Chapter Text
Victor Nikiforov skids to a stop on center ice, drops his head into his starting pose… and gasps.
Something on his wrist burns.
He doesn’t have time to investigate what. His music starts and he’s moving, muscle memory of 9 months of training taking over. He twirls, he spins. He jumps. Somehow, he doesn’t end up flat on the ice.
He stops after his four minute long routine, gasping, and scrambles to pull the wrist cuff of his costume back. There, in the center of the inside of his wrist, is a bright gold mark. It’s a small flower of some sort. Five petals, a cluster of stems in the center, a branch that starts up his arm. He’s never seen anything shaped like it before.
It burns. He wants to scratch it, like a bug bite, but he doesn’t. He just… stares at it, uncomprehending about why it’s on him, but knowing what it is: A soul mark. He has a soul mate, and they’re here, somewhere in the arena.
“Vitya!”
He’s broken out of his stupor by his coach screaming at him from across the rink. He blinks, tries to focus in on Yakov, but he can’t. Everything is a blur. The rink spins in his gaze. The lights are too bright, the sound is too loud. There’s too many people, and-
Wait. He’s never had trouble with crowds before. What’s going on?
He can’t breathe. His chest is tight. He reaches up, claws at the neck of his costume. It doesn’t help. His breathing is too fast, even after the exertion of his routine. He can’t draw in a full breath. It’s all little pants, wheezes.
His wrist burns hotter.
Shit. He thinks, oddly detached, as his head spins. I’m going to faint.
He hits the ice a minute later to the gasps of the crowd.
In the stands, back in the furthest, cheapest nosebleed section, Yuuri Katsuki is curled up in a ball in front of his seat. His dance teacher is patting his cheek, fanning him, trying to get him to answer her. He can’t. He can’t breathe, he can’t think. He’s frozen, feeling like there’s thousands of eyes on him, all staring at him. The pressure pushes on him, making his chest tight.
It’s too much. His vision wavers, making everything blurry, then goes black. His eyes flutter closed as he goes down. Minako reaches for him just in time. He slumps over in her arms, out cold. His fingers go slack, releasing his wrist, revealing a perfect, bright silver snowflake.
Victor wakes up in one of the annex rooms used for warm ups and press gaggles. He struggles up, grunting when a hand on his shoulder prevents him from sitting up fully.
Yakov glares at him. “Lay down.” He orders. “You fainted on the ice. Have you eaten today?”
“Yakov.” Victor gasps, bringing one hand to ring it around his opposite wrist. The coach follows the movement as Victor tugs back the sleeve again. “Yakov!”
The old Russian’s eyes go wide, then narrow. “This isn’t one of your stunts, right?” He asks, reaching to grasp the his wrist and bring it closer. He presses a finger to the mark, but it doesn’t smudge or run. “Vitya, I’m serious. Tell me if it’s a prank.”
“It’s not!” Victor almost sobs, pulling his hand back and cradling his wrist against his chest. “It’s not, it’s not, please, let me go, I have to find them. They’re here! I can feel it!” Panic rises in his chest. He pushes up on his hands, swings a leg off the gurney, and shoves away the medic’s hands who tries to stop him. He has to find them, he has to go, someone out there was made for him and he has to know who-
“Victor.” Yakov barks, and Victor stiffens at his full name vs Yakov’s usual diminutive. Hands press him back onto the gurney.
“Yakov…” He reaches out a hand to the older man, beseeching. The flower on his wrist throbs painfully. “Please.”
Yakov’s expression softens. “I know this is important, but so is your health. Let the doctor examine you. Then we’ll go search.”
Victor does so, trembling, counting down the seconds.
Yuuri wakes up in Minako’s arms, cradled against her chest. There’s a horrible jostling movement – she’s walking somewhere, long strides that cut through the crowd. He wraps one arm around her neck with a sob and buries his face against her shoulder, all his dignity out the door. His other arm is tucked between their bodies, shielded. He can feel it, on his wrist, pulsing like a heartbeat.
“Minako.” He whimpers. “It hurts.”
The woman stops abruptly, blinking down at him. “What hurts?” She asks worriedly. “Did you hit your head?”
“No, I… My wrist…” He tries to explain it, but he can’t. “It hurts.”
A minute later, he’s being lowered carefully to the ground. Minako is strong, despite her thin frame, and settles him gently against the wall. “Show me.” She orders.
