivery is brusque, syllables gritted together in slanted English, but the message comes across clearly: pull yourself together.
There’s a short pause as Yuuri gathers himself. He leaves the stall to thank the speaker, but the man—boy?—is already at the exit. He only manages to get a flash of blonde hair before the door swings shut.
At least the anxiety attack is gone. For now.
Eventually, the competition and its succeeding obligations are dealt with, and Yuuri starts to register the noise around him and the feel of his limbs in real time. With the other skaters and coaches, Yuuri makes his way outside. They’re all headed toward their respective rides when they’re assaulted with a wall of flashes. A small group of people crowds Yuuri and a bundle of microphones are shoved into his face. The skaters call them "The Vultures,” a bunch of less professional, more invasive reporters whose life-goals seem to include terrorizing sports celebrities in an effort to get the latest scoop.
“Mr. Katsuki! You didn’t seem your usual self today! Why is th—”
“—Mr. Katsuki, how do you feel about your performance—”
“—Mr. Katsuki, what can you tell us about your plans for next—”
“—Forget that! Tell us about your plans for your love life—”
On any other day, Yuuri would’ve taken the time to patiently tend to their fervent scavenging, but not today. With news of his dog's passing, and the disappointment of his performance, everything else that demanded his attention compounded into overwhelming suffocation.
Thankfully, Celestino Cialdini, Yuuri’s coach, interferes. He clamps one arm around Yuuri’s shoulders and brandishes his other arm at the press. “We have no comments at this time! No comment! Please wait for the press conference.”
Yuuri politely ducks his head in apology and lets Celestino steer him toward the cab. It’s at this point that one of the younger skaters decides to abandon his lecturing coach to elbow his way through the throng of reporters.
Yuuri and Celestino don’t get more than a few steps away when Yuuri hears someone call his name—his first name; an unusual practice with The Vultures, despite their uncouth habits. He whips around instinctively.
“Yuuri! Hi!” The culprit, blatantly ignoring the protests of his coach, manages to squeeze himself into the small space between Yuuri’s face and the microphones. He smiles up at Yuuri with excessive enthusiasm. “Commemorative photo? Yes?”
It seems like there’s a small pause in time as Yuuri takes in the bright eyes and long silver hair. He wonders vaguely if this is the same kid in the bathroom. The accent sounds the same—no, this one’s way too chipper. The moment lasts half a second before a surge of questions jolt him back into the clamor. He turns away from the eager…fan? Competitor? Who is this kid again?
“Sorry, I uh—have to go—” Yuuri is ushered into the cab. He watches the muted chaos of reporters regrouping around another skater as the cab pulls away from the venue.
The silver-haired kid looks crestfallen and resigns himself to being dragged away by his coach.
“So!” A loud voice pipes up next to his ear.
Yuuri jumps at the sound and almost hits his head on the window. He groans, collapsing in on himself and clutching the front of his jersey.
“Phichit! You can’t keep doing that.” Yuuri turns to face the man next to him in the backseat, Phichit Chulanont, fellow GPF competitor and top skater of Thailand.
A Halloween incident in 2013 encouraged Phichit to make a habit of scaring the living daylight out of him. For Phichit, it was funny. For Yuuri, it was not. Really, this is way too much excitement in one day.
“And a hello to you too, mister,” Phichit teases. “Seriously though, I got in the car at the same time you did so that one was on you!”
Yuuri chuckles weakly in response.
He met Phichit twice in one day. The first was at an elective language class at the University—Yuuri was a senior and Phichit was a freshman—where they were made to partner up and practice Spanish phrases. The second was at the skating rink, where they accidentally collided during group stretching. A few exchanges of “dónde está la biblioteca” were all it took to build a foundation of friendship. They have been inseparable ever since.
Phichit’s tone changes, airing on the side of concern. “First the over-rotated jumps, the not-so-you step sequence, and then you’re nowhere to be found after podium—you’ve been really out of it today, you okay?”
“No, yeah I’m fine. I—” Yuuri is desperate to change the topic, he’s not ready to get into that just yet. “—listen, who was that kid? The one with the silver hair?”
“You mean Victor Nikiforov?!” Phichit says, as though it’s a complete crime against humanity to accidentally forget their fellow competitor.
