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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Summary:
Victor Katsuki-Nikiforov deserves a proper, romantic love letter, and there's only one person in the world who is qualified to write it for him.
(or, Yuuri is Extra and loves his husband a whole awful lot.)
For WeWriteVictuuri's weekly prompt: "You did all of this for me?"
Vitya Week Day 3: Loved
Happy Birthday to the best boy!
Victor is 16 years old when he first becomes aware of Victor Nikiforov, in his bedroom at Yakov and Lilia’s house, reading an article in a sports magazine entitled “5 Up-And-Comers to Watch Out For This Season”. Next to the number 3 in the article, his own face stares back at him from the page. Victor Nikiforov, Men’s Singles Figure Skating, Age16, Russia. It’s your standard magazine fare, a little two-paragraph blurb about his background, his past accomplishments, his hobbies, his interests.
Victor Nikiforov loves dogs, it says. His favourite thing to do outside the rink is to curl up with a good book, it says. His favourite flowers are blue roses, it says, and Victor grins bemusedly at the page. He isn’t sure where the author of this particular column had gotten that idea. His favourite flowers have always been lilacs. His grandmother had had a few lilac trees in her garden back home when he was young, and the scent has always made him think of her.
It doesn’t bother him, at the time. It’s an insignificant tidbit of misinformation, nothing to worry about. And two out of three correct factoids isn’t bad, he supposes. And then, at his next competition, when he finishes his skate, the crowd showers the ice in blue roses.
Victor doesn’t dislike the roses, and it would be both rude and pointless to try and correct people about his preferred type of flower. So he accepts the bouquets with a gracious smile and a wave to the crowd.
That’s how it starts, in his mind, that disparity between the real Victor and Victor Nikiforov.
Victor Nikiforov loves roses, where Victor loves lilacs.
Simple enough.
And then it starts to grow.
As Victor’s accomplishments pile up, so does attention from sponsors, from fans, from sports media outlets. And with each interview, each publication, each sponsorship deal, Victor Nikiforov grows, a perception, an idea of him and the kind of person he is that exists completely in the public’s collective imaginations, completely out of his control.
Victor Nikiforov is effortlessly graceful on the ice, while Victor has to put in hours of gruelling, sweaty work at the rink each and every day.
Victor Nikiforov lands his quads smoothly, surprising and delighting his audience, while Victor is sent sprawling to the cold, hard unforgiving surface of the rink over and over and over again.
Victor Nikiforov’s skin is flawless, and his hair flows elegantly over his shoulders, pristine and shimmering. Victor breaks out on the regular and it takes ages for him to brush out his tangles each morning.
Victor Nikiforov is delightfully bright and charming, always ready with a winning smile and cheeky wink that send young men and women alike swooning. Victor has days where he feels so empty and hollow and drained inside that he can barely bring himself to get out of bed to take Makkachin for a walk.
Victor Nikiforov is a playboy, hopping from relationship to relationship, leaving a trail of broken hearts in his wake. And Victor? Well, Victor isn’t quite so lucky in love.
It’s not that he doesn't want love; quite the opposite. He craves it so much it hurts, this ever-present ache in his chest in the shape of someone, anyone, who could ease the terrible loneliness that eats away at him. He seeks out love in all its forms, falls briefly in love with nearly anyone who shows him positive attention.
But none of them want him. They all want Victor Nikiforov. They want beauty and glamour and talent and charm, and he can do that. He does that, for them, for a time. He learns to perform Victor Nikiforov flawlessly, to live in that mask for days, weeks, months on end. Long enough, he hopes, to make them stay.
But they never do. No matter how well he performs Victor Nikiforov, he can’t keep up the charade forever. Eventually, inevitably, Victor shows through. Workaholic Victor, forgetful Victor, Victor with bedhead and no makeup on, Victor who occasionally gets annoyed and snappy and sarcastic. Victor who sweats and bleeds and works and works and works and works. Victor who can’t “just cheer up.” Victor who is too clingy, too needy, too much.
They hadn’t signed on for that, none of them had.
So they leave, all of them, over and over again, and honestly? Victor can’t blame them. He prefers Victor Nikiforov, too. He knows if he ever wants a hope of finding love, of deserving love, he has to do better.
So he leans into Victor Nikiforov, tries to become him. He puts in more hours at the rink, working from the crack of dawn until he can barely move from exhaustion, pushing himself to his absolute limits and beyond. He practices that winning smile in the mirror, practices and practices and practices until you can barely even tell that it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He destroys himself over and over and over again, breaks himself down and rebuilds as many times as it takes to live up to people’s expectations.
Victor Nikiforov is an image, you see, a concept rather than a human being, so it’s easy enough to change and mold him as the need arises. One season he is Victor Nikiforov the Rebel, the next he is Victor Nikiforov the Sensitive Artist, the next, Victor Nikiforov the Playboy. He becomes a new person each year, becomes whatever is necessary to continue to surprise his audience, to exceed their expectations, to be worthy of their admiration and love the way he knows Victor could never be. And it is exhausting work.
He lives in the ever-changing mask of Victor Nikiforov for so long that he might have forgotten it was even there, if not for that cold, lonely, desperately sad part of him curled up deep inside, begging for a love that was real and whole and unconditional, a love that he knows Victor could never be worthy of. But even that becomes easy enough to ignore after a time. His career is flourishing, the sponsor offers are pouring in, the world is at his feet. There are more than enough distractions to keep that ugly, broken part of himself quiet.
But try as he might, he can never silence it completely. It’s always there, and more pronounced than ever in the quiet moments when he returns home from the rink to his empty apartment, when he stands on the beach looking out onto the ocean, when he wakes up every morning in a cold and empty bed.
Victor Nikiforov has everything in the world, and yet Victor has never felt emptier.
Those closest to him might notice, he thinks. Yakov notices, but he never says much. As long as Victor continues to medal and pay his coaching fees, it isn’t really his place to pry into his personal life. Makkachin notices too, when Victor comes home exhausted, slumps down against the door and buries his face in her fur. But of course, she never says anything either.
His career slowly loses its allure. The constant pressure to continue to exceed expectations starts to weigh on him. He is 25, and he knows his body can only do so much for so long. Even Victor Nikiforov has limits, after all, and for the first time, he is struck with the prospect of eventually having to face them. He can no longer shock and amaze the audience like he once could. They still love him - still love Victor Nikiforov, that is - but it’s only a matter of time until he can no longer handle the physical toll of this sport. He has reached the apex of his career, reached as high as he can… it’s only downhill from here.
So, these are his options. He can stay in competition until his body gives out entirely, getting knocked lower and lower on the podium until he never even makes it on at all, and shrink into obscurity as the sad story of a once-talented skater who had fallen from grace.
Or he can walk away from the career that is slowly killing him, retire while he is still on top… and then what? He has given everything for his career, everything, always. He has nothing else. Nothing but an empty apartment and a beloved dog who is pushing 14. That’s it. His whole life.
And either of those options would kill Victor Nikiforov.
If he stays in competition until he burns out, his carefully constructed persona wil crack, and the world will see him as he really was. Clumsy, imperfect, unworthy.