He doesn’t want to. His stomach turns at the idea of exposing his wrist and the mark, but he forces himself, gritting his teeth as he stretches his arm out. She takes one look at it, then pales and mutters a curse she’s not supposed to say around him.
She shoves his arm back against his chest before her eyes dart around. “When did it happen?”
“Right… right… when Victor…” He tries to explain, but his breathing is ticking up again.
“Okay. Shh, shh, Yuuri, it’s okay.” She soothes, pressing a palm against his forehead. It’s familiar and comforting and he sinks into it, closing his eyes. “Did you talk to anyone in the stands? Meet eyes with anyone?”
“No.” He says, fighting dizziness. “I was just watching Victor.”
“Okay.” She sits next to him, slinging an arm around him and pulling him against her side. “Relax, Yuuri. It’ll be okay.”
Victor searches throughout the medal ceremony.
He feels betrayed. Yakov said they would search right after the medic cleared him, but then he had been roped into this stupid farce of accepting a medal he didn’t deserve on top of a podium he didn’t want to be on. The only good thing about it was that it gave him a chance to scan the stands… seeking, searching.
After the medal ceremony and a quick, rushed victory lap, he sheds his skates, tosses them to the side, and combs through the arena. The event is over; people are standing, gathering their belongings, and leaving. His heart aches, watching people stream out. His soulmate could be gone, lost in the crowd.
He searches and searches, going up and down the aisles, until the stands are empty. All that’s left are the athletes, gathered in the backrooms, and the maintenance staff, patching and cleaning the ice.
He sits down in one of the spectator seats and stares out at the ice, cradling his wrist to his chest. It aches, like a hole in his heart that he hadn’t realized was missing until now. It hurts. He feels incredibly, hopelessly alone.
Yakov finds him a few minutes later and pats his shoulder awkwardly. He’s never been good with emotion, and Victor is pouring out angst like a sun.
“No luck?” He asks, attempting to be gentle. It just comes out gruff. Victor shakes his head. “Come on, Vitya. Lets go back to the hotel.”
“I don’t want to.” Victor responds, sounding childish and bratty. “What if they come back?”
“Everything’s closing, Vitya. We can search again at the exhibition tomorrow.” The old coach digs through his pocket and thrusts a handkerchief at him. “Dry your eyes. There’s press waiting.”
Yuuri dreams.
He dreams of blades cutting through the ice. He dreams of falling, smashing into the hard ice with so much force it makes his teeth rattle. Pain radiates up his foot and ankle, making him gasp.
He wakes up bleary-eyed, gasping and confused. Mari’s perched on the bed beside him, a hand on his shoulder, shaking him.
“You okay, brat? You were yelling in your sleep. Heard you all the way from my room.”
“Victor fell.” He blurts out, then snaps his mouth shut and tries to figure out how he knew that. He meant to say ‘I fell’ but Victor’s name came out instead. Why? He must still be addled from sleep, half-awake.
Mari blinks at him. “What?”
“I… fell…” Yuuri repeats, confusion making him waver. “I think. I mean I dreamed I fell. Or… I dreamed he fell.” He reaches down and rubs his ankle. “It hurt.”
“Uh huh.” Mari is unconvinced, just patting his shoulder. “Whatever, fanboy. C’mon, get up, dad needs help scrubbing the bath and I helped last time.”
Yuuri groans. When he stands, pain radiates up his leg, and he limps. His family gives him concerned looks and asks what happened – when he can’t answer, he gets flustered, and ends up blurting out that he dreamed Victor fell.
They all laugh and tease him for him fanboy obsession… all but Minako, who watches him with a contemplative look.
“You stupid, stupid boy!” Yakov screams as Victor limps off the ice. “What the hell were you thinking! It’s two weeks until the GPF!”
“It’s not broken.” Victor tries to reason. “Not even sprained.” He gingerly sets his foot down, then immediately picks it back up with a wince. “I think.”
Yakov lets out a string of curses more suited to military trenches than an ice rink and barks at Georgi to come help. Together, they haul Victor off the ice and onto a bench while one of the junior skaters runs off for their rink doctor.
Victor ends up with ‘unspecified straining of the foot’. Nothing’s broken or torn, but he gets five days completely off training and another week off-ice.
He’s ends up back on the ice the day before they fly out for the GPF. Somehow, he manages to win gold by .3 points and earns himself three weeks off-ice to heal and recover, along with a very incensed lecture from his physiotherapist and some begrudging respect from Yakov.