“Oh, right,” Yuuri replies, tilting his head back to affirm in a slow nod. Right—the hair should have been the (blatantly obvious) hint. It’s Nikiforov’s trademark after all.
“Don’t tell me you forgot! Wasn’t it you who said—“ Phichit sets his mouth in a grim line and sits ramrod straight, his shoulders hiked up to his ears in a comedic impersonation of Yuuri, “—this young very youngster has immense potential to become a skating legend like myself—”
“I do not talk like that!” Yuuri says, swatting Phichit’s shoulders in an attempt to break the character.
“—his wonderful silver waterfall hair lends an air of fancy-pantsy for which we all should strive!” Phichit dodges the next swat to finish his statement with a poor imitation of Yuuri’s free skate pose.
Yuuri feigns taking offense, letting out an overdramatic gasp that sends them howling with laughter in the backseat. Phichit always knows how to snap him out of it when he starts to get a bit too broody.
The sudden outburst earns them a shush from the passenger’s seat, where Celestino is engrossed in a serious conversation over the phone.
“Sorry Celestino,” Yuuri calls out. Celestino waves them off in acknowledgement and they resume their conversation in lower tones.
“What’s Ciao Ciao busy with?” Phichit slumps in his seat, absently scrolling through Instagram.
“I think he’s having trouble rebooking my tickets to Detroit,” replies Yuuri.
“Detroit? I thought the plan was we train here until it’s time to go to Tokyo for Worlds? ”
“Yeah, he pre-booked our tickets for after the Worlds but if I want enough time to pack up my stuff in Detroit, I’m going to have to leave next week.”
“Pack up your stuff?” echoes Phichit. He abruptly sits up to face Yuuri, phone dropping to his lap. “What do you mean?”
Yuuri sighs. Might as well get this out now. “Phichit, I’m done for the season. I’m going back to Hasetsu.”
The trip to Detroit was relatively painless.
Before he left there were many conversations with Celestino and Phichit where they discussed—debated, more like—his withdrawal from Worlds.
Even more conversations (plus paperwork) had to be made when he informed the JSF about discontinuing his participation for the remainder of the season. Everyone he dealt with so far had been understanding, taking the news somewhat well, and—save for Phichit, who was hell-bent on contributing his opinion in a mix of whines, grumblings, and little shrieks—most of the interactions were calm, for which Yuuri was grateful. The real chaos was going to happen when the Worlds roster came out.
Yuuri shudders at the thought of facing the unholy combination of distressed fans and overzealous reporters.
There was also a slight incident with his stuff at airport security (he’s pretty sure he heard a guard mutter something about “knife shoes”) but other than that, it was relatively painless.
The trip from Detroit would have been equally painless, if it weren’t for the accompaniment of Yuuri’s internal monologue.
Packing up the apartment had been easy enough; the landlord was more than helpful when it came to boxing up and labeling all of Yuuri’s things. Everything that followed was a mindless errand; the tight schedule only had space for a blissfully methodical approach to the process of leaving Detroit, a place he called home for ten years. Yuuri went through the motions of tying up loose ends and all seemed stable—no emotions, no problems—until he got on the plane.
Now the flight back to Japan has Yuuri deep in thought over his career and everything he’s done with his life so far.
Since the age of six, his life revolved around skating; a constant, grueling yet glorious entity that left little time for anything else. Most of his time was spent at the rink, preparing for the coming competitive season. And the end of a competing season only indicated the start of the training season. So the cycle began anew, virtually trapping him in an endless marathon of training and performing. There was no room to breathe, and even less room for error. At the ripe old age of twenty-seven, the pressure from years of dominating the skating world accumulated, and the emptiness building up from neglecting the rest of his life finally caught up to him.
Yuuri achieved many milestones on the ice, at the expense of many would-have-been milestones in the other aspects of his life. Granted, he was the most decorated skater of his time, but he missed out on the little things like birthday parties, school trips, summer festivals, and graduations. Whatever love life he miraculously got involved in fell apart after a few months; no one ever had enough patience to share his attention with his passion. Everyone leaves eventually—a lesson he learned the hard way, after a particularly agonizing break-up when he was twenty-three.
Since then, he simply stopped trying; he made his peace with a life spent alone.
