Chapter Text
There’s a harsh, banging knock at the door, and Yuuri is forced away from the dawn breeze, from watching the city wake up before his eyes. Confusion, worry, and a dull ache of pain settle somewhere deep in his head, but Yuuri’s so high on the elation of being alive that he can barely feel them.
At least, until he pulls open his door to find Yuri Plisetsky standing there.
His platinum blond hair is hidden under an inverted tiger-print hoodie, black base crossed over with harsh, streaking orange. There’s a sneer on his lips and a challenge in his emerald green eyes. All Yuuri can think about is how familiar this is, waking from a deep, forgotten sleep and being greeted with a devil disguised with the visage of an angel. It’s the second time in as many days that Yuri has descended upon him to chew him out the moment he’s woken up.
“Oi. Moron. We need to talk,” Yuri bites out, sounding bitter and resigned, his usual fire carefully contained inside a frosty exterior. He tosses his pale hair out of his eyes in a practiced motion, the soft-looking strands falling perfectly into place. “Let me in.”
“Are you here to scold me again?” Yuuri asks slowly, successfully not letting his nervousness shine through in his voice. Yuri is a lot smaller than him and Yuuri isn’t ill anymore. He’s not going to let a fourteen year old who probably wouldn’t weigh 100 pounds soaking wet push him around. Anymore than usual, at least.
“Of course I am!” Yuri barks out, entirely unabashed of his intentions, wrinkling his petite little nose at Yuuri. There’s not a single blemish on his skin. It looks like fine china, an unearthly glow settling into it, pale as the snow laying on the ground outside. “Are you going to let me in, or do you want me to yell at you in the hall?!”
“No, no, please don’t do that,” Yuuri jolts back from the door, cringing at the thought of any of the other skaters hearing Yuuri get chewed out by a fourteen year old. It doesn’t seem like Yuri is going to just simply go away for anything in the world either. Yuri shoves his way in, roughly brushing past Yuuri with a slight grunt. “Um, feel free to sit on the bed.”
Yuri pointedly ignores his offer, striding to the center of the hotel room before spinning on his heel, hair flaring dramatically with a twist of his head. His hands are curled into fists at his side, his wrists so skinny and delicate they look like they’d crumple with a single punch. Yuuri closes the door softly, and the moment the lock clicks into place, Yuri snarls at him.
“What in the hell is wrong with you?!” Yuri takes a step closer to him, trying his best to put force behind it and stomp loudly, but only managing to make the carpet rustle beneath his shoes. “You knew you were dying! Why would you keep competing?! Did you just want to steal the spotlight away from Viktor?”
“N-No!” Yuuri manages to get out, letting Yuri crowd him against the door, unsure of how to deal with the child calling him out on everything his family and friends never have before. “That’s not it!”
“Isn’t it?” Yuri leers up at him, smile wicked and pulling at his cheeks, ruining his adorable features in a single instant. “Didn’t you want him to notice you? To talk to you, and fall for you? So you could keep living? Don’t you love him?”
“Of course I do!” Yuuri cries back, rising to the bait for once, then immediately falling back on his haunches. Yuri’s eyes are piercing and accusing, his smile far too malicious to be real, his voice loud and ringing in Yuuri’s ears. “I-I mean, the flowers were… meant for him, yes.”
“Ha!” Yuri leans back, letting Yuuri have some space again, dragging his feet on the carpet as he goes to collapse on Yuuri’s bed. Leopard print shoes dangle off the side of the bed, far away from touching the floor. “Why didn’t you just get them taken out?”
“Huh? Taken ...out?” Yuuri ponders, the words lost on him, practically forgotten in his vocabulary. His family, his friends- they knew how he felt about the flowers, about skating, about Viktor. They’d respected his feelings and let him suffer in silence. It’s strange to talk to someone who doesn’t know his whole story for once. The flowers usually expose him as the victim in this whole elaborate play immediately, but that isn’t how Yuri sees it at all. In Yuri’s mind, the flowers are a symbol of Yuuri’s laziness, of his lack of dedication to life. They’re a manipulation, a tool to get Yuuri’s way, not a disease working every second to strangle the air out of him. Quietly Yuuri comes to sit beside Yuri on the bed, making sure to leave a couple feet between them for comfort. Yuri doesn’t acknowledge him in the slightest. “I fell in love with ice skating for the second time because of Viktor. I felt that if I removed the flowers, my love for skating would go with them.”
“That’s it?” Yuri spits out, bolting upright on the bed, hand lashing out to wrap around Yuuri’s bicep. He tries to flinch back, but Yuri’s spindly, bony hand is stronger than it looks, effortlessly keeping him in place. Yuuri can’t do anything but stare into the molten steel and fire of Yuri’s eyes, let the blaze of heat wash over him. “That’s your whole stupid reason?! What a load of crap! If your love for figure skating is so shallow that losing Viktor fucking Nikiforov would destroy it, then get off the ice! You don’t deserve your skills!”
“You’re right,” Yuuri says, clearly and concisely. Yuri halts in his tracks, breathing heavy, looking at Yuuri with confusion and shock. He’s not used to people agreeing with him, obviously. “I don’t deserve any of what I’ve got. That’s why I thought I should die for it, too. It seemed right.”
