Toska

Prologue: Chloroform.

Yuri, the young Russian ice skater didn't understand, as he trod back to the airport, the walk of shame. He had lost. Viktor, the only person that he actually had, had left him, left him for some Japanese nobody with a track record of failures, with such soft brown eyes, such soft strands of hair, the one with the ability to portray everything that he could not.

The blond was so, he wasn't even really angry, at least he realised he wasn't angry as he walked to the nearest bus stop, frowning as he struggled to read Japanese; the teen, the teen simply felt empty. Empty, lost, abandoned, betrayed, inferior. Useless. If he couldn't skate, if he couldn't win, what was he really? Yuri Plysetsky was nothing. Nobody. Trash. The boy's fist connected with the plastic screen that separated the little bus stop from the rest of the world, but even that, even when he channeled all of his anger into his fist, in a single act of violence like he would usually do, the collision of bone against solid barely made a sound.

Yuri, why? Why? Why! The teen demanded mentally, again, again and again. Why, why was he never Viktor's first choice? Why did Viktor have to run off all the way to Japan because of a fucking video uploaded to the internet with some flabby, overweight dude who had the gall to copy Viktor Nikiforov's programme? What the fuck happened to plagiarism? Why! Why... why couldn't Viktor have found inspiration in him? The voice in his mind finished dejectedly, sinking further into depression, slumping against the bench, biting his lip in sheer distress.

Fuck no. He was not going to cry.

Yuri refused to put himself in the same position he had found Viktor's inspiration. How pathetic, to cry, alone, at a bus stop. No, he was stronger, he, he.. he wasn't. Yuri really was not stronger than this. The Russian Punk had been reduced to the very person he had tried to get to quit the circuit. Crying, alone, as he covered his face with his hands. The tears, they just wouldn't stop, as his back arched, audible sobs escaping and slipping through his trembling fingers as he cried, face contorted in such a way nobody under the age of forty should be forced to make.

Viktor, his coach, the man he admired, the person who had inspired him, the one who kept him going, had tossed him aside, like the trash he obviously was. Viktor had been the only reason he pushed himself so much, to constantly surprise Viktor in the same way Viktor lived to surprise his audience. But, had he ever actually surprised him? Or had he stopped ages ago?

"I'm so fucki-fucking sorry.", Yuri hiccuped, apologising, apologising for acting like a brat, for thinking he was special to Viktor, for thinking he cared. But most of all, Yuri was apologising for never being good enough.

Suddenly, he heard a squeak of doors opening, as he convulsed behind his hands, only just seeing a lost bus driver looking at him without knowing what to do. Now, now everyone had seen him, seen him crying, at his weakest. At least, his name counterpart had had the privacy of the toilets to cry in. But fucking no, he couldn't even get that. Sniffing sharply, he wiped his eyes, standing straight, trying to regain some form of composure as he stepped through the bus doors.

He was going to get better. He was going to go back to Russia, he was going to win without that Bastard-Of-The-Man-He-Had-Started-To-Love's help. Yes, he would show Viktor how his protégé was so inferior to him, Viktor would never forgive himself for choosing to remain in Japan instead of coming back to Russia. Staying with the overweight pig instead of remaining by /his/ side. For being so entranced in Eros he probably hadn't even noticed he had disappeared. Yuri could have been fucking abducted for all Viktor could have known.

Even if the boy lost himself.

Yuri didn't care. Yuri didn't care if he was reduced to a shell of himself. He would win. He would stand on the highest step in the podium.

Yuri, Yuri would become such a skater, Viktor, he would show that asshole of a coach who the real Yuri was. Yes, the real Yuri was he, Yuri Plisetsky: The Russian Fairy.

Author's Note: 

Well! How did you like the little taster? Juicy enough? Or do you crave more? Let me know, my Yurio muse is sky-high, and will probably remain that way for who knows how long (probably two eternities). Yes, I am currently YoI trash and proud.

Anyways, feel free to hit me up with all and any form of criticism, I'm always down to improve and have a second, or third, or fourth, even fifth opinion at my disposal. What I'm trying to say is that I love criticism nearly as much as I adore cheesecake. The more constructive it is, the closer it comes to skating on the same ice as Cheesecake, totally not hinting that I'm starved and want to eat cheesecake or anything... totally.. totally not.. I swear.

Ultea