If he walks away from the world of figure skating, Victor Nikiforov will fade into obscurity just the same. And with his limited interests outside the sport, few friends and no family, he’d just end up stuck in his apartment with a stranger be barely even knows.
It’s an impossible choice. So, like every other difficult and painful thought, he pushes it deep down inside himself, plasters a dazzling smile on his face, and pretends nothing is wrong. Lets the concern fester inside him along with everything else, and, for the time being, keeps going with his career like he always has.
And then Sochi.
Another medal like a noose around his neck. Another empty smile. Another boring banquet, sipping champagne and waiting for it to be over so he can go back to his room, take off his mask, and shut out the world again.
And then Yuuri Katsuki.
Confident, alluring, inebriated Yuuri Katsuki, dancing like a fool in a room full of the creme de la creme of the figure skating world.
Victor Nikiforov would never do something so tasteless. Victor Nikiforov is polished and perfect, sociable but reserved enough to keep himself out of too much trouble. Victor Nikiforov really shouldn’t even be watching this, should just smile fetchingly and then politely direct his attention somewhere else.
But Victor can’t take his eyes off the man.
Yuuri Katsuki is breathtaking. He moves like pure sin, drawing Victor almost unconsciously into his orbit. His dark eyes bore into him, hazy from the drink but sparkling with want. He asks him to dance, and before Victor has time to think it though, he’s in Yuuri Katsuki’s arms, the world is spinning around them, and he feels lighter than he has in years.
Victor Nikiforov shouldn't be doing this, he knows. Victor Nikiforov has an image to uphold.
But Victor is weak. He wants to stay in Yuuri Katsuki’s arms forever.
“Be my coach, Victor!”
…And maybe, just maybe, he can.
But Yuuri Katsuki never calls him back.
He passes the time working on new programs. Eros, because his dreams are filled with dark eyes and champagne and strong arms around him. Agape, because he wonders what it would be like to experience a love that was truly unconditional.
What it would be like if that dark-eyed man could love him, unconditionally. It’s a pipe dream, he knows, but it’s also the only thing that keeps him going.
And then, a link to a YouTube video. And then, a plane. And then, a hot spring in Japan.
Victor Nikiforov would never do something this impulsive and irrational. Victor doesn’t care.
While putting his things in his room, he catches a glimpse of Yuuri’s own bedroom down the hall. Specifically, of the posters lining his walls. Victor Nikiforov, in all his carefully posed and airbrushed glory, stares down at him from every angle.
The posters go back through nearly his entire career. Victor Nikiforov with long hair, with short hair, the rebel, the artist, the heartthrob. They all look down at him, this confusing hodgepodge of masks he’s worn throughout the years. Looking back at these perfect, idealized versions of himself, an uncomfortable feeling forms in the pit of his stomach.
Which version do you want, Yuuri?
He makes sure to greet Yuuri Katsuki in a manner befitting of Victor Nikiforov, rising from the water and posing himself like a statue in the middle of the hot spring. Beautiful, confident, beckoning. Victor is terrified. By the looks of it, Yuuri Katsuki is, too. This is surprising.
The first of many surprises, all of which boil down to one simple fact:
Yuuri is not like Yuuri Katsuki.
He is timid, polite, and turns beet red every time Victor goes near him. He stammers and flinches away when Victor tries to touch him. He starts to actively try to avoid him.
Af first, Victor worries that maybe he was wrong, after all. Maybe Yuuri doesn’t like him. But then his mind flits back to that poster-adorned wall, all those versions of himself - of Victor Nikiforov - staring down at him.
Which one do you want?
He doesn’t know who he’s supposed to be. He doesn’t know what mask to wear that will convince Yuuri that he’s worth his love, his attention, his time, that he’s worth anything at all. So finally, in desperation, he asks. Sitting on a sandbank, sandwiching Makkachin between them, his question hanging in the air with the smell of saltwater and the sound of seagulls’ cries.
And Yuuri thinks.
And Yuuri answers.
And of all the things he could have said, he chooses the one reply that sends a bolt of terror straight through Victor’s heart.
He doesn’t want him to be anything. He just wants him to be Victor.
Just Victor.
Victor doesn’t even know who Just Victor is. He doesn’t even like Just Victor. And why should he? No one else ever has.
But if it’s what Yuuri wants, he’ll do it. He’ll do anything for the chance to stay by Yuuri’s side, even if it means being Just Victor.
So he tries to let his walls down. It’s a long and painful process, and he still slips into old habits. He hides behind his smile when he’s angry or sad, tucks himself away behind the mask of Victor Nikiforov in the public eye, but… he tries.
And somehow, somehow… Yuuri manages to love Victor.
He manages to love the Victor he sees first thing every day, with bedhead and morning breath. He loves the Victor he sees in the hot spring, makeup washed off and hair sticking to his too-large forehead (when Victor mentions he’s insecure about it, Yuuri tells him it’s the perfect size for covering in kisses, and proceeds to do just that). He loves the Victor who is clumsy with his words, who doesn’t quite know how to handle Yuuri’s anxiety yet, who makes mistakes. The Victor who is flawed. The Victor who is human.
And Victor loves the Yuuri who shies away from him. Who can be cold and aloof, who assumes the worst of people. Who gets so lost in his own thoughts that he forgets to communicate. Who has his selfish moments and jumps to conclusions too easily.
And Victor loves him. He loves him. Loves him more than he ever thought it was possible to love another human being. Loves him so much he feels his heart might break out of his chest every time Yuuri smiles that gentle, cautious smile in his direction.
He feels light, free in a way that he hasn’t felt in years. There is still a disconnect between himself and the public’s perception of him but he doesn’t mind so much anymore. They can have their Victor Nikiforov if they want. Yuuri thinks that Just Victor is enough, and that is more than enough for Victor.
__________
Still, he has his moments of weakness. Moments where he doubts himself and his worth. Moments where he feels small, weak, inadequate.
He asks Yuuri how he feels about Victor Nikiforov one night, curled up in bed together as Yuuri runs his fingers through his hair. He doesn’t exactly mean to, it just comes tumbling out. When he finishes speaking, Yuuri looks desperately sad.
“Don’t you, you know... prefer him?” Victor asks, his voice just a shade above a whisper, so afraid of the answer that he can barely manage to ask the question.
“I used to,” Yuuri admits after a while, and Victor’s heart sinks. Yuuri must see it in his eyes, because he cups Victor’s face gently and turns it to look at him. “And then I met you, and you were so much better.”
Yuuri’s eyes are so unbearably soft and earnest that Victor has to look away, his eyes stinging and vision blurring, but he’s stopped again by Yuuri’s gentle hand on his cheek.
“Listen, Victor. Whoever it was in your past that made you feel like you weren’t enough, they were wrong. So, so wrong. And honestly, I feel sorry for them, because they’ll never get to see you the way I see you. They way you always know what to say to cheer someone up on a bad day. The silly little songs you make up when you brush Makkachin.” He smiles cheekily. “The way you snort when you laugh too hard.”
Victor gasps, offended. “I do not!”
“You do!” Yuuri grins. “You absolutely do, and I love it. I love you, Victor Nikiforov.”
And there it is again, that gentle smile that knocks him off his feet every time. He blinks back his tears and cuddles into Yuuri’s chest. “Call me Vitya?”