“Don’t die for anything but death, you idiot!” Yuri screeches, fingertips pressing so hard into Yuuri’s arm that they’re going to leave bruises, words not making any sense while simultaneously being the most understandable thing Yuuri’s heard in a long time. “Love isn’t worth dying for! Viktor Nikiforov isn’t worth dying for! What do you even see in him?! He eats Kit-Kat bars the wrong way! Do you know how infuriating that is?! He just bites into them!”
Yuuri lays a hand over Yuri’s bruising grip on him, carefully pries the fingers loose, sets the fourteen year old's hand on the bed awkwardly and takes a moment to let them both breathe. Closing his eyes for a long moment, Yuuri can only smile. It’s a droplet of peace into the brewing, blistering fury of Yuri; a reprieve from the yelling and noise. “That’s kind of cute.”
Yuri makes a horrible barfing sound, sticking his tongue out and gagging on nothing for a moment. Yuuri can’t find it in himself to mind, smiling placatingly at the teen. One day he’ll understand the kind of love that lets one die for someone, even if that day isn’t today.
“You’re crazy,” Yuri mutters, gritting his teeth, sticking out his jaw, unable to help himself from sneering at Yuuri a little. He looks like he’s physically restraining himself from screaming at Yuuri, holding himself back from lunging at Yuuri’s throat. Confusion and fury swirl in steel eyes, emotions constantly held at a boiling point, full of questions and not understanding the answers. “What about love could ever be worth dying for?”
It’s asked gently, with care, every syllable stressed and held close to Yuri’s chest. All the magma and explosions in the world are available for him to throw at Yuuri, and he goes soft instead, vulnerable and tired. Yuuri doesn’t really know anything about Yuri Plisetsky, only his medal history, only his anger on this one subject.
But this fourteen year old child is undoubtedly, without question, more concerned about him than anyone else in Russia right now. Yuri’s horror and ferocity spills out of him without hold, in every word and every sentence, looking for a way to make Yuuri see reason. He wants Yuuri to live, so much it seems to hurt.
A hand wraps around Yuuri’s wrist, tiny and seeking, nails digging into his skin. They feel jagged and rough, bitten and picked at.
Something in Yuri’s face breaks, and he’s yelling again, leaning in close, glaring and scowling and hissing. “Love isn’t worth anything! Stop staring at me like you know something I don’t! You and Viktor, you’re both fucking stupid! You fall in love like desperate school girls, ready to break your neck for a single kiss! So, tell me, what the hell have you been thinking, in your shameless pursuit for Viktor?! Why didn’t you just remove the flowers?! I know how much they hurt! Love isn’t worth that pain!”
Yuuri gapes, watching with awe and terror as Yuri completely loses it- his yelling is so loud the bottom floor must have heard it. Green eyes are wide and thin eyebrows furrowed, his other hand reaching around to grab Yuuri’s shoulder. Dragging Yuuri around on the bed, he forces the older skater to face him properly. “Stop just sitting there! Answer me!”
“What makes love worth dying for?!”
When Yuri Plisetsky is eleven, he suffocates in a sea of yellow and gold, unable to stop the torrent of carnations from escaping him. He hasn’t won enough yet, hasn’t won anything but the bare minimum to put more food on their table, to let Grandpa relax a little more.
Most days, the hospital is colder than an ice rink to him. It’s not a very nice hospital. The surgery hurt a lot. It hurt more than his mother leaving. The hospital gown is scratchy and it catches on the stitches on his chest sometimes.
He breathes through a machine most of the time. His lungs are healing from the less than careful work done at scraping off the roots and vines in his lungs, stuck in a maelstrom of pain and anger. He’s so bitter, at himself and the world, at his mother and money.
His siblings come to visit him thrice in a week. His youngest sister doesn’t understand at first why she can’t talk about how little Grandpa’s been around or how bad his back seems to ache when he is around. The older siblings hush her, make her promise not to talk about how all they’ve had for breakfast for the past week is plain bread- the stale stuff Grandpa gets for almost nothing from the back of the market.
Yuri doesn’t hear them talk to her about this, but he knows they do anyways. It’s in the lines of guilt in their faces, the red flush over hers as she struggles to hold all of their secrets inside her. It’s in the ugly thickets of their blonde hair, unwashed and unbrushed, because Grandpa isn’t there to remind them to keep it clean. It’s in the thin wrists and hollow cheeks, the little glimmers of anger in his oldest younger sister’s eyes. She’s blaming him, because Yuri’s the one who got sick.
This time, he’s the one who’s making life harder for them.
But it wasn’t him who made it this way. It was all her. His mother.
He tries to remember what it felt like to miss her, but he can’t. He tries to remember what it felt like to cry over her, but it’s impossible. He tries to remember what it felt like to look back on moments with her and smile, but it no longer makes sense to his head, to his heart, to his soul. It’s all wrong, but perfectly right.
Yuri can’t remember what it’s like to love his mother, invisible strings cutting off the flow of emotion towards her. He can’t even hate her. There’s no anger, no happiness, no regret or wistfulness. He thinks about her, and he feels nothing.
She’s a stranger to him now. She doesn’t matter at all.
Something about this is incredibly painful to him, in a way he doesn’t understand. This is what he wanted, right? So why does it hurt so much?
His chest, his heart, his lungs, his head, they all spin and spin when he thinks of his mother, making his thoughts foggy and emotions muddled. His train of thought always spirals away from him in just a single moment. He tries not to think about her.
