Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

ACT III: APPASSIONATO

Everyone around him looked…tired. Wounded. Like they were the ones in a wheelchair with a full-leg cast and a fourth of his blood volume traded out for someone else’s.

He hated them for it. Victor, Yuuri, Mila, Grandpa, even Otabek. He hated them all. He just wanted…he wanted to rest.

Whenever Yuri asked about his chances of getting back on the ice next year, Victor looked grave. He had always worn his heart on his sleeve, so really, his face told Yuri all he needed to know. And yet, he kept asking, waiting for the day Victor’s face would light up and he’d do his stupid little excited clap and tell him, “Soon!”

By now, Yuri felt the day would never come. It had been three months since his first pair skate at the Centre de Glaces de Québec , where he dropped his partner and she fell on his leg, snapping it clean in two and slicing through a major artery in his thigh with her skate . He had tried to play the part—tried to do the lifts, tried to take the lead, tried to move in ways he wasn’t used to, tried to move like a man —but he failed. He failed so badly that he nearly bled out in the middle of a competition. Failed so badly they had to reschedule the entire event so they could re-ice the rink after he’d stained a good portion of it brown with blood.

It felt like some distant dream, the memory of sitting on the ice, staring at the sharp spike of his own bone slicing through his thigh with his knee bent in a direction it wasn’t supposed to go; of gushes of crimson blood pooling underneath him; of laying on his back on the ice, the shock of its cold surface the only thing keeping him conscious; of staring up at the ceiling, listening to Mila scream, wondering if it would be the last thing he saw.

Of feeling strangely at peace with the fact that it might be.

Three months later, though, he wished he could go back to that moment. Wished he could tell the medical personnel to slow down, come to him just a little bit later, let him bleed just a little bit more.

Dying on the ice would have been better than rotting away without it.

**********

Yuri wandered London alone.

Everyone hovered too much. Otabek’s guilt over their last failed sexscapade felt stifling. Victor’s concern over his health loomed over him like a stormcloud. Even Yuuri kept texting him long, exhausting messages about how proud he is, how strong Yuri is, bla bla bla. Yuri just wanted to be left alone . The last competition before the final was in just a few days and he needed to sort out his life before he stepped foot back onto the ice, or else Victor wouldn’t let him compete at all.

So, he wandered. Before Otabek woke up in the morning, Yuri would slip out of the hotel room by himself, and he usually came home before Otabek did and pretended to be asleep while he puttered around the room, obviously itching to approach Yuri but not wanting to wake him up. Yuri saw all of the sights London had to offer—Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, the queen’s palace, the Eye, London Bridge. He floated like a ghost through museums, headphones blocking out the sound of the outside world. He slipped between bodies, unseen and ignored, half there and half far, far away. Somewhere in a deep corner of his mind that he hadn’t been to in years. Maybe even ever.

He thought some revelation would come to him at some point, but nothing did. He flipped through old playlists that he listened to while recovering from his injury while sitting in the grass with the ducks at St. James’s Park. He cried his heart out to Billie Eilish and Kesha and old Russian songs his Grandpa used to love. He walked restlessly at midnight through gardens he didn’t know the names of, listening to the crickets and feeling achingly empty. But nothing helped ease the tense feeling in the center of his chest. Nothing erased the desire to scratch until his skin started to flake apart like a cocoon so he could emerge as something… different .

Today was the same. His headphones blared Britney Spears to drown out the sound of traffic as he made his way down a busy sidewalk, exhausted from walking when he hadn’t eaten much (but that wasn’t really anything new). Then, he perked at the smell of coffee wafting from a nearby cafe. He debated for a moment, nerves tingling unpleasantly at the idea of eating, but then his stomach growled loud enough for some kid to look over at him from across the sidewalk, so he sighed and changed direction to follow the pleasing aroma.

The cafe was surprisingly quiet inside. There was only a handful of people scattered amongst the tables lining the walls, and most were engrossed in reading or working. Yuri was surprised by how much tension leaked out of his shoulders the moment he escaped the crowded street. I guess Almaty really resensitized me to the more crowded cities.

He ordered coffee and a pastry and debated on whether he wanted to sit for a while when he spotted a shock of familiar silver hair. Victor and Yuuri sat at a table by the window, chatting quietly, smiling to each other in their infuriatingly soft way. They gave off such an intimate vibe when interacting with each other that a lot of the time, Yuri felt like he was intruding on something just by watching, even when they were doing something as innocent as drinking coffee and minding their business.