He uses the time to do some some research, pours through as many books and internet photos as he can, looking for the flower. He finally finds it and stares at the screen. A cherry blossom? Why? Because he was in Japan?
He digs up what he can about soul mates in general, too. It’s a rare phenomenon, with about 2% of the population displaying marks. All the symptoms fit – the mark, the aching, his weird dreams that don’t seem to be 100% ‘his’.
Unfortunately, nobody has any advice on how to actually find his other half. Most pairings seem to happen naturally, in close quarters. He can’t find any stories that fit his situation of international travel and competition leading to a bond.
He finds a website dedicated to ‘matching up’ soul mate marks, but there’s so much blatant scamming and trolling that he discards it completely.
Well, then. He’ll have to find his own way.
He starts with the arena, watching over footage of the crowd. Nothing stands out, nothing makes his heart beat faster. It’s just a sea of faces, one after the other.
He looks through the practice and competitor footage in case it’s one of his fellow skaters. Nothing there stands out, either.
Before he knows it, he’s on a plane heading to Russian Nationals.
He sleeps through the flight. When Yakov wakes him, he frowns. His hands ache like he’s been clenching his fists. He extends his fingers, stretches them out.
“Are we having sushi?” He asks, half asleep, because he can smell soy and rice.
Yakov gives him an odd glance. “Chicken pasta.”
“We’ll miss you.” Katsuki Hiroko says as she places a tray of katsudon on Yuuri’s desk. Yuuri pauses to sniff happily, committing the scent of fresh rice and real soy to his memory. He knows it will be in short supply in America. “But this is good. You will train under a real coach in a real facility. You will blossom.”
Yuuri sets down his pen and stretches his fingers out, working out the cramps. He’s got one more form before the huge packet Celestino had sent over is done. He feels like he’s signing his life away, but Celestino assured him it’s all standard medical, waivers, and financial paperwork.
Hiroko pats his cheek and leaves him to finish up. Yuuri signs the final dotted line and tucks the paperwork back in it’s envelope.
For now, him and his new coach will work via video footage and phone calls. After the season ends, he’ll fly to America, relocate to chase his dream. It’s terrifying, but it’s one step closer to his goal. He glances up at the posters decorating his walls. Victor Nikiforov, serene and flat, stares back.
The scar on his wrist throbs. He absentmindedly rubs at it.
“One day.” He tells the posters. “One day, I’ll skate on the same ice as you.”
They don’t reply.
“I want to post about it on social media.” Victor says after the first Nationals warmup.
Yakov glares at him. “That’s a horrible idea.” He doesn’t ask what ‘it’ is. He knows. Victor still hasn’t forgiven him for that day.
“Why? If they were at NHK, maybe they’re a fan. Maybe they’ll see and know.”
“So will every reporter, website, and tabloid.” Yakov points out. “Not to mention any phonies who want to pretend to be your soul mate.”
“I’d know if it was fake.” Victor insists stubbornly.
“You’re famous enough already without having this in the public. Do you know how rare soul mate marks are? I looked it up. Two percent, Vitya. Two percent.”
Victor rubs his thumb against the flower blossom. It doesn’t burn anymore, but every once in a while he can feel it ache, like a reminder that it’s still there. He wonders what shape his soul mate’s mark is; does it match his?
“I know. I looked it up too.” He says. “But I want to find them.”
“I know, Vitya, but you’re young and a professional athlete. You have plenty of time for love later. You can’t go on a wild goose chase right now.” Victor grimaces. “You have to focus. You’re mid-season. Euros and Worlds are coming up.”
“There’s always something coming up.” Victor mumbles, but he knows Yakov is right. He’s worked for years and years to get where he is now, at the cusp of greatness. He can’t stop.
Three events – Russian Nationals, Euros, Worlds. They all pass in a blur of training, travel, warm ups, routines, and medal ceremonies.
It’s become Victor’s habit to rub his wrist as a nervous habit. Yakov tries to break him of it, but he refuses. He still wants to shout it to the world, but Yakov is firm, and refuses to let him skate with it bare. By Euros, Victor’s too tired to argue. Instead, he orders some long gloves to go under his costume and uses concealer during public training.
The only other person who finds out is Christophe when he takes Victor back to his room post-banquet after Worlds and pins his wrists above his head just inside the door. Victor squirms, not in a good way, and whispers a quiet protest.