He wants to skate again, eager to practice. He’s so sick of lying down that he imagines his body melding into the hospital bed, imagining the ventilator helping him breath as a monster sucking the life out of him.
Yuri’s so confused. Everything he felt for her before is gone, leaving a gaping wound, a void inside him that nothing seems to fill. He thought he would feel better after getting rid of his feelings, but this is awful, an inescapable emptiness that leaves him just as hollow as his sibling’s stomachs. He doesn’t want to feel like this, but he can’t possibly stop it as well. All he can do is struggle to breath, fighting through the pain, watch his siblings grow more and more like wisps of light, dancing around him without speaking to him. They used to keep him warm at night, but now he’s cold and alone, stuck with the lightness of his heart and the indifference he feels towards… everything.
His mother ruined his life, ruined all of their lives. And Yuri can’t feel anything towards her.
Love only hurts and hurts, pulling out suffering and pain with glee, stringing along fools and promising everything will be okay when it won’t be. Yuri traces the scar on his skin, feels its bumps and tries not to scratch it, and swears on it that he won’t fall in love ever again. He lets his anger fill up the emptiness inside him, as superficial and silly as it is, and snaps at anyone who dares to come close to his heart the moment he’s let out of the hospital.
At age eleven, Yuri swears off love and never looks back.
Yuri’s leaning in, hoodie leaning forward with him, and Yuuri can see down the neck of his shirt. There’s a long, pale scar on his chest, starting at the base of his neck and leading down, farther down than the light allows.
“Love… for me, at least… is worth dying for because it’s worth living for,” Yuuri says, a little shakily, still struggling to keep up with Yuri’s breakneck pace of conversation, barely able to think in the heat and rush of Yuri’s arguing. He tears his eyes away from Yuri’s scar, grateful to see the younger boy didn’t notice him looking, grateful not to be yelled at anymore. “Viktor is worth living for. He’s worth dying for. I love him, and that’s… everything.”
“Everything?” Yuri repeats back, voice harsh and rough after all his yelling, loosening his grip on Yuuri. There’s a light in his eyes that wasn’t there before, like the dawn Yuuri was watching only minutes ago, like the light of the city at night. It isn’t something for Yuuri to try and understand, only something he can sit and marvel at. It’s ethereal and glowing, the spark of realization in Yuri’s green eyes, watching the epiphany slide over his face before settling in and being tucked away. “...You two are ridiculous. If you’re going to love someone, make an effort to talk to them, at least. Do you know how badly you fucked him up last night?”
“...What?” Yuuri isn’t sure he heard right. “What happened last night?”
Yuri knits his eyebrows at him, line of his mouth dragging down, removing his hands from Yuuri’s body entirely and shoving them in his hoodie pockets. He waits, as if for a punch line. Evidently not hearing it, he raises one eyebrow, mouth hanging open slightly as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You… don’t remember? At all?”
“I remember passing out in the lobby, and that’s it. Are you saying I met Viktor last night?” Yuuri tries to keep the panic out of his voice, but it isn’t possible, voice trailing off into something high-pitched and frantic. “Please tell me what happened!”
Yuri’s mouth curls into a taunting smirk, impossibly smug, before he shrugs and snorts out a laugh. He springs up from the bed, leaving Yuuri alone, heading towards the door. “Why don’t you ask Viktor what happened? I wasn’t there for most of it, anyways.”
“Ask Viktor…?” Yuuri whispers, feeling like he’s missed something huge and important and earth-shattering. Yuri twists open the lock, halfway out the door when he swivels around, face impassive as he looks back at Yuuri. A faint tinge of pink dusts itself over his cheeks, the lightest hint of blush. Yuuri thinks he might be imagining it.
“You did a good job… living for love, or whatever,” Yuri wrinkles his nose at Yuuri again, whipping around a hand to point at him. “Don’t fuck this up.”
When Yuri Plisetsky is fifteen, someone sees him as their everything. They’re willing to become nothing for him. They let their lungs fill with sprouts and pretend that’s okay, act like it’s fine to suffer through it when Yuri knows just how much it hurts. Otabek Altin loves him, and he’s asked Yuri to be his friend.
The bouquet of lilies in Yuri’s hands falls to the ground. He doesn’t want to touch them anymore, knowing where they’re from.
Something about this screams of irony- dancing, watching someone from across the room, forgetting, flowers. They’re gorgeous, tiger lilies splayed out in bursts of red and yellow, every shade of orange mixed in between turning them into something like a sunrise.
Tiger lilies are big. The carnations had been too large for Yuri’s tiny throat, even a single petal enough to choke him if it came up the wrong way, but they’re nothing compared to the blooming, beautiful lilies; scarlet and fuchsia and covered in blood. Otabek doesn’t complain.
He’d only handed him the flowers, claiming they belonged to him.
No one’s ever asked him to be their friend before, and meant it. The tiger lilies lie at his feet.
“Get rid of them,” Yuri spits out, ignoring Otabek’s hand and jumping straight for his throat, pale fingers grasping into the dark scarf. It’s softer than Yuri expected. Words fill his throat, but they feel like the flowers, too many at once to possibly get out. All he can do is stare up at Otabek- Otabek, who is calm and steady. A bead of shiny blood is sitting at the corner of his lip. Yuri can’t speak. It’s the third time someone’s stood before him who’s stupid enough to fall for love’s ploys and silly enough to give in to their hearts.
