Smoke Is In The Air

Chapter Art!

Chapter Text

It had been a silly oversight on his part, neglecting to look into something that should have been obvious.

The series of events that led up to Yuuri smashing his face flat as a pancake in front of a crowd of thousands weren't anything uncommon or even exciting. It was their aftermath and the feelings that accompanied the incident that would ensure a heartfelt promise to never repeat them. In order to do so, he'd need to categorically metabolize them.

His first mistake was getting shit-faced.

Hangovers were not to be trifled with, and Yuuri had chosen the worst possible time to fuck around and find out.

His second misstep could be attributed to neglecting to factor in the possibility that cocktails had calories. Straight liquor is light enough for its caloric value to be considered forgivable, but fifteen cocktails? No way. He may as well have eaten half of a chocolate cake.

Bloated and nauseous, Yuuri made his third mistake; fasting. Even salted egg whites would have eased his rumbling stomach, alleviating some of the dizziness and brain fog, but he couldn't cope with the idea of adding any more lard to his Michelin Man physique. Sue him, it was the one attribute that he didn't regret in the slightest.

Remember; the long line of critical mistakes have to directly succeed one another for their results to be duplicated. As long as he didn't reproduce the exact chain of events, it would be highly unlikely for him to find himself in the same predicament a second time.

Finally, the true faux pas; Checking Twitter. Yes, he had in fact posted the video of Chris and himself busting it down at the club. Humiliating, terrible, truly traumatic, etc, etc. Celestino was pissed, Phichit was having the time of his life poking fun at his poor bestie, and Yuuri was mortified. The fans were picking it apart, assigning obscure meanings to every detail, including, but not limited to his song choice, attire, companion, and location.

It was there, in the bustling comment section of his own post, that Yuuri was clued in to something far more sinister. He had been tagged in the same article at least a hundred times, many commenters speculating that his own post had something to do with it.

It didn't.

Thirty minutes before he was to perform, Yuuri learned just how low Viktor Nikiforov was willing to go. The rat bastard had done it again, chewing up his name and spitting it out into the face of a reporter and his microphone.

" If I'm being honest, I was kind of concerned earlier. The poor boy looks awful."

Poor. To hell with that. He was perfectly capable of worrying about himself. Pity was to be reserved for the weak, and Yuuri was anything but.

Awful. The sweet cashier from the bakery didn't seem to think Yuuri looked awful. Neither did the half dozen people he made out with the night prior. Viktor must have bad taste, because he was in the minority.

Piglet. Fair analysis, he'd give him that much. It's a work in progress.

Disappointing. Yeah, but only until he replaced Viktor on the podium. Maybe not today, or even within the year, but good things come to those who wait. Yuuri was a patient man.

Rationalizing the man's remarks relieved the initial brand they had burnt into his skin. For about fifteen minutes. Then Yuuri went into a full blown panic, pacing back and forth and glaring at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Cruelly, callously, time was stripped from the satchel dangling from his belt, and he was thrown onto the ice. The presentation was fine, the technicalities sound, muscle memory taking control and guiding him into sweeping lunges and stately leaps. Even his bond with the music remained intact, feet and arms poised in dignified arches, robust and steady like the Golden Gate Bridge yet elastic and formless like the water beneath it.

What was lacking couldn't be disentangled by the amateur spectator. Even adept judges were at risk of falling victim to ignorance.

Soul. The piece had lost its soul, its essence and storyline. Tenebrous and overcast, Yuuri had committed sacrilege by allowing such a slight to occur. Once again, he'd allowed hurt and resentment to thin the paint, eating away at the mural until only the sketch and canvas endured.

His art didn't deserve to meet such a rancorous end. Yuuri choked back bitter bile, desperately scanning the arena for something, anything that would return color to his noir. A shimmer under the LED lighting, azure and silver. Viktor. How dare he stand there like a stagnant flame, effervescent and-

And-

And…Then there was red.

Yuuri would vehemently deny it if prodded, but it hurt like a bitch, soaring into the metal framework of the rink's stout railing. He'd very nearly cried, tears hearing to dilute the opaque polishing of blood that spattered across his face.