Yuuri hums, tender and full of love, and leans in to press a soft kiss to Victor’s forehead. “I love you, my Vitya.”
“I love you too, Yuuri.”
_______
“Victor Nikiforov is dead,” Yurio spits at him on a beach in Barcelona, several weeks later.
It’s true, Victor thinks as his ring sparkles in the early-morning sunlight, but not in the way that Yurio intends it.
Victor Nikiforov is dead, and good riddance to him.
He likes the sound of Victor Katsuki-Nikiforov better, anyways.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Victor has been drowning for a long, long time.
And now he’s latched onto Yuuri Katuski in turn, blinded by hopeless infatuation and his own desperation to keep his head above the water.
Yakov doesn’t know if Katsuki is dragging Vitya down with him or vice versa, but he knows how this will end. They will sink to the bottom together, hearts broken and careers in tatters, and Yakov doesn’t know if he’ll be able to repair the damage.
After all, he's far too old to jump in after drowning boys.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“No, we haven't set a date yet.” Victor says, still smiling. “We both want to really focus on the season ahead before we start planning.” That, and Yuuri still has it in his head that he needs to earn five gold medals before they get married. As if he needs to prove something. As if Victor wouldn’t marry him right here and now in this ballroom if he’d let him.
“Ahh,” The sponsor chortles. “Probably for the best. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, young man. You’ll want to value all the time you have left before hitching yourself to the ol’ ball and chain!”
Victor’s smile freezes on his face. “Excuse me?”
or, Misguided Old Dude attempts anti-marriage "bro talk" with Victor, and it goes about as well as you'd expect.
i did a non-angst for once????????????
the best laid plans
Summary: After months of preparation, the diamond heist of the century is finally underway. Legendary mastermind Victor Nikiforov and infamous catburglar Katsuki Yuuri are in the final stages of their operation to steal the famed Ocean's Eye, but when things start to unravel at a crucial moment, matters of the heart conflict with the successful completion of their mission.
After all, there are some things you just can't plan for.
(For WeWriteVictuuri's Weekly Prompt: "I never planned on falling for you.")
on AO3
Yuuri's lungs burn as he runs, feet pounding against the metal floor, heart pounding against his ribs. The dark hallway illuminates around him, flashing red intermittently, accompanied by a ceaseless, blaring alarm.
The lights and sirens should be disorienting but he feels no confusion, only adrenaline pumping through his veins. After months of poring over schematics and blueprints, he knows the underbelly of this plane like the back of his own hand. They’ve run through this a thousand times, planned for every variable… even despite Cao Bin’s betrayal, he knows they can still pull this off.
Another red flash illuminates the hallway, and Yuuri can see it before him - the cargo hold door. He speeds up, and hears the footsteps behind him speed up too - Victor, hot on his heels, a comforting presence despite the situation. As long as Victor is here, they can get out of this.
He slips his stolen keycard out of his sleeve as he approaches the hold door, a pang of relief flooding him as the light on the lock turns green, allowing him access.
He sprints across the threshold and Victor follows, slamming the hold door shut behind him and tossing something slim and metallic in Yuuri's direction before proceeding to the outer hold door.
Upon examination, Yuuri recognizes the object in his hand as one of Sara's electromagnetic locks. It won't keep Rozanov's people out forever, but it will buy them time - enough time, Yuuri hopes, for Victor to come up with a plan to get them out of here.
He presses the device against the space between the door and the wall and switches it on, holding it in place until the blue indicator illuminates. Now, nothing short of an equally powerful electromagnet will open it.
“So,” he says conversationally, stepping back as the door in front of him takes its first savage hit from the guards. “What's the plan?”
“Only one way out from here,” Victor murmurs, still busy with the latch for the external door. “We're gonna have to jump.”
Yuuri's hand flies immediately to his back, where Sara's pocket chute sits snugly clipped on to his jacket, no bigger than a stick of gum, but ready to unfold into a fully functional parachute at the click of a button and-
Wait. Wait, this isn't right. Yuuri’s heart skips a beat, his fingers searching along the back of his jacket, but finding no contact with the device. This can’t be right. He swore he'd clipped it on the moment they boarded the jet. It should be there, it should still be there, unless-
Unless.
Oh, god.
“Victor.” His voice is remarkably calm to his own ears, as though his vocal cords haven’t yet caught up with his frantically pounding heart.
“Mmm?” Victor barely even responds, engrossed in the door latch.
“My chute, it's… it's gone.”
Victor’s head snaps up abruptly. “What?”
“I must have lost it in the fight.”
He remembers now. The brief tussle with Cao Bin in Rozanov’s safe room. The way he had clawed at Yuuri’s back those few alarming seconds when he had him pinned, before Victor had entered the fray to save him. He’d been too preoccupied with staying alive at the moment to even think about the traitor’s intent, but now, it all becomes clear.
It hadn't been an act of blind rage after all, but a conscious effort to rob Yuuri of his only way off Rozanov's jet. In taking it, he has effectively stranded him here, left to their mark’s mercy.
Victor seems to have realized it too, looking truly alarmed for the first time. He curses under his breath, runs a hand through his hair, and then curses again, abandoning the door latch and pacing back and forth across the hold.
Dread settles like a lead weight in Yuuri's stomach. He’s never seen Victor like this, so shaken, so unsure. The man exudes an aura of confidence, always. For him to be so openly worried… they might really be out of options.
“Victor?”
He stops pacing, fixing Yuuri with a steady gaze. His face is unreadable, but Yuuri thinks he can see something of a storm behind his eyes. It makes him uneasy.
“Take this,” he says shortly, tossing Yuuri another electromagnetic lock. “We’re going to need some more time.”
Yuuri complies without question, turning back towards the door and placing the second lock beneath the first. His hands shake as he engages the device, and he puts all his effort into stilling them. He already knows what needs to happen. His chute is gone; there’s no way out for him now. The best he can do at this point is to put on a brave face.
Victor does not seem quite as stoic when Yuuri turns back around. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Victor looked almost distraught at the prospect of continuing the job without him, paralyzed by doubt and fear.
“Victor,” Yuuri says steadily. “You know you're going to have to leave-”
“No!” He snaps, running a hand distractedly through his hair. “No, I'm not. I won't leave you here.”
There's a barely-there catch in his voice. Something almost tender, almost pleading, that takes Yuuri's breath away. But he doesn't have time to unpack those feelings, not now, so he swallows them down and presses on.
“You have to,” he insists. “I've done my part., I'm expendable, you don't need me to finish the-”
“Stop talking like that, Yuuri!”
“Why should I?” Yuuri snaps, his own stubborn streak taking hold. “Victor, you have to think rationally about this. You have the Eye. Why not just let them take me? If it matters that much to you, just break me out of prison when the job is done. That should be child’s play for you.”
“Ivan is not the sort of man to bother with prisons,” Victor says heavily. “Not the type to kill straight away either. He's not so merciful.”
It isn't like the revelation is a surprise. Rozanov is notoriously ruthless, you don't get to be the head of a multinational crime syndicate by showing mercy to your enemies. Still, the implication of what is about to happen to him fills Yuuri with a cold, cloying dread.
“It's okay,” Yuuri says again, trying desperately to keep his voice from shaking. “You're Victor Nikiforov. You plan for everything, you can think of a way to get me out.”
