Виктор Никифоров (![[personal profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fivetimechamp) wrote2017-03-23 12:28 pm
fivetimechamp) wrote2017-03-23 12:28 pm
Entry tags:
November 14-15, 2014 - Between Moscow and Tokyo
It's a much longer plane ride, this way.
(It's actually an hour less to go east from Moscow to Tokyo than the other way around, but if anyone told Victor right now that he's on the shorter flight, he'd call them a liar, and to their face, no less.)
In the end, it was faster to get a direct flight to Tokyo and take a commuter flight from there to KMJ than to Kumamoto directly: he couldn't stand one lay-over, let alone two. If nine and a half hours (and then a wait, and another two, and then the time it will take to get to Hasetsu from Kumamoto) seems unbearable, fifteen would have driven him to madness.
Not that it doesn't seem like he'll be heading that way soon enough, as it is.
It didn't take longer than getting into the taxi outside the hotel to regret leaving, the first moment he'd had a chance to breathe and think since Yuri cornered him in the hall after the interviews ––
(you have to go!)
–– and pushed him out the door.
Or, just stood there, as he left, looking more alone than Victor can bear. Stricken and pale, and stubborn.
(He should never have left. His duty is there. He's a coach, and he'd abandoned his skater. A lover, who'd selfishly left. Yanked Yuri's support out from under him.
Even if Yuri was the one to tell him to go.)
Yakov will take care of him, Victor knows, but Yakov doesn't know Yuri, and he isn't overly fond of Victor these days, either, and Victor's fingers have been drumming such an anxious tarentella on his thigh that the nice old lady sitting next to him pats his hand gently and tells him there's no need to be afraid of flying.
(Nine hours to go. Plus two. Plus...)
His phone is in his hand, and he keeps checking it, until he remembers he has to actually connect to the inflight wifi in order to get (or send) anything, and once he does, he flounders, thumb hovering over the text box in the thread in his messages with Yuri's name at the top.
(To text anything now would be unbearably selfish. Wouldn't it? Him reaching out for comfort, when what he should be doing is helping Yuri get ready for tomorrow's free skate.
He won't even see it, unless he can find a way to be near a television. It might be over before he even reaches Hasetsu.
He should be there.
Maybe he really is too inexperienced as a coach.)
Either way, he scrolls through pictures he doesn't really see, and updates he never reads, until a brush against his shoulder makes him jump, and he looks to find the flight attendant offering him a selection of canned sodas, with a smile, but water is all he wants, and when he looks at his watch, it's beginning to turn towards night in Moscow. Close enough that Yuri should be going to bed, and getting some sleep.
Which reminds him, collecting his scattered and shattered thoughts like pieces of a broken toy on the floor, that when he does get in, it will be too early to call Yuri. That if he hears anything during the flight (no texts from Mari yet), it will be the middle of the night in Moscow, and Yuri needs sleep more than he needs to hear from Victor. Tomorrow is important.
(He should be there.)
But he can do this: hit that text box, and write out a few sentences.
this seat is less co he deletes, along with I'm sor and I know you'll and in the end, he just closes the app with a sigh, to lean his head against the window.
Six hours to go.
(It's actually an hour less to go east from Moscow to Tokyo than the other way around, but if anyone told Victor right now that he's on the shorter flight, he'd call them a liar, and to their face, no less.)
In the end, it was faster to get a direct flight to Tokyo and take a commuter flight from there to KMJ than to Kumamoto directly: he couldn't stand one lay-over, let alone two. If nine and a half hours (and then a wait, and another two, and then the time it will take to get to Hasetsu from Kumamoto) seems unbearable, fifteen would have driven him to madness.
Not that it doesn't seem like he'll be heading that way soon enough, as it is.
It didn't take longer than getting into the taxi outside the hotel to regret leaving, the first moment he'd had a chance to breathe and think since Yuri cornered him in the hall after the interviews ––
(you have to go!)
–– and pushed him out the door.
Or, just stood there, as he left, looking more alone than Victor can bear. Stricken and pale, and stubborn.
(He should never have left. His duty is there. He's a coach, and he'd abandoned his skater. A lover, who'd selfishly left. Yanked Yuri's support out from under him.
Even if Yuri was the one to tell him to go.)
Yakov will take care of him, Victor knows, but Yakov doesn't know Yuri, and he isn't overly fond of Victor these days, either, and Victor's fingers have been drumming such an anxious tarentella on his thigh that the nice old lady sitting next to him pats his hand gently and tells him there's no need to be afraid of flying.
(Nine hours to go. Plus two. Plus...)
His phone is in his hand, and he keeps checking it, until he remembers he has to actually connect to the inflight wifi in order to get (or send) anything, and once he does, he flounders, thumb hovering over the text box in the thread in his messages with Yuri's name at the top.
(To text anything now would be unbearably selfish. Wouldn't it? Him reaching out for comfort, when what he should be doing is helping Yuri get ready for tomorrow's free skate.
He won't even see it, unless he can find a way to be near a television. It might be over before he even reaches Hasetsu.
He should be there.
He should be there.
Either way, he scrolls through pictures he doesn't really see, and updates he never reads, until a brush against his shoulder makes him jump, and he looks to find the flight attendant offering him a selection of canned sodas, with a smile, but water is all he wants, and when he looks at his watch, it's beginning to turn towards night in Moscow. Close enough that Yuri should be going to bed, and getting some sleep.
Which reminds him, collecting his scattered and shattered thoughts like pieces of a broken toy on the floor, that when he does get in, it will be too early to call Yuri. That if he hears anything during the flight (no texts from Mari yet), it will be the middle of the night in Moscow, and Yuri needs sleep more than he needs to hear from Victor. Tomorrow is important.
(He should be there.)
But he can do this: hit that text box, and write out a few sentences.
Good flight so far
Remember not to eat anything heavy tonight
get some sleep
I'll let you know how things look in the morning
Remember not to eat anything heavy tonight
get some sleep
I'll let you know how things look in the morning
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
Six hours to go.
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Point One. All the world is darkness here already, has been since late afternoon.
Point Two. He is exhausted. Body from performance, mind from ... everything.
Point Three. Yurio even ordered him to go to bed. To be there on time.