Ideals and a raging inferiority complex pushed him upright, and though suffering physically and mourning mentally, Yuuri struck his final pose, bringing the program to an inorganic end.

Carried off by medics, Yuuri was finally released from the shackles of commitment, fully content to simmer and chew his already chapped lips raw.

In the dinky and dimly lit medical wing of the plaza, Yuuri was made aware of his final placement. Third place, out of the six finalists. He had podiumed. Awesome. He'd 'won', but barely.

Being the worst of the best was hardly winning at all.

This was all his fault. Yuuri didn't have any humanity left to offer Viktor. It had been bleached to scraps and dragged away by the sizzling storm clouds of mutiny and the bronze of a medal he couldn't claim to have rightfully earned.

As the day wore on, a declaration of war began to bubble, noxiously gripping at his throat, even when sleep was actively batting its slimy paws out of the way.

Whatever vendetta Viktor had against Yuuri would be returned tenfold. Instead of crying, he would cremate. Someone should have taught him not to play with fire.

Toying with lighters, toying with someone else's self worth… Viktor was an all encompassing tundra of careless abandon, so self absorbed and secure in his icy wasteland that he cast the flame of consequence away as a meaningless measure of righteousness.

Well, if he wanted to fool around with matches and gasoline, so be it. Yuuri would give as good as he got.

Scenarios of fruitful penance carried the boy through the night and morning after, all the way through his gala skate and into the evening festivities.

Peach was back at the hotel, Celestino having wised up and doubled down after their shenanigans at Skate America, leaving Yuuri at the mercy of the large and in charge promoters present.

He could tell that almost everyone at the banquet knew. Skaters and sponsors alike were well versed in his recent tale of tribulation, no thanks to Skate America, and their well meaning sympathetic inspections were wearing down his patience.

Additionally, most of the present crowd had been there to see him smash his face in. Yuuri was lucky to have a theater-kid best friend, otherwise he and his ruefully lacking knowledge of makeup would have been in the doghouse. The welt and surrounding skin had not hesitated to paint him in shades of yellow and olive, the tender flesh around his nose swollen and unattractive.

With the help of some color corrector and powder, Phichit had managed to turn a frog into a prince, no thanks to Yuuri's pouty complaints whenever the beauty blender rubbed his raw skin with abrasive abandon.

"Beauty is pain, pain is beauty." Peach had lectured.

"Yeah. I'd rather die hot than live ugly." Yuuri mockingly offered a subjugated response.

"Did you just quote that Doctor Phil bitch?"

"I mean, was she wrong, though?"

It had been near impossible to finish his face-up on time, with the pair of them goofing off for fifteen minutes of the allotted half hour time slot they had scheduled in advance.

All illusions of good faith had been thrown out the window when Yuuri was forced to part ways with the boy and walk himself to the dimly lit, champagne lined gallows.

The evening started off slow, with only the bravest coming to offer Yuuri their unwanted condolences. He shrugged off their words with varying gracious imitations of gratitude and a half smile. On the flip side, knowing he had people in his corner was a reassuring prospect.

Regardless, he couldn't allow himself to grow too comfortable. Naivety is what got him into the situation to start. Offering trust with unbridled guilelessness would hurt his chances of success in the long run. How many of his specters were shallowly turning tail to repeat the exact same apologetic compunctions to Viktor, he wondered?

When the Russian arrived, fashionably late, or so he loudly proclaimed, the crowd grew visibly stiff, backs suddenly taut and ears garishly tilted to the side like bloodhounds on a fox trail, flagrantly perusing for any hint of spoken displeasure on behalf of either party.

The eager carton of matchsticks hidden behind his eyelids were itching to be put to good use. If Viktor so much as breathed a whiff of gasoline in his direction, Yuuri would strike the stick's balmy heads against his cuticles and set the building ablaze.

No longer would he play the hapless victim. If he was to be conscripted into a tacky stage play, he'd cast himself as the antihero.

Bouncing from table to table, Yuuri made a distraction out of socialization. Speaking with sponsors was less taxing than paying any mind to the vexatious glances Viktor had been casting his way since his own inauspicious accession.