“You're wrong, Yuuri.” His voice is suddenly soft, his eyes unbearably sad. “I don't plan for everything. We wouldn't be here if that were the case. I never planned on the possibility of a mole. I never planned on Cao Bin being Ivan’s man all along. I never planned on… on falling for you.”
The sudden admission stops Yuuri’s frantically-pounding heart for a moment, steals the breath from his lungs.
“You,” he stammers, breaths coming again now in short, shocked bursts. “You never... Victor, what?”
“I didn’t mean to,” he says with a sad chuckle. “I promise. And this would have been so much easier if I hadn’t but…” He cuts off with a hopeless shrug. “I guess we can’t help who we fall in love with.”
“Victor, are you… are you serious?”
He nods, looking directly into Yuuri’s eyes. “I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life. I love you, Yuuri Katsuki.”
Yuuri's brain is in full panic mode, trying to make sense of this revelation. Joy, shock, relief, suspicion, and a deep, terrible sadness flow through him in quick succession.
Victor loves him - Victor loves him! - and all those stolen moments from the past eight months fall into place. The hours spent alone together in that small, dark bunker, planning every detail of the heist. The dance they had shared at the museum gala. The kiss during those tense moments when they'd nearly been discovered. Those sparks hadn't been just wishful thinking on Yuuri's part.
But why wait until now to tell him? Now, when the only thing in Yuuri's future is a slow and painful death at their mark's hands?
Comfort, he supposes. Kindness. And for a moment, the thought strikes him that Victor may be lying, telling him what he wants to hear as an act of compassion, as something to hold onto in his last, painful days.
But Victor’s gaze holds nothing but honesty. Here, in this dark, cold cargo hold, Yuuri can see him. Really see him. Not Aria, living legend, the Man of a Thousand Masks. Not Victor Nikiforov, notorious con-man. Just Victor. Open and honest and vulnerable and… scared.
It's the fear in Victor's eyes more than anything that finally prompts Yuuri to break his stunned silence.
He isn’t sure what he wants to say - whether he wants to yell at Victor for telling him this now, when it’s too late for them, whether he wants to thank him for the kindness, whether he wants to deny his own feelings, to lie through his teeth and claim he doesn’t feel the same, to break Victor’s heart so he doesn’t mourn for Yuuri when he’s gone. A million different phrases bubble up, but in the end, only one makes it out.
Victor is standing before him, open and honest and vulnerable, laying himself and his heart bare in their final moments together. Yuuri owes him the same, at the very least.
“I love you, too.” He says, sounding so much weaker and more afraid than he wants to “I’ve always loved you, from the very beginning. I… god, Victor, I wish we could have had more time.”
“I’m so sorry, Yuuri,” Victor whispers, voice rough, then pulls him by the front of his shirt into a deep, searing kiss.
It’s as if the world falls away for a moment. The roar of the jet engine all around them, the relentless pounding of Rozanov’s security force at the door, the heavy sense of impending doom, the terror of what’s to come… it all melts away into nothingness, leaving only him and Victor and the frantic tandem beating of their breaking hearts.
And it’s different from the adrenaline-fuelled kiss at the gala. It had been so fast that night, an act of desperation to draw attention away from themselves, to avoid danger. Now, instead of speeding by, time seems to slow down, to stop, as if fate is granting the two of them a fraction of all the years they could have spent together, compressed into this one moment before they’re separated forever. They clutch at each other with a different sort of desperation this time, no longer driven by panic but by a fierce desire, a need to communicate everything they will never have the chance to say in the limited time they have left.
The moment stretches on forever, but still ends too painfully, cruelly soon.
When they finally break apart, Yuuri is dazed. He blinks back tears and clutches at Victor’s shoulders, resting their foreheads together as they catch their breath.
“You asked me to have faith in you,” Victor whispers after a moment. “More faith than you do in yourself.”
Yuuri nods, confused. Why is he bringing that argument up now, of all times?
“I have faith in you, Yuuri.” He continues, leaning in to pull Yuuri into a tight hug. It’s only when Yuuri hugs back that he notices Victor is shaking.“I know you can do this.”
Do what? Hold up under torture? Endure long enough for Victor and the rest of the team to sell the Eye and get to safety? He'll do his best, but given Rozanov's ruthless tendencies, he thinks Victor might be asking too much of him.
Over Victor’s shoulder, he sees the first electromagnet fall away from the door, and he draws in a trembling breath, trying to prepare himself for whatever happens next. At his back, he feels a strange pressure, and then a light pinch, as if something is latching on to his clothes…
A familiar beep sounds and Yuuri’s blood turns to ice.
The parachute. Victor’s parachute. It must be, Sara had only given them one each, which means that...
“Victor-” Yuuri breathes, an entirely new type of terror rising in his throat as he realizes what is about to happen.
The device beeps again and straps deploy, winding themselves automatically around Yuuri’s chest to form a harness. Yuuri claws at the straps, trying in vain to undo them, to take off the chute, put it back on Victor where it belongs because he doesn't want this, he doesn't want escape and safety, not like this, not if it means leaving Victor here in his place.
In his panic, he just barely hears the external hold door opening behind him. Just barely feels the change in pressure, the wind tearing at his clothes. Just barely sees anything but Victor, so regretful, so resolved.
He wants to beg him, to plead with everything he has, don't do this. Please don't do this, not for me, I'm not worth it, Victor please…
But he never gets the chance.
“I’m sorry,” Victor says again, tucking something into Yuuri’s palm and pressing his fingers closed around it. “I love you.”
“Victor, no-!”
And then Victor’s hands are on Yuuri’s shoulders, shoving him back, hard, and his protests are lost to the gusting wind as he stumbles backward out of the open exterior door, into empty space. The last thing he sees as the world tilts around him is a flood of armed guards pouring into the cargo hold, overwhelming Victor-
-And then there is nothing but blue - the sky, the sea, tumbling around in an indistinct blur as he free-falls. He thinks he might be screaming Victor’s name but the wind takes the sound faster than he can make it. It’s all he can do to keep his grip on whatever Victor tucked into his hand as he plummets, shock and fear and the brutal wind stealing the very breath from his lungs.
Then the chute deploys, jerking Yuuri’s plummeting body back as his descent suddenly slows, allowing him a second to catch his breath and orient himself. The sea glitters below him, a deep, sparkling blue, and above him… he twists as far as the harness on his chute will allow him, trying to catch a glimpse of the sky above.
A small part of him hopes against all odds that he’ll see Victor up there with a chute of his own, floating gently down to the ocean below, to safety. That giving Yuuri his parachute had been part of another cunning plan, rather than a desperate act of sacrifice, allowing himself to be captured by Rozanov’s people in Yuuri’s place. But the sky above him is empty, nothing but a few scattered white clouds and Rozanov’s rapidly retreating jet to be seen.
As he watches, the exterior cargo hold door slowly shuts, sealing Victor in with his enemy.
Ivan is not the sort of man to bother with prisons, Victor’s voice echoes in his mind. Not the type to kill straight away either. He's not so merciful.