But he lays there. In that unhelpful dark, on his unhelpful bed, with his unhelpful pillow and unhelpful blanket, staring at the perfectly made bed, with its perfectly untouched pillow, across from his. A little closer than it had been when they first arrived. Not too close, but close enough, if he scooted to the edge, and stretched his arm, his hand could lay on the other edge.
He tries, and fails at, not remembering Victor grinning, rebellious and perfect, shameless and innocent in one about it.
No Victor. Victor is on a plane. Because Maccachin is somewhere and Maccahin isn't okay. Victor isn't here, because Victor is where he should be. Is supposed to be. (Where Yuri never could have gone as a competitor when Vicchan passed.) He closes his eyes and breathes in. Out. (He'll be fine.) In. Out. (They've done this for months.) In. Out. (He'll be fine, has to be fine.)
His eyes still half-open, black darkness, the fringe of his black lashes, and he stares there, until his vision is as unfocused from not blinking as it is from not having his glasses on. He doesn't know how long that goes on. Isn't entirely certain if he did or didn't fall asleep (or slip into something that wasn't awake, but wasn't asleep, but wasn't here either, just unfocused and too too heavy).
But he blinks at something disrupting it. A sound, and looks over his shoulder, to see the light from the screen of his phone. Right as it fades off, and he turns himself over finally. Letting his blankets pool around him, as one hair misses his hair and the other gropes for his glasses, before going to pull it off the charger. It's strange that at the same time he sees Victor's name, and something inflates in him suddenly, he's still noting his phone is only half charged.
Yuri still flicks it open, lips pressing, as he takes it back to the bed. Reading them. Once. Twice. Again.
Simple things. Updates. Sensible things. Victor would tell him, if he was here, before tomorrow.
He could put it down, could say nothing. Just keep trying to sleep. Even Victor said to, too. It's a thought. Nebulous and less solid than a breeze. It's not true. But any of the words he might say -- any of his too used okay and yes and I'll try -- slide from him as fast as they register. No face in front of him to demand them into sound. Just the simplified black English text.
He should still say something. So Victor doesn't worry about him on the flight, too. So Victor knows he got it.
It takes another minute. Then.
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Followed by:
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Well. That's.
He's.
He's almost glad Victor isn't here to see it when his face warms instantly.
Just as instantly as he knows he's wrong, and it hurts. So suddenly. Strickenly.
He's not glad. He's not glad Victor isn't here. Even to say things that embaress him.
Things that kept tacky and sticky inside his chest, suddenly gumming up everything.
It doesn't hurt then.
He looks up at Victor's earlier, and his. Not having entirely realized. But it doesn't matter.
Victor isn't here to see him, but he still tucks his head slightly, even curled to the pillow, when he finally finds something to say.
(Something that isn't I miss you, already or-and too. It has only been a few hours. He should do better. Be stronger. Can.)
He sends but then keeps typing
(though the dots go on a while, as Yuri tries to pick his last word);
He's already moody.
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.
..
...
..
.
..
...
did you eat?
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Yuri understands those. Enough that he doesn't consider writing it more than one second.
It's still small. Muddled in the evening. The words. That face. The things Yurio'd said before the end.
Yurio took me.
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Probably the expression and tone that go with this one are easy enough to imagine, too.
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Not a real wince. Not really. But still.
He starts I'm not and stops. Deletes it. Stares at the text box.
He could say he'd order something up, but he doesn't want people. Or food.
He ends up staring too long, cursor line flashing, but without actually typing.
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.
..
...
.
get some sleep
I'll talk to you in the morning
It's dark. The plane a tiny, flickering pinprick of light in a vast sky, like a fragile beating heart tracking towards the air over the Siberian Plains.
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Each of them feels like an order. A very sudden ending.
Everything sinking in his chest, hardening in his center.
He should be hungry. That would be normal. But he isn't. Wasn't.
Doesn't want food. Doesn't want people. He just wants --
But it wipes out. Obliterates. Drowns. Under Victor's next words.
The sudden catch in his chest that forces everything else out.
That only has Victor. Telling him to dream of him.
To close his eyes and believe he's right there.
And he does. Just for a moment. Squeeze his eyes closed.
Squeeze his hand around his phone. The way his heart does.
Opening his eyes the next second. Needing to be able to see it.
For it the be real. The words, if not Victor. Drawing a breath in and starting
Typing I'll tr before pressing back and back and back. Deleting. Then.
Not even realizing until after he presses send, it could go for all of them.
Will. Eventually. But it isn't for them. Nothing else grabs him like that one.
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Instagram. Scrolling through his photo library, until he comes across the picture he's looking for: one taken last summer of Yuri and Maccachin down at the beach: the boy laughing, the poodle splashing in the water. Both looking perfectly carefree and happy.
He posts it with the caption A favorite moment with my favorites #lastsummer #Hasetsu #poodles #dogsofinstagram and closes the app before any updates can come through, to sit back with a sigh, phone to his chest, as if holding the screen there by his heart might make up for having neither of the two bodies there he wants.
And he tries to sleep.
He does doze, on and off, but his dreams are troubled and they wake him up in starts, of Yuri crashing and burning in the free skate, of Maccachin dead on the floor of his old apartment at St. Petersburg, of himself on the ice, tripping and falling, falling, falling ––
Blinking awake, hard, into the light streaming through the window and the announcement that they're beginning the descent to Tokyo. Feeling like an egg hit by a tractor trailer, and run under every one of its eighteen wheels.
Glancing at his watch with his mouth a thin line: it's the middle of the night in Moscow, and even with his jet lag, Yuri would
(should)
be sleeping, but there's not much time to think about that when he has to get off one plane and head to another, much smaller, sit again, and watch Japan roll by beneath him. Another two hours to Kumamoto, and another half hour before his train arrives, and by then, it's past noon, and headed towards one, and once he's texted Mari to let her know what time he'd be getting in to Fukuoka, and received her reply, and the news that Maccachin was still with the vet but that they'd go straight there from the train station, it's rounding towards seven in the morning in Moscow, and that's enough. Just enough.
After an all-night flight that shattered his nerves and the last twelve hours that have exhausted him and he had promised, after all.
Thumbing open the app on his phone that let's him make international calls with little more than some wifi and hitting Yuri's name, before bringing the phone to his ear, and trying to blink grit out of his eyes, listening to it ring with as much focus as he can muster, even if it sounds like it's ringing underwater.
