Summary: Arthur falls off a cliff and lands in the past. Hellbent spoilers.
Part 1: here
Part 3: here
Arthur slipped into the garage, inhaling the lingering smell of oil and petrol. It's strangely comforting. Lance is standing with his back to him. He’s motioning to his assistant Darrel, leaning over an open car engine and pointing at something of interest. Around them, spare parts and various tools are hung in their places along the walls and stacked neatly on selves. The mundane sight is a balm to his completely shot nerves.
“Arthur,” his Uncle greets jovially, eyes still fixed on the car, “There you are. Get over here and take a look at this beast,”
Arthur automatically takes a step and hesitates. He’s is in his pyjamas, a lose faded t-shirt and shorts, and completely barefoot. Definitely, not workshop approved attire.
Lance steps back off the low foot-bench, used to reach into the tricker parts of car engines, glancing back, “Poor bastards broke down a few miles up. New-fangled electric hybrid engine so I’ll get ya to take a look at it before anythin.”
Their eyes meet and he trails off, giving Arthur a once over. Lance immediately frowns and Arthur can practically hear the lecture on workshop health and safety forming in his Uncle’s head.
He quickly steps back into the doorway and blurts, “Sorry, um, could I borrow your phone for a second?”
Lance crossed his arms unimpressed, “Ya know that crap about shoes in the workshop is there for a reason, right.”
“Sorry, Sorry,” Arthur rubs the back of his head with his left hand. It’s nice to be able to do so without getting the strands caught in metal panels, “I, uh, forgot….”
“Hey Arthur, catch,” Darrel, thankfully, interrupts his muddled excuse, tossing his phone from across the room. Arthur spends a good few seconds fumbling the item, trying to adjust to his heightened levels of coordination. Mercifully, he doesn’t drop it. He shoots Darrel an appreciative glance.
“The password’s 1234,” Darrel grins and Lance gives them both an unimpressed stare.
“Thanks, Darrel. I’ll just go and…uh…get dressed?”
He starts to turn and beat a retreat. This is obviously not the time for attempting conversation, his was mind fumbling for sentences worse than usual. He hesitated mid turn because finding another phone had not been his objective when coming down here.
“Could you tell me the date real quick?” He asked, forcing himself not to fidget. Lance is now looking more concerned than annoyed, squinting at Arthur like he’s trying figure something out. His Uncle is blunt and to the point, hiding his inherently perceptive nature under a layer of grumpiness. He probably knows somethings up. Hopefully, it would be attributed to a poor nights sleep.
“It’s the 4th”
“and the year?”
Now Darrel is also looking confused, “2014?”
“Right. Thanks,” Arthur spins on his heel marching away, avoiding any incoming ‘are you okays’ and ‘Is something wrongs.’ It’s not the smoothest of exits but he honestly wasn’t feeling up for any more conversation. Not when his mind is buzzing with impossibilities.
Arthur walks straight back to his room. The old lock on his door is back and he fixates on it briefly before pushing inside. His room is warming, morning light still spilling through the window. It catches on the peach-coloured wallpaper, giving everything an orange glow. It’s comforting and Arthur seats himself at a surprisingly sparse desk. There’s a small stack of notes filled with calculations and he puts Darrel’s phone down on top of them after quickly checking the date. Then he turns on his computer and checks there as well. It’s all the same. 2014. He glanced around for Galahad who was nowhere to be seen. Neither is his cage or tricked-out running wheel. But that makes sense. He had bought Galahad a year ago, meaning it would be a year until he saw the hamster again. Confusing and disappointing. He could really use a Galahad right about now.
So… date confirmed. 2014. He doesn’t know what it means and part of him still wants to grab his keys, drive into town, and question more people. The how’s, what’s and why’s circle around his head, leaving him at a loss.
Was he suffering a mental break? Was this the afterlife? One minute he’s falling and Lewis is…Lewis is… and the next minute he’s in bed and all the evidence is pointing to it being two years earlier. Only, that’s impossible, because time travel is impossible. Just like ghosts were supposed to be impossible. Arthur frowns, massaging his head. He had learnt that lesson the hard way. Answers, as par for the course, elude him.