If there is a benefit to his current situation, alone, slowly drifting downwards, it’s that there’s no one around to see him sobbing like a child as he descends. With nothing but the sky above him and the open waters of the bay beneath him, he allows himself to break down, just for a few moments. Allows himself to process everything that has happened - his own brush with a painful death, Victor’s confession, Victor’s love, Victor’s sacrifice. Everything that could have been, that had been stolen from them before it even had a chance to begin. Yuuri lets himself mourn it all as he drifts downward, lets himself sob out his heartbreak and scream his frustration to the uncaring wind.
By the time his tears dry, he is mere dozens of feet away from the surface of the water, and he realizes too late that he has no idea where the drop point is where they were supposed to land to meet up with Mila and Phichit.
He crashes down into the water, momentarily panicking as a wave crashes over his head, submerging him. He can feel his shoes filling with water, weighing him down, and he desperately tries to kick them, off, struggling to avoid getting tangled in the strings from the chute on his back. Before he has time to lose his breath, though, the device on his back detaches automatically from the parachute, freeing him, and small air pouches around the harness deploy with a pneumatic hiss, transforming it into a flotation device that draws him rapidly back up to the surface.
The makeshift lifejacket keeps him at the surface, bobbing above the waves as he coughs and sputters the small amount of seawater he had accidentally swallowed in his shock. Once his breathing is back under control, he looks up, searching frantically for any sign of Ivan’s plane.
His heart clenches as he sees it, just a small white speck, thousands of feet above him, slowly swallowed by the bright expanse of blue sky.
Where are they taking you, Victor? What are they going to do to you?
He’s pulled out of his thoughts by the buzz of a motor drawing near.
A sleek white speedboat is headed towards him, cutting gracefully through the waves. He spots Mila at the helm, her fiery red hair blowing around her face in the salty breeze. She grins and waves when she catches sight of him, expertly pulling the boat up next to him and cutting the engine.
“Need a lift?” She asks, pushing her sunglasses up and shooting him a playful wink.
Yuuri can’t muster the energy to reply, but swims around to the back of the boat, keeping a firm grip on the object in his hand. Phichit is waiting for him there, offering him a towel to dry off with and an earpiece linked to their team’s communication channel as he climbs aboard.
“Wait a second…” Mila says, her grin disappearing as the scans the waves around them. “Where’s Victor?”
Yuuri suddenly finds it difficult to speak around the lump in his throat. “He… he didn’t make it out.”
Her gaze snaps back to him, shocked. “What?”
“He gave himself up so I could get away.”
“That… doesn’t sound like Victor.” Phichit says shrewdly.
“No, that sounds exactly like Victor.” Yurio’s voice pipes up over the comms channel.
“What do you mean?”
“He conveniently disappears right after getting his hands on the Eye? Come on, this is textbook stuff. He plans this little ‘betrayal’ with Cao Bin and the two of them make off with the diamond. There’s a bigger cut between two than there is between eight.”
Silence falls over the comms channel, and Yuuri can’t see most of their team, but he can practically hear the doubt flitting through their minds. It’s only natural to assume double-crossing would happen amidst a group of professional criminals and con-artists, and it’s not like Yuuri wouldn’t have assumed the same of Victor once upon a time. Still, in light of everything that has happened, it stings to see how easily the rest of their team would doubt their leader.
He says nothing in response to the grumbling and soft curses in his earpiece, just opens his hand, revealing the object that Victor had tucked into it before pushing him out of the cargo hold.
A small, airtight black box, and inside…
“Holy shit.” Phichit breathes. “Hold on, can I…?”
Yuuri nods and holds the Eye out, and Phichit takes it, removing a magnifying glass from his jacket pocket. He pores over the jewel for several minutes, taking out a penlight to shine it through the gem, examining every facet minutely.
By the time he removes the eyeglass, he looks almost dazed, setting the gemstone back in the box and staring at it with wide eyes.
“Oh my god,” he breathes. “This is… it’s the real deal. It’s the Eye.”
Exclamations of surprise and joy come over the comms channel.
“So he really gave himself up?” Christophe muses amidst the celebrations, almost unconsciously. “It’s not like him to sacrifice himself to protect someone else. I wonder why he’d do that…”
Yuuri feels Phichit and Mila’s eyes burning into him, hears Victor’s soft I love you echoing in his ears. Tears prick at the corner of his eyes, and he grits his jaw to hold them at bay.
A heavy silence falls over the comms channel, until Mila breaks it. “So… what now?”
He knows she isn’t talking about the Eye.
“Now we get him back.” Yuuri surprises even himself with the answer.
“What, from Ivan? That’s insane.” Christophe scoffs. “We don’t even know where he’s headed. It could be anywhere in the world.”
“Actually, it might not be that hard.” Sara pipes up. “As long as we’re looking for the right person.”
“What do you mean?”
“I, uh, might have planted a tracker on Victor. On the off chance he did try to make off with the Eye himself...” She trails off sheepishly, guilt audible. “But we can use it to our advantage!”
“Okay, so say we can track Rozanov down. What, are we supposed to just waltz right in and ask for the old man back? For all we know, he might be dead already!”
“He’s alive,” Yuuri says, voice low and dark. “He said it himself, Rozanov wouldn’t kill him, not straight away.”
“He’s right,” Christophe adds. “Ivan is very much the type to play with his food before he eats it. And considering his past with Victor...”
Yuuri’s stomach churns at the implication. He had been terrified at the prospect of being on the receiving end of Rozanov’s brutal methods, and he was all but a stranger to the crime lord. Victor is someone Rozanov actively hates, has considered a thorn in his side since their early days of petty crime together had ended in bloodshed and betrayal. The thought of him trapped at that monster’s mercy after years of hatred and resentment… Yuuri can’t bear it.
Thankfully, Phichit’s voice cuts off that train of thought before it has a chance to lead him to a full-fledged panic. “Even if he is still alive, Rozanov’s hideouts would be heavily fortified. Armed guards, state-of-the-art security system, god knows what else! How are we supposed to get past all that without Victor?”
He’s right. Even Victor, the most brilliant criminal mastermind of his time, had taken months of planning to go up against Rozanov. What hope does Yuuri have, what hope do any of them have, of slipping his hated rival out from under his nose before he gets bored and kills him?
But he has to try. Even though he’s just a dime-a-dozen catburglar, he has to try for Victor’s sake. Victor, who had given himself over to suffer in Yuuri’s place. Victor, who trusts him. Victor, who loves him. Victor, who believes in him.
I have faith in you, Yuuri. I know you can do this.
In the panic and confusion of those last moments in the plane, Victor’s words had made no sense. Now, it’s clear as day. He wouldn’t have given himself over if he didn’t believe that Yuuri could get him back.
Victor is counting on him. And there’s no way that Yuuri will let him down.
“Don’t worry,” Yuuri says, staring out at the faint dot of the distant plane. Hold on, Victor. We’re coming for you. “I have a plan.”
oblivion
Read on AO3
In his dreams, the tether slips from his grasp.
He sees a flash of blue, of fear, behind a panic-fogged visor, and hears his own scream echoing in his ears as his world is torn from him, tossed about like a ragdoll by the merciless force of gravity before vanishing, swallowed in bright blue light.
Blue like his eyes, those eyes that had held such terror in those final moments. Those eyes that he will never see again.
