It Took Me By Surprise

It didn't come as a surprise, the outpour of citations and mentions that flooded his inbox the morning of the free skate. From the moment Liam revealed his company of origin, Viktor knew that something objectionable would come of his brief interview with the man.

He'd managed to avoid any further interaction with the press, forcing himself to ignore the growing cumulative notification marker at the top of his screen.

Other things, more important matters demanded his attention, things like his upcoming free skate, like Yakov's insistent corrections every time he flubbed a step sequence or slipped up on a quad, like Yuuri's bathroom blowout.

Dutifully replaying on loop, the crucible had struck him where it hurt most. It came in brief flashes of white and gold, ironically the two colors he'd sworn to protect.

Gold rimmed glasses and the ivory name plate gingerly pinned upon the lapel of his jacket. Flecks of honeyed caramel cradled by warm cinnamon and the alabaster teardrops which irrigated the space beneath them.

Viktor was a stubborn bastard, but even his ornery pride could only stretch so far. Watching things go from bad to worse was as good a wake up call as any.

Yuuri had gone full tooth and nail on him, puffed up like a feral tomcat the moment Viktor made his presence known. He wasn't offended in the slightest, because what kind of soldier wants to go toe to toe with their sworn enemy with one foot already halfway in the grave?

No, that wasn't what had left a lingering impression on his ruddy output and discarded olive branch. It had been brief, faint enough to leave Viktor questioning his own intellect, but he'd seen it, whether he decided to accept it as an unfortunate facet of reality or not.

When Yuuri, the saint to all but one, heard Viktor's voice, he flinched. He flinched. The way his irises anxiously bounced around the whites bordering them told a tale of a past Viktor had no recollection of.

There was no tragic breach of confidentiality, no physical outburst of domestic cruelty, no dramatic falling out that could warrant such a visceral knee jerk reaction.

Why, then?

Just what was he so scared of? That's what it was, right? Yuuri was scared of him. Viktor would rather be denied food and water for a week than be the perceived perpetrator behind such an ugly scene of malignity. Mama would be so ashamed of him, doubly so if she were to catch wind of his ignorance.

Viktor could be immature and selfish, he could be crass and childish, but never had he thought himself cold-blooded enough to do any sort of lasting damage.

Self preservation was the name of the game, and he was a masterful puppeteer, engaging with pawns only when threatened or praised. There were plenty of exceptions to that rule, his skate family being the most prominent, but outsiders were to be served Viktor, nothing more and nothing less.

Vitya was reserved for those who'd proved their pure hearted candor, those who needed protecting or offered him theirs. Although his true self was a privileged complexity, it remained conscious, an active moral compass to guide him when the cutthroat dance of professional dignity tried to taint his nurturing nature.

It allowed him the ability to empathize, to see through the veil and rectify unjust presumptions before they found a way to root themselves in his subconscious. Never before had he slipped up in such a monumental fashion.

Meticulous in every sense of the word, perfection in the flesh, so squeaky clean that even Mother Teresa would have a hard time finding an excuse to add an infraction to his record. So many years of nit picking and exercises in virtue, for what? To scare some fresh faced kid into subdued squalor? Yuuri might have an attitude problem, but that's besides the point.

The stress had gotten to him, finally kicking a hole through the brick barricade he'd spent so long building, and Yuuri had been the one to swallow the consequences.

He didn't know who to blame. The worm? The RSF, or the ISU? Too little too late.

His only option was to apologize, and properly this time.

Viktor had to show the young skater that he meant it, otherwise the look of terror in his passive, glistening eyes would happily make its way into every crack and crevice of his guilty conscience, eating away at his sense of self until there was nothing left but self pity and lunacy to flavor his days.

In order to do so, he had to face the music and see just how deplorable Skate Daily had made him out to be. Just the same old, same old; damage control. Viktor had taken care not to spout anything that could be construed as demeaning or self righteous, so they must have been grasping at straws to dig up some obscure dirt on the situation.

Soaked in an unpleasant anticipation, nervously gnawing on his bottom lip the way one would when teetering over the precipice of a roller coaster, Viktor took the plunge, holding his like an active bomb.

——————————————————

@SkateDaily

Nikiforov knows no shame?