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There are still dreams that plague him into startling awake. He doesn't make it back to Yuri and Yakov in time, and they left without him. His sister calls to tell him that Maccachin didn't make it, and Victor won't get on the phone or pick his own. He's at the rink, and it's his turn, but he can't go out there, has forgotten everything, from his routine, his training, even how to use his ice skates. He's at the rink, and does remember how to skate, remembers all Victor taught him, and still messes up everything.
That isn't the part that pierces everything with even more exhausted confusion.
Every ime, without fail, without remembering, he turns to find Victor on waking. Same as the night before and the weekend before that. Across the room, and more times than he wants to count, nearby. Next to him. Searching the blanket before remembering and curling up tighter, with a confused sound muffled in his throat and his pillow. That shouldn't be a habit. It's not really. (Yet?) And his tired head, tattered and torn and tearing, nails into anything he manages to hold on to. Finds comfort, pain, confusion, anxiety-laced into.
It's only been days. Not even a week since China. Nothing about that is long enough to be a habit for anything. (Anyone.)
It's not like either of them have ever had to time to think about it. They came right from China to Moscow, from The Cup to Cup.
If he's being even more honest, they haven't been apart, until tonight, for more months than Yuri thought to count.
And it's something else to hold it. Like this. Alone. In the dark. In an empty bed. Before an empty day.
(If he still doesn't know -- the why and how that led to Victor training him -- he's accepted that it's happening, has been, isn't stopping yet. Sometimes long term. Sometimes on a case by case, day by day, competition by competition, basis, depending on his head.
But this?)
He doesn't know where this started. Because it didn't suddenly change six days ago.
He still feels the same way about things. Even if there's a more attached to it.
To Victor and the days, to this slide between constant training and practice, and Victor redefining even closer and more often what Victor being everywhere, all the time means. And he is. Always trying to make Yuri laugh, or smile, or try new things, or to get him talking about everything and anything that can come into Victor's mind.
(And if he's worked very hard at Victor being Victor, the man with an abashed love for his dog, a grueling taskmaster, a forgetful promise-maker, an odd genius, as blindly blunt as he is carelessly physical, and on and on ... it wasn't ever this. This thing. This new-new thing. Where his mind can't stop for a few seconds now and then.
Because this is Victor Nikiforov.
It's not even the screaming confusion of that name in his ears, drowning his thoughts from months ago. It's this alien thing. Hushed in the whisper of him, as a small child, watching Victor skate the first time. It's that version of him in his beginning teens, all steely dedication, that had him practicing every single routine the senior ever knocked out. It's that voice of him, just making the choice to compete, to train across the world, with a burning fire to get the same stage as his idol.
Victor
Nikiforov. Who is his coach. His friend. The first person he's afraid to lose.Victor Nikiforov. Who touches him. Pulls him in. Curls around him. Kisses him.)
Maybe he'll change his mind. Maybe he'll change his mind about everything. He couldn't stop questioning whether Victor wanted to leave him and coaching entirely only that same number of days ago, knowing he was wrong, but unable to stop thinking it, stop looking for it, and it's the first time Victor's been away from him, in all these days, and all these months, too. Had time to think about things without Yuri or anything Yuri needed to distract him.
It aches. Confused. Wanting. Doubtful. Yearning. It comes and goes. Seconds.
Flickers. Awake, groaning at catching himself, again, and sliding under again.
Somewhere around three he ends up with his phone again. To find the words he couldn't write earlier. He doesn't want to say it in English, and Victor's Japanese is coming along, but it's not his language, and Russian, at least the most important words he's been picking up both from Victor and for getting around this weekend ... and it's Victor's language. He wants to say it that way. His way.
Skipping all of the updates and every feed. Just his translator to find it, and it's easy enough. (Я скучаю по тебе.) Until he reaches the second option (Мне тебя не хватает) with the second meaning, and he can feel the coals rising under his cheekbones. He presses it several times, listening. He says it to himself. To the empty room. To his pillow and phone.
His accent is probably still horrendous and he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to say it to Victor, but it might be a number of days, half a week, before he sees him, again. Victor who won't come back to Moscow. Maybe that many days longer won't make it feel foolish, fool hearted, too fast, too big, too much, too soon.
"Мне тебя не хватает," he still whispers,
(hoping for Maccachin, for Victor, eyes closing again)
I missed you.
(hoping for himself, for Yuri, for Yuri's grandfather,
before falling asleep again.)
I need you with me.
For a night that feels like it just won't pass, and won't end -- when the first alarm goes off, phone still in his hand, accidentally smacking it into his forehead trying to flail away from the blaring siren -- it, also, feels like he only just tried to close his eyes the first time, and every first time ever that, and those. He still feels worn, heavy, tired. Strings on his hands, ankles, thoughts. There's nothing new waiting on his phone. Not from Victor. Or Mari. Or his parents.
He pushes himself up. Stopping for a too long moment looking at the still untouched bed. In the dark. Then with the room light on. He huffs out a breath, too loud, louder than he would if Victor were here. Victor would jump on it instantly, even from dead asleep. He rubs his eyes, up across his forehead and then into his hair. He can do this. He can handle all of this. He has to. It's a morning, like every other. He knows the routine. (He can do this.)
Still when the phone rings, not too long later, hair still dripping and towel just being wrapped,
he's out of the bathroom in seconds and back to where he left it on the charger.
He could say he's hoping for any of the four of them, and he is, but he'd be lying, too. Everything in him gives that away when he sees the name flashing next to the green and red buttons to pick up or hang up. Picking it up and ruffling the window curtain, Yuri tried for something calmer that the sudden fight of staccato and rush over his heart.
"It's still dark out." As well as still snowing. Maybe lighter, but any sun was probably still another hour away from them. Or longer. It might just stay bright grey and snowing. But it wasn't even there yet. The dark was still out there, clinging to Moscow the way the night was still clinging to Yuri. The way Yuri's fingers weren't a little too tight on the curtain, clinging for the last second before he'd hear Victor's voice again.
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Thousands of miles aways. Voice tinny on the phone speaker.
Victor closes his eyes, free hand going to his chest. (Is this what it feels like?)
"Did I wake you up?"
If he is, he's sorry, but just hearing Yuri, after being apart for the last fifteen hours, or more, is relieving, and he tries: "Gomen."
It almost comes fluidly, after the months in Hasetsu, with Yuri. "I didn't mean to."