Once, in a mirror, he’d seen an idiot, desperate for his mother to come back, flowers made of sunlight clogging his lungs.
Once, in an ice rink, Yuri had watched a moron skate like his life depended on it, hoping beyond hope that his love’s eyes would settle on him, even for a moment. Roses made of the sky tried to stop him from breathing, and they failed.
Now, on a balcony with the setting sun casting this stupidly determined skater in every shade of auburn and gold, he lets his hands fall to his sides and tremble. Lilies made of flame and blood lay at their feet.
This is the third time he’s faced the Hanahaki disease, and Yuri can’t deal with this anymore. It’s three times too many. He’s been so lucky. He’s been so blessed to not have anyone die on him.
All these figure skaters, letting their emotions get the better of common sense.
“Just remove them! I don’t want this! I don’t want these stupid fucking flowers!” Yuri finds he’s having trouble breathing, probably hyperventilating, the heel of his foot crashing down on top of the glorious tiger lilies. The flowers crumple beneath him; some making satisfying crunching sounds. “Why is everyone I know such a fucking idiot?! It’s- I’m- You don’t even know me! We haven’t spoken in five years!”
Otabek is moving to grab him, concern flickering in his eyes, earlier serenity shoved aside. Yuri feels like it’s slow motion. Watching Otabek reach for him burns, makes all his old wounds ache inside him, makes his scar pulse with pain. Yuri doesn’t know what to do. His ears screech at him, sound coming from nowhere. The wind is drying out his eyes. It takes him a second to remember to blink. Otabek’s hand lands on his shoulder, comforting and gentle.
Naturally, because Yuri has been forged into a dagger made to break and destroy everything that tries to come near him by the heat of his own flames, he lashes out.
“What, did you think you could come crawling to my side and I’d fall in love with you in one night?! Did you think I was a softie like Viktor?! Like Katsudon?!” Otabek’s hand is slapped away, and the Kazakhstan skater pulls it back to his chest just as slowly as he reached out with it, gaze considering Yuri like he’s something fascinating. Like Yuri is still beautiful, even in the midsts of panic and anger and scathing remarks. It burns. His chest hurts. He keeps blaming it on his scar, even though it hurts far too much for the damage to be just skin-deep. “Friends?! Yeah, right! You’re in love with me, so just say it! Go the whole way! Ask to be my boyfriend or some shit like that!”
“No,” Otabek interrupts even as Yuri sucks in air to keep ranting, unendingly and impossibly patient. His voice is so deep, so forceful, so powerful. The blood starts to trickle down his chin. “You’d feel too pressured to say yes. That’s unfair to you.”
Yuri hates that he believes him.
Otabek’s lips look wrong in red.
“Besides, I…” Otabek flinches back a little in shock as Yuri scrapes his hand across Otabek’s chin, wiping away the trickle of blood. There’s a moment of silence. Otabek seems to need a long moment to process the action, before he looks Yuri dead in the eye and continues. His voice doesn’t even waver. “I want to be your friend. Will you let me stay by your side or not?”
Yuri’s been broken once or twice in his life. Chipped at the edges, taped back together, just like everyone else. He isn’t going to let himself feel sorry for himself, isn’t going to stop moving forward and striving to be better. Maybe, sometimes, he moves a little too fast, pushes too hard. Doesn’t give himself time to breath and settle.
This doesn’t really feel like breaking, though.
It feels a little more like the feelings he ripped out of himself a long time ago are trying to come back to him.
“Fuck you,” Yuri sobs, scratching at his face with his perfectly manicured fingernails as he tries to wipe away the sudden rush of tears. Otabek doesn’t react. He’s adjusted to Yuri’s explosions of emotion so quickly. Yuri’s chest feels like it’s splitting open. “Take out the flowers, Otabek! Don’t be an idiot! Don’t trust me to love you back! I stopped feeling that a long time ago!”
“You had flowers, when we first met,” Otabek steps closer, his boots crushing more of the tiger lilies. His dark eyes are so fierce, so unyielding. Nothing in him shakes, like it does in Viktor, even when he’s playing his best confident act. Nothing in him gives way, like it does in Katsudon. “You seemed so proud to be bearing them. Can’t I be proud to have your flowers?”
“Don’t talk about them like that!” Yuri takes a step back, unable to handle the overbearing tension, barely able to handle keeping his eyes dry. “They aren’t good! There’s nothing good about them! They’re ugly and gross and they hurt like a bitch! I don’t want to be hurting you!”
“Yuri,” Otabek breathes, the fight going out of him in a moment. He reaches up a hand, slowly again, and Yuri doesn’t knock it away this time. Deft fingers, rough with calluses, brush away tears Yuri didn’t realize he was still spilling. He’s panting again. Otabek tilts his head slightly, pulling back his hand just as slowly. “I’m going to be fine.”
“You don’t know that!” Yuri throws himself at Otabek, wanting to bowl him over, wanting to beat the shit out of him until Otabek can’t do anything but agree with Yuri. It doesn’t work, because Otabek is strong and solid and Yuri is a petite little thing, but Otabek goes with the movement anyways- landing on his back on the ground and staying there. Yuri is all elbows and shoulders, bony and draped across Otabek’s chest, all his energy going into yelling. He doesn’t have any to spare to hit Otabek with after all. Snapping his neck up, he searches out Otabek’s eyes again, taking in their strength and using it to keep himself going. “Take the shitty things out, I demand you take them out! Loving me isn’t something to be proud of, you moron! Stop looking at me like I’m… like I’m…”
Yuri makes an agitated noise, the words not coming to his head, starting to tear his hands through his silky strands of hair. Otabek sits up, carefully depositing Yuri out of his lap and onto the stone. Every movement he makes is measured and perfect, already planned and thought out. It’s kind of breathtaking.
