❆ come on out ❆

6 ❆ VICTOR

Author's notes, TW & CW 
↳

Present day

It's about midnight in Japanese time when Victor's plane lands, and he's too tired and hungover even to register the inside of the airport as he heads for the exit. He really shouldn't have had so many drinks on the plane, but it was a long and lonely ride. All he can do is scan the crowds for anyone he knows and pray that Yakov didn't happen to choose a similar flight time. He chose to fly in right before the GPF started specifically to minimize his chances of running into any skaters. He could have texted Yurio and asked him, of course, but he doesn't want to drag him into this—ideally, he'll just be in to watch Yurio's routines and out before anyone can talk to him. So here he is stuck in his paranoia routine, scanning the crowd for danger—

Victor goes into the bathroom to cool down and collect himself.

What's wrong with him? He's been away from home before, obviously, but never quite under this sort of stress. He looks at the people passing through and wonders how many are homophobic... he forgot to look up gay rights in Spain... It doesn't matter. They don't know. None of them know. Unless they do, unless they recognize him and what he pulled on the ice—but there's no welcoming committee, he didn't tell anyone he didn't personally know that he was coming to the GPF, so no fans will be waiting at the entrance. It'll be fine. He's just having a moment.

Oh, shit, he thinks, I forgot to film the plane landing. Then he laughs at himself and feels better.

He emerges from the bathroom refreshed and somewhat composed and keeps going, now filming as he makes his way through the airport. The taxi takes him to the hotel. He checks in, makes his way slowly through the silent hallways to his room, and locks the door behind him. He also goes around closing all the curtains so he can sleep through the four o'clock sun.

The hotel room is quiet. He can hear the radiator buzzing. Alone again. Just like it's always been.

A wave of nausea and exhaustion almost knocks him off his feet and he buries his head in his hands for a moment to collect himself. It's time for bed, he's just jet-lagged.

He stares at the bed for a moment.

He pulls out his phone and texts Chris. What hotel are you staying at?

No answer.

He checks Instagram. Nobody's active.

Another wave of nausea. He should go to bed.

Ah, right. The vlog. Damn it.

He opens his camera, turns it around and presses record. "Hey, everyone." He waves at the camera. It's less awkward now that he's used to it. "It is now, ah... around five o'clock in Barcelona, which is really late for me. Normally I'd be staying up so I don't get jet lagged, but I think I'm just going to go to sleep for now. See you in the morning." With that, he stops the video, yanks his pyjamas out of his suitcase and goes the fuck to bed. The triplets had better be thankful for this.

❆

The hotel ceiling is made of plaster, textured, painted a light sort of cream colour. Victor's gaze wanders over the pattern aimlessly.

It's dark outside now, and he has a headache and he doesn't even want to know what time it is. The bed is somehow simultaneously too hot and too cold and it's unclear if he's actually sick or just stressed.

Well, either way, he doesn't feel tired. He pushes the covers off and gets out of bed, checking his phone. It's 8:30 pm Japan time, which means... he does some quick mental math... it's 12:30 in Barcelona.