In his dreams, he screams and screams and screams and screams, until his agonized wails are reduced to nothing but voiceless whimpers and then, and then-
He wakes, sobbing into his pillow in an empty bed.
Yuuri misses the days when waking from a nightmare brought a sense of relief. When he was able to catch his breath upon waking from whatever horrors his subconscious mind had shown him and realize, it’s not real, it was just a dream, none of it happened, everything is okay.
He misses the days when he didn’t have to calm himself down after nightmares, when there were arms around him the moment he opened his eyes, arms pulling him close, a warm body holding him, the softest voice in his ear reassuring him, telling him he was safe and loved. He misses that most of all.
But those days are over now. There are no arms around him, there is no sense of relief, no escape from the nightmare that plays in his head, over and over every night.
Because it wasn’t just a dream.
Victor is gone, really gone, truly gone, and he can’t wake up from this reality he’s living in, this reality where the man he loves was torn from his grasp, ripped violently out of the known universe, lost to him, probably forever. He can’t escape the pain, the constant dull ache in his chest in the shape of his husband. He can’t tell himself it’s okay, because it’s not, because it will likely never be okay again.
There’s no escape, no denial.
The nightmare he’s living is real, and worst of all… it’s all his fault.
______________
In his dreams, he sees the man with the silver hair.
It isn’t every night. Some nights, his mama tucks him into bed with a kiss and he dreams of other things, like dinosaurs or flying puppies or big scary monsters chasing him. Other nights, he dreams of nothing at all. But the man always comes back eventually.
The man looks strange, but not in a scary way. Just different. Like the people who come to visit the onsen sometimes, the ones his papa calls foreigners. The foreigners are often loud, drinking too much and making demands in broken Japanese, or not bothering to use Japanese at all. Many of them have unpleasant looks about them, causing Yuuri to hide behind his mama’s legs when they come to coo over him.
The silver-haired man is not unpleasant, or loud. When he speaks, his Japanese is perfect, if strangely accented, and his voice is soft and kind. He doesn’t make demands. He only ever talks, asks Yuuri about his day, plays games with him if Yuuri asks.
Yuuri is happy when he dreams about the silver-haired man. But sometimes the man looks so sad. One night, Yuuri is telling him about his first ballet class with Minako-sensei when he notices a single tear slide down his cheek. Yuuri falls silent at the sight; he’s never seen a grown-up cry before.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, and the man looks startled for a moment, his hand flying to his cheek before he even seems to realize he was crying in the first place.
“Oh,” he says, smiling a strange smile as he wipes the tear away. “I’m sorry. I’m fine, Yuuri, really. You were telling me about Minako-san’s studio…?”
Yuuri feels troubled, reminded of Mari when she gets sad but doesn’t want to say why. “My papa always says you should talk about it if you’re sad.”
The man laughs. “Your papa is a wise man.” His smile falls, and he draws his knees into his chest, looking sadder than ever. “I really am fine, Yuuri. I just get a bit lonely sometimes.”
“... Lonely?” Yuuri had never considered that dream-people could be lonely. “Don’t you have a family? Or friends?”
“I do,” the man says quietly. “But they all live very far away, somewhere I can’t see them.”
The man tilts his head down, and Yuuri can no longer see his face behind a curtain of silver fringe. He wishes he could do something to help. His mama gives him hugs when he gets sad, but Yuuri knows from several failed games of tag that you can’t touch dream-people. So instead, he sits down next to the man and gathers up all his courage.
“Then I will be your friend!”
The man looks up, surprised. Bolstered by the temporary absence of sadness in his eyes, Yuuri continues.
“Yuuko-chan is my friend! And Minako-sensei is my friend, even though she’s my teacher now! And she’s even older than you, which means that you can be my friend too!”
To Yuuri’s delight, the man actually laughs, a small, affectionate smile playing across his features.
“So? Can we be friends?”
“Of course we can, Yuuri,” he says. “I’d like that a lot.”
When he wakes the next morning, he realizes he does not know his new friend’s name, or even if dream-people have names. He asks his mama and papa at breakfast, but they just smile and ruffle his hair affectionately. Mari calls him a weirdo and tells him to name his own imaginary friend.
Yuuri thinks it would be quite rude to do that, so he decides to simply wait and ask the man the next time he sees him. For three nights, Yuuri sleeps dreamlessly, but on the fourth, the man appears again, looking far happier than he had before.
Not wanting to forget again, Yuuri makes sure to ask his name as soon as he appears.
“Victor,” the man smiles. “My name is Victor.”
“Victor,” Yuuri repeats, the syllables sounding slightly different on his tongue, but the man keeps smiling anyways, and they spend the rest of the dream talking and playing like they always do.
When Yuuri wakes, he feels happy. His friend does have a name, after all.
“Victor,” he tries again, still half-asleep but content. “Victor.”
______________________
“Victor!” Yuuri screams, sitting bolt upright in bed, tears streaming down his face.
His hand is still outstretched, as it had been in the dream, as it had been the day he lost him. He can still feel Victor’s tether in his grip like a phantom pain, feel it slipping out of his grasp, feel his utter helplessness in the face of the Aurora’s pull.
If he’d only been stronger, if he’d only held on for a few more seconds, they could have saved him. Mere seconds after Yuuri’s grip had faltered, the Aria’s engines had come back online, pushing them back out of the Aurora’s gravitational field.
Just a few seconds longer, and they could have pulled him back to safety. Just a few seconds longer, and Victor would still be here with him. But he’d failed. The tether had slipped away, and Victor with it, lost to the void, possibly forever.
Just a few seconds longer.
Yuuri lets his outstretched hand drop down to the mattress, buries his head in his knees, and cries.
“Victor,” he sobs, curling up as if making himself smaller will ease the terrible ache of guilt in his chest. “Victor, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
For a long while, the only sound to be heard in the bedroom is Yuuri’s weeping, interspersed every so often with sobbed-out apologies to a man who can no longer hear them. Then, there is a creak, and the familiar tingling of tags, before something cold and wet touches the inside of Yuuri’s elbow.
He sits up and sniffles, blinking his tears away to see two pairs of big brown eyes looking up at him. Makkachin stands on her hind legs, front paws resting against Yuuri’s side of the mattress, whining softly as she nudges him again.
“Hey, girl,” Yuuri murmurs, giving her a quick pat on the head. “It’s okay, you can come up.”
She does so immediately, hopping up onto the bed and immediately curling up on Victor’s- on the empty side.
“You too,” Yuuri says to the smaller dog, still on the floor. His front paws rest against the base of the bed, and he whines in frustration, too small to hop up on his own.
Yuuri bends down to pick him up, cradling his tiny, fluffy form close to his chest. “Morning, Vicchan,” he tells the little poodle, his voice shaking only slightly.
He gives the dog a kiss on the forehead, and in turn, Vicchan stretches up as far as he can to lick some of the tears off Yuuri’s cheeks. Yuuri lets out a giggle that sounds just a little too close to a sob as he hugs his dog.
He isn’t the Victor Yuuri needs right now, to kiss away his tears and reassure him that everything will be alright, but he’ll do.
______________________
Yuuri is so excited the night of his thirteenth birthday that he doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep. A soft snoring from across the room emanates from the dog bed his parents had put in, and the sound is so cute he’s half-tempted to get out of bed and cuddle the tiny creature within to kingdom come, but he forces himself to stay put.