Shuddering gasps heave in and out of Yuri’s lungs, though he doesn’t think he’s had a single moment of peaceful breathing this entire conversation. Otabek silently tugs Yuri’s hands out of his hair, smoothing it back down into place effortlessly. When Yuri’s breathing doesn’t seem to be getting any better any time soon, Otabek shuffles over to sit beside him, placing a hand on Yuri’s back and rubbing small circles. It helps.
“Do you honestly want me to go?” Otabek asks, voice hesitant for the first time since Yuri’s met him. It’s startling and perplexing, to hear honest regret in Otabek’s voice. Nevertheless, the sincerity shines through like warm sunlight through mist, and Yuri knows if he asks Otabek to never talk to him again right now, Otabek would follow through without a second thought.
“No, I want to yell at you more,” Yuri mumbles, out of energy from panicking and losing his head and crying. He has to skate tomorrow. How is he supposed to skate tomorrow? How is Otabek supposed to skate tomorrow?
Otabek nods, the faintest hint of a smile on his face. His hand is warm through his biking gloves, rhythmic as it traces over Yuri’s back. Without thinking about it, Yuri flops over into Otabek’s side, taking advantage of his shoulder to rest on. Otabek accepts it seamlessly, letting Yuri do what he wants.
The sun sets. The wind grows stronger. It’s still not that cold though, at least with Otabek pressing against him.
Every once in awhile, Yuri will remember to mumble some vague protest against the flowers and love, but they grow weaker as time passes. Otabek just nods complacently at each one.
His scar has stopped hurting. Pressing a hand against it, Yuri traces the line he knows so well beneath the fabric of his shirt, just barely able to feel the raised line through the cotton. It had never healed well. It’s really, supremely ugly on Yuri. The old wound is dark and marring against his pale skin, labeling him as a victim for as long as he lives.
He wonders what Otabek would think of it. What Otabek would look like if he got surgery like Yuri’s. Yuri can’t help feeling that as wrong as blood looks on Otabek’s lips, a scar on his chest would look even worse there than it does on his own.
The glow of the city sweeps over Otabek from behind, tousling his hair as effectively as the howling wind. It’s cold, but Yuri is warm, letting heat seep into him from Otabek.
His hand drops from his scar, landing somewhere on the pavement. His fingers find tiger lily petals on their own, absentmindedly plucking them from their stalks and letting the orange offerings float away with the wind. Otabek is silent, occasionally watching Yuri’s fingers as they work, until there are no more flowers nearby to destroy.
There are no stars to stare at here. The city’s light pollution erases all signs of the glittering lights that hung so readily above in Hasetsu. Yuri misses them.
He thinks about the night he met Yuuri.
“Hey, Otabek,” Yuri says loudly, voice echoing into the silence of the balcony. “What makes love worth dying for?”
Otabek shrugs with his other shoulder, voice as sure of his answer as he seems to be of all the words he speaks. “Everything.”
“What does that mean?” Yuri asks, honestly curious, letting himself voice the questions he’s had brimming from his mind ever since Yuuri Katsuki said the exact same meaningless answer. Otabek won’t judge him for them. Yuri knows that with a certainty that almost scares him. “‘Everything’ is so vague. It sounds like some bullshit answer you throw on an essay in the last minute that teachers eat up because they’re saps.”
“Everything about you,” Otabek clarifies, and if Yuri concentrates hard enough, he can hear the gravel in the back of Otabek’s throat. The lilies still litter the ground around them, a constant and bleeding reminder of the stakes at hand. “Your dancing. Your past. Your future. The leopard print.”
“...You were right,” Yuri mutters, a little bitterly, struggling to feel anything but the dizzying blush on his face and Otabek’s hand, now resting casually on his waist. “You aren’t going to die, are you?”
“No, I won’t.” Otabek agrees, eyes black as coal in the moonlight, staring right into Yuri’s dim green irises. “Because your love is not nearly as dead as you thought it was.”
The lilies in Otabek’s lungs don’t wither immediately. They linger for weeks and weeks, but watching the petals that Otabek coughs up grow gradually smaller and smaller is the most satisfying thing Yuri’s ever witnessed. The very last full flower that Otabek coughs up is perfectly formed and luscious, blazing like the sun itself, and it does not wither.
Otabek lets Yuri keep it. His grandpa tells him the flower won’t die unless Yuri’s love for Otabek fades away.
It’s the only thing he has that he knows will be exactly the same when he comes back home after travelling for competitions.
At age fifteen, Yuri Plisetsky makes his first friend, and Otabek Altin does not die. (But that’s really just the start of it.)
Yuuri’s alone for all of a minute, trying to recover from the reeling of Yuri’s yelling before his door crashes open with a force that makes him think he’s being attacked. His startled scream intermingles with another as Viktor Nikiforov, five-time consecutive winner of the Grand Prix Final- looking utterly wrecked for some reason- comes barreling in.