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Those new words press against the back of his tongue, caught in his teeth, forgotten until this second, when it feels suddenly truer than in the dark. Victor's voice in his ear. But the empty room, he can feel around him .. the dark frosted window, in front of him... the curtain falling from his fingers, only making it somehow sharper.
How can he miss Victor even more right now? How does that make any sense?
"いえいえ --" Yuri turned back to his bed, shaking his head, even though he didn't need to. "I got up a little while ago."
He could get dressed while talking, but he can wait, too. A few minutes. A while. He does at least find his glasses.
"I wanted to make sure I had enough time to find the buffet downstairs, or somewhere nearby, if it's not good, without being late to meet Yakov, and Yuri, and the others. Someone--" He tries for levity, in a gentle accusation and acknowledgment, pinioned on that word, but he feels like it sticks sore in his throat, not funny in the slightest in his chest or in his mouth. "--told me to eat breakfast."
Maybe it's the reason he tacks on, without pause. "Are you there yet?"
He almost said home, but he swallows that down, too.
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All the steps they took, together, to here. "Sounds like someone with good advice that you should probably listen to."
The question opens his eyes a weary crack, and he glances out the window at the scenery rolling by, the train rumbling beneath him. "Not yet. I'm on the train from Kumamoto. Mari will pick me up in Fukuoka."
But that's not why he called, even if it is, even if his only reason was to hear the quiet voice on the other end of the line, even if he's trying to make this call for Yuri, what Yuri might need, because Victor is still his coach, even if he isn't right there watching him.
"Did you sleep all right?"
Or was it like last weekend in Shanghai, when Yuri didn't sleep and didn't nap and finally shattered like a glass ornament dropped on a marble floor, before ––
Before ––
Before everything changed. "You sound tired."
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His shoulders curl, elbow on the towel over his thigh, trying to keep it from his voice.
His worry. How tired he is. Victor shouldn't be worrying about him. "Enough."
Enough to skate. Enough to be fine. He'll be fine. He has to be fine. Even if it's already started, which is just as much a lie to think. In someways it feels like it's never stopped. Not since last weekend. There've been distractions. Victor is too good at distracting sometimes. (Victor isn't here.) But that hasn't stopped the bag of bricks in his stomach from existing any. From dropping them, often, in front of his toes.
From flubbing his jumps. Taking his focus in practice. From pushing himself hours beyond when Victor first suggests they stop.
He'll be fine. He'll be fine. (He won the silver last weekend. He wants to win. Even if that thought is nauseating, too.) He'll be fine. Even alone today. (Again.) Has to be. Fine. Even if he wants to hide in the closet more than pull his outfit out of it. Even if he can't stop thinking about how bad it was only a week ago. When nothing would hold. When he burst into tears and yelled at Victor even. But that's not new, right? That's part of this. That might always be part of this.
Every morning before competition. Every day until he does retire at the end of the season.
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Tapping a finger on his thigh, and wondering.
It's not that he doesn't believe Yuri, exactly. Yuri (probably) (hopefully) (ideally) wouldn't lie to him.
(He thinks.)
But it's harder to tell, over the phone, when he's not able to see the way Yuri can or can't meet his eyes, the telltale flush of pink on his cheeks when he's not being entirely honest. He can hear it, a little, but it's not the same.
"Well, take it easy during morning practice, and if you're still tired this afternoon, no jumps in the warm-up."
Mouth firming, and he lifts his free hand to shake his finger, as if Yuri were right there, in front of him. "I mean it, Yuri. Save your energy and warm up nice and slow. Listen to Yakov."
Someone else he needs to call, or text, he reminds himself. It sounds like a sigh, even in his head: this impossible choice. Maccachin is his family. Yuri is ...
Yuri.
"When are you meeting them to go over?"
Maybe he gave up the right to know, but he wants to, for two reasons:
The first, he won't call or text when it might distract Yuri from the goal ahead of him.
The second...
At least that way, he can imagine himself there.
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Listen to Yakov, Victor says, and what Yuri remembers suddenly is Yuri saying the opposite.
Saying he did not have to talk to Yakov or Lilia, or the skaters with him, at all just to be polite.
He might have trained Victor, been his coach through even single win, but ... he isn't Victor.
Doesn't seem anything like him at all. Yuri's not sure he's ever seen the man more than stand somewhere with his arms crossed.
He doesn't want someone else to tell him what to do. He'd even take Victor frowning, his face all lines and eyes gone sharp, bluntly and exactly detailing every single second Yuri had done something wrong, something they'd already perfected. Hadn't been in the right headspace. Was thinking harder than he was skating. He'd rather take all of the worst seconds ... than someone else.
But. Victor wants him to. Victor is telling him to. Had to give him to the one person Victor could, or would. Had to.
(His coach. Even if they haven't been seen much near each other.
Or the first convenient one he could lay his eyes on? Both?)
He hates this. It's suddenly, strangelingy, clear. As his eyes sting at the edges.
He can't change it -- it's not more important; weak -- and he hates this.
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His eyes are open, but he doesn't see the train car, or the other passengers, or the little towns rolling by out the window under a gray November sky.
(Yuri, focused with earbuds and music, arms circling under a warm-up jacket. Yuri, sparkling in black and silver, tossing a look that burns across the ice. Yuri, who was perfect yesterday. Yuri, stubborn and impossible, exceeding every expectation, shocking the world. Yuri, proving Victor wrong with a single jump.
How can he reassure Yuri when he's so far away?
What can he say or do, at all, across all these miles, all too like that last year, but flipped, now. He in Hasetsu. Yuri in Russia. Where he was supposed to prove to his own country that he was still Victor Nikiforov. That he can do this, too.)
"He won't bother you unless you ask him for help."
Not sure if that's part of this, or not. Yakov is ... there, but Yakov, for all he calls Victor a pretend-coach, won't step on his toes with his skater. Won't contradict his training, or confuse Yuri. "You already know it all. Just remember how many times we've gone over it together, and do it exactly like that."
As if he's right there. On the other side of the wall, and not on the other side of a six hour time difference.
(His head is pounding: lack of sleep, stress, jet lag, worry. Maccachin and Yuri. His inability to be in two places at once.
He lifts a hand to rub a thumb into his temple.)
He tries a small smile, to see if it will help lighten his voice, and it sort of works, he thinks, even if it feels pasted on and imperfect, but, maybe, it might help with the lie.