Reluctantly, he dredges up recollections of The Cave. In his mind, it’s a muddled mess of twisted horror and agony. For the last two years, it had been a clouded nightmare, drawing him down into sharp teeth and pain. He was loathe to revisit it, especially now, when his mental facilities and energy were a few moments away from a complete meltdown. Arthur poked at the memories anyway, trying fruitlessly to dig up answers. He remembered entering the cave, walking down into the dark. Lewis’ form up ahead, torch in hand.
Something sliding into this mind, ripping him open. He was trapped in shadow. There was no way out. Ahead of him, Lewis walked, touch light dimming. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
Nope. None of that. Arthur refocused, chocking off the worst of it. A few seconds of breathing exorcizes and re-centring later and he tried again. He remembered entering the cave. Losing sight of Lewis. Mystery. Losing his arm. Vivi’s panicked face before passing out. Then he had awoken in a hospital to lots of questions and no answers. Everything useful twist away, out of reach, taunting him. Police investigations had turned up nothing. Lewis was just gone. Not even a body left behind. The only one who probably had any clue was Mystery but the dog fluctuated between cagy to annoyingly vague on the details. Arthur had never pressed for more. Maybe he should have. If Lewis had died that night and Mystery had known. Had known all along. Then Mystery had watched as he and Vivi drove from one side of the country to the other, searching fruitlessly. No… Mystery had watched Arthur searching. Vivi had just been along for the ride, humouring his chase, all memories of Lewis gone.
Unsteadily, he ran both hands through his hair, pulling lightly at the strands and taking solace in the sensation. If that ghost was Lewis. Then Lewis had died. He had probably died in The Cave, making Lewis the purple ghost who had tried to…in the same cave…had succeeded…in…killing…
His left-hand sparks, sending small shocks through his shoulder. It's beyond trashed but the sensation gives him enough awareness to move it up in a jerky action. In his desperation, he manages to hopelessly cling to the ghost’s arm.
Arthur rests his forehead down against his desk, curling up around his restored arm. Phantom pains run up and down its length. He’s breathing heavily again, gasping for air.
Suddenly it's Lewis. Lewis is there but his face is twisted and hateful.
It takes a lot more than a few seconds but eventually he succeeds in pushing the memories and fear away, finding an equilibrium again.
Why?
The question hangs uncomfortably, weighing on his mind. With the information he has he doesn’t understand. There’s a lot he doesn’t understand now.
Arthur sits up and uncurls, leaning back on his chair to stare to the ceiling. Shakily, he wipes his face, rubbing the damp from his eyes. It doesn’t matter. Mystery. Lewis. If he was two years back in time then none of it mattered. Just more fuel for the nightmares, which would now be returning with a vengeance. He had been doing so well up until the mansion, managing a regular sleep schedule with seven full hours a night and everything.
For now, he leaves the conundrum alone, looking around for a distraction. There’s nothing of interest and he can’t for the life of him remember what he should be working on at this point in time. When had he finished that online engineering course? 2013? Arthur gets dressed and heads down to check out the hybrid engine his Uncle had mentioned before his abrupt exit.
Lance gives him a look when he returns but doesn’t mention Arthur’s odd behaviour. Darrel is there and he returns the guys phone, waving off another greeting. He slots back into the workshops routine without issue, listening to his Uncle and Darrel talk over their a recent acquisition as he examines, dismantles and reconstructs.
Just as he’s feeling some sense of normality, relaxing into the work, there’s a familiar yell of greeting from outside the garage. Through the open roller doors, on the other side of the chain-link fence designed to keep out the general public, Vivi is waving to catch his attention.
“Hey! Arthur! Hey! Can you let us in the front! No one’s answering. I told you, you need a better doorbell!”
Uncle Lance straightens, shaking his head.
“That girl,” he huffs, turning to Arthur, “How about ya go let your friends in before someone decides to climb a fence. I think I got this covered.”
Arthur stares at Vivi who is still waving, attention shifting. Next to her is a familiar purple-clad shape. He’s standing, hands tucked casually in pockets, watching Vivi yell with a fond smile. Any form of relaxation instantly evaporates.
It's Lewis.
Note: Because people seemed to like the idea I decided to continue. I do have a part 3 planned but it’ll probably take a few days to finish.
how about phichuuri and ‘nicest thing’ by kate nash just to eff me up
everyone’s been sending me breakup songs adele, what the hell do y’all take me for? 😂😂😂
The first time Phichit Chulanont sees Yuuri Katsuki, it’s on a grainy YouTube video feed of the Junior Grand Prix, and the older skater is sixteen and beautiful as he undulates to the violins of “Lohengrin”.