“Yuuri!” Viktor cries, rolling the vowels in a way that makes Yuuri’s heart skip a beat, slamming the door behind him in his haste to shut it and get over to Yuuri’s perch on the bed. “You’re awake! I can’t believe Yura made me go take a nap, I promised you I would be here when you woke up!”
“V-Viktor?!” Yuuri starts, completely and utterly bewildered as Viktor hastily runs a hand through his messy silver hair, trying to clear up his bedhead. He’s dressed in pyjamas: sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, the look completed with a clear lack of shoes. Viktor must have run straight over from his hotel room to Yuuri’s. “What?! Why are you here?!”
Viktor isn’t given a chance to answer, already too busy launching himself at Yuuri- arms outstretched, toes pointed. Yuuri’s body is entirely locked up, tense and coiled tight, and Viktor slams into him with vigor. He thinks he hears one of their collarbones crack. Viktor’s too busy giggling in his ear to notice any pain.
“Hang on- Oh my god-” Yuuri thinks he’s about to pass out, his hands pressed into Viktor’s deliciously toned abdominal. He’s trying to move them away, but he can’t, Viktor’s arms keeping him locked in against the other man’s form. Yuuri’s nose is pressed into Viktor’s shoulder, loose gray hairs ticking the outer shell of his ear, and he’s about to explode. “Please get off me!”
“Aw,” Viktor whines, drawing back just enough to make space between them. His fingers are still stroking through the baby soft hair at the nape of Yuuri’s neck. Viktor’s eyes are sparkling with joy, and he seems entirely unable to keep a tiny smile off his face even when there’s nothing to be smiling at. Is he smiling just at the sight of Yuuri? “You don’t want me to hug you? We’ve already been closer, haven’t we?”
“No! No, that’s not what I meant-wait,” Yuuri stalls, mentalling crashing and burning. His hands are still against Viktor’s abs, having unconsciously followed him when he leant back. Sucking in a breath, Yuuri quickly brings the wandering traitors back to his own body, timidly reaching up to settle them on Viktor’s wrists instead. Still in contact. Ready to remove the searching, seeking hands at any moment. Viktor just smiles at him patiently, long eyelashes fluttering as he blinks. “Um, closer?”
“Don’t tease, Yuuri,” Viktor slides his hands down from Yuuri’s neck to his shoulders, long fingers trailing and leaving behind little bolts of energy that slip down Yuuri’s spine and make him shudder. The look on Viktor’s face turns coy, the tilt of his smirk playful. “Unless you want a demonstration?”
“It’s okay! That’s not necessary!” Yuuri shuffles back on the bed, ducking out from under Viktor’s hands. As much as he’s craved to be noticed and touched by the other man for years, the actual ethereal physicality of it has overwhelmed him in just moments. Viktor’s touch is so enticing, inviting Yuuri to hope for more- it’s new, but the brush of his fingertips feels familiar. Trying to hide his blush by fiddling with his glasses, Yuuri puts a good foot of empty space between them, avoiding Viktor’s eyes.
“Huh? Yuuri? Are you feeling alright?” Viktor asks, starting to reach for Yuuri again before smoothly and cleanly stopping, somehow making the awkward motion of pulling back look effortless and easy. When Yuuri glances up at his gaze again, those brilliant blue eyes look a little pained, even though the smile is still holding onto his mouth. “If you’re not comfortable with so much touching, I understand…”
Yet Viktor’s hands keep twitching like they want to be doing something, reaching for something, holding onto something. Yuuri watches them for a second, then takes a deep breath to collect his thoughts. Viktor still doesn’t know that Yuuri can’t remember last night. It’s hard to think about what he should say next, what he should do, just as hard as it was with Yuri screaming at him.
His brain is trying to process this, trying to understand the reality of Viktor Nikiforov sitting on his bed- glorious in his disarray, beautiful in his messiness. His eyes are sunken with lack of sleep, little creases settling in more finely than usual under his eyes. He won a gold medal last night.
Viktor Nikiforov doesn’t fall on the ice, always standing high, up on his pedestal, yet Yuuri’s never seen anyone who’s fallen harder or faster than Viktor did last night.
It’s obvious in the spark in his eyes.
Viktor Nikiforov, somehow, miraculously, fell for him last night.
Yuuri just needs a minute.
Yuuri is just going to need to take a second to take in the reality of a Viktor Nikiforov who knows him. Of a Viktor Nikiforov who wants to run his hands through Yuuri’s hair and cradle his hands. Of a Viktor Nikiforov who’s in love with him.
Yuuri needs to tell him that he can’t remember. This isn’t fair to either of them- Viktor thinks he’s being rebuffed, and Yuuri can’t handle Viktor’s level of affection right now.
The quiet is deafening. With every second of it, Viktor seems to lose a little more of his cheerfulness, eyes dimming into something grim and lonely. He’s staring off into the distance now, and it’s painful to watch him trickle away into some dark place that Yuuri could never know. Still, the smile holds, as transparent as it is. Viktor looks older than he is, like a ghost who hasn’t died yet.
Involuntarily, without a shred of thought, Yuuri places his hand over Viktor’s.
“I’m… still trying to adjust to this, okay?” Yuuri says, lying and lying and not regretting it, letting Viktor believe he remembers. Wishing he really and truly did. Anything to stop that terrible look in his gloriously expressive eyes. Offering a slightly weak smile, Yuuri threads his fingers into Viktor’s, meeting no resistance. “Please be patient with me. I do… want to t-touch you, Viktor. I’m just… not used to this.”