It's like Viktor wasn't even trying to hide his odd expression and lingering line of sight. The cerulean novelties that lived above his nose and below his brow glowed skeptically, making their habitual ogling hard to hide in a room full of bright yellows and reds. If he'd left it at a sketch, then whatever. No harm no foul. Even if Viktor traced back over the lines of Yuuri's suit dutifully enough to create clean line work, it could be marked off as an act of morbid curiosity.

When he began to render, shading and overlapping his previous strokes for the thousandth time, Yuuri could ignore it no longer. Obviously he wanted something, and that 'something' was more than likely dubious.

He continued to test the theory, skipping around and making merry with anyone of interest while subtly assessing the other man's furrowed brow. Every praise and promise went in one ear and out the other, leaving him to scramble about and mend a half-sewn statement when questioned on anything below surface level.

"Yuuri! Funny meeting you here."

Horrible joke aside, the familiar face was a welcomed break from the blatant posturing.

"Mister Candidato. To whom do I owe the pleasure?" Yuuri joshed in return. The gentleman in question was donning a familiar fedora, it velveteen beige the second highest peak in the room, bested only by the trickling fountain that served as a theatrical sort of centerpiece.

"Thank your coach. He can't seem to shut up about you. Not that I blame him. You're just one surprise after another, kid."

Oh god, here it comes…

"How's your, uh…" Candiatto grimaced, gesturing to his own face with one large, open palm.

"I'm just peachy. I've taken naps with more punch than that. What they say about figure skaters, glass hearts and all that, couldn't be farther from the truth. We're built of teflon and steel."

Oops. He's gotten a little defensive.

"I can see that. There ain't so much as a mark on that pretty face o' yours."

Oh, gross. Was the forty year old wannabe cowboy actually flirting with him right now? Talk about a power imbalance and a half. Yuuri would have turned around on a dime had the man not been a friend of his coach. Maybe he'd read the situation wrong?

Overconfidence is a disease in itself, and though Yuuri was far from egotistical, the newfound attention could very possibly be clouding his judgment. The last thing he wanted to be was a narcissist. How ironic would that be, to turn into what he hated most? Fat chance he'd let that happen. One Viktor Nikiforov was enough.

"That's very kind of you, sir."

The minor show of respect should clear things up, right? Instead of putting him in the 'friend zone', he dictated him to be a superior, like a shift lead, or boss. That should draw a fine line in the sand and clarify where the two stand, without having to kick up a fuss and make a right jackass out of himself.

The older of the two leaned forward, his expensive cologne tainting Yuuri's tongue like old copper and soured orange juice after peppermint, a frightful combination. His unease must have been apparent, as Mister Candiatto eased up on the compliments, instead rambling on about current events and insider gossip.

The boy 'oohed' and 'ahhed' in measures of fifteen beats or more, taking care to diplomatically show his passivity wasn't a byproduct of inattentive apathy (though it totally was). In the fourteen beats between his displays, Yuuri switched between kneading his palms to dough behind his back while maintaining eye contact and appreciating the artfully crafted sculpture of a cherub that bathed beneath the mossy tributary of water in the room's central most position.

His prickling fingers, numbed by the insistent abrasion against their counterparts were tempted by the relief that texting his most unresponsive companion would offer. Messaging him was made up of equal parts misery and pleasure. Knowing he wouldn't send a response left the doors open to any and all conversation matter, giving Yuuri a place to be one hundred percent honest.

"So what do you think?"

Shit. He'd skipped a rotation. They were at thirty two beats now. That's a great question. What was he supposed to think? Better yet, what would draw this conversation to an amiable close?

"Oh, I don't think my opinion on the matter is of much importance. You're the one who knows what he's talking about, right?"

Give the man a gold medal, he's finally earned it. A perfect response! Flattery and humility tied up in one beautifully ignorant gift wrapped parcel.

"You needn't sell yourself short. It's your contract, after all. The executives are chomping at the bit to get you in on the next campaign. You could probably upsell your image to oblivion."

Wait… What? Lost in every sense of the word, Yuuri tried to subtly push for more information. How he'd managed to miss the singular segment of meaningful information was anybody's guess, but it was now up to him to play a decisive game of mental jenga.

"You're too kind… I mean…They're fairly well known, right? I don't think I've earned the right to barter, at least, not yet. It's not like I won gold."