Now that he’s secured his fifth win and earned the title of skating legend, the pressure for him to continue being great would be too much, especially after his recent experience. Despite all his accomplishments, he always harboured a small seed of self-doubt, but the thrill of winning usually managed to overshadow it. Over the years however, it became more and more difficult to distract himself from it—he was always questioning his decisions, always criticising his actions. He was condemned to living day after terrible day, having to wake up already exhausted with demands of yesterday, to be compounded with the new pressures of today. It was like he was trying to bury himself alive and the only thing he could do was watch it happen.
After the catastrophe at Sochi, it bloomed into something much darker, and that’s when Yuuri understood: it was time to take a break.
Yuuri arrives at Yu-topia, his parent’s inn and hotspring in Hasetsu. It’s been years since Yuuri’s last visit and so much has changed. There’s new paint on the façade, new shoe lockers and vending machines in the foyer, and a new display of local delicacies in the common area. But amongst the changes were familiar comforts—the hidden hints of home in the same creaky step on the stairs, the smell of green tea, the smooth gleam of the dark wooden floors.
After a brief reunion with his parents (they’re setting up for the dinner rush and things are busy), he finds himself in front of the altar, paying his respects to their dog, Vicchan. The picture they used is an old one, from ages ago, when Yuuri first held Vicchan in his arms.
Yuuri had won Vicchan at a fundraising event for a local animal shelter. The event was a tiny figure skating competition, nothing flashy—no media attention, no strict rules on costumes or music—and the participants were a wide variety of children ages seven to seventeen, all there for the fun of it. He was fifteen at the time, when his ballet teacher made him join to loosen up, to pull him out of the rigor of his constant skating grind. He was always much too serious about skating, too obsessive about getting everything just right.
This was the first time he had fun in a competition; treating everything so casually that he ended up improvising half of the routine on the spot just for the heck of it. When he performed, he didn’t care about winning or losing. The pure thrill of letting loose on the ice was a breath of fresh air from the rigidity of his training; a reminder of what his love for the ice felt like.
When they announced Yuuri as the winner, they hung a cheap little gold medal around his neck, and put a happy little brown poodle in his arms. It was Mari who had snapped the photo of Yuuri, balancing the happy little puppy on his shoulder and flashing a peace sign, an easy grin on his face. He named the puppy Victory to commemorate the win—Vicchan, for short.
“Hey,” says a voice behind him.
Yuuri turns toward the speaker. It’s Mari, standing by the door as she ties an apron around her waist.
“Hey yourself.” Yuuri smiles. “It’s been a while, huh?”
“It’s been too long.” She responds with a grin of her own. “Listen, the dinner rush is a bit busy so we’ll catch up later.”
“Yeah, no problem. You need any help?”
“No, it’s fine. You go settle. Oh, Yuko and Takeshi are at the rink if you want to stop by and say hello. Anyway, I have to go. I’ll see you after dinner, yeah?”
“After dinner,” Yuuri confirms.
“I’m glad you’re home,” Mari says before she hurries to help out in the kitchen.
Yuuri gives Vicchan’s altar one last look then makes his way to his room to get his jacket. It would be great to see Yuko and Takeshi again. On his way out, he grabs his skating gear as well. A few laps around the rink will do him some good. Might help appease the anxiety that has been gnawing at him all day.
When Yuuri arrives at the Ice Castle skating rink, he takes his time climbing the steps to the entrance and he recalls his childhood with a twinge of nostalgia. There were three constants in his childhood memories: Yuko, Takeshi, and ice-skating.
Yuko and Takeshi Nishigori were his long-time rinkmates. They were there from the very beginning, since the first time Minako, his ballet teacher, dragged him to the rink. Yuuri had an especially bad day and it was the only thing she could think of to cheer him up. It only took an hour for him to fall in love with the ice, begging his parents to sign him up for lessons as soon as he got home.
He and Yuko got along quickly. She was warm and kind, and they shared a fondness for mimicking routines they saw on television. Takeshi on the other hand, an older kid in their class, had taken to bullying him for his size and weight. It took a few months before he eventually warmed up to Yuuri, the two becoming good friends over time. They spent countless hours training and working on their routines together. Although Yuuri was the only one who moved on to participate in competitions, both national and international, they all maintained a love for the sport.
