Chapter Text
Viktor Nikiforov has been in Hasetsu for less than forty-eight hours.
Yuuri watches Viktor zip up and down the ice, the very ice upon which he had once learnt to skate. He’s not doing anything particularly advanced, just stroking exercises and bits of choreography. He’s warming up his body, Yuuri presumes— and he looks every bit as ethereal as when he skates for an adoring crowd.
Yuuri is intimately familiar with Viktor’s skating. He’s seen it innumerable times, usually on a screen of some kind. He’s watched Viktor compete on television, on the rare occasion that figure skating is broadcast on the network. He’s seen him on his laptop, on livestreams of questionable legality. He's replayed his performances on his phone, time and time again. None of these could have prepared him for the man as he appears in three dimensions. Somehow, the screen doesn’t justify him. Yuuri feels as if Viktor only existed in the soft glow of a digital device, far removed from the mortal plane. Could such perfection exist in the physical world?
The truth, Yuuri learns, is yes. It can.
He watches, transfixed. He recognizes a section of the Stammi Vicino step sequence. Viktor breezes through choreography with such ease that he seems to float just above the surface of the ice, rather than make physical contact with it. Like a tame mare, the ice supports him because it chooses to. The choreography is so intimately familiar to him, Yuuri can scarcely believe there was ever a time when he didn’t know it. He’s unable to tear his eyes away. It seems that every movement Viktor makes is inevitable, as if this combination of music and movement and man were always destined to exist.
He is physical poetry.
“Remember, the little piggy can’t enter the rink until he drops some weight!” Viktor trills.
Oh. Right.
Yuuri’s thoughts turn to himself, and how woefully inadequate he is in comparison. How much weight had he gained since the end of last season? He hasn’t stepped on a scale recently— he’s afraid to find out and humiliated that Viktor had so brazenly pointed it out. He tugs at his sweater, feeling suddenly self-conscious. Yuuri shifts in discomfort, acutely aware that a five-time world champion has very little business resuscitating the career of a man who had placed in dead last at the previous Grand Prix Final.
What is he doing here? He eyes Viktor’s effortless spiral— the difference between them is as insurmountable as the difference between the image on the screen and the real man.
Yuuri hears the satisfying sound of ice crunching under blades as Viktor begins practicing jumping passes. First a triple flip, easy. Yuuri makes wordless eye contact with Yuuko, who is standing at the boards alongside him. Her body language suggests calm, but her wide eyes and grin betray excitement. She raises her eyebrows, and her smile widens, as if to say, Is this real fucking life? Yuuri nods slightly, silently confirming that this is, indeed, real fucking life.
Viktor executes jump after effortless jump, his technique textbook. He performs unique variations on standard jumps— a rippon triple salchow, a delayed single axel— just for the hell of it. Yuuko claps in appreciation, and Yuuri joins her.
Takeshi, observing from the stands, cheers. “WHOOO! Do a quad!”
Viktor chuckles. “Your wish is my command.”
Ever the showman, he performs backwards crossovers to center ice and rotates his body in a familiar pattern that Yuuri recognizes as the setup to a quadruple flip. Yuuri grips the boards, hard. He’s never actually witnessed Victor’s signature move in person. He’s seen it on screens, sure. But after his humiliating showing at last season’s Final, he had locked himself in the bathroom and missed his chance to witness Viktor’s quad flip in real time.
Viktor lightly taps his toe pick into the ice, launching himself into the air. He completes four lightning-fast rotations and lands smoothly with a satisfying crunch.
“YEEEAH!” Takeshi punches the air, and Yuuko applauds.
“Wow…” Yuuri breathes. There’s no doubt about it, Viktor is the genuine article— technical skill, showmanship, unwavering confidence. Little wonder the man is a legend in the world of sport. He’s the sort of once-in-a-generation talent whom any coach would die to train. If Celestino were here , Yuuri thinks, he’d give him a playful nudge and say “How about a quad flip next season, Yuuri? It’s not hard, see? Viktor does it in his sleep.” It’s only teasing, he knows, but the words carve themselves into him.
Takeshi is still cheering. He whoops and hollers, “ALRIGHT!!! TRIPLE AXEL!”
Yuuko tut-tuts. “C'mon, he’s not a show pony,” she scolds.
Viktor runs a hand through his hair. A small amount of sweat on his forehead betrays his concentration and effort. “I thought you’d never ask,” he replies. He circles the rink a second time, again performing clean backwards crossovers. Yuuri can tell that he’s generating speed— preparing the forward takeoff of an axel.