"Me watching you on tv won't be so different from watching you at the rink, after all."
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When he's not ready for that. Even to think about it. Victor not there, when he looks over.
(Victor's fine with it. Victor doesn't. He can't finish. He feels so alone. In this room. This day.)
He can't lose everything this early. Today is only minutes into started.
(He can't start crying. Not again. He can't. He can't, he can't, he can't.)
He needs. Has to. The day is only.
It's everything in him, fingers hard on his phone,
clutching the towel end at his knees,
to say, "I should get dressed." Beat. "Go eat."
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He can't tell the truth. That it won't be anything like being there. That there's nowhere in the world he would be, if he could, aside from right at that wall, feeling like maybe if he focuses hard enough, he can lift Yuri through his jumps and guide him through his steps and inspire him to greater levels of artistry in his performance.
There waiting for him at the kiss-and-cry. There to remind him what to focus on. Just.
There.
But it wouldn't do any good to say any of that now, when Yuri needs to focus, and it won't help to remind him of all the things Victor should be doing and the place where Victor ought to be. He doesn't need to hear that Victor's heart is breaking or that Victor already misses him more than he thought he could miss anything other than air or the ice, or that Victor misunderstood the depth to which he needs to be there. With him. There. Next to him. Wherever.
He misjudged how terrible it is to be without him. And isn't that the worst of all? That it isn't simply his guilt at not being there as a coach, but feeling like something has been cut away from his side, leaving an open and bleeding wound.
"Okay," is what he says, in the end, because what else is there to say? It isn't. But he has to pretend it is, for Yuri.
Even if it comes with a faint, tired, sigh. "Go eat. I'll talk to Yakov, and ..."
Mouth firming, as he looks back out the window,. "Mari and I are going straight to the vet when she picks me up, so I'll be able to text you news as soon as I know anything. But I don't want you to be distracted, so promise me you'll just focus on your free skate, today, and do your best."
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(But without Victor ... Victor who says it's the same.) Words aren't going to work much longer.
"I'll check after my skate." He doesn't know if he'll make it that long, with all of this. The tumble. Jumble. The seizing feeling. The endless number of hours between. The need to know. If Maccachin is okay. The want to hear Victor voice (even if he, if he--) Even if he doesn't. Tries to avoid seeing commentary that will mess him up even more. It's bad enough. In his head. Bad enough with the tv's, watching the others, with reporters trying to find them everywhere, with all their questions.
When he never made it more than portions of the night. Even knowing there would be nothing.
The nothing that felt so overwhelming already. Teaming. Circling. Slamming.
He needs to change. Needs to eat. To change. To eat.
"До свидания."
Not the polite words he's been working on this week.
Hello. Goodbye. Thank you. How much. Numbers.
Back and forth, with Victor there, like a ball.
It's nettles and ice shards, and still true;
Мне тебя не хватает.)
Even after hanging up, he just stays there, phone to his head, staring at the carpet.
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(Or doesn't. Or lights up. Or doesn't.
He can only hope.)
I believe in you.
After the Cup
Longer than he's had in longer than he can remember: the flights, and the train, and the worry. Mari, picking him up, and thankfully being her calm and pragmatic self when Victor can't stop checking the news feeds for any news of anything that could be happening in Moscow at the rink, only to remember over and over again that they haven't even begun practicing, yet.
Yuri said two hours. Time enough for him to eat something, even if it's just to pick at his food and obey Victor's order as barely as he can.
to be so rebellious towards his coach?)
It's another twenty minutes from the train station to the vet's office, where he's greeted with even more uncertainty: Maccachin appears to be stabilizing, but they won't know anything for a few more hours. Not until well into the morning practice time, and by then, Victor doesn't want Yuri focusing on anything other than the free skate.
So the day passes slowly. He watches the interviews on his phone, sitting in the vet's waiting room with a cup of coffee he never ends up finishing, and keeps replaying Yuri's, over and over again, squinting at the screen.
I'll just do what I've always done in practice with Victor!
(Except he doesn't look like he believes it, or himself.)
There's no real news until evening, and by then, it's cutting things too close to the wire to update Yuri: if it's good news, it might help, but if it's bad...
(The death of Vicchan had hit him hard that season.)
It's not until Michele's free skate that he allows himself to say anything at all.
Michele. Some door was opened for him, Victor can tell. He shouldn't have been any kind of threat to Yuri (and Victor had brushed him aside only the day before), but with Yuri's mental state, and without Victor...
Michele's perfect, heart-wrenching performance could be a problem.
(Almost as much as it's a problem, that farewell to a lost love, for the limping thing in his chest pretending it's a whole heart.)
But then.
Victor's eyebrows lifting by millimeters throughout, once he recognizes –– six jumps in the second half? that's insane, even for Yuri –– but something has changed in Yurio. He's a force, now, sweeping across the ice like a hurricane or a tornado of fire, landing clean, pushing himself further, harder.
The cheers for him, in his home country, threatening to blow the roof off the rink.
Not that he's where he should be.)
When.
Finally.
unable to hear the others in the room as they cheer,
seeing Yuri, out there on the ice, looking so
alone.)
Looking tired. Looking distracted. Even as the raindrops of piano notes begin, and he moves into that familiar, well-memorized choreography, he looks like he's only half there.
"Yuri..."
As quiet as it would be from the sidelines. "Focus."
But he pops the second half of his first combination jump, and even as Victor pushes forward, as if by leaning closer he could transport himself through the screen to the side lines, hands fisting on his thighs, he can see it flicker, too fast for the judges, across Yuri's face.
Mind racing, just like it would. Always does. Even if it's frustrated and fenced in. It's alright. That's not enough to sink him.
Calm down, calm down. Don't be too impatient, Yuri. Focus.
It's how he always is, with something on his mind, but it isn't eating him alive: Victor can see it, in the set line of his mouth, the way he seems to pull himself together, and, yes ––
he lands the quad Salchow, if barely. But he's fighting for it. Even if it looks like every element is a cliff he throws himself at, instead of his usual flow. But the music is swelling, now, representing this time they've spent together, and as it gains strength, Yuri seems to, too. The effort doesn't go away, but it's joined by something else: determination, and.
Yes.
(Somewhere next to him, he can hear someone sniff, and blow their nose.)
Yuri. Arms wide. Embracing this new thing he's only just come to understand.
Yuri. And all his love. For skating. His family. Victor.