“Okay, if that’s what you need,” Viktor is still angling his whole body towards Yuuri, broad shoulders and thin waist twisted to face him. The t-shirt is stretching delightfully across his chest and it’s a little much to deal with. Yuuri does his best to keep his eyes on Viktor’s face- never mind nipples that show through flimsy clothes. Viktor’s laugh is weak, barely any actual humour in it. “Ha, I thought you were going to tell me to get lost or something!”
“Never. I would never.” There’s a dull clanging reverberating through Yuuri’s head, like an empty space where something should be. As Viktor starts to rub gentle circles over Yuuri’s skin with his thumb something seeps into that empty space, a whisper of sensation. “I’m just...you’ve held my hand before.”
Yuuri cuts himself off, voice light with a note of shock. It’s a new memory, but it’s not. It happened only a day ago, but it’s only coming back to him now... but it’s always been there. It makes no sense. Yuuri still holds onto the memory tight, holds onto Viktor’s hand tighter, and doesn’t let go.
“Yuuri…?” Viktor frowns a little, obviously confused but rejuvenated from his sorrows by the simple sharing of his hands between them. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem… out of it.”
There’s so little. Nothing about the room he was in, nothing about the people he was with, nothing about what was said. Nothing about how he felt. Only Viktor’s hands, clutching at his. Both of their palms were sweaty.
“Do you want me to call a doctor? Yuuri?” Viktor asks again, a little more forcefully, inching closer on the bed without Yuuri saying a thing. Vaguely, he realizes he’s squeezing Viktor’s hand hard enough for it to be painful.
“No, I’m okay.” Yuuri turns towards him on the bed, shoulders slumped. It takes some effort, but he lets his mind relax, lets it stop groping for more when there’s nothing yet. Viktor slinks even closer across the white sheets and when he twists, Yuuri sees a slip of pale skin and jutting hipbones in between his t-shirt and sweatpants that makes all of the blood in his body immediately rush to his face. Trying his best to ignore his massive blush, Yuuri takes a deep breath and looks into Viktor’s eyes.
It’s just one fragment of a memory, but it means that rest will come back with time and effort. There’s something grounding in that that lets Yuuri focus on reality, lets him stop poking at the still fresh wound. Lets him focus on how incredibly blue Viktor’s eyes are instead.
Viktor’s gotten very close.
It’s familiar. Yuuri can’t remember it happening before.
“So you… want me,” Yuuri tries to find the truest blue in Viktor’s eyes and can’t. From the sky to the bottom of the ocean, it’s a mosaic of cerulean. “You, um, want me to touch you?”
“Wow, Yuuri, that’s forward,” Viktor laughs, voice low and silky smooth. He tosses his gleaming hair out of his eyes unsuccessfully, peering up at Yuuri through the scattered strands. “Maybe after I’ve had some breakfast…”
“C-Can you stop? For one second?” Yuuri pleads, as incapable of dealing with Viktor’s alluring tone and looks at such an early hour of morning as he’s incapable of understanding how someone so silly and gorgeous and perfect could have fallen in love with him. “I meant…!”
Viktor’s silver hair has started to shine and glow with the rise of the morning sun, natural light pouring down onto them from the huge windows. Viktor looks like he wants to say something that will make Yuuri completely lose his head and blush to the roots of his hair again. Yuuri just has to interrupt, because this feels like a dream. Yuuri needs something to make it real already.
“Would it be okay if I… touched your hair?” Yuuri blurts out, quickly, like he’s admitting his darkest secret and just wants it off his chest. Instantly afterwards he loses his nerve, mumbling excuses and apologies, but Viktor just laughs them off. In a single night, Yuuri’s become as transparent as glass to him.
Viktor starts to lean down to give Yuuri better access to his scalp just as Yuuri lets go of his hand and reassembles his legs to form a proper pillow, feeling incredibly gleeful and struggling to hide it. There’s a beat of silence. Misunderstandings swirl in the air between them.
“Did you… want me to lay on your lap?” Viktor asks quietly, sounding awed. As if he’s discovered something incredible, a treasure so precious he wouldn’t give it up for anything. Yuuri doesn’t want to take that from him, even as absolutely embarrassed as he feels. He nods, just a little frantic perhaps.
In an instant, Viktor’s head is rested on Yuuri’s thighs, cheek squishing into the muscle of his left leg. The rest of his body stretches out on the bed, settling in in a way that speaks of his exhaustion. How long had he stayed up for Yuuri last night? Did he even get any chance to rest after his performance? Yuuri knows how much doing media can take out of you, and as the winner, Viktor must have had to offer something after the Grand Prix Final ended. How much energy must it take to win an international tournament and keep someone alive in the same night?
“You can rest now, Viktor,” Yuuri finally feels like he’s somewhat in control of the situation. Viktor is here before him, sleepy and grossly in love, staring up at Yuuri with a sappy smile on his face. Yuuri’s hands shake as he strokes back Viktor’s bangs. His hair is the softest thing Yuuri’s ever felt in his life. It has a fleeting, diaphanous texture to it that makes Yuuri want to bury his face in it and see what it smells like. “I’ve kept you up long enough.”