Victor leaps, forward, into the air. Yuuri’s stomach lurches. He immediately notices that something is off— Viktor’s axis is too tilted. His rotations are still lightning-fast, but their speed is now terrifying. Viktor lands awkwardly. In a moment of uncommon gracelessness, he shifts his weight to his other foot to save the jump. He braces himself for a fall, arms outstretched, but he manages to stay upright.
Yuuko gasps, and Yuuri realizes that he’s gripping the boards tightly. Viktor skids to a halt, resting his hands on his knees. He shakes his head. Yuuri can’t tell if he’s expressing disbelief or clearing his head.
“Shit. Y’ALRIGHT, VIKTOR?” Takeshi calls.
Viktor smiles. “I’m okay! Whoops.” He begins to skate slowly, circling the rink once more. He moves gingerly, and Yuuri notices that he puts as little weight as possible on his right leg.
“Enough for today, I think. We’ll start with off-ice exercises tomorrow,” he says, his tone light. He steps off of the ice and joins Yuuko and Yuuri behind the boards, transitioning from the graceful environment of the ice to that of the real world.
“What about your leg?” Yuuko protests. “That looked painful.”
“Nothing to worry about,” Viktor responds, already unlacing his skates. “We’ll need regular ice time here for Yuuri’s training, after he’s had the chance to get back into shape, of course. Are you agreeable to that, Yuuko? Your facility has all the amenities we’ll need. I’ll pay you for its use, of course.”
“Oh, certainly! We’ve trained here since we were kids,” She responds, fixing Yuuri with a look that spells excitement.
“Perfect,” Viktor places soakers on his blades. “Yuuko is a generous friend to you, Yuuri.”
“She is,” Yuuri agrees.
“You should probably ice your leg tonight,” Yuuko interjects. “That way, it won’t be sore tomorrow.”
“So concerned for my well being! What a gem,” Viktor says lightly. Yuuko blushes. She and Yuuri share a look.
~~~
In three hours’ time, Yuuri is sitting at his family’s dinner table with Viktor, Mari, and his parents. It’s unusual for Mari to eat at the table with them— she usually takes it in her bedroom— but there is a football match on the television tonight, and his family is enthralled. Yuuri is happy to allow football talk to dominate the dinner conversation.
Hiroko has prepared katsudon for dinner. The rest of them are enjoying their meals, but Yuuri, now on a strict diet for training, has a simple soup with vegetables and lean meats. He knows it’s not deliberate, but it feels slightly cruel to eat katsudon in front of him when they know very well that he’s forbidden to eat it.
“FOUL!” Mari screams suddenly, banging her fist on the table. “Give him a red card, ref!”
“Damn right,” echoes Toshiya, sloshing his drink slightly.
Yuuri glances up at the screen— a footballer is laying on the pitch, clutching his shin. Yuuri can’t hear him, but he’d guess that the player was spewing profanities.
“Ooouch,” Toshiya says while Hiroko tut-tuts sympathetically.
“That’ll end his season, for sure,” says Mari. “That’s a damn shame.”
Yuuri feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He checks it under the table— it’s from Yuuko.
Is he icing his leg?
He taps out a response.
No, we’re eating dinner.
Yuuri sips at his soup, watching absently as the injured footballer is carried off the pitch on a stretcher. His phone buzzes again.
Make sure he does.
Yuuri shoves his phone back in his pocket with more force than necessary. Isn’t Viktor’s leg his own business? And why is it up to him that he iced it? He looks sideways at Viktor— he’s listening intently as Mari explains a football technicality. In English, no less. Yuuri can’t imagine that the man has any real interest in football.
He casts his eyes around the table. Viktor, nodding along while Mari explains the inner workings of football. His father, engrossed in the match while peppering the conversation with the occasional comment. His mother, sipping a hot tea. Yuuri notices that the match has resumed, minus the player with the injured leg. Despite knowing nothing at all about him, he feels a pang of sympathy. His season is likely over. What does an athlete do in that scenario? When is the end of the football season, anyway? Yuuri isn’t sure. He glances at Viktor again.
Despite his years on this competition circuit, Yuuri has never known Viktor to have suffered a skating-related injury. If he had, he’d surely know about it by now. Yuuri’s mind wanders to his numerous magazines and posters of Viktor, currently tucked away in the back of his closet. His prized collection now seems utterly comical, with the real Viktor now sitting less than a meter away.
Yuuri wonders what Viktor makes of the injured player. He knows he shouldn’t say anything. It's rude and invasive and his parents would criticize him for it. He shouldn’t, its none of his business, he’s being presumptuous—
“How’s your leg?”