“Ah.” He mumbles when Chris stops. “Not… my wrist.”
Chris glances up by reflex as he lets go. “Injured?”
“Um, no. I… it’s a…” He swallows. “Tattoo. It’s a tattoo.”
“Bullshit.” Chris says, reaching for his hand. Victor gives in, letting the Swiss skater stare at the mark. Chris’s eyes narrow, then widen as the implication hits.
“Vitya.” He mumbles, dropping his hand and stepping away. “You have a soul mate?”
“I… yes?” Victor answers helplessly, “I do, I guess, but I’ve never met them. I don’t know who they are.”
Chris hesitates, but Victor reaches and tugs him closer by his tie.
“Are you sure?” The Swiss skater asks, stopping a breath away from kissing him.
“I’ve never met them.” Victor repeats. “I have no idea who they are. You’re here, they’re not. If you’re okay with this… just this…”
Chris hesitates a few more seconds before nodding. “I understand.” He assures, then slots his lips over Victor’s.
The off-season brings with it a sigh of relief through the skating community.
Yakov kicks the entire Russian team out the rink for two weeks. Two days later, when he finds Victor asleep on a bench, skates still on after sneaking in a midnight practice, he flies him to Switzerland.
“Rest.” He orders. “Hang out with that nice Swiss boy.”
Victor and ‘that nice Swiss boy’ proceed to get kicked out of three gay bars in the span of a week. At the last one, Victor tries to go home with a handsome man who’s buying him drinks. Chris stops him, drags him out of the club, and tosses him in a taxi.
“You have a soul mate. Also he was like, 40. Jesus, Vitya.” He chastises, then proceeds to suck him off in the back of the cab. The driver curses at them in French, German, and English until Chris thrusts enough cash at him to make him shut up.
“Why?” Victor asks later in bed, hazy with alcohol and exhaustion after a second round.
“You’re safe with me.” Chris answers next to him. “I won’t plaster your pictures all over the internet or fall in love with you.”
Victor thinks he should be offended, but all he feels is relief. He rolls over and tucks himself against Chris’s side before passing out.
Two weeks stretch into three, into four, into five.
Victor starts training with Chris, to the exasperation of both coaches. Still, he learns things from Chris’s coach Josef that Yakov hasn’t been able to teach him. During the day, they train and train hard.
At night, they play. They avoid scandal solely by the fact that they’re not famous enough to matter. Yet.
“You can’t do this next season!” Yakov yells through the phone. There’s more photos of Victor in the tabloids; not quite the cover star, but enough for a three page spread. “Your image will be ruined!”
Victor hangs up on him.
Having Chris around is a balm for his thoughts, getting him out of his own head and giving him a safe harbor to drift in. He doesn’t seem to mind when Victor’s moody or withdrawn, allowing him to drop the mask and just be Vitya instead of upcoming legend Victor Nikiforov.
The sex isn’t bad either.
“Does it hurt?” Chris asks once, rubbing a thumb across the mark. Victor shudders and pulls his wrist away on instinct. Chris grimaces. “Sorry.”
Victor forgives him instantly, though he sits up. He holds his wrist up, staring at the mark in the dim light of the room. “No. It aches, sometimes, like… like… a sore muscle. I know it’s there, but it’s not painful.”
Chris hums and rolls onto his back. “Must be nice, knowing there’s someone out there specifically made for you.”
“Nice.” Victor repeats, trying not to be bitter. “Sure.”
He’s on the ice the next day, lazily gliding through edge drills, when his stomach turns and his eyes go blurry. He goes from bored and drifting to panicked. His breathing stutters, then stops as his chest tightens. He gasps, dragging in air as hard as he can, but it just doesn’t seem like enough. The room spins.
“Vitya?” Chris slides to a stop next to him and presses a hand against his shoulder. “Vitya? Victor!”
Victor drops to his knees and claws at his shirt, finally just pulling the entire garment off. It doesn’t help how tight his throat and chest feel. He breathes in tight, fast gasps that burn. His heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his temples. His palms are sweating.
He drops to his elbows, the cold a shock to his skin. The chemical, metallic scent of the ice fills his senses. He closes his eyes, lets himself focus on the cold, leaning forward to press his forehead against it.
Surprisingly, it helps. His heartrate slows gradually, his breathing steadies. He’s left dazed but lucid. He barely notices when Chris hefts him up and drags him to the rink wall, where the doctor on staff is waiting. They settle him on a bench and wrap him in a jacket and take his vitals.