Earlier today, one of our seasoned reporters was able to pull figure skating superstar Viktor Nikiforov away for a brief interview. When questioned about his feelings regarding his fellow competitor Yuuri Katsuki, things took a shocking turn! Check out the audio interview by clicking the link below.

http://SkateDaily/Nikiforovsshockingconfession2&hsj/SkateDaily.Com

6:53 pm 12/6/19 • 295.7k views

102k Retweets 251.2 k Likes 62k Bookmarks

——————————————————-

Transcript:

Interviewer: "Hello, this is Liam McClain, reporting from this year's Grand Prix Final, held in the dazzling…" (click to expand)

Interviewer: My first inquiry today revolves around your programs. What inspired your song choices this year, and are there any specific themes you wanted to portray?"

Nikiforov: "Well, I've always liked the concept of growth. I think that we, as human beings, have an innate knack for evolution…"

"Basically, what I did with this program is attempt to fit ten years of my life into a minute and a half performance block. It's abstract and messy, but I think that's what makes it a worthy watch."

Interviewer: "Wow! I hadn't imagined you'd go for something that profoundly personal. You skaters are known to keep things under lock and key, yknow? Anyways- The next question I have for you is a bit of a doozy, but if possible, I'd like an honest answer. We're all friends here, yeah?"

Our interviewer states that Viktor offered him a sturdy glare, bordering on a pout upon hearing this segway. He was all smiles once more when he noticed that the mic would stay on between inquiries, likely assuming he would be on camera as well.

Interviewer: "So Viktor, do you think you'll be leaving this competition with a gold medal?"

Once again, Viktor displayed unfounded arrogance, very nearly rolling his eyes at our reporter as if her were offended by the implication that he'd receive anything but the gold.

Nikiforov: "The competition is insane, everyone here is so hardworking and talented that it's anyone's game. Skating is inherently a game of luck. One bad day, a single slip in concentration could lead to a fifteen point deduction. I'd love to leave here in first, but I'm sure everyone else would as well."

Interviewer: "I see. Is there anyone you're especially wary of out there? A certain Japanese skater, maybe? I've heard rumors that you and Mister Katsuki have a budding rivalry. Is there any authenticity to those claims?"

To those who aren't aware, Nikiforov publicly body shamed Katsuki at the first Grand Prix event of the year, referring to him as a 'piglet'. Ever since, rumors of friendly (and not so friendly) rivalry have been circulating within the skating community.

Nikiforov: "Those of us in the competitive skating community all share a sense of friendly rivalry. Katsuki is a talented skater, musical and fluid. He has his strengths, and I have mine. That's all there is to it."

Interviewer: "Of course… Now, pardon me if I come off as presumptuous, but you've never openly commented on another competitor… that is, until Katsuki came along. I seem to recall an publicized interview where you stated, and I quote; 'I guess Yuuri is a bit on the chubby side for a skater, though. He is sort of like a little piglet. If he lost a little weight, he'd probably pull off some groundbreaking scores.', end quote."

Viktor was reportedly tongue tied and red in the face, so our reporter probed further.

Interviewer: "Many fans have expressed their opinions on the matter, citing flagrant accusations of bad sportsmanship on your part. Do you have anything to say in regards to the matter?"

The silence speaks for itself. Nikiforov declined to answer the question, simply angling himself away from our reporter and muttering unintelligibly. After a few more beats of awkward silence, the interview continued as planned.

Interviewer: "Alright, moving onto the final question; Do you have any thoughts and feelings to share in regards to your competitors programs?"

Nikiforov: "Uh- Not really. They were all spectacular."

Interviewer: "What about Katsuki? Any further notes, technical advice, or 'encouragements'?"

The dam broke, and Nikiforov finally decided to speak his truth.

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

Uneasy and put off by Nikiforov's aggressive stance, our reporter decided to end the interview there, before things had a chance to get ugly.

Interviewer: "On behalf of Skate Daily, we thank you for your time."

Well, there you have it folks. Nikiforov has made it abundantly clear that Yuuri Katsuki is a thorn in his side, one he'd like to get rid of. It'll be interesting to see how things play out. Make sure to come back tomorrow for the placement announcements. Who knows what kind of scene will unfold if Viktor doesn't get his way.

——————————————————

@SkateDaily

The not so friendly rivalry-

I'm sure most of you have already seen the interview transcript that we posted yesterday evening, but the plot thickens! Yuuri Katsuki bit back in a very public way, tweeting a video of himself in an undisclosed club late last night. Doesn't sound like anything out of the ordinary, right? Wrong! In the aforementioned clip, Katsuki is pictured with fellow competitive figure skater Christoph Giocommeti, the two trouncing around the dance floor while the song 'Hot Girl Bummer' plays overhead.