Even at that age, Yuuri Katsuki is already a steadily rising star, an international tour de force who’s clearly God’s gift to step sequences. And had it not been for how easily he seems to choke before major competitions, he’d probably have completely mauled Viktor Nikiforov’s junior world titles by now.
Phichit falls anyway. It’s almost as easy as breathing.
The first time Phichit meets Yuuri in person, it’s rinkside at Junior Worlds. Phichit’s family had pulled several strings to get the competition in Bangkok for his birthday, and Phichit is a bright and beaming birthday boy in his flower boy outfit.
He pushes a bouquet of bright red roses in Yuuri’s arms, grinning from ear to ear. “You skated so beautifully,” he says. Yuuri flushes as hard as the roses, tucking his face behind the bouquet.
“Thank you,” he mumbles from behind it. There’s a hamster plush dangling out of the crook of his arm, because he had once said in an interview that he had watched Hamtaro as a child (not that Phichit would know, of course, or have talked about it for ages). With slightly trembling fingers, Yuuri hands the hamster plush to Phichit, who takes it like it’s the Holy Grail.
“I hope you keep skating, too,” says Yuuri seriously.
“Okay,” agrees Phichit. “So we can be on the same ice together again?”
Yuuri nods. Phichit squeezes the hamster, and watches as the other boy heads for the boards.
Yuuri wins silver to Giacometti’s gold. Phichit cheers for him anyway.
The first time Phichit skates with Yuuri, they’re both proteges under Celestino Cialdini. Phichit’s been with CiaoCiao for far longer than Yuuri; his family had insisted on sending him to the States for both his schooling and training.
“We’ll be on the same ice every day, isn’t that exciting?” Phichit asks. Yuuri is notoriously reticent in his press, and quiet even out of it, but he smiles and nods all the same as he laces up his skates in the bleachers by the rink. “I think this will be your year, Yuuri, I bet you’ll make it to the GPF!”
“What about you?” asks Yuuri, raising an eyebrow. “Aren’t you trying to qualify, too?”
“Well, I just want to try my hardest and have fun,” says Phichit, shrugging. “I don’t have any quads under my belt just yet, and I don’t have to get out of juniors until next year, so.” He shrugs. “I’m not in a rush to master quads, anyway; I want to get better PCS first.”
Yuuri hums, stepping out onto the ice. Phichit follows him, mirroring his choctaws and figures with wide-eyed admiration.
“So you’re living in Detroit now?” he asks. “Where?”
“Celestino has a spare bedroom,” says Yuuri, flushing pink. “It’s temporary, until I get my own place –”
“Don’t worry,” says Phichit immediately. “My uncle has an apartment here that I’m taking care of for him. It’s not far, and he never visits, so he won’t mind.”
Yuuri blinks. “Are you sure about that?” he asks hesitantly.
The first time Phichit realises that whatever it is he’s tucked into his heart – whatever snarl of emotion that comes raging to the forefront whenever Yuuri looks over at him from under his floppy black fringe – is futile is when he notices Yuuri hanging up his collection of Viktor Nikiforov posters on the wall of his bedroom in their (well, his uncle’s) apartment.
No, that’s a lie. Phichit has known about Nikiforov for ages. Everyone who’s a fan of Yuuri Katsuki has known about Nikiforov ever since that one interview when he’d blurted out the skater’s name as his inspiration, blushing harder than a schoolgirl being forced to tell the name of her crush under pain of truth or dare.
Phichit watches the static faces of the silvery legend being mounted up one after another, the slide and slam of command strips being stuck to the back of each poster like nails being hammered into his heart. It’s one thing to read about Yuuri’s devotion in magazines and blogs, it’s another to see it in person, laid out through decades of careful memorabilia and idolisation.
That’s when Phichit knows, too, that Yuuri must never know about the skip in his own heart whenever Yuuri turns to him, whenever Yuuri smiles, whenever Yuuri does that little furrow of his brow when he’s deep in thought about something. His long hours at the rink, his dedicated figure-tracing, his tendencies to procrastinate on his assignments for school by watching figure skating tape over and over and over again.
Yuuri Katsuki will never love him the way Phichit wants him to, so he breaks his own heart and tapes it back up.
Yuuri doesn’t need to know.
The first time Phichit touches Yuuri, it’s almost an accident.