“Doesn’t this feel familiar?” Viktor muses, voice slurring one word to the next, drowsiness pulling his eyes closed. Yuuri can feel Viktor’s jaw move against his thigh as he speaks. “I doubt you enjoyed my hold as much as I’m enjoying yours.”
“Not likely,” Yuuri can imagine how thrilled he must have been to be pressed against Viktor, even in the throes of fever and illness, his head injury still rattling his brain. The rays of sunlight are making him sleepy, too, but it’s more important to keep playing with Viktor’s hair. This is incredibly important. He’s dreamt of doing this for five years.
Viktor’s eyelashes flutter. They’re so long and full, they can’t possibly be real. Everything about Viktor is so much more glorious than the videos and posters led Yuuri to believe. The cameras could never hope to capture the true depth of Viktor Nikiforov’s beauty, simply falling asleep on Yuuri’s lap.
“You’re so beautiful, Yuuri,” Viktor sighs, raising a hand to trace along Yuuri’s jawline before letting it flop back down. His voice is so deep, so tired, so far gone. He doesn’t sound like he’s even aware he’s speaking aloud right now. “I’m so lucky, Yuuri.”
“Oh,” Yuuri says under his breath, because the way Viktor is looking at him right now is the way Yuuri’s felt watching Viktor’s programs. The slightly helpless smile, like he’s so full of joy he can’t help it. The shine in his irises that seems to reflect from some brilliant, inward light, rather than anything exterior. Everything in Viktor’s expression is soft, vulnerable, open. It’s there for Yuuri to look at. Viktor is making this face for Yuuri, and Yuuri alone. “You really do love me?”
“Not enough,” Viktor declares emphatically, sitting up just enough to peer a little closer into Yuuri’s eyes. “There’s so much more of you to love. I want to see it all. I want to know everything about you. My emotions were enough for the flowers. But not enough for me. I’m not satisfied yet.”
“Vik-” Yuuri begins, then is abruptly seized by a fit of coughing, his body shaking and trembling. He instinctively covers his mouth with one hand and grabs for the stabbing pains in chest with the other. Viktor’s immediately upright, alarms going off, hands rubbing up and down Yuuri’s back to sooth him.
It’s a perfect, pristine blue rose. Yuuri stares at it in his hand, thinking it’s the finest one he’s ever created. Viktor is panicking, practically beside himself, thinking the disease is back and looking to take Yuuri for good this time, but all Yuuri can do is admire the flower.
It’s the last one.
“Viktor,” Yuuri says with a rasp, wounds in his throat reopening from the coughing fit, only hints of his normal voice detectable. The rose smells intoxicating. “I’ve kept you in my heart for five years. I’ve had so much longer to think about you, and maybe this is selfish of me, but… I feel the same. I want more. I’ve always wanted more.”
Delicately, Yuuri offers Viktor the blue rose, smiling beatifically at him. Viktor’s eyes are wide, mouth hanging open slightly.
“Blue roses aren’t a real flower, Viktor. They’re a symbol of impossible dreams and loves. They’re a mystery that hasn’t been unravelled, something to look for but never find,” Yuuri says bitterly, watching Viktor’s long, graceful fingers take the coveted rose, purposefully brushing over every single one of Yuuri’s on the way. “They’re your flower. Mystery and impossibility. I thought I would never be able to reach you… so I never tried.”
Viktor brings the flower up to his face and inhales deeply, flinching slightly at the traces of blood on the winding stem.
“It’s my last flower, Viktor,” Yuuri breathes, and appreciates every moment of being able to do it unhindered. “You’re here now. So the impossible roses representing my impossible love can’t exist anymore.”
“Yuuri, it’s beautiful.” Viktor says lightly, fingernail tracing over individual petals. Eventually, he stops, simply holding the rose in his hands and smiling at Yuuri. “I feel like you’re offering me your love, or something. How romantic.”
Yuuri blushes and stammers as Viktor’s face goes stern, leaning in even closer to speak bluntly into Yuuri’s ear.
“But if I’m holding this now, that means this flower exists. Neither this rose nor your love were ever impossible, Yuuri,” Viktor sounds scolding, his lips brushing against the outer shell of Yuuri’s ear with every syllable. It drives Yuuri a little mad, so he rushes for the easy way out from under Viktor’s spell.
Snatching the rose back, Yuuri bounces off the bed to take out a glass from the cupboard and fill it with water. Viktor’s laughter and whining follows him, but Yuuri bears it no mind as the sounds slowly trail off. Leaving the rose carefully balanced inside the cup on the kitchen counter, Yuuri turns back to the bed nervously.
Viktor is dead asleep, stretched out and drooling slightly.
Yuuri feels fuzzy, feet sloppy as they carry him back to the bed, tucking himself into Viktor’s side. They have so many things to talk about, so many things to do.
Medals to win, routines to skate, love to nurture.
That’s okay. They have all the time in the world to do all that.
The blue rose stands proud and strong in the vase. The impossible love is dead, but it remains, leading into greater things. They can only grow from here.
Yuuri curls his hand into Viktor’s t-shirt, clutching at the fabric, before flattening his hand and letting it rest on top of Viktor’s chests. He can feel him breathe. Yuuri can feel himself breathe, too.
They’re both breathing.
They’re alive, and there’s nowhere to go but up.
(At twenty-three years old, Yuuri Katsuki feels limitless.)