“How often do you have panic attacks?” The doctor asks after a few minutes. Chris translates, frowning at the unfamiliar word. They have to do some Googleing to figure out what it is in their native languages.
“Never.” Victor replies finally once he understands what’s being asked, then hesitates. “Except once, after a routine… at the NHK.”
Chris gives him a long, piercing look. Victor’s told him the story, he knows what happened. Victor avoids his gaze and obediently tilts his head back for the doctor to check his pupils.
Arriving in America is terrifying.
Absolutely, completely, mind-shatteringly terrifying.
Yuuri’s alone, barely speaks the language, and lost. He flits through the airport, trying to remember the word for ‘exit’ so he can read the signs and figure out where his new coach is supposed to be picking him up.
He swears he’s seen that Starbucks before. Is he going in circles?
His phone buzzes with a text message. It’s from Celestino. It’s in English, and… he can’t read it. His brain just will not translate the unfamiliar characters. He stops in the middle of the walkway to try to understand it. He knows that word, he knows he knows that word, what is it?
“Hey!”
Something crashes into his back, sending him to his knees. He bites back a sob as the American shouts something in English at him and stalks off, dragging a suitcase. He skitters to the side of the walkway, presses himself against the wall, and tries to breathe.
No, no, no, no, no! He mentally shouts as his breathing ticks up. Not here, not now. He hooks a finger in his t-shirt’s collar and tugs at it as sweat breaks out across his forehead. He’s too hot, he’s breathing too fast.
The building rumbles as a plane takes off. He bites back his tears, keeps his eyes closed and ignores the way they leak past his lids. His phone buzzes again.
The enormity of it all hits him. He’s so far away from home, leaving his family, his dog, his friends, his language behind. He’s alone and scared. He slides down the wall, uses his suitcase as a sort of shield, and curls into a ball. He presses his forehead against the cold plaster.
It helps, grounding him. He’s reminded of the ice. He swears he can smell it, the metallic scent that all rinks seem to have. He can feel cool air against his cheeks, cold ice against his forehead. His brain settles enough for him to start counting. In, five. Hold. Out, five.
His phone buzzes a third time, and this time, he checks it. The letters morph into something he can recognize, not immediately, but after a minute of staring. Celestino’s asking where he is, telling him to send a photo if he’s lost.
He does, snapping a photo of the shops across from him.
Stay there, Celestino says. Don’t move.
A few minutes later, the burly coach appears, his face relaxing at the sight of Yuuri’s tear-streaked face.
“It’s okay.” He says, offering a hand up. “I know, it’s a lot. You’ll be okay.”
Eventually Victor has to return to Russia. It’s with great reluctance that he hugs Chris and boards a plane. Yakov accepts him back with a sigh and orders to show him everything he’s learned. The old coach is grumpy but reluctantly pleased with the progress. Victor can tell because his eye isn’t twitching.
Makkachin, who had been staying with Georgi, knocks him over in her excitement, then won’t let him leave her sight for a full 24 hours.
Life settles back into it’s usual predictable routine. Wake up, eat, train, eat, train, come home, eat, sleep. It’s robotic and lonely.
“I should be looking for them.” He mentions to Chris over the phone a few weeks later. He’s three drinks in, curled up on his couch, morose and depressed.
“Where would you even start?” Chris asks, all logic.
Victor fights back tears. “I don’t know. But I miss them. I don’t even know them and I miss them like half my heart is gone.”
“Well.” Chris tempers sympathetically, “That’s the point, isn’t it? Whoever they are, they’re your other half. Maybe they’ll find you. You’ll be on TV constantly this season. Maybe they’re a skating fan. Things will find a way, my friend. Keep faith.”
“Yeah.” Victor swipes his eyes and reaches for his fourth drink. He downs it in one gulp while Chris tries to distract him by telling him stories about his new kitten.
The next season starts with a bang with the grand prix assignments. Social media explodes in a flurry of skaters cheering or mourning their placements and clips of pre-season workouts that are meant to intimidate competitors or show off new skills.
“Celestino’s got a new skater.” Yakov says one day, holding up his IPad to let Victor see. Victor pauses in lacing up his skates, his interest perked. Celestino is notorious for being supremely picky about who he takes on.
“Oh yeah?” He watches the footage of a younger Asian man spinning and blinks as his vision seems to go double for a second. That’s what he gets for skipping breakfast. “Oh. He’s… something.”