Viktor turns. His expression flickers, then he resumes his smile. “Completely fine, nothing to be concerned about,” He pops a piece of pork into his mouth. “It’s unfortunate that the same can’t be said for that one.” He nods towards the television.
“Earlier today. The landing on that axel looked like it hurt.”
“Are you worried about me, Yuuri? You're sweet,” Viktor says with a wry smile.
Yuuri stammers, flustered. “That’s not— I just—”
“Injury is a part of every athlete’s life.” Viktor says, his tone suddenly firm. “I won’t stand for you worrying about mine.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Do you have any injuries, Yuuri?” Viktor interrupts. “As your coach, I should know.”
“Ah, no. Not really. Nothing major,” Yuuri stares into the dregs of his soup. Don’t you have to actually be good at a sport to hurt yourself doing it? The events of last season’s Grand Prix Final suddenly flash in his mind, and he shakes his head violently.
“And thank heavens for that,” says Hiroko.
“Excellent!” Viktor says, and shovels another bite of katsudon into his mouth.
~~~
The football match is concluded, the dishes are cleared. Viktor thanks Hiroko for the meal and disappears with Makkachin into his room. Yuuri texts a response to Yuuko.
I think it’s an old injury?
She responds in no time.
Tell him to ice it. It’ll reduce inflammation.
Yuuri knows Yuuko will question him about this tomorrow, and he’ll get an earful if he ignores her advice. He groans inwardly. Of course he wants to see Viktor, but he’s accustomed to admiring his skating and good looks through the chasm of a screen, from the safety of his own bedroom, and in his own home. Seeing him in person, interacting with him in his own house is something entirely different. The man now slept just a few rooms away from him.
With numb fingers, Yuuri shovels ice cubes into a cloth pack. He’s unsure of how he should behave around Viktor. It’s hard to relax when you are sharing living space with a bona fide celebrity. No one ever warns you, either, how bizarre it is to see a face with which you are intimately familiar— one you’ve seen thousands of times— in-person. It's almost like realizing that Viktor is actually real.
He recalls the ease with which Mari had been able to converse with Viktor over dinner, and feels irked. How can she act so casual around him, so normal, while Yuuri can hardly stop stammering?
Viktor's mere presence puts him on edge. He doesn’t feel the same ease as he does in his friendships with Yuuko and Phichit. His self-consciousness skyrockets around Viktor, and he’s constantly monitoring himself to avoid saying or doing something stupid. Hell, he still doesn’t know exactly what Viktor is doing here in the first place. Training him, ostensibly, but what happens when he gets bored? Or when he realizes that Yuuri’s skating career is beyond redemption?
Yuuri realizes that his feet have led him to the door to Viktor’s room. This is the first time he’s entered this room of his own volition.
He breathes raggedly and, before he gets the chance to overthink, knocks.
“Come in,” that familiar voice calls.
Yuuri slides the door open and is greeted by Makkachin’s wet nose, sniffing at the ice pack. The poodle’s tail wags, and she licks his hand.
Viktor is sitting on his small sofa. His face breaks into a smile when he sees Yuuri.
“You’ve finally come to visit me! I was beginning to think you never would.”
Yuuri isn’t sure if he’s being flirted with or being made fun of.
“I just— I brought you this,” he offers the ice pack.
“Oh, ice? What for?”
“For your leg.”
Viktor makes an indignant noise. “I told you not to worry about me.”
“It was Yuuko’s idea, actually.”
“I see. How kind.”
Viktor takes the ice pack and returns to the sofa, holding the pack in one hand.
“Join me, please,” he gestures to the remaining empty space.
Yuuri obliges, sitting stiffly. Makkachin places her chin on his knee, and he scratches her behind the ears.
“It's impressive that you’ve made it this far in your competitive career without a major injury,” Viktor says. “You’ve been competing for— how many seasons? Five, at least? I’m impressed. You must take good care of yourself.”
Yuuri isn’t sure how to respond. He stares determinedly at the floor, refusing to make eye contact with Viktor. “I guess so. Back in Detroit, my friend Phichit had a fracture in his foot— I don’t remember details— but Celestino made him stay off the ice until it healed. He was on crutches for a while, and he missed half the season, but eventually made a full recovery.”
“Hmm,” Viktor’s facial expression is unreadable. “That’s… quite different from the way we train in Russia.”
“Oh?” Yuuri says, expecting more, but Viktor falls silent. He adjusts the ice pack onto his right hip. He’s quiet for a moment, and then says,
“It’s my hip.”