"Is Nike not a household name in Japan? I'm surprised you're not more well versed, having lived in Detroit for as long as you have."

He was in Yuuri's personal space again, likely feeling a sense of compounded control knowing he was dangling an irrefutable gate to the heavens right below the boy's nose. What a moron. Didn't he know better than to taunt a starving animal?

Shivering in disgust, he bit back a sour groan, instead reveling in the newly unveiled basis that he, Yuuri Katsuki, was being offered a contract with one of the biggest sports apparel companies in the world.

"Ah, Yeah. It's, uh, a lot more prominent here in the U.S."

Nice save. Not.

Mister Candiatto chuckled, appearing endeared by Yuuri's reluctant response. He edged closer, tanned arm moving from the bannister of the snack table until it rested mere centimeters from the boy's cheeks.

"You're just a doll, y'know that? Ever since Skate America I've had my eye on you. I can tell you're somethin' real special."

His drawl had slipped, guard along with it. Yuuri would have loved to slap his hand to the side with as much force as his sore arms could muster, but if he cared about his career (which he did), he had no choice but to grin and bear with the unwanted advances.

People love to act appalled, throwing out mightier than thou claims of self respect when they hear about celebrities trapped in unscrupulous contracts, but falling into the trap is easier than one would expect.

No, labeling it as a trap is a misnomer.

These situations are more like exchanges with blurred boundary lines, where only one has the power to initiate, and the other has no choice but to accept the under the table transaction. The chances of anything truly deviant occurring were slim as most people in power know better than to do anything that will provide proof of their lecherous intentions…That said, the possibility was there.

If Yuuri was willing to risk what would likely be nothing more than a few flirty encounters, he'd earn himself a guaranteed source of exposure and income for the next year, if not longer. He'd have to be a fool to deny such an opportunity.

That didn't make the predicament any less than repulsive.

Yeah, he was ready to puke.

"Could you excuse me for a moment? I've caught a bit of a chill." Yuuri murmured, hoping the sponsor would allow him the courtesy.

"Oh, I've taken up enough of your time. I'll ask Celestino for your number so we can keep in touch."

That's right. This man was his coach's friend, and by the looks of it, an important one. If things went south, all he'd have to do is threaten their bond by spilling his guts if Candiatto worked up the nerve to actually lay a hand on him. All the more reason to pursue the contract.

Yuuri carved a path through the crowd, self image wavering only slightly as he swallowed the realization that he'd just signed his name upon a verbal binding document.

He wasn't going to whore himself, out or anything of that nature. All he had to do was play nice and ignore the hungry grazes that were to linger upon him when candlelight and camera flashes failed to make themselves useful.

This was no deal with the Devil. People did it all the time. Most, if not all celebrities had made their name worthwhile by playing the delicate game according to the roundabout rules of selectivity…But the shame caused his lip to quiver, crybaby urges warning him of spring showers.

Thump

How ridiculous. He'd nearly forgotten about the ever present thorn in his side. Yuuri was undoubtedly exuding waves of congealed, porridge-like misery, no wonder Viktor had managed to sniff him out like the obtuse, opportunistic swine he was.

Stuck between a rock and a hard place, Yuuri was forced to accept his unfortunate plus one as an inevitability. How long could they go on playing their little game of insult tag, childishly throwing one another under the bus at every corner.

See, he'd tried the whole forgive and forget thing. Two steps forward, three to the left. It hadn't worked in his favor. All he'd achieved by turning a blind eye was a silent admittance to his doormat status, placing himself in a caste far enough below Viktor's own that the Russian felt it appropriate to publicly belittle Yuuri at Skate America. You wouldn't reprimand someone for yelling at a dog, right?

Yuuri had acted as a prude, patient pet. Detestable.

Four more steps forward, then six to the right. Sole continued to meet carpet, faintly crushing the velour underfoot.

His second plan of attack had been to 'be the better person' while inauspiciously molding a person from the sad sack of clay that Yuuri had long labeled to be his identity. It wasn't good enough, though it would never be. The boy, wise beyond his years, knew that there was no path in which he would walk to make everyone on planet earth happy, but if he could make Viktor the opposite, his raw insecurity would be somewhat satiated.