Yuri. Winning the hearts of the audience, with his youthful appeal, skating with the sore ache of a bruised heart that will never stop fighting. Even as he makes mistakes, and Victor's hands tighten even further, it's beautiful.
(He never could look away.)
But the triple axel is perfect, one of Yuri's favorites, and the flip too, and Victor doesn't even notice when one hand lifts to his own chest, to fist there, unable to tear his eyes away, as Yuri lands his next combination flawlessly, even as he's hanging on by a thread.
(He's watched him too much. Has seen it too many times not to recognize it. But it's never been
anything
quite
like
this.)
and then another, to send him into the step sequence, which is. Transformative.
"You can feel Katsuki Yuri's love, a love he can only express on the ice, in this step sequence, says the announcer, and yes. It's true. Because they worked for days, weeks, months, to perfect it. Until it was a perfect expression of something intangible, something impossible.
It's beautiful.
It's Yuri.
(Reaching out across the ice, to him. With this program they made together. With every step, and every jump. Speaking to him across the miles.
Even when he touches down, and Victor's blinking, and Yuri's spinning, and Victor's eyes are tearing up, and Yuri is reaching out ––
And he isn't there.
Rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand as Yuri slips to the ice, exhausted, and he has to wait, has to see the score, has to let Yuri go through the interviews, but his phone is already in his hand, and he just needs to.
hear him.
see him.
(It could never be almost like.)
Forcing himself to wait until after JJ (and the scores, and there's a least one splinter of relief, that Yuri snuck in just under the wire) and until after everyone else has gone to bed, and he's in his own, this bed that feels strange now, after hotels, and without Maccachin, before he lets himself dial the number, and hold the phone to his ear, eyes closing, willing Yuri to pick up.
To hear what his heart is saying across the miles.
That Victor doesn't know how to be without him,
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He made it, narrowly.
The relief just as daunting as the disappointment.
One of six. One of six. Still one. (Still going. To the Grand Prix.)
It wasn't supposed to be that close. He wasn't supposed to come in last. Barely. Even as minutes continue to pass, it all feels disjointed. It's over for today. For this Cup. (He won't even have to perform in Exhibition.) It slips and slides, like ice that won't form quite right. Like he left his head in his bed this morning, and he left his heart on the ice, and no one told his feet, because they keep moving anyway.
Nothing feels quite right.
He still wants ... to win the Gold.
It's a hard word. Hard phrase in a straight line.
He thinks it anyway. Twice. To himself. He wants it.
He has the chance to reach what he wants. Even. Narrowly.)
It still doesn't feel right. Nothing does. It slip out as fast as it slips in.
The medal ceremony is a blur. The congratulations are a blur. The rest ... is a blur.
It shouldn't be like this. It's not usually. It all clears, even when it clings. This just hovers.
A fog. It doesn't feel right. Collects on his bones. Sticking to his skin. Leaving him reaching.
Surprised when his pocket vibrates and he nearly drops the phone getting it out fast enough.
He nearly drops it to the new swell of desperate relief and sudden slamming dread. Shame.
There hasn't been a real update in hours. The whole day. The whole time since Victor left. And nothing since that short text before. Nothing about Maccachin. Everything in the fog around him thickening suddenly and pushing into his mouth, while everything in his stomach ricochet's for his head at the same second, desperate with uncertainty whether to start apologizing instantly (desperate for news, desperate to just hear Victor's voice), or to defend that he made it, or demand something about Maccachin, and what tumbles out, is nothing he thinks through or thought of even -- "I hugged Yakov."
Actually, cheeks flaring hot at the realization of his voice, he hugged a lot of people.
More people than he thinks he's even touched in the space of the time since Victor showed up (who aren't Victor).
None of that ended up feeling right either, and he's already heading for the back of the open area. Away from those still warming up.
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At the kiss-and-cry, after Yakov grumbled something, and Yuri's future was still up in the air, before Yuri leaned over and hugged the old Russian and made him lose his entire train of thought on live television. "I was watching you."
Just like he promised.
Running his free hand up into his hair, and exhaling something that's supposed to be a laugh, but sounds more like a sigh. "What was with that quad Salchow, huh? Didn't I tell you to take it easy earlier?"
As if he might be able to lecture Yuri, like he'd been waiting right there at the rinkside for him. As if he had the right. As if he hadn't been in tears, hand clutched at his heart, by the time Yuri slid to the ice, panting.
Quieter. "Your step sequence was beautiful. I'm proud of you for pulling through. I know it was hard."
When hard doesn't seem like the right word, but his brain is too tired to search for another, and nothing is written on the bedroom ceiling (the old banquet room) to help him, and he's helpless to say anything but:
"I'm sorry for not being there."
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Sticks, stay, phantom-like when he just lets his shoulder catch the wall next. His temple.
There is not an arm. (But he wishes there was so much suddenly.)
Even when Victor picks up where Yakov left off. The both of them. A lecture right after. (Even if hugging Victor wouldn't have left Victor rigid and surprised, looking at him like he was a strange, foreign creature all over again.) He hasn't seen a replay yet. But he knows what he did wrong, and so does Victor. So does the world. Yuri's eyes stare at a blank spot trying to find a word, and he's not expecting the compliment that comes right after it. A breath between them, and only one more, before Victor apologizes.
Victor who should have been here. Victor who couldn't be here.
(Victor who knows how hard it was. How hard it would be still even if he was.)
But there's no changing that now. (And he made it. Narrowly.) There was a reason. Every reason. Why Yuri insisted and Victor went. He thinks of that post Victor left this morning. Maccachin in the waves. (The words my favorites. How devestated he'd been over Vicchan right before the Prix the last time he made it this far.) "Maccachin? Is everything--?"
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That, at least, he can say without hesitation or self-flagellation, and his relief is probably as clear over the phone as it was when he first got the call. "They have him for another night, but they said I can probably come pick him up tomorrow afternoon or evening."
He still isn't sure they made the right choice, or that Yuri did the right thing, pushing him away, or that he did the right thing by listening and leaving, but none of that can quite dim his relief that Maccachin –– who has been his only family, here in Japan, and who has been with him so long –– will be alright.
Making him laugh, again, a little rusty and rueful. "I hope he learned his lesson about being so greedy."
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Sour in his stomach, for it;
for himself, for Maccachin,
for himself; for the Prix.)