After years of dancing around each other, Yuko and Takeshi finally got together when Yuuri left for Detroit. They got married the following year, timing it with Yuuri’s bi-annual visit home so he could attend the wedding. It wasn’t long before the couple was pregnant with triplets. Yuuri got to meet the girls a few times when they were babies but couldn’t keep up with the visits when his career began to take off. He did keep in touch with the Nishigori family through Skype calls and occasionally sent gifts in the post.
It’s only now that he starts to realize how long it’s been since he was last here with Yuko and Takeshi. He’s excited to see them again.
Yuuri gets no further than five steps into the reception area when he hears a shriek of “YUUUUURIIII” and is tackled by the entire Nishigori family. They’re a tangled mess of limbs on the floor before Yuuri can stop it from happening. He resigns himself to his fate, wondering how long until he suffocates and is welcomed by the sweet embrace of death.
“Can’t…breathe,” Yuuri wheezes under the giggling heap of bodies. Thankfully, Takeshi hears him and hoists himself and his daughters off of him. Yuko holds her hand out; the triplets pull her up as well.
“Yuuri! It’s so great to see you! Sorry, we may have gotten too excited with the welcome hug,” Yuko helps Yuuri up and pulls him into a gentler, more traditional welcome hug.
“It’s great to see you too,” Yuuri says, readjusting his glasses.
“You remember the triplets.” Yuko gestures toward her daughters. “Axel, Lutz, and Loop!”
Yuuri scoops them up in a bear hug in lieu of a hello. The hug lasts about a second, before the triplets wriggle out of his arms to squeal excitedly and run away. Yuuri watches them with a smile.
“They’ve gotten so much bigger since I last saw them,” he comments.
“It’s been five years. Of course they’ve gotten bigger.” Yuko links her arms through Yuuri’s and Takeshi’s. The three of them walk toward the rink.
“How old are they now? Seven? Eight?” Yuuri says.
“Try nine, champ,” says Takeshi, amused.
“Nine? Oh wow, they’re really not babies anymore.” Yuuri says disbelievingly. He’s pretty sure it was only last year when he had to help with their diapers.
“They’re frigging monsters now, is what they are!” Takeshi’s eyes widen comically, and Yuuri swears he can see flashbacks of a more stressful time in them.
“Don’t be so harsh on your daughters.” Yuko scolds. “They are pretty intense though. They turned into quite the skating fangirls over the years.”
“Skating fangirls? They’re full-fledged skate-crazy otakus!” Takeshi underlines his statement with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. Yuuri and Yuko sway with the movement. “I blame you, Yuuri. You gave them skating fever.”
“What—I did not!”
"Did too!" Takeshi says. "They're really, really big fans of Skating Legend, Uncle Yuuri."
"What—They are not!"
"You should see all the posters they have in their room," Yuko adds teasingly, as Takeshi grins at Yuuri's building embarrassment.
"Stop," Yuuri whines jokingly elbowing Yuko.
She bumps into Takeshi, who stumbles, and ends up dragging their linked formation straight into a wall.
Their small talk continues as they gear up and transfer onto the ice, doing a few laps as they catch up on things they left out during Skype calls. The mood takes a somber dip when they ask if Yuuri plans to retire. He had already implied it briefly when they called him in Detroit, so he gives them an overview of what led him to take a break, starting with the Sochi GPF.
Yuuri’s story comes to an end as he slows to a halt by the sound system at the side of the rink. Yuko and Takeshi follow his lead, coming to rest at either side of him. He pulls out his phone.
“Actually, there’s something I’ve been working on. I’m not sure if I’m going to use it next season but I’ve had this routine for a while now and it feels like something I want to share.” Yuuri’s voice is soft, almost reminiscent of his younger, shyer self. He slowly takes his glasses, carefully folding it before he hands it to Yuko. Takeshi sets up the Bluetooth speaker to pair up with his phone as Yuuri skates to the middle of the rink.
“The song’s called Stammi Vicino. The theme is on my love.”
Later that evening, Yuuri, Minako, and Mari wind down in the common room. Mari brings out a few drinks for them while Minako flips through the television channels until she finds the annual skating special featuring the competitors of the current season. They quietly discuss the status of Yuuri’s career, Mari and Minako expressing their thoughts on Yuuri’s possible retirement.
“You think this is it?” says Mari, indicating his early exit from the season as the start of his retirement.
“No,” Yuuri says carefully, pausing in thought before replying. “Definitely not. But it feels like my time is almost up.”