What other option did that leave? Cat and mouse was only fun for so long.

Yuuri allowed stillness to replace his rhythmic marching, eyes brimming with proof of his failure to cauterize the wretched infelicity behind his teeth. Had he been an uninvolved, unaffiliated outsider, he'd have seen the impish way Viktor teetered on his heels, nervous to high hell while awaiting what he deemed to be the highest form of judgment, one doled out by a living god.

Had he been in a more reasonable mood, Yuuri's empathy may have allowed him a glimpse into the others stained glass heart, a peek past the accouterments and safety pins that bordered up the window panes.

Had he not wished upon a falling star, exchanging his morality for a taste of the life Viktor had been relishing in for years, Yuuri wouldn't have stabbed holes through the desk drawers containing human emotion.

A menagerie of his worst aspects, of hurt, suffering and inferiority replaced the checks and balances that tethered Yuuri to the scale of Justice. Moss had grown between his fingers and toes, behind his ears and eyelids in the millenium that had passed between his first and final footsteps of the three minute migration from ballroom to bereavement.

He was quite looking forward to being the one to walk away unharmed. Months of ammunition zip tied to his ankles, active grenade settled inside his mouth, Yuuri's eyes lolled to the side leisurely.

"Do you need something?"

"Oh, I…"

He nearly snorted.

"Yuuri, I need to talk to you. I get it, you don't like me, and that's fine, but can you just hear me out?"

Glued in place by the heavy weight of artillery, Yuuri was faced with two options. One; Turn around and take the time to read the emotion on Viktor's face, giving him the benefit of the doubt and leaning into the small wick of kindness that remained lit within himself. In doing so, he risked playing the fool and allowing Viktor to rub salt and bourbon into his infected, seeping wounds.

Option two was to chase the high he had encountered the day of the short, the sense of control and power he'd never before tapped into. Doing so would contradict everything he'd ever believed to be true of himself, warping his morality from white to gray.

Yuuri couldn't survive another blow, his wounds were already past the point of sepsis and gangrene.

"Are you happy? Did tearing me down make you feel important, Viktor?"

An explanation that detailed him to be the hero in their short story. The type who sticks to the shadows and bends the rules when it suits him, but a hero nonetheless. No one could claim otherwise.

"Your opinion meant so much to me, yknow?"

It'd be nice if Viktor was the one who cried this time around. Shit. His emotions were getting the better of him.

"I knew better, I always have. Someone like me can't measure up to skaters like you and Chris. I'm just Yuuri. I'm all that I'll ever be, nothing more and nothing less."

"Yuuri, what are you-"

Wet and tepid, a chortle burst forth from his own chest, shocking him into acceptance. He was playing a dangerous game, testing his own limits and attempting to shatter Viktor's into disrepair. A quiet voice tried to dissuade him, drawing attention to the fact that he was behaving like a raving lunatic, a sociopath, even.

But by god if Viktor hadn't earned every bit of it.

…and it felt great. Even without seeing the other man's face, he knew he'd landed a critical blow, though at his own detriment. Spilling a frothy concoction of self doubt isn't the most effective way to go about bringing an enemy to their knees, but Yuuri was resourceful. There was more to it than manipulation.

Eyes half lidded and head too heavy with malice to hold steady, Yuuri oozed into an intoxicated state of satisfactory bliss, bending and flowing like sun-ripened honey as he turned to assess the damage he'd dealt.

Viktor's silver hair appeared tawny and mousy, lips drawn into a thin line. Huh. Where was the grief? Where was the loss of control? Viktor hadn't even tried to apologize, the self righteous martyr. Yuuri wanted something more, wanted to see physical proof of his newfound strength.

Yuuri needed to be seen .

"So…How'd you put it…I look awful, yeah?"

There it is, a slight sobering shiver. Viktor must be having second thoughts. Good. Yuuri's own trembling went unnoticed, for he was fixated on periwinkle and starlight.

"I mean…That's what you told the reporter, right?"

Back to blank and frigid. Boring. Unfair. Yuuri was the only one getting worked up, yet again. That just won't do.

"Don't have anything else to say? Come on, Viktor. We're alone, this is your chance to get it all out!"

