Nearly year-old request for @outtacommission. I am so sorry it took me this long! Like, holy shit that took forever. It’s New Years, damn. Sorry again. But um, I hope you enjoy anyway!
Viktor injury!fic commences under the cut.
Yuuri stretches rink-side, preparing his muscles for practice. Viktor (as usual) has already beaten him to the ice. It’s only the two of them right now, music drifting from Viktor’s radio and carrying through the air. Yuuri feels like he can take his time like this, without a horde of other skaters to navigate through.
He can’t take too much time, or else Viktor will slip from husband mode to coach mode and demand he get a move on. But he can pause and take a moment to watch Viktor as he stretches his arms over his head, his spine giving a series of quiet pops.
Viktor glides across the ice as graceful as a swan and even now, a medalist in his own right, Yuuri still finds himself in awe.
The awe vanishes, heart plummeting to the pit of his gut as Viktor badly botches his death drop. Yuuri sees the precarious wobble of his ankle before it bends beneath him. A sharp snap pierces the air, echoing like the crack of a fresh celery stick as Viktor goes spilling onto the ice.
Yuuri bolts onto the rink, scrambling in a mad dash to get to him. He too falls, but he immediately gets up and Viktor doesn’t, Viktor doesn’t get up at all— Viktor is sprawled in a heap and the sight terrifies Yuuri like nothing else. He runs even faster and the slippery ice trips him up. He falls again and urgently crawls the rest of the way to Viktor, heart pounding.
Viktor stares up with saucer wide, glazed eyes; not at Yuuri, not at anything. His chest rises and falls with rapid, shallow breaths.
“You’re hurt,” Yuuri anxiously splutters. “How bad? It sounded pretty bad, who should I call?”
Viktor groans instead of answering and fumbles for his ankle with trembling fingers. As he shifts forward, the pitch of his groan heightens until it’s an anguished whine. Yuuri quickly takes his hand and pulls it away before he can make it worse.
“No, don’t touch it,” he urges hastily. “I’ll call an ambulance, hold on.”
Viktor groans again and squeezes his eyes shut, face draining to a ghastly pallor. “Okay,” he says, small and quavery. A shield of unshed tears glistens over his eyes and the dented look of his cheeks draw Yuuri to the conclusion that he’s biting them on the inside.
His husband is trying desperately not to cry.
Yuuri sucks in a breath and tries to get a handle on his nerves. He can’t help Viktor if he can’t harness the anxiety that threatens to send him into a frenzy. Viktor needs him right now. Yuuri paws over his pockets in a blind search for his phone, growing all the more fretful when he finds them empty.
“I’m not sure where my phone is. Do you have yours?”
“Jacket pocket,” Viktor croaks. He winces as he reaches for it and Yuuri stills his arm again, taking it out himself. He doesn’t want Viktor to worsen the pain he’s already in.
By the time Yuuri makes it through his panicky ambulance call, Viktor’s stoic efforts give way to open suffering. He clutches at his ankle before Yuuri can stop him, hissing between gritted teeth. A violent shudder racks through his rigid frame and a lower, weaker groan claws its way out of his throat.
“You’re going to be alright,” Yuuri promises, taking his hand. “They’ll be here soon. Just hold on, Viktor.”
“What did I do?” he all but whimpers. “Ooh, Yuuri, what did I do?”
Yuuri doesn’t know the answer but he knows it isn’t good. It isn’t good at all, but of course, he can’t say that to Viktor. He has to comfort him as much as he can.
“Here,” Yuuri says, bypassing the questions as he unties his own jacket from around his waist. He bundles it beneath Viktor’s head and cards his fingers through his hair, cursing the nervous way they shake.
Viktor blinks up at him, mouth pulling into a grimace as he tries to swallow back another whimper.
“Don’t worry,” Yuuri says, giving Viktor’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’m going to be the best nurse ever. I’m going to wait on you hand and foot, and fluff all your pillows, and cook everything you want. I’ll even let you drink vodka by the bottle.”