“He’s good.” Yakov says gruffly. “Shaky on the jumps, but his PCS will blow yours away. If Celestino can get his jumps solid… You better shape up.”
It’s nothing Victor hasn’t heard before – every up-and-coming skater is ‘good’ and ‘will blow him away’, but so far none have actually done so. He narrows his eyes and watches the screen, idly rubbing his wrist as it throbs, right on the edge of annoying.
“Should be a fun season, then.” He says after a while, returning to his skate laces. “I should practice.”
“Get your flip.” Yakov suggests. “You’ll be unbeatable with a base score high enough, no matter how pretty anyone else is.”
Victor feels his lips twist. “That’s not what I’m aiming for.”
“You’re aiming for gold.” Yakov reminds him.
Yuuri is seeded into his first senior-level grand prix and bombs it spectacularly.
He comes in last at his first event and second to last at his second event. He’s just thankful that he and Victor aren’t sharing any events. He’d be (more) mortified if they were.
Celestino, luckily, doesn’t seem bothered.
“It’s your first year.” He assures, clapping Yuuri on the back in a way that Yuuri really doesn’t like but has accepted as ‘normal’. For being so Italian, Celestino sure is American.
Victor takes gold at the GPF, of course. Yuuri watches on TV, hugging a pillow, and sighs wistfully. Victor is a god on the ice, so self-assured and confident.
His wrist aches; he’d landed odd on it earlier that day, so he slaps an ice pack on it and pops an Advil.
He goes to bed to the sound of Victor’s free skate music playing off his phone.
He wakes up in an awful state.
Water. He needs… water. Why does he need water? His head hurts. He drags himself to the kitchen, chugs two huge glasses of water, and considers throwing up. Seconds later, he’s heaving over the toilet bowl.
“I think I’m sick.” He tells Celestino over the phone afterwards. When he lists his symptoms, the Italian coach snorts.
“How much did you drink last night?”
“I… had a Coke?” Yuuri replies, confused. “I know it is not on my diet plan but it was one and that was all.”
“No alcohol?” Celestino clarifies.
“Uh. No?”
“Hmm.” Celestino hums thoughtfully. “Alright. Drink water, go to bed. Call me if you start feeling worse.”
“O-okay.” Yuuri mumbles before the line clicks dead. He sits back, lets his phone drop, and rubs his temple.
Victor wakes up draped across Chris’s back while the Swiss skater snores underneath him.
His head’s pounding. He glares at the empty liquor bottles that are to blame for that. They may have overdone it last night.
Chris grunts and rolls over, almost shoving Victor off to bed to do so, and Victor kicks him.
“Wake up, bed hog.”
Chris grunts, ignores him, and sleeps on.
Victor wanders to his feet, in search of liquid and pain killers and hopefully a ton of fatty food (he just won gold, he can live a little) to kill the hangover. He swipes his phone off the dresser by habit and flicks through social media while chugging a bottle of Gatorade.
<< Celestino’s new kid is stealing your moves. >> a message from Georgi reads. Victor hums and clicks the link. It’s a video of Skate America. The skater is the same boy Yakov had shown him months ago and he’s… skating Victor’s routine.
Okay, not exactly Victor’s routine, but enough pieces of it to place it in a ‘heavily influenced’ category at the least. Victor prides himself on surprising his audience, and that means doing steps and flourishes nobody else does. It’s easy to see he’s been this kid’s inspiration.
About twenty seconds in, Victor’s first thought is wow.
His second is he’s better than me.
And then the skater launches into a triple salchow, overrotates, and lands on his ass.
Maybe not.
“Chris.” Victor crawls back on the bed, jiggling the Swiss man’s hip until he grunts. “Chris, wake up. What do you know about Celestino’s students?”
Chris curses at him in French and German.
“Chris!” Victor whines, jiggling him again. “You were at Skate America, right?”
“Vitya.” Chris’s gravely voice, muffled by the pillow, is murderous. “Leave me alone.”
“But Chhhhrrriisss.”
Chris relents just enough to peek an eye open, reach for the phone, and give it a cursory glance.
“Yuuri Katsuki. What about him?”
Victor takes his phone back and hits replay, starting the routine from the beginning. “I think he’s a fan.” He mentions, and for some reason, that makes his chest feel warm.
Chris laughs and laughs for a long time. “A fan.” He agrees like it’s a joke, then goes back to sleep.