“Your hip?”
“Yes. My right one. It’s been a problem for a while.”
His landing leg, Yuuri realizes.
“For how long?” He asks.
“I’m… not actually sure. A few years? Several, maybe? It started around the time I began training the triple axel regularly, and it’s been a nuisance since.”
Yuuri does some very quick calculations in his head. Viktor began landing the triple axel consistently in his junior days, which means he’s been nursing a hip injury for…ten years? A decade, minimum?
There are always rumors of skaters being hurt. Athletes deal with injuries all the time. But Viktor has never shown any signs of weakness nor faltered on competitive ice.
“Was it… a really bad landing, or a practice accident…?” Yuuri prods.
“Oh, no. Nothing exciting like that,” Viktor responds casually. “Just overuse. Repetition. Human bodies aren’t exactly designed to do this, not long-term. To withstand the damage that we put them through in training.”
Yuuri looks at Viktor, despite himself. This is a side of Viktor’s life with which he’s completely unfamiliar.
“Have you seen a physical therapist?” he asks slowly.
“Yes. There isn’t much to be done. You can’t drill triple axels and quads day in and day out without some wear. Your coaches tell you to keep going, so you push through. You tell yourself that it's only temporary, that it’s worth it, all while your body begs for rest.”
Viktor’s voice is serene, his face unperturbed, like he’s long since made peace with this aspect of his life. He keeps the ice pack pressed against his hip.
“Meanwhile, your reputation and livelihood hinges upon you pushing through another program. Pounding out more quads, bigger jumps, better elements. Eventually, there’s nothing you can do except…stop. I’m twenty-seven. That’s not old, but it’s not young, either. Not by skating standards. I'll have to retire, eventually.”
Yuuri’s stomach lurches at the word retire. The thought of Viktor in retirement seems wrong, a mathematical impossibility. He frantically casts his mind about for something useful to say.
“Is your coach okay with you… slowly destroying your hip joint?” He chooses his words carefully, afraid of the answer.
Viktor laughs, but there’s little humor in his voice.
“The way we think of these things is different in Russia. Figure skaters are celebrated there in a way they aren’t in other countries. Glory is everything, and skaters are willing to endure any amount of physical pain if it means a brush with glory."
Viktor absently scratches Makkachin's head.
"Anyone who complains is weak. Anyone afraid of the pain doesn’t want it badly enough," he continues calmly. "Yakov isn’t a cruel man, but he is… traditional. And tough. He has high expectations. Besides, the talent pool is deep in Russia. If officials and coaches find out that you’re injured, there are always ten equally talented skaters who are ready to take your place.”
Yuuri swallows. “That sounds like a lot of pressure,” He whispers.
“You get used to the pressure. You get used to your body hurting.” Viktor smiles. “It’s the life we chose.”
Viktor stands, gingerly flexing his hip joint. He begins some gentle stretches.
“This is the first time I haven’t trained in… ever, really. It’s been strange. In a wonderful way.”
Wonderful.
“Walking around town today, I hardly knew what to do with myself. It’s like I forgot how to relax. It’s good for me, though. It’s good for my body.”
Viktor has never been this forthcoming about the details of his life. Yuuri feels like he’s doing something vaguely inappropriate, like eavesdropping on a private conversation. Silence stretches, and he realizes that Viktor is waiting for him to respond. Say something encouraging say something nice just say something—
“Um. I had no idea. That you were going through any of that,” he offers lamely.
Viktor laughs. “How could you? I never told you.”
Viktor suddenly leans in close, his face centimeters from Yuuri’s.
“You’ll keep this between us, won’t you?”
“Yes! Of course.”
Viktor smiles— a genuine smile— and picks up the ice pack from the sofa.
“This ice pack was a great idea. My hip hurts less already.”
“Pretty funny, that ice helps your injury when ice is what caused it in the first place.” The words leave Yuuri’s lips before he thinks.
Viktor looks up mid-stretch. A moment of silence is broken by his laughter— genuine laughter.
Yuuri’s face flushes furiously. “Not that I think your injury is funny! Oh, god. I should stop talking.”
Viktor protests between bouts of laughter, but Yuuri stands to leave. He slides the door open, and pauses.
“Viktor, um… thank you for telling me about all that. You’re allowed to heal here, you know?” He says in a way he hopes is encouraging.
Viktor’s eyes twinkle with warmth.
“Thank you, Yuuri.”
Nothing in his tone suggests that he isn’t sincere.