Phichit likes to think himself a very tactile person, someone who had been reared with hugs and kisses and doting attention from his large, loving family. Yuuri, too, has a family who loves and supports him, given their cheering him on across the grainy Skype feed every week, but physical contact is much less freely bestowed among the Katsukis. There are other ways to express love, and Phichit picks up on all of them almost immediately.
Yuuri is a thoughtful flatmate, picking up after Phichit’s occasional messes, doing the dishes without nary a complaint. Phichit tries, too, but Yuuri is too perfect in this regard, sometimes – he falls to chores like clockwork, even before Phichit thinks about them. The only thing he has some resistance about is laundry, and that’s probably too personal a thing for Phichit to take care of.
Still, touching. Phichit likes to think he’s tactile, but only with permission. So he does freeze apologetically when his fingers brush across Yuuri’s forearm in thanks for doing the dishes one night, and for a moment the two of them stare at one another like deer caught in the headlights.
And then Yuuri smiles, and relaxes, and Phichit tries hard to hide the way his knees melt at that.
Yuuri gravitates towards him almost unconsciously from there, curling up with Phichit on the couch or in their beds whenever they’re spending time together. When Phichit introduces him to The King and the Skater, Yuuri lies for most of the movie with his head in Phichit’s lap, riffing on the inaccurate figure skating and laughing at the dated special effects.
Phichit’s pretty sure he’s never heard any sound nicer. At least, besides “Shall We Skate?”, which is currently playing. On the screen, Arthur and Sakchai wobble out onto the lake, the king’s hand never leaving the skater’s.
“I want to skate to this someday,” Phichit says, his fingers fixated on Yuuri’s fingers. “Like, as a routine.”
“That sounds fantastic,” Yuuri remarks, flexing his fingers (and Phichit’s heart, by proxy). “You’d do it better than those two.”
“Hey,” chides Phichit. “I’ll have you know that Kenji Miyamoto choreographed these sequences.”
Yuuri laughs. “He must not have been trying that hard,” he replies. “You’d skate everyone in this movie under the table, Phichit-kun.”
Phichit would sooner die than admit that his heart had grown ten times lighter at that compliment. “Thanks, Yuuri,” he says sweetly. Yuuri’s eyes sparkle as he turns his attention back to the screen.
“Come on, you can clearly tell he has a skating double in that shot,” he whines. Phichit laughs at that. He reaches out, taking Yuuri’s hand, and wishes that he didn’t have to let go.
The first time Phichit loses Yuuri, Yuuri qualifies for the Grand Prix Final and then comes in sixth.
Yuuri goes home to Japan soon after, and soon after that Phichit hears through his burgeoning Instagram friendship with Christophe Giacometti that Viktor Nikiforov is looking for the Japanese skater. Chris won’t specify why, but Phichit has some suspicion it has to do with the video of Yuuri skating to “Stay Close to Me” that has gone viral.
It doesn’t come as much of a surprise for him to get a panicked text from Yuuri about Viktor showing up in Hasetsu. He’s been preparing for this day for years, it seems.
From the moment he first saw Yuuri to now, he had always been preparing to let him go.
The first time Phichit meets Viktor Nikiforov, the love of Yuuri’s life is helping himself to hot pot with the hunger of a man who’s been teased with Yuuri Katsuki’s thighs for years. So of course Phichit understands, perfectly, why Nikiforov seems to press himself closer to Yuuri the drunker he gets.
“Congratulations,” he tells Nikiforov a couple days after, moments before the gala exhibition. Yuuri is resplendent in his blue Stammi Vicino exhibition outfit, oblivious to the world a couple meters away. Phichit himself is skating to Kate Nash. It’s a more introspective exhibition than his usual exuberant ones, but he felt that the occasion warranted something like this.
“Interesting choice of music,” Nikiforov remarks.
Phichit smiles. It has a lot of teeth. “I’m working on strengthening my PCS,” he replies.
“A wise decision,” agrees Nikiforov, his expression carefully neutral.
“I learn from the best,” replies Phichit. “Take care of him.”
Nikiforov relaxes, but barely. He nods at Phichit, once, twice, just as the spotlight dims on the ice and the first notes of “Stay Close to Me” begin to play.
Phichit turns towards the ice, too, as the first and brightest star in his life takes to the ice. Yuuri is even more beautiful in person, the light soft across his delicate features.
It’s not the first time Phichit wished that things could’ve been different.