“Again!” Celestino calls, clapping. The sound echoes through the empty rink, making Yuuri wince. He sets up for another toeloop – this will be number five – and launches. He knows immediately it’s not going to go well and pops it, throwing out a leg.
Celestino waves off his apologies. “Two out of five is a good start. That’s 40% if you’re consistent.”
Yuuri silently groans because nobody has ever called him consistent. He’s the complete opposite – a wildcard, unreliable, a late bloomer desperate to catch up. Beyond that, 40% is woefully low when his competitors are hitting 80-90%.
“Take a break.” Celestino orders when Yuuri tries to start again.
He bites back the temptation to argue and slumps on a bench, sucking down water. Celestino had been aghast at his proposed training routine for the new season and had made him cut it almost in half – it makes Yuuri itchy to keep moving.
He sneaks in later that night, flicking on the lights. The ice is clean and clear, gleaming and waiting, and he lets out a breath in wonder.
He’s gentle, ignoring the jumps he still struggles with and sticking with figures and spins. It’s calming, doing what he’s good at. There’s no falls, no painful skids, no bruises. He lets himself get lost in the movement and wanders through routines, taking a step here, a piece there, a spin here… mixing it all up into a nameless conglomerate of a routine.
He’s always been good at stitching things together on the fly – that’s part of why his PCS is always high. He can make up for failed jumps with interesting and high-level sequences, pushing the PCS when he can’t get the technical points.
He ends his improvised program with a pose that just happens – one arm stretched out, beseeching, with the opposite hand cradling his wrist. He stays there, panting, then drops to one knee, letting his head fall forward.
He’s lonely. Lonely, and sad, and disappointed in himself for the way the past season has played out. All his dreams seem to be collapsing one by one and he has no idea where to go from here.
Tears come, hot and heavy in his eyes, and he lets them.
Victor flicks his eyes open with a gasp.
It’s 2:30am according to his clock. His alarm is still hours away, but he is more than wide awake, his heart aching like he’s lost something. He reaches up to touch his eyes, surprised when his fingers come back dry. He feels like he’s been crying.
He drops his hands, frowning. There’s echoes of… something in his mind. Something twisty and free, both elated and sorrowful, full of emotion and heartache.
He fumbles through his side table for a pencil and paper and gets to sketching, but it’s not enough. Halfway through, he tosses the pad and gets out of bed, tugs on some clothes, and starts moving furniture out of the way. Luckily, there isn’t much, and within a few minutes he has space to move.
He lets his body go, and it reacts beautifully, like it knows what his mind doesn’t. He flows through positions, almost mindlessly marking where jumps would fit in.
It’s raw and unfinished, there’s parts where nothing flows right that will need to be re-done, but… it’s gorgeous. He can feel it in his bones.
He spends a few more minutes jotting down notes before he forgets them, then gets ready and heads to the rink, where he runs through it again, this time on skates. The entire routine clicks together like it was made to be skated and Victor’s superstitious enough not to question it.
He skates it through, striking an ending pose that just feels right. One hand against his heart, the other stretched out to his front, pleading… or offering.
He runs it again and again until the movements are ingrained. He’s never adapted so quick to a program. It’s more like dancing than skating.
When Yakov shows up, he takes one look at Victor and orders him off the ice. Exhausted, Victor goes, manages to shower, and falls back into bed for the rest of the morning.
He keeps the special choreography hidden. There’s something about it that makes him want to squirrel it away, for his eyes only.
He lands his flip and starts on a journey of gold after gold. Yakov is pleased; Victor is just tired. Winning isn’t easy, but it’s not really hard either. His closest competition is Chris and he’s still usually 20-30 points behind. Yakov was right – with the flip, he’s almost unbeatable with a clean program.
On top of skating, his sponsorship obligations seem to multiply exponentially. If he’s not on the ice, he’s in front of a camera. He goes along with it, figuring the maximum amount of exposure is best. Maybe his soulmate is a fan – after all, he’d been in Japan. If he can just stay winning, stay in front of the press, keep all eyes on him… maybe they’ll find each other.
But he’s exhausted. He lets himself be put through the motions, gives up control of his schedule to his manager, and focuses on winning. He has to. There’s so many people relying on him.
His life settles into a predictable routine of training, photo shoots, competitions, and sleep… until one innocent morning after Worlds when his phone pings.
I know who your soulmate is.