“Yeah, but this champ's probably got three seasons left in him,” Minako says, her hand giving him an encouraging thump on the back. She had a habit of pushing him to excel, always managing to make him take three steps beyond where he thinks his limits are.
“Maybe one more,” he corrects. This time, he’s sure.
The show starts a segment on the Russian skaters. Yuuri watches with mild interest, as an ice dancing Victor Nikiforov appears on screen, accompanied by a voiceover on Nikiforov’s trademark androgyny seen in his appearance and choreography.
“Pretty-boy over there seems quite adventurous with his jumps,” says Minako, taking a swig of beer.
“I think the term you’re looking for is ‘reckless,’” Mari says while holding her cup out at Yuuri, who kindly pours another shot of sake.
“’Reckless’ is the word for it,” Yuuri agrees. “I see what he’s going for—and it’s good—but he seems to lack the training to pull it off.”
Mari and Minako nod aggressively. They’re clearly starting to reach the peak of their alcohol tolerance.
“That kid though—” Mari gestures at the TV, where a younger skater appears, chin-length blond hair fanning through the air as he lands a perfect quad Salchow. “Wow!”
The show narrator introduces him as Yuri Plisetsky, age fifteen, The Ice Tiger of Russia and current Junior Worlds champion. After a short clip of Plisetsky’s performance at the Junior Worlds, there’s a short interview with him. Yuuri recognizes the voice almost immediately. He laughs dryly to himself—yep, that’s him. The angry bathroom boy from Sochi.
During the commercial break, Minako and Mari try to convince each other that they’re not drunk, in between offering well-meaning but poorly-phrased advice to Yuuri.
Yuuri watches them argue drunkenly for a moment. He decides to take charge: ushering Mari to her room and Minako into a spare. They turn in for the night and Yuuri settles in his old bed, content. It’s great to be home again.
It had been a long week.
By long, Yuuri meant tiring. And by tiring, he meant chaotic.
The first wave of absolute mayhem hit when the Worlds roster came out and the public realized Yuuri was not on the list. Intrigue surrounded Yuuri Katsuki, skating legend and world champion, who unexpectedly dropped off-grid before the season was over. It was a complete scandal, for skating fanatics and sports reporters alike, and everyone went ballistic.
The buzz of speculations, as well as the infinite amount of calls he was receiving, prompted him to hold a press conference to lay rest to all the profoundly outlandish fan theories that were circulating the internet: he had an illness, he had an injury, he lost his foot, he got someone pregnant, he's switching to a hockey career—the claims were endless. He formally announced he was in need of personal time off. There were many follow-up questions—mostly on the topic on retirement. He replies he wouldn’t call it retirement but he’s definitely done for this season at least. The retirement would be a discussion for another time.
The second wave of mayhem happened shortly after, when the triplets uploaded a video of his Stammi Vicino routine. Yuuri doesn’t even have time to wonder how they managed to record him before the video goes viral and he’s hounded by the internet yet again. From the initial two hundred views, the numbers shot up to one million overnight.
If the attention on Yuuri was like blinding spotlight during the Worlds roster incident, the Stammi Vicino video had attention burning him with the intensity of a thousand suns.
Yuuri was just about ready to crawl under a rock and stay there. Forever. He was done. Yuko was furious. The girls tried to justify it as a sneak peek for Yuuri’s latest project (“He did say he wanted to share it, mama!”), but Yuko was having none of it. Axel, Lutz, and Loop were immediately rewarded with a two-week-long suspension from the internet. Yuuri followed suit, temporarily deleting all his social media apps in an effort to thwart the barrage of notifications on all his accounts.
Now that the madness was done and dealt with, he was more than ready to settle back into a satisfying and, hopefully, nondescript life.
Mornings at the inn are pretty routine: set the dining area and common room for guests, help prepare food for the breakfast crowd, heave boxes into the pantry. Why there are boxes for him to heave every morning, Yuuri has no idea. There are just boxes upon boxes of both dry and perishable goods and he finds himself starting to develop an unreasonable resentment toward their existence. Today, however, is different. Today, Yuuri finds himself thankful for their presence and goes so far as to vow never to resent them even again.