Jesus fucking Christ. It was like talking to a China doll, all perfect poignance and extracted emotion. Was the act meant to make him feel guilty? Tough luck. Yuuri wasn't done, and he wouldn't be until the debt was repaid. If talking wouldn't break the barrier, maybe a harsher discredit would.

"Don't have anything else to say? Come on, Viktor. We're alone, this is your chance to get it all out!"

Another stifled cringe. Now they were getting somewhere. Bubbling out of him like soda, months, no, years of repressed stitches came loose, opening the flood gates of matted fury.

"Go for it! Whatever it is, I can take it. Fat, awful, anything! Fucking shoot, dude! I know you want to!"

Give me a reaction. Show me I exist. Scream, apologize, anything. I am not a simple grain of sand on the beach that marks your existence, Nikiforov. I am a continent of my own, a country.

Spurred on by the raging inferno that killed one half of the simpleton he once was only months prior, Yuuri stepped forward. Giddy with delight, sick with grief, and past the point of mourning. They were the only two alive.

"I didn't…I didn't say that. They lied, they-"

God, is that the best he could do? Make up some bullshit excuse that was little more than a string of incoherent blubbering? At least he had spoken. There was a gossamer spark in those azure eyes. Almost.

"What was that? I can't hear you…" Taunted the brunette, knowing damn well he wouldn't give Viktor the chance to repeat himself.

"Yknow, You'd think someone with such a loud mouth would have no problem projecting. What? Are you nervous?"

This time, as Yuuri attempted to bridge the space between the two in what would appear to an outsider as a romantic step sequence, Viktor stumbled backwards. Not a tear to be seen, his expression remained ineffably stolid. It was more than frustrating, feeling the wasps fluttering in his own pupils but receiving not even a honeybee in return.

If the Russian hadn't been the one to look away, Yuuri would have done it himself. He was going insane. What the fuck was happening? Why was he the one with blistered lines burned into his cheeks? Just this once, he would have liked to walk away the champion.

It only pushed him further, desperately grasping at straws and choking out meaningless curses in a relentless invective.

"Can't even look at me now? Grow a goddamn pair, man. Own it! You wouldn't have said it if you didn't mean it, right? Or are you a liar, too?"

Nothing, again, nothing, nill, zilch. He was starting to see the futility, the ridiculousness of the tantrum, but if he allowed himself to think it through, he'd feel, god forbid, remorse .

Yuuri wasn't doing anything wrong. His behavior was more than justifiable. All he was doing was paying it forward. So he kept pushing, tears be damned.

"Jesus Christ, you're disappointing."

Viktor shattered. It was just as Yuuri had hoped, but only for a fraction of a breath. While he knew his own tears were yolky and bulbous, his running nose scrunched up in a nasty set of cascading and overlapping lines, Viktor seemed unable to appear anything less than ethereal.

Yes, he too was human, but only in title. His tears were small and fractalized, pinpoint drops of dew that bounced off of his thick lash line like pointe shoes on linoleum. There was no snot or rosy discoloration, only a trembling lip and dimming halo.

Gripping the tightly wound threads of his dress shirt until a button gave way, Yuuri lingered close enough to feel Viktor's shallow breath against his wet cheekbones, the warmth they provided anything but reassuring.

"Y'know what, Viktor? I meant what I said, about not measuring up… but I've decided I don't really give a shit."

He could hear their pulses intermingling.

"I hate you. I hate you so fucking much . I'll carve myself away until there's nothing left but perfection. My limits cease to exist when I think about how wonderful it would be to see you as a washed up has-been. I'll do it even if it kills me."

Their heartbeats could have danced in such a position, in another life. Now they only reverberated in operatic moans of miserable contention. Closer, but not yet touching, Yuuri fought against every urge and instinct telling him to concede. Telling him the situation was eerily similar to that night at Skate America. That being on the opposite side of the altercation was just as excruciating.

But Viktor wasn't guilty, was he?

"I'm going to make you suffer just as much as I have."

"Ok."

Viktor's slender fingertips brushed against Yuuri's shivering wrist as he widened the distance between them graciously, saltwater eyes still crystallized.

Are you fucking kidding?

