Author's notes, TW & CW
↳Present day
Yuri collapses into his bed, groaning when he notices he neglected to fully shut the door. He knows if he leaves it open Victor will take it as an invitation to come in, and... Yuri heaves himself up, trudging over to the door to push it shut. He trudges back to his bed and collapses once more, lying still for a moment before crawling up to his pillows and tugging the blankets over him.
It's good to be home. Now he can wallow in the safety and comfort of his own bed. The soft, unchanging sameness of his favourite blanket, the little remnants of the sticky tack that used to glue his posters to every wall...
He wishes he could go back to when that was his only relation to Victor. He wishes they'd never met.
Fuck, wait... no he doesn't. Victor may be a little eccentric at times, and this season was one of the hardest Yuri's ever had but, up until his own major fuck-up, it was also the best. He just wishes he wasn't such a fucking crybaby, he wishes he could do things right for once.
His phone buzzes. He lays there for a long time, debating whether to pick it up, and eventually decides it's probably best to just put it on the table. He doesn't have to know what's going on, why should he care? It's "blissful" ignorance.
His eyes are heavy. His body is overheating under the blankets and his airport clothes, but fuck. He can't be fucking bothered to change them. He'd pick sweating it out over putting in the effort to stand up and unzip his jacket, and he does. The world is becoming hazy, and he knows it's because of the exhaustion, the jet lag, but he can't help but wish it would stay longer. He likes not feeling real, it helps.
God, that sounds mentally ill. Yuri sighs gently. He lays his head to the side, studying a section of the texture on the wall as the world gets glassy and his thoughts get further and further away from him until they're gone altogether.
I step out onto the ice, blade guards clunking heavily against the black foam ground. The cold air of the rink sends a shiver ripping through me, as though my jacket isn't there at all. I come to the boards, taking off the guards and placing them next to the kiss and cry bag that sits there already. I know Victor's next to me, I don't have to check.
Without any real cue, I know it's my turn. I unzip the useless jacket and toss it beside the bag, stepping out onto the ice. No reaction.
What?
The crowd's reaction is my gasoline. How– where's the fire?
I look to Victor, my rock, my muse, my everything. He'll support me. He'll call out my name, yell Davai in his perfect, familiar voice and everything will be okay. I know he's there.
Where is he?
Why isn't he standing where he's standing?
Victor's not there for me, nobody's here, the crowd is gone, everyone is gone, the ice is melting and I'm going to fall. I am falling? No, I'm jumping. Stick the landing, check–
Over-rotation.
Over rotation over rotation over rotation over rotation, and I'm tumbling onto the ice. It doesn't hurt where I know it hurts.
"Yuri." Victor's voice is close to me. He's scolding me, I didn't do well enough, I failed him again. He's scolding me, without even speaking. I open my eyes, the ones I'd never closed. There, staring back at me in the black, raging waters of the rink, is Victor's face. There's two of them. There's me, and there's Victor.

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FanfictionNovember 5th, 2014. On the day that could have been Yuri's first independent victory, he instead watches as his career crumbles before his eyes. With Yuri's depression deepening and Victor dealing with the homophobia that drove him out of Russia, t...