˙*⊹ . · * ˙. · ⊹ . * — yuri and victoria :
✖︎ Ooh, what an angry man. An idle hand lands upon the head of her companion, fingers brushing through the blond locks of Victoria’s kitten. She feels her lips press into a smile, threatening a grin at Viktor’s obvious distrust. A blind man could see the dependence and obedience Yuri emitted, his arms wrapped around her waist and plush cheek pressing to the bone underneath.
Nails idled about the flesh of his ear, fingertips tracing the shell of cartilage. Bumps of scar tissue from their play adorn his body, where needles once punctured pale flesh and blood spilled from his obedient body. For now, Victoria allows Yuri to bask in his own need, hazel never leaving the expanse of silvered hair and ice-blue irises. Viktor.
“My goodness. I’m sorry you feel that way,” Victoria murmurs, a lock of blond twisting between her fingers. Her tone bodes no emotion to his concern - she is not sorry at all.
“I suppose I should have left him to your care, then?” Her head tilts, bottle blond hair pooling to one shoulder. “Why, that was my first idea as well, Viktor. I considered coming into contact with you - he wasn’t my problem, I truly had no need nor desire to care for another human being. But, you see, Yuri hated you.
“Yuri requested your distance from us. See, you continued to dance about the world with your beloved husband - his replacement, I assume? - while my friend was left to face his burdens alone. Such an adult world you had thrust him into, Viktor; promising him **routines** and coaching in exchange for his obedience. He had done everything you asked of him, and yet, you had only given him a piece of your promise. You pushed him to the absolute limits of bodily and mental health, and where did that lead him?
“Miss Baranovskaya… does that name sound of familiarity, Viktor?”
White flashes beneath pale lips. The woman at the core of Yuri’s hurt - ah, what Victoria would give for an hour of her time. But the man before them, yes, he was just as evil. Magazines would publish laminated photographs of the married couples’ vacations across the world. Paparazzi snaps of them kissing along the ocean in Cuba, post-competition snapshots of their gold medals side-by-side. Through the six years of their companionship, Victoria never once required concern towards his location. Perhaps accepting his death was easier than putting effort into others.
“You left him no choice, did you not?” Victoria questions, her fingers long since stilled against Yuri’s head. “You abandoned your beloved competitor for a fresh piece of meat with a new skill set. You flew across the sea and stayed in his family’s hotel. Yet, I see you couldn’t let Yuri go - you dangled carrots atop his head, promising if he jumped across fire and ice, he would receive his treat. And that resulted with his heartbreak - you handed your friend to the devil.”
Hazel abandons the blue expanse of Viktor’s gaze. Victoria sighs, bored, allowing stiff fingers to warm against Yuri’s skin. “Not that I care. I never had to bother with hiding him. I saw you entered the States for competition, but you left without even extending a single concern to his location. Not even a headline asking others to keep their eyes open. Housing him was as easy as letting a friend stay the night.
“Yuri is different because_ you _hadn’t the care to find him.” Victoria’s voice goes cold - her smile widens, and she looks up to Viktor once more, eyes widening by a minute measure for emphasis.
“He is alive. He is healthy. He is warm, clothed, and given warm meals thrice a day. Be thankful for his existence, Nikirorov - without me, your friend would be ground meat smeared across the Pulaski Skyway. His life would have ended, all because YOU failed him.”
❅ — the russian had heard the quiet mewls coming from around victoria’s waist; the confessions of lust and admiration from the younger, along with the pleas of мамочка. it really only turned his stomach more, and he felt a burning within him that begged to spread like wildfire.
and he was prepared to spread it.
however, the voice of a petite french woman soon brought about his hesitation. he scowled down at her, unable to look at yuri in his piteous form, reluctant to listen at all to the snarky tone that cut through the empty apartment like a knife. however, he finally became attentive, exhausted mind registering just what words that voice held.
yuri hated him.
viktor nikiforov had hardly ever been a hated man — lonely, maybe, but hated? the scowl that had contorted his features relaxed, and his set jaw fell to something expressionless. with every phrase and attack that victoria spat at him, his eyes widened just a fraction more as the weight on his chest grew heavier. his breath increased. sweat gathered on his brow.
he swallowed, hands now shaking at his sides as he brought them up to smooth away the damp silvery tresses that stuck to his forehead, more thin now than they had ever been. he doesn’t interrupt the woman’s tirade. he doesn’t have the energy nor the heart to. he knows. it’s true.
it’s true it’s true it’s true.
there’s a moment of deadly silence, something tense and dangerous between victoria’s last words and his first. he wants to say it. he wants to say so much.
he takes a deep breath and chokes back something between a sob and a cry for help, finally turning away from the pair in a flurry of feeling. eyes that were akin to the ocean had grown stormy and dark as they settled on the wedding photo that hung from the wall. so fragile. so transient.
so breakable.
without a second thought, his fist is through the glass, the shards scattering around him like celebratory fireworks. he can’t see through his tears. everything is a blur and everything is just too much, and he knows his hand is bloody and bruised but god why did it even matter anymore? he had lost yuri and then he had lost yuuri and now.
now he had finally lost himself.
he sinks to the floor, the crunch of broken memories beneath him hardly audible over his gasps and wheezes. he buries his face in his hands, sobbing like a child.
“do you think i intended to let him go? the boy was dead. the media, yakov, lilia, mila for christ’s sake said that he had left a note. i could’ve gone! i could’ve searched, i fucking know it,” he barks to the glass beneath him, battered fists pounding into hardwood despite it all. “but i had felt responsible. i knew what i had done was wrong. i knew i had killed him.”
he finally looks back up, hair askew and looking more aged that he ever had, cerulean pools still shimmering with tears and undeniable kindness as they met hazel once more. “but i had never meant to,” he nearly pleads, “i had never meant to hurt him. he was everything i wished i could be at that age. so full of fire. so full of life. his wings hadn’t been clipped the way mine were. he filled me with hope.”
he scrapes himself off the ground, tears streaking his porcelain cheeks as he recalls it all, and once he’s finally unfurled himself like an easter lily that had bloomed too soon, he sighs, fully accepting the winter that came to finally freeze him to death.
“i was selfish,” he says, voice soft and raspy with emotion, “and i forgot about the dreams i’d instilled on a boy who never needed me. on the boy who we both knew would surpass me, would make my accomplishments a joyous memory for all of russia to behold. i knew he didn’t need me to be his coach.”
his eyes settle on the photo that now lay tattered in a mess of blood, wood, and glass. “but i saw a man who did, and i chased the one thing that had ever made me feel truly alive.”
he reaches out, caressing his husband’s cheek, wondering what on earth yuuri nikiforov could possibly be smiling about. still, he smiles back, tears splattering on the portrait like blood. like a crime scene.
“i never caught it though.”