The puppy needs his sleep, after all, and so does Yuuri. There’s someone important he needs to share his good news with.
It takes him a while to calm himself enough to properly drift off, but soon enough his eyes slip shut and he finds himself in a familiar place.
His dreams always begin here, in an empty white space, surrounded by a dense fog. He takes a step forward, then another, then another. It never seems to matter which direction he goes; as long as he keeps walking, he always manages to find what - or rather, who - he’s looking for.
Tonight, it only takes a little bit of searching before a familiar shape becomes visible through the fog. A smile spreads across Yuuri’s face and he picks up the pace, jogging the final few steps between him and his friend.
“Victor! Victor, guess what!”
As soon as Victor comes into view, the smile falls from Yuuri’s face. It’s a bad day. Victor is huddled on the floor, staring dead-eyed into the whiteness that surrounds him.
This isn’t the first time Yuuri has found him like this. It isn’t a common occurrence, but every so often the Victor who Yuuri encounters in his dreams isn’t his usual chipper self. He seems distant, sad, afraid, any number of things before he notices Yuuri’s presence, only to immediately snap out of it when he realizes he’s not alone.
Today is no exception. As soon as he catches sight of Yuuri, the empty look leaves his eyes to be replaced by a brilliant, heart-shaped smile.
“Yuuri!” He uncurls from his position on the floor, stands, and waves as Yuuri approaches. Despite his smile, Yuuri can just make out a flicker of something terribly sad in those bright blue eyes.
“Are you okay?” he asks, slowing down as he approaches.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Victor insists, as he always does when Yuuri plucks up the courage to ask. “Now, what was it you wanted to tell me?”
Yuuri’s concern for his friend vanishes in a moment, eclipsed by his excitement. “My parents got me a puppy!”
His smile brightens, seeming more genuine now. “Oh, Yuuri, that’s wonderful! Happy birthday!”
Yuuri feels his brow furrow. “How did you know it was my-”
“So, tell me all about it!” Victor plows over his question in a burst of exuberance, sitting down cross-legged on the floor and patting the ground for Yuuri to sit, too. “What’s its name? What breed is it?”
“He’s… he’s a miniature poodle.” Yuuri says, feeling his cheeks flush preemptively to his next words. “I named him, uh… well, I named him Victor. After you.”
The heat in his cheeks spreads to his whole face as soon as the words leave his lips, and he looks at the white floor beneath them. God, what an embarrassing thing to say! It’s the truth, of course, but still, what on earth had possessed him to admit it right to Victor’s face?
Mari had been the first to make the connection when Yuuri had announced the puppy’s name at breakfast the day before.
“Victor?” she’d asked, not unkindly. “Wasn’t that the name of your imaginary friend when you were little?”
He had learned long ago that dream-people were not a normal occurrence, that not everyone had a stranger who spoke to them in their sleep on a regular basis. He had also learned that repeatedly talking about dream-people seemed to lead those around him to believe he had an overactive imagination, or worse.
So, Yuuri had feigned ignorance. “What imaginary friend?” he had scoffed. “I just like the name, is all.”
Mari had raised her eyebrows, but had otherwise kept her skepticism to herself - to Yuuri’s immense relief- and the subject had been dropped as Vicchan the poodle rolled adorably on his back to beg for belly rubs.
The thought strikes Yuuri now that he really should have said the same to Victor. Claimed that he just liked the name, or that that was the name the shelter had given him already, or just made up a different name to tell Victor entirely. Any of that would be less embarrassing than admitting he’d named his dog after the man!
He’s still flushed red and looking determinedly at the floor, willing himself to wake up so that he can get out of this awkward situation, when Victor finally speaks.
“After me, huh?” This is not the response Yuuri had been expecting, prompting him to finally remove his gaze from the floor and back to the man sitting across from him. His eyes are distant again, something strange flickering behind them. It’s not sadness like it was before, it’s… something else. Curiosity, perhaps? Suspicion? “I’d always assumed it was a coincidence…”
Before Yuuri can ask what he means by that, Victor snaps out of whatever stupor he had been in, that same wide smile on his face. “Sorry, Yuuri! I don’t know what came over me, there.”
“What do you mean by-?”
“Nothing, nothing,” he insists, waving a hand in the air dismissively. “Just me being silly. Victor is an excellent name for a poodle, Yuuri. Does he know any tricks yet?”
Yuuri can’t help but feel like there’s something Victor isn’t telling him, but he’s too excited to talk about his new puppy to pursue it any further. Instead, he spends the rest of the night telling Victor about every facet of his new puppy’s existence, from the early struggles of housetraining to all the tricks he wants his Vicchan to learn.
Victor seems only too content to talk about dogs, his face growing sad only when he peppers in anecdotes about training his own dog, Makkachin. But as the morning approaches, and Yuuri starts to feel the telltale tug of wakefulness pulling at him, Victor grows serious again.
“Yuuri,” he begins with uncertainty, face half-hidden behind his bangs. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You said you named your new puppy after me” Yuuri nods, flushing again involuntarily. But his embarrassment is cut short by what Victor asks next. “Does that mean… do you remember this, when you wake up? Remember me?”
“Yeah.”
“…Oh.”
The look on Victor’s face is as raw as it is inscrutable. The mist is filling his vision again, but Yuuri tries to read him anyways. Is he angry? Disappointed? Shocked? Before he has time to figure it out, Victor is completely shrouded in grey once more.
Yuuri can hear something distantly, the faint beep of his alarm clock pulling him back to the real world. It nearly drowns out the last words Victor says before he wakes.
“...Why didn’t you stop me?”
Happy Vicmas Eve, everyone!
Here’s my piece for Day 2 of @vityaweek for the prompt Favourite AU.
I’ve read a few Potterverse AUs, so I figured I’d try my hand at writing one. I really hope it turned out ok!
The cold comes first.
It comes first, and it comes slowly, slow enough that neither of them notice the subtle drop in temperature until it’s too late. Perhaps it’s because the time of year - the nights are getting longer and cooler, especially this deep in the forest. Perhaps it’s the fatigue of the past few weeks wearing on them, making them less aware of their surroundings. Whatever the reason, neither notice the chill creeping in until a sudden breeze sets them both shivering.
It’s not the kind of cold Victor is used to from the winters back home. Not the crisp, bracing winds that turn cheeks rosy and breath into soft, swirling clouds. No, this is a damp cold, a cloying cold, a cold that seeps through the robes, through the skin, through the bones, into the very heart.
The cold comes first - and then the dread. Overpowering dread, hopelessness the likes of which he has only felt a few times in his life. He stops in his tracks, and Yuuri stops beside him. Their eyes meet, wide and horrified as the air fills with the sound of hollow, rattling breaths, and they realize exactly how dire their situation is.
Around them, dark shapes begin to move through the trees. There are so many, more than Victor has ever seen together in one place. He pushes Yuuri behind him, tries to tell him to run - but it’s too late. They’re surrounded.
The Dementors close in from all sides, moving wraithlike through the trees, their awful rattling breaths filling the air, drowning out all other sound.