But then he caught Yuuri’s eye, and he perked, said something to Victor, and then Victor looked toward him as well.

For a moment, Yuri dreaded the inevitable yell he was sure Victor would lob at him to demand he come explain his disappearance. But, surprisingly, Victor gazed at him levelly—just long enough for it to be unnerving—before he smiled and waved pleasantly, motioning as if to say, You’re welcome to sit with us.

They turned back toward each other and fell back into their own conversation as Yuri debated. He was sure Victor wanted to say something (probably insensitive) about how Yuri was isolating himself—and Yuuri probably had some speech about work-life-balance written and prepared. Of course, they admittedly had every right to be concerned after Yuri ignored all texts and calls and disappeared off the face of the earth for the past few days. But their calm, casual reactions were comforting. Resignedly, Yuri sighed, picked up his food and coffee, and trudged over.

They both looked pleased and made room for him on the table. Yuuri was the first to speak, exclaiming softly, “Yuri! It’s good to see you.”

“You haven’t been answering calls or texts,” Victor said, a hint of hardness in his voice, but Yuuri gave him a look that shut him up.

“Yeah. Sorry.” Yuri’s voice came out rough, and he realized he hadn’t spoken much in the past few days. “I don’t want to worry anyone. I just need some time to be alone and…figure stuff out.”

“Any success?” Yuuri prodded gently.

“Not really.”

“You know,” Victor started to say in a matter-of-fact tone, but Yuuri elbowed him hard and he switched his tone immediately to something more sympathetic—maybe even close to empathetic. “Sometimes, sharing your feelings with others helps you process them better than you could on your own.”

Yuri shifted uncomfortably. He hated that Victor was right. And that they both knew it.

There was a long stretch of silence as they sipped their coffees. After a few minutes, Yuuri whispered, “You don’t have to share anything you don’t want to, Yura. You shouldn’t feel pressured. Have you talked to Otabek, maybe?”

Yuri shook his head and pressed his lips together. A tangle of painful emotions roiled between his ribs. He swallowed, hoping the sting of tears in his eyes wasn’t obvious. “Not really,” he croaked.

“Well, you’re always welcome to talk to us, you know,” Victor sang cheerfully, then jumped and added quickly, “If you want to, of course.”

Yuri took a deep breath. Let it out slowly. He didn’t know why people offering to help him felt like a threat—especially when it was from people that cared about him. He remembered what Otabek said: I do nice things because I love you. You just need extra attention right now. And I am more than happy to give extra attention to you, Yura.

Another long few quiet minutes passed, somehow increasingly more and more comfortable. Victor went back to recording notes and expenses in his coach’s log and Yuuri went back to catching up with the news on his phone. Yuri breathed deeply, letting his coffee cup warm his hands. He thought about how Victor had helped him pay for Grandpa’s cancer treatments, how Yuuri and Victor had taken him in after Grandpa passed away when he was just sixteen. How they’d let him grieve, helped him stay in shape and continue to win gold again and again. Supported him, no matter how cruel he may have been to them at times.

Finally, he admitted slowly and softly, almost tasting each word as it formed on his tongue: “I think…I’ve lost sight of the point.”

Both Victor and Yuuri looked up in unison. “The point?” Victor echoed, tipping his head inquisitively.

“Yeah.” Yuri glanced up at him, nervousness making his good leg jiggle under the table. “The point of…skating. Of…everything, really.”

“Oh.” Victor laughed. “I don’t think you ever really understood the point of skating, though, Yura.”

“Victor!” Yuuri hissed, but Yuri shook his head.

“No…he’s right. I don’t think I ever did, either. I just wanted to win. To prove myself.”

“To who, exactly?” Victor watched him keenly. Studying him. Looking for something Yuri wasn’t sure he could give him.

“Myself, I think,” Yuri whispered painedly, eyebrows creasing, looking down at the blurry shape in the foam of his cappuccino.

But Victor just nodded, as if he expected that answer. Then, he set a hand on the table and tap, tap, tapped with one finger. “You know…what’s interesting is that you already have.”

Yuri looked up at him again, blinking quickly to disperse the well of tears in his eyes. “Huh?”

“You already have. Proved yourself, I mean.” Victor tipped his head and smiled, eyes closing. “I mean, look at you. You’ve held world records that beat mine since you were just a child. And then continued to beat your own record, year after year. So, why do you feel you have more to prove?”