He pushes that away. Hard. Not real. Not important. Terrible. Maccachin is okay, which means Victor is okay. That's what is important. As Victor makes it a joke, and Yuri, who might have once not understood, leans into it. The sound of his newest laugh. The teasing-complaint of a tone that means Victor is happy, Victor is ... Victor. Won't have a reason to not be Victor. Not today. "Good."
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He hates being this far away. Hates the way he waits for each word, as if he might be able to pull them from thin air the way he can sometimes pull them from Yuri if Yuri's right there and Victor can tease or coax or annoy or startle him into talking, or into laughter, or into his shy but brilliant smile.
(It sounds different. Better. Like he's just as relieved, and probably he is.
Even if it turned out there was no reason for Victor to rush back here, at all. Maccachin's okay.
He can't help the feeling that he should have stayed.)
But more important:
"And we're going to the Grand Prix Final."
That, he can be as thrilled about as he wants, even if he's exhausted, even if it was by the skin of Yuri's teeth, even if he couldn't be there to help Yuri pull it through.
They're going. And they're going to win.
Pure confidence and affectionate pride in his voice when he continues: "I told you we would, didn't I?"
Never stopped believing it. How could they do anything but, when Yuri has the skill to get there and to win, and Victor was helping him?
It was never a question.
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The next eight are not. Or the ones after it. Victor's voice. Victor's word.
But Yuri can see it. The combination he messed up entirely. At least one landing he took wrong. Or maybe it was two. His exhausted, unfocused, start that fed right into going too fast, too soon, coming off jittery, slamming straight into nerves, into panic, into not having his jumps. Even if it didn't stay that way. Even if he knows --
He knows it's not like the last Grand Prix, where he lost control of everything.
He knows it's not like the Championship, where he couldn't do a single thing.
He earned those points. He knows that, too.
Even if one point less might have canned him.
He earned that one point, and every other on his board.
Because he managed to put it back together. Because it mattered.
Not even because he had to show them...or even show Russia ...
Because of Victor. Because at some point, somewhere in the middle, without meaning to or specifically choosing that path, all it was, was Victor. To Victor. About Victor. Every second since he'd shown up. Every terrible and beautiful thing to echo out from that moment, ripples around a rock thrown into the stagnant water, filling it with light and direction. (And love.)
Which almost feels worse. He should have done better then. Because of that. Earlier than that. It shouldn't have taken messing up his elements. He shouldn't have still almost fallen, and caught himself on his fingers near the end. Not once he was driven to keep going. Not once he was chasing it so hard and it was finally almost in his fingers. Keeping, holding on. To fight back. To touch every bit of that light he never deserved, but got, and had to show to everyone watching him. Fighting harder than he thought he could, through each hushed silence. What it felt like, in him, on the ice ...
... what it felt like to have Victor ...
... something that had no words to describe it.
It only existed out there. Something that deserved so much more.
He still can't stop the words, stop how much he means it, the choked whisper, "ごめんなさい."
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The long pause. And then Yuri's whisper, so close to tears.
Making Victor sit himself upright, pushing the phone against his ear to tightly it hurts, as if that might somehow bridge the divide. As if he might somehow will Yuri to feel him, there, closer. Right next to him.
A sudden frantic scrabble in his chest, like his heart is trying to shove straight through his ribs. "Why?"
Training Yuri has always been a little like walking a tightrope, ever since that morning by the ocean. Pushing only works sometimes; criticism, similarly so. Yakov's style had always been to focus on the imperfections and to scold his students into a stoked fire of competition to continually better themselves –– but it hadn't worked for everyone.
And Yuri doesn't work that way. One day he might accept Victor's blunt criticism, and another it might deflate him completely.
(Victor always though Yakov should praise his skaters more, anyway.)
So he keeps it gentle, even as that scrabbling, aching thing in his chest is desperate at the thought that, somewhere in Moscow, Yuri might be crying alone.
"There's nothing to be sorry about. You proved you have every right to be there, after the Cup of China, after yesterday, after today. No one could say otherwise. You've made us all proud."
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He couldn't be in the Kiss-and-Cry, but Yuri's certain he will hear about it. This won't be the end.
Not with the practice they'll have to do for the Prix. Not with working on everything he flubbed this time.
Yuri isn't sure how to even touch the last word Victor said.
He wonders what it is in Russian.
Yuri would be glad to tell him today.)
It echoes in the halls of his head, like it's calling for something, but there's nothing there in those hallways to answer. The way there's nothing down the one that Yuri is staring at. Closed doors and empty chairs. The echo and whispers of voices in the distance behind him. He doesn't know how to hold it in his hands anymore than he'll be able to hold Victor's voice in his hands once they hang up.
He turns, putting his back against the wall. It hurts, but it lessens the pressure on his shoulder, evens the pressure ration of which parts of him where. He doesn't close his eyes and he tries so hard not to let a sigh out. "I won't skate tomorrow. I could--" He had no real reason to be here tomorrow. Nothing anyone needed of him. He wouldn't skate the Exhibition, wasn't needed at the Banquet. He could come h--
Except.
"But Yuri--" Yuri would. Be here. Be needed. Skate tomorrow morning, in the exhibitions.
Yuri who had hadn't seen since the medals. Yuri, who had ordered him to bed. Yuri, who he still had no clue if had his grandfather here today. Yuri, who took him to Milliways and gave him tea. Yuri, who tried to make it better. He could see that, suddenly, in retrospect, even as the idea of another day in these hallways made him want to curl down to where his feet were.
Yuri probably hadn't wanted him around last night, and he'd managed.
Better than managed. For him. (And he'd won, too.)
He wanted so badly, suddenly, to tell Victor. Maybe not everything, but some of it. About last night. About Yuri, and his grandfather. But not here. This felt ... so wrong. Over the phone. So far. And now, because he was the best person to sabotage his own light, and because someone else might need him, it might be longer.
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It's one of the things Victor loves about him, that part of Yuri's problem is that he is forever worried about letting down the people who believe in him most: Victor, Minako, his parents, Yuuko and Nishigori and their girls. The whole of Japan.
So it stands to reason that he would torture himself, stay another day, alone, in order to support someone who has been almost wholly antagonistic towards him.