Almost all other sound, that is. As the creatures continue to draw closer and the chill of apathy and despair grows stronger, familiar voices begin to echo in his head.
“Papa isn’t coming home, Vitya.”
“Stupid, boy, stupid! Can’t you do anything right?”
Before he knows it he’s fallen, the moss and dead leaves on the forest floor damp beneath his palms and seeping into the knees of his trousers. The voices in his head continue, everyone leaving him, everyone, over and over again…
“Lilia and I are separating. She’ll be back to pick up her things tomorrow.”
“Victor, after the Auror exam…Let’s end this.”
The rattling is louder now. When he opens his eyes, all he can see is darkness, a clammy, rotted hand pulling back a tattered black hood. The emptiness inside him is so powerful that he barely even has the capacity to feel afraid. He simply closes his eyes and waits for the Kiss, waits for the end, suffocating on his overwhelming hopelessness….
“Tell us where Katsuki is, Nikforov. Tell us! Crucio!”
“Vitya… let’s end this… Vitya…. Vitya….”
“Vitya! Vitya, hold on… expecto patronum… expecto… expecto…”
He registers a faint light through his closed eyelids, and the hollow rattle recedes slightly. Victor’s eyes flutter open and he can see Yuuri standing over him, face pale and twisted in despair, brandishing his wand at the oncoming swarm of Dementors.
As Victor watches, Yuuri falls to his knees as well, a faint, formless silver light emitting from the tip of his wand. It’s not a full Patronus, not nearly enough to save them, but still… but still.
He’s fighting. Even now, he’s fighting.
Despite the heavy dread filling him, Victor feels the corners of his mouth twist up in a weak smile. Of course his Yuuri is still fighting. Of course his brave and beautiful Yuuri wouldn’t give up without a struggle. It’s one of the things Victor loves most about him.
Victor loves him so much.
The thought stokes the waning fire in his soul, and he somehow manages to rise to his knees, to grip his wand tight in one hand and find Yuuri’s hand with the other. It’s cold - so cold, everything is so, so cold - as he interlaces their fingers together.
Yuuri looks up at him, and the utter hopelessness on his face softens as the mist emitting from his wandtip glows momentarily brighter. He grips Victor’s hand back and Victor can feel the familiar coolness of Yuuri’s engagement ring against his skin.
He thinks of the night Yuuri gave him that ring. The Christmas market, fairy lights in the air, a choir singing, snowflakes falling gently down, the taste of Butterbeer on his tongue. He remembers the soft, almost reverent expression on Yuuri’s face as he’d slipped the ring onto Victor’s finger, transforming to utter joy when Victor slipped his own on in return. He remembers Yuuri’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him in for a tender kiss.
He thinks of Yuuri. Of the first day they met, their first kiss, the first time they made love. He thinks of flour on Yuuri’s cheek as they cook breakfast together. He thinks of the morning sun casting a warm glow on him during those soft, comfortable moments between sleep and wakefulness. He thinks of life. He thinks of love.
He holds on to those memories like a lifeline as he raises his wand in sync with Yuuri, and cries out with all the meagre hope he has left-
“Expecto Patronum!”
“Expecto Patronum!”
Almost in unison, two silvery-white poodles burst from their wandtips, one large, one small, bounding around the clearing and cutting a path through the swarm of Dementors. The feeling of dread abates somewhat as they retreat, and Victor manages to stand with effort, pulling Yuuri up with him.
They lean against each other, back to back, wands outstretched as the silvery poodles separate and run in opposing arcs around the edges of the clearing, driving the gathered Dementors further and further back. Yuuri’s weight at Victor’s back warms his soul, and he grips Yuuri’s hand, receiving a small squeeze in return.
“I love you,” Yuuri says, and the larger poodle grows even brighter as the hooded figures cower and retreat.
“I love you too, Yuuri.” The small poodle glows as well.
Their Patronuses drive the Dementors further and further back until the air grows warmer around them and the overwhelming sense of hopelessness eases. By the time Victor lets his wand arm drop, it feels once more like a typical early-autumn evening.
They stand like that a while, back to back, holding hands, waiting for the telltale chill of the Dementors to return, but it never does. After several moments, Victor’s legs give out and he slumps, exhausted, to the forest floor, still wracked with chills and that phantom sense of despair and emptiness. Yuuri follows him down, wraps his arms around him, and they sit like that a while, listening to the crickets chirping around them.
“Are you okay?” Victor asks when he gets his breath back.
“I’m okay.” Yuuri sighs softly, his breath tickling Victor’s ear. “Really, I should be the one asking you that. That Dementor… it was on you so fast, it could have…”
Victor suppresses a shiver as he remembers the creature’s face as it leaned over him, its rotted, eyeless face and gaping mouth, how close he came to losing all of himself in that moment.
“I’m fine,” he says, closing his eyes and focusing on Yuuri’s arms around him to banish the image from his mind. “Thanks to you. You were incredible, Yuuri. Producing a Patronus with so many of them around….”
Yuuri flushes the way he always does when Victor compliments him, and the sight warms Victor’s soul more than chocolate ever could.
“You never told me yours was a poodle, too.” He says, changing the subject abruptly, although the shy smile and light dusting of pink around his cheeks and ears remains.
“I… I didn’t know,” Victor admits. “I’ve never been able to conjure a fully-formed one, before… before I met you.”
I could never come up with a happy enough thought to produce one, he doesn’t say. Yuuri seems to understand anyway, pulling him into another hug and kissing the top of his head protectively.
They rest like that for a few moments more, holding each other close as they work through the aftereffects of the Dementor attack. Eventually, the exhaustion and despair are almost entirely gone, replaced by the sense of warmth and security and overwhelming love that only his Yuuri’s arms can provide.
He wishes he could stay here forever, but they have work to do.
“Come on,” He says with a sigh, standing and helping Yuuri up in turn. “The fact that there were so many gathered means we must be getting close. If we keep moving we might be able to reach the Brotherhood’s base by morning.”
Yuuri rises to his feet and looks up at him, searching his face, concern barely masked in his eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay to keep going? You still look a bit pale. We can rest for the night if you need to, and keep moving before dawn…”
“I’ll be okay, Yuuri,” Victor assures, managing to muster a weak but genuine smile, which Yuuri returns.
They’re both a little worse for wear, having spent these past few months travelling across the continent on the trail of a powerful organization of Dark wizards. Tonight’s attack, although especially harrowing due to the nature of their foes, is not the first hardship they have had to face, nor will it be the last.
Still, through it all, Victor knows he will never give up hope. As long as he and Yuuri are together, as long as they keep fighting, there is nothing they can’t face.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov Characters: Katsuki Yuuri, Victor Nikiforov Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Sad Vitya On A Beach Summary:
"On days like today, his apartment is too quiet. Big and empty and quiet and cold, the smallest sound amplifies and carries, becomes deafening. Every tick of the clock on his wall, every click of Makkachin’s nails on the hardwood. The silence is oppressive, overwhelming, and it drives him out here.
The beach is big and empty too, and far colder than the apartment. But it’s just the right amount of quiet, especially now, with everything muted by a layer of freshly-fallen snow."
Some days are harder than others. On a particularly cold evening, Victor slips out to the beach for some time to think.
so i, uh... wrote a thing?????