Yuuri sees the struggle in Viktor’s eyes as he tries to focus on Yuuri above the pain, this twitch at the corner of his lips when he fails to force a smile. The pale hint of a laugh in his strained breath.
“Sponge baths,” he grates out.
“Yes!” Yuuri exclaims brightly. “Of course. All the sponge baths you want, whenever you want.”
The next noise Viktor makes almost sounds like a sob and the agony that washes over his face just about breaks Yuuri’s heart.
“I’m sorry,” Yuuri murmurs, tenderly stroking his fingers through Viktor’s hair. “I’m sorry, I know it hurts. Just hold on a little longer, help is coming.”
Viktor feebly clings to his hand and gives a terse nod. A sheen of sweat glitters along his brow despite the chill of the air in the rink. Yuuri dabs at it with the corner of his sleeve and continues babbling on in a soft voice about all the meals he’s going to cook for Viktor, and the classics they’re going to watch while he’s healing, the lotion he’ll treat him to after every sponge bath, just everything he can think of to give Viktor to latch onto…
“I thought you’d pick blue,” Yuuri says, looking up from his task on the kitchen counter. He’s organizing Viktor’s pills for the week into a plastic container. One prescription is for the pain and another is for the nausea that’s a frequent side effect of the painkillers.
“Hm?” Viktor tosses a glance back to him. He’s experimentally roaming their apartment with his crutches, trying to “break them in” as he’d told Yuuri.
“Your cast,” Yuuri says simply. “I thought you’d pick blue.”
It’s a short cast, immobilizing his husband’s ankle up to the knee. It wasn’t as bad a break as it could’ve been, but the doctor didn’t give a definitive answer on whether or not it would recover well enough to handle the demands of Viktor’s career. They would have to wait and see in regards to that.
It’s a conversation bound to come up even before the cast comes off. It’s not something Yuuri is going to bring up tonight, however.
“You don’t like purple?” Viktor frowns, casting an uncertain glance to his injured limb.
“I like it,” Yuuri assures him, smiling sheepishly. “I don’t know, I just thought you’d pick blue.”
Viktor tries to navigate his way around the ottoman with his crutches, a tad too wobbly for Yuuri’s comfort.
“Well, what color would you pick?”
Yuuri pauses as he considers, warily distracted by Viktor’s near misstep. “Black, I think.”
“That’s dreary.” Viktor wrinkles his nose, shifting to make his way forward. “Or emo. I bet Yurio would pick bla—oh!”
Viktor stumbles and Yuuri swiftly dives around the counter, catching him before he can topple. Viktor gasps, almost frantically grasping for Yuuri as he struggles for balance.
“I’ve got you,” Yuuri insists, bearing up like a pillar to support his husband’s weight. “It’s okay, I won’t let you go. But you’ve got to take a break now, okay?”
Viktor nods, face gone pale. Yuuri can tell he’s shook up from the near-fall. He helps him hobble to the couch and Viktor flops back onto it heavily. He stretches his legs out along the cushions and Yuuri wedges a throw pillow under his ankle.
“Thanks, Yuuri,” Viktor sighs. He sounds tired beyond tired, a catch in his voice that betrays pain.
Yuuri purses his lips, wondering if he should offer him another pain pill. Viktor’s already had the full dose so he probably shouldn’t, but still…He’s had a horrible day, putting it lightly. His figure skating career was winding down anyway and this injury very well may have stolen his chance to end it on the showstopper that could be expected of the legend that was Viktor Nikiforov.
This might have killed his chance to end it on his own terms and perhaps the uncertainty, the unknown, was even worse than a solid confirmation for the good or the bad. In any case, it must be tearing Viktor up inside, lest of all the physical pain the pill evidently hasn’t entirely numbed.
Yuuri almost asks if he wants another pill and then almost asks what he wants for dinner instead. What he settles on is putting a gentle hand on his shoulder and asking,
“What else can I do?”
“You’re here,” Viktor says, flashing him a sad smile. “Right now, I think that’s enough.”
Yuuri presses a warm kiss to his cheek and doesn’t mention it when he tastes the salt of a stray tear against his lips.