Yuri stared. He knew he’d done those things, of course. But…well. To Yuri, a record was just a record. It didn’t matter who made it, even if it was himself; he had to beat it. “I guess…I mean, I know I hold myself to a really high standard. I know I’m a perfectionist and more competitive than I should be. This injury just…it made me feel like…” God. Saying it out loud—even explicitly thinking it—was way harder than Yuri anticipated it would be. He clenched his fists, stared at the table, and set his lips in a tight line. But Yuuri and Victor waited for him patiently.

“It’s okay, Yura,” Yuuri said encouragingly.

Yuri closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Let it out slowly. His shaking leg rattled the table slightly. “I failed,” he finally grit out between clenched teeth. “The pair skate…that whole competition…was an epic fail. I couldn’t do the moves you wanted me to, Victor. I’m not strong enough to do lifts. I can’t—I don’t move like other guys do. It felt wrong, and…and I failed.” He blinked, and tears unexpectedly dripped from his eyes onto the polished wood surface of the cafe table. “I failed, and the consequences of my failure almost killed me. Like, how do I come back from that?” His voice snapped angrily and his throat ached. More tears slid off his nose and he dragged an arm up to rub his sleeve over his face. “Everyone expects so much from me now, and my body’s changed, and I don’t know how to use it anymore, and—I almost died because I failed at one little competition. I probably—” He sobbed, and it was even harsher on his throat than his voice was. “I probably ruined my chances of ever skating anywhere close to how well I used to, just because I couldn’t do a fucking lift—”

“Yura, Yura.” Victor’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle. His hand pressed over Yuri’s fist, which clenched on top of the table so tightly that his fingernails dug into his palm. “Take a deep breath, Yura. It’s alright.”

Yuri swallowed another sob, squeezing his eyes shut. He felt the eyes watching as he broke down, felt a crushing weight nearly snap his bones— again . He found himself shivering, as if he was laying on the ice again, losing the warmth of his body as his blood pumped out of him.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Victor’s right. I need to get a grip or he’s gonna put me in a psych ward. Then I really won’t get to compete.

So, he took a deep breath. Then another. He thought about Otabek and their pair skate, about the way Otabek could lift and toss him with ease, about how safe he felt in his arms. He grounded himself by going through the movements of their routine in his head. The screech of 20,000 spectators quieted, and the tension in the back of his neck eased. His vision came back in splotches. Victor’s concerned face was the first thing he saw clearly.

“There he is,” Victor sang softly, squeezing his hand. “Alright?”

Yuri wasn’t sure. His muscles felt weak and his limbs were cold. But, after a moment, he nodded anyway, rubbing his eyes.

“Good.” Victor closed his eyes and tipped his head so one side of his hair covered an eye—a move Yuri knew Victor did when he was uncomfortable. “Yuri…I should apologize.” 

Both Yuris stared at him, nearly identical quirks to their eyebrows. “For what, Victor?” Yuri finally managed.

“Because.” Victor leaned back, but kept holding Yuri’s hand on top of the table. It was a comforting pressure that kept Yuri tied to earth as his mind desperately tried to detach. “It was me, wasn’t it, who insisted you try pair skating? You didn’t want to, I remember. But I pushed you. And even when, in practice, I could see that the movements—the type of strength needed—it wasn’t your strong suit, and I still pushed. I wanted you to get the experience. But…” He opened his eyes slowly. His face looked nearly as pale and grave as it did in the hospital when Yuri woke up with screws in his legs and a stranger’s blood pumping through his veins. “You’re right that it ended in a disaster. But it wasn’t your fault. It was mine. As your coach, I should have worked with your strengths. I shouldn’t have pushed you to do something you were so clearly uncomfortable with.”

Yuri stared, mouth open. He… never expected this, never even considered blaming anyone else for his mistake. “Victor—”

He held up a hand. “No, no. Don’t try to deny it, please. I have been sitting on this for a year now, Yuri. I should have said something long ago. Again, that is a failure on my part. Maybe if I had—”

Yuuri interrupted by putting a hand on Victor’s shoulder, saying, “Victor.” Whatever Yuuri was trying to get across with that one word, Victor seemed to understand. He gave him a grateful look before turning his blue eyes back to Yuri.