(Victor watched the Allegro, Lilia's deft hand and absolute precision all over the piece, pushing Yurio further than he's capable of, turning him from a half-grown and moody teenager to a tongue of flame that licked around the rink and set the whole arena ablaze. That was not Yakov: that was Lilia Baranovskaya, the principal ballerina of the Bolshoi, wielding beauty like a weapon and perfection like the absolute truth of the Earth's spin about the sun.
Yuri can still win. But if Yurio has reached these heights...
pride?)
But Yurio will have his people there, tomorrow. Yakov, Lilia. His grandfather, probably.
And all of Yuri's people are here.
"Do you think Yurio would stay for yours?"
Is one way to put it, and it's a little wry, because it's unlikely in the extreme. Yurio is a brilliant talent, but he still lacks the ability to socialize well with the other skaters, and most of his relationships are built on competition.
(It's all familiar to Victor. It's not like he wasn't the same, viewing other skaters mostly as amusing distractions or barriers to the top of the podium, before this last year.)
But he tries for something a little gentler, a little more wheedling. "If you leave tonight, we can watch him together tomorrow night." It'd be late, again, but he doesn't mind: has a vision of sitting here, in this bed, with Yuri leaning into him and Maccachin at their feet and the exhibition on the laptop in front of them, to cheer Yurio on together.
But it's still not enough, still not what he means, and what he means is: "Come home."
Quiet, but certain, and maybe a little more than a little longing. It's only been a day.
(It's been too long.
It's been forever.)
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But the Yurio who skated Allegro isn't the one who skated that first Agape;
isn't the one who shoved him into the bar, into a booth, and stayed.
Yes, it had ended with snapping insults and anger.
Yes, Yuri hadn't so much as looked at him or talked to him today.
But that didn't make last night not real. That didn't make it so he didn't try. Didn't make him have to tell Yuri what had happened, why about his skate and his grandfather. He's not certain whether Yurio, fifteen and with no one near his age, in his first senior year, even if he did win, even if he wouldn't come in Yuri's shoes, is the right reason not to.
But Victor keeps talking, and some of the words wipe through all of his thought, simple as though he's wiping away fog off the glasses Yuri still isn't wearing, starting with if you, while he leans his head back, and changing to we, which almost makes his eyelids drift down, and ending on those words. Those simple two words. In that tone. And he can't breathe for the millionth time today.
But this is different. This one. It's is a quick breath in his mouth, before his mouth closes and his body freezes.
And he can't. For a moment he just can't. Word are irrelevant. Languages incomprehensible.
It just replays.
Come home.
(Away from this too big, too full,
yet so achingly empty, building.)
(Away from that suffocating room,
it's suffocating beds.)
( ... to him?)
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He waits, but there's no answer, and what is there else to say, really?
Soft and clear all at once, lying back against the pillows, free hand landing on his chest. How did it get like this?
(How did he?)
How had he ever made it through fifteen months?
"I miss you."
It's more plaintive than he should be, switched somewhere in the last few moments from supportive coach to lonely lover. Not using the need to get to training again as quickly as possible, or cut the costs of being in Moscow another night, or even the emotional and mental benefits of returning home to support and pride and warmth:
Just this. That he misses him.
And Yuri might not be selfish, but Victor is.
(That man thinks only of himself!)
And he can be selfish enough for Yuri, too, and take the pressure of deciding off. "Please."
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(If he were here, Victor would have given him a lecture, and a hug, and already have what came next planned. He'd have already told Yuri where they were going, when, why, where. What the plan was. This morning. This afternoon. Now, again. Ready to get on to the next stage.)
If he could just appear now, Yuri thinks it would be easier.
It's not always easy. He knows he's not always easy.
But he thinks, he nearly sure, if Victor was here, he wouldn't even have to say a word.
He could just look at Victor and Victor would know. It happens more times than it should.
He squeezes his eyes tight and reaches up to rub them, nodding, head digging in the wall. No tears, but it's bigger than that. It feels bigger than his body, and his disappointment, a pang that answers from every single cell in his body to every single word after his name. Something amorphous and explosive, and if his voice is even or not he can't tell, when he manages, "はい."
The first one nothing but straight from the crescendo of response.
He doesn't think about which or why, only that it comes from his center.
(He's sorry, already. Sorry, if he should have stayed. Sorry, if Yurio needed him back, in the same way Yuri would have never said, or even thought that, he needed Yurio in the first place. But somehow Yurio figured it out anyway. Did it. Anyway. Without him knowing. And. He's sorry.
More than any thought. Any debt. Anything.
It returns, from nowhere,
Мне тебя не хватает.)
He makes himself swallow, open his eyes. Try. More words. "I'll need to look at flights."
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It comes out a sigh of relief, and he takes a deep breath in, to try and settle himself. His impatience.
It'll still be another day, almost, and that's if Yuri manages to find something over night or early in the morning. Soon, but not soon enough. He can already feel it biting at the back of his neck, along with his exhaustion, fatigue poisons rolling merrily through his bloodstream.
He'll sleep tonight, he knows, because he's too tired not to, but he doubts it'll be as restful as it could be.
"Put it on my card. I can text you the information, just get a ticket and let me know when you'll be home."
Just get here. Just come back.
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Where are the words to express this desperation that has swung from never wanting to release his grip on his phone, and the impermanence of Victor's voice, to wanting to hang up suddenly, so that he can figure it out. Get a ticket. Pack up everything left in the hotel. Go the airport. Pray madly, before he can even get to those steps, that all the flights he needs haven't already left for the day, from any place he might need them.
"I'll send it the moment I have it," is the most lackluster turnout for his effort to find even more words. How long has it been since it was hard to find so many words for even one conversation with Victor? Had he had more than this, this morning? He couldn't remember now. That blurred. And last night. He wants to look. To ask. Never to ask, never to imply he forgot. The whole day is blurring. That he wants to put his head in his lap.
That he just wants to close his eyes tight and open them and be home.
(But as experiences with that goes, he's been more desperate and devastated begging for that wish, and it never worked then.)
It takes some acrobatics, doing it on his phone instead of waiting to get back to the hotel and use a laptop, but not too long. He chooses the first thing available and reasonable. The middle of the night, even by Russia's protracted night standards, but it's better than waiting until morning, better than the hellish consideration of trying to sleep in that room again.
When he's forwarded Victor a copy of his email receipt, and screen shots of his mobile boarding pass, he finally stops.
Finally, breathes in, and out, in and out, feeling like it might be the very first time since Mari called.