In a diffident manner, Viktor's gaze was trained on the floor's patterned tendrils, hands nervously scuffing against the raised wallpaper in large circular motions. How mendacious, to act like he was the victim.

To think, the paragon that was Viktor Nikiforov, embarrassingly unable to take what he dishes out freely.

Reticence didn't suit him. Yuuri, still stately and irascible, was gearing up to destroy what was left of the man's ego when a barely legible syndicate of words sliced through the period of quiescence.

"What do you want me to do?"

The words, spoken so softly, with such resigned and seraphic commitment, were a greater insult than any slur. Yuuri, the old one, would have fallen right into the carefully set trap, cooing and bending about in immediate apology, compunction eating a hole through his throat.

Fortunately, he was no longer burdened by such myopic views. If Viktor was intent on manipulating him, switching tactics when things weren't going his way, Yuuri would leave him to his meretricious solitude.

A performance without an audience might as well never have happened.

Dignity remarkably intact, Yuuri took one deep breath, then another, straightening himself out, emotionally and physically. Now would be a bad time for his femurs to melt into jelly. Viktor didn't take him seriously as is, no need to give him further material for calumny.

He hardened his features to stone, starlight to lunar valor, and walked right past the space Viktor's taciturn figure occupied. Where there was once chilled sweat was now an even cooler impression, a hand denting the ivory of his raised flesh.

"I'm sorry- I'm sorry that I was the one who made you cruel."

Somewhere between contumacious and disgusted, Yuuri slapped the man's tepid palm off of his wrist, weeping sores re-exposed to the humid air of the abandoned hallway.

How do you even respond to something like that? Oh, I'm so sorry for biting back, that wasn't very thoughtful of me, was it?

"You're insane." Is what Yuuri settled on.

He jogged away from Viktor, then away from the ballroom, then away from the venue, only stopping when the bloody blisters between his toes grew too slippery for efficient movement, plasma shimmying against the leather of his dress shoes.

He hailed a taxi, though it might as well have been a hearse. When he arrived at the morgue, neon lit street lights and barred windows welcomed him to the afterlife. Ghostly and transparent, Yuuri floated past isles packed with multicolored testaments to his willpower. Gummies disguised as vitamins and candy bars masquerading as protein supplements beckoned him with their feel good slogans and happy go lucky color schemes.

A calorie is a calorie, but if he chose to choke on Fit Crunch and MetaRX bars instead of Snowballs and Twinkies, the binge would be moderately more justifiable when he had to look in the mirror tomorrow. Two days in a row. For two days, he had consumed alcohol and snack food in excess.

The sad thing about it was that if he just kept his dumb mouth closed and controlled his sticky fingers, his stomach would have remained empty, and his heart somewhat full. He was entirely in control, actively choosing to eat away a month's worth of hard work.

Why? Cause Viktor proved, yet again, that he was a psychotic prick?

Because he'd sold a part of himself for a brand deal?

Or was it because he couldn't recognize himself anymore, and that Viktor might have a point?

Like a rat, Yuuri feasted on his spoils out back, by the looming industrial sized convenience store dumpster. Had anyone seen, mortification would have marked his gravestone with etchings of utter shame. The food tasted like sawdust, his stomach was protruding and painful, and the only person he was punishing was himself.

So polite with his sadness was he, Yuuri elected to let Peach sleep through his quiet sobs. If he swallowed it in the dark of night, no one else would have to taste it. He wasn't cruel, only world weary. Viktor could toss about any insult he felt suitable, but the very fact that it was his mouth who birthed the words proved them to be fatuous and ingenuine.

In the wee hours of the dawn, an hour before anyone else would awake, Yuuri cradled himself between weary arms. Just one text wouldn't hurt. A couple of consecutive days wouldn't rejuvenate the unhealthy habit, right?

Right?

Lovelorn was he, scrolling through years of exchanges that only he remained to remember. Surreptitiously clinging to the words on his screen, Yuuri made peace with his reanimated sense of escapism, finding solace in what was once a lonely void of bygone zeros and ones.

He'd have been content to remain there forever, but life had more pernicious plans in store for him.

More specially, a notification that carried with it impetuous connotation.

ViktorNikiforov started following you (3 minutes ago)