Yuri’s mouth was still hanging open, and he couldn’t figure out how to tell his brain to close it. A more logical, detached part of him said that Victor was somewhat right, that as his coach, he should have stopped pushing the moment he saw Yuri wasn’t strong enough or comfortable enough to execute the lifts and throws necessary for the male’s part in a pair skate. But the other, more present part of him couldn’t bring himself to allow Victor to take the blame. Yuri had held onto that blame for so long that he wasn’t sure what giving up even a little of it would even feel like.

“Yura?” Victor’s voice interrupted the swirl of opposing thoughts in his head, and he focused back on Victor’s face. Steady. Serious. Predictable. Safe .

It was the same look he had given Yuri after he wasn’t able to make it to the hospital in time to be with Grandpa as he died. Yuri had been inconsolable and decided his Grandpa surely thought he didn’t love him and that he died alone and afraid. But Victor had looked at him the same way he was looking at him now and said, It’s not your fault, Yura. And Yuri remembered allowing those words to sink into his cells enough for the weight of the guilt to stop feeling quite so paralyzing.

Yuri allowed that same feeling to start to ease over him.

“I…I don’t feel comfortable allowing you to take all the blame for this, Victor,” he said, and was surprised by how small his voice sounded, even to himself. 

But Victor just smiled, shook his head, and squeezed his hand tightly. “Let me, Yura. I can handle it. I do feel responsible, and I want to take this weight from you. You don’t deserve to carry it, anyway. You never did.”

His words sunk into him like water into dry soil. Like balm on cracked skin. Yuri’s eyes filled again and his lip quivered. Victor lifted his free hand to wipe his cheeks with his thumb, nearly cooing when he said, “You’re the most talented and decorated skater this world has seen, Yurachka. An injury isn’t going to change that. No one has come close to beating your records, or to achieving what you have, especially at such a young age. You need to accept your own success and allow yourself to move on. You may have healed on the outside, but you need to heal on the inside, too.”

Yuri swallowed. Nodded. Gripped Victor’s hand like the lifeline it was. A stillness settled into his muscles and bones. Yuuri handed Victor a napkin and he reached to wipe the rest of Yuri’s face. He closed his eyes and let him, breathing deep. Exhaling slow.

“What is the point of skating to you, right now, Yura?”

The look in Otabek’s eyes when we pair skate. The feeling of cold air on my face when I hit a good speed. Making up my own routines to my favorite songs, just for the hell of it.

“It’s been about winning, for a long time, but…I just want it to be fun again. I like competing, obviously, but…it should be fun.” He shook his head. “I can’t remember the last time I had fun in a competition.”

Victor looked pleased with this answer and gave Yuuri a bright-eyed look. Then, he grinned his heart-shaped smile. “I want to take you somewhere, Yura. How are you feeling?”

Yuri looked down at his nearly untouched coffee and pastry. “I’m…I’m hungry. I need to eat first.”

Victor nodded, sitting back and releasing Yuri’s hand. “Then let’s relax here for a while and we can head out in a few hours. How does that sound?”

Yuri nodded, picking up his chocolate croissant. “Where are we going, though?”

Victor’s eyes sparkled with excitement. He held a finger to his lips. “Think of it as…a surprise.”

The surprise ended up being a visit to a small local ice rink that reminded Yuri of the one he and Otabek used in Almaty. It was puny compared to the Olympic-sized rinks he was used to by now, but that element was…strangely comforting. A group of little girls in matching pink princess outfits were celebrating a birthday party on one side; the rest of the rink hosted scattered couples on wobbling legs, laughing at each other as they fumbled across the ice. 

“This is one of my favorite ice rinks in the world,” Victor said as they laced their skates, his voice warm. “It’s a recreational rink, so it’s only really used for lessons and for fun. It’s too small to gain any real speed while skating, so you can’t really do any tricks—but that’s what makes it fun. No pressure, right?”

Yuri could barely swallow past the lump in his throat.

Victor made him promise to be careful on his knee and tightened his brace as much as he could without creating a tourniquet; then, they pushed out on the ice. Yuuri came after them, laughing as Victor pretended to slip and fall like the skaters around them. He kept up the act, so they took him by his arms and made circles around the rink, slow and steady. Yuuri made Yuri laugh when he tried to mimic his Russian accent while speaking Japanese. Victor leaned over the rink’s border and spoke to a group of teens with a boombox, and soon after The Killers started blasting, and nearly everyone in the rink sang along as they all skated in circles around the edge. 

It was silly and innocent and a little bit childish. But they stayed for hours, talking and laughing and reminiscing and singing along to some of Yuri’s favorite songs. 

It was fun. Simple, pure, innocent, fun.