When Minako suddenly barges in at 6a.m., screeching excitedly about the latest skating news omg, Yuuri immediately checks out of the conversation. He tries to excuse himself, saying he’s busy (“Yes very busy, Minako-sensei, goodbye,”) with chores. Minako, refusing to give up, badgers him all the way to pantry where Yuuri takes refuge behind a few boxes in a fit of desperation.
“Minako-sensei, I told you a hundred times: I don’t want to hear or see anything skating-related, please!” Yuuri locks his elbows to support the box barricade he’d built between them, as she struggles to shove her phone in his face.
“But this is something you have to see!” With an angry huff, she swipes at her phone. The opening instrumental of Stammi Vicino blares from the phone speakers.
“I already know the girls’ video went viral! The video’s been out for weeks—what is it with everyone today! First Phichit sends me a million texts saying I should call because he has ‘MEGA NEWS’ to tell me, then Yuko calls me and all I hear is the triplets screaming, and now—”
He’s cut off when Minako’s arm reaches around the barricade to show him the video. The onscreen image is a figure performing to Stammi Vicino. He squints at the screen when he catches a streak of silver—it’s not him.
It’s Victor Nikiforov.
His phone beeps with another text from Phichit.
Phichit (6:06 am): Bet you wish you listened to me when I said I had something important to tell you ;P
Yuuri watches the video with Minako from the beginning; pausing and pulling the cursor back to re-watch the moments that catch his eye.
“There,” he says softly, pointing at the screen.
“He changed a bit of the step sequence and—” his finger drags along the video streaming bar until he finds what he’s looking for “—there! He added a few jumps and spin combinations as well.”
He silently marvels at the adjustments Victor made. His interpretation gave the piece a new life, adding an element of tenderness that was missing from the original.
Admittedly, Victor’s skating was lacking in the expressive grace that Yuuri possessed, and he put too many reckless jumps, but the overall effect was a shade under impressive.
As the performance winds down with a return to the original choreography, Yuuri moves to hand the phone back to Minako, but she holds it firm in his hands.
“Watch it ‘til the end.”
Yuuri glances back at the screen in time to hear Victor’s closing remarks.
“Hi everyone! Hope you liked my video response to Mr. Yuuri Katsuki’s Stammi Vicino. Yuuri, hi! Did I get it right? I hope I got it right.” He laughs self consciously before flashing a dazzling smile. “Anyway, I’ll see you next week!”
“See you next week?” Yuuri repeats. His eyes zero in on the timestamp below the video. It was posted a week ago. “He’s…he’s talking to his followers, right?”
Yuuri’s bending over a table to clear leftovers when a bark catches his attention. As he turns, he’s tackled by two sets of paws: one belonging to a frightened Himalayan cat, who scrambles over him to hide on a shelf, and the other belonging to a very excited brown poodle. The dog plants his paws on Yuuri’s chest and barks happily.
“Vicchan?!” Yuuri frowns, no, not Vicchan. Vicchan was a toy poodle. This one’s too large. This one’s a standard-sized poodle. Yuuri struggles to lift the heavy dog, who seems determined to greet him by thoroughly nuzzling his hair.
His father passes by with a smile. “He looks just like our Vicchan doesn’t he?”
“Yeah he does,” Yuuri says distractedly, dusting off the front of his shirt as he watches the dog prance away. “Where did he…?”
“He came with that cat and two new guests. Silly kids couldn’t stop bickering. They’re foreigners, by the looks of it. We don’t get many silver-haired, blue-eyed people—”
Wait. What?
“—Russian maybe? I’m never good at identifying accents. The blond one was very angry though I can tell—” Toshiya’s monologue fades as he walks into the kitchen, while Yuuri’s mind fumbles with new information.
Russian kids. Angry blonde.
“—anyway they’re in the onsen now if you want to say hi,“ his dad continues absently as he wipes the tables.
First level of comprehension: silver hair.
Second level of comprehension: there’s a hazy flashback to the strange interactions at the Sochi GPF.
Final level of comprehension: Oh no.
Yuuri makes a mad dash to the onsen.
Russia’s rising star, Victor Nikiforov, age twenty-three, has just finished his first Grand Prix Final and is gearing up for Serious Training for the next season.
Russia’s rising star, Victor Nikiforov, age twenty-three, is currently standing naked in the Yu-Topia onsen, back arched, silver hair flowing, with one arm outstretched toward a very bewildered Yuuri Katsuki.
“Yuuri! Hi!”