5:32 am 12/7/19 • 78.4K views

973 Retweets 49.2 k Likes 413 Bookmarks

——————————————————-

Viktor expanded the thread. Looks like rock bottom has a basement. Figures.

——————————————————-

@SkateDaily

What's so special about his song selection? Glad you asked! Katsuki is no stranger to trendy titles, skating to top 20 tracks just as frequently as he does classical, but it doesn't take a genius to pick up what he is putting down.

5:32 am 12/7/19 • 78.4K views

973 Retweets 49.2 k Likes 413 Bookmarks

——————————————————-

@Katsukithecreator

HAHAHA, Viktor's day of reckoning has arrived and I'm fucking living for it. Props to Yuuri for standing up for himself <3. I LOVE U BABYGIRL, KICK ASS TODAY. < p>

5:44 am 12/7/19 • 896 views

14 Retweets 42 Likes 1 Bookmarks

——————————————————-

@Vikandvak

@skatedaily There's no fucking way any of this is true. You definitely screwed with the audio. Even if Viktor had decided to be a jackass, he's been in the industry long enough to know better than to go flaunting it. What a pathetic attempt at garnering attention. Lameasses

5:57 am 12/7/19 • 579 views

8 Retweets 26 Likes 0 Bookmarks

——————————————————-

@Arminartthou

@Vikandvak Your seriously reaching, babe. Is it really that crazy? I mean, Viktor's been acting a fool for a while now. Maybe he's having a Brittney Spears moment lmao

6:12 am 12/7/19 • 688 views

12 Retweets 37 Likes 2 Bookmarks

——————————————————-

The veiled remark brought with it corpulent goosebumps and a cold sweat that varnished him from nape to toe. He wasn't crazy. Viktor wasn't going fucking crazy. Gaslighters, the lot of them.

None of them had any clue as to what kind of person he was behind closed doors. For all they knew, he could be a vicious ax murderer, frolicking about and partaking in killing sprees during his off season. How daring, putting the words in the public eye knowing damn well Viktor was likely to stumble upon them.

——————————————————-

@sxdrgsroknroll

@skatedaily @viktornikiforov Don't listen to them, man. We know you'd never spew that kinda shit. Focus on your free. We still believe in you <3. Davai!< p>

6:55 am 12/7/19 • 12.7k views

148 Retweets 973 Likes 19 Bookmarks

——————————————————-

At least someone had faith in him. No, thinking like a self important jackass wouldn't mend the situation.

So things were worse than he'd assumed. No problem. He had dealt with worse, namely the Rostelecom scandal. If that hadn't stomped his career to ash, neither would this.

That's what he gets for allowing sympathy to leak through the cracks of his porcelain veneer. One comment was all it took for them to go in for the kill. Acknowledging Yuuri's infirmity would in no way heal his afflictions, and the dastardly accusations they'd made claiming Viktor was to blame would have remained on record regardless. He should have kept his condolences to himself.

Maybe he'd come back around to that later, but it was too much to dissect at six in the morning.

Skate Daily was an organization comprised of conniving snakes and vermin, but what else is new? Although he had no way to prove they'd doctored the audio, they had no way to prove the opposite. Who held more authority in the field, some shady corporation or someone who has dedicated years of his life to perfecting the craft? The answer was looming, the conclusion clear as day.

First order of business; get to the rink. If he wanted to be lucid and stable enough to handle the backstage dramatics, his performance had to be up to par. Tardiness would offer him no favors or peace of mind.

Once he completed his skate and secured the gold, Yuuri would take priority. Haughty and arrogant as he was, the boy was a victim of circumstance. It had been cavalier for Viktor to delude himself into entertaining the notion that he may have been in cohorts with the ISU.

He was still an obnoxious little know-it-all brat, but that didn't make him a monster. As it stands, Viktor had been the one to initiate their feud with his below the belt criticisms of the others appearance.

The man now had to forcibly ply the goggles of resentment from his turbid psyche. He didn't have to like Yuuri, but they'd both benefit from the closure amending their hostilities would offer.

Quick and easy. The conversation would consist of Viktor pulling him aside, preferably somewhere private, as he was more than a little hesitant to be caught groveling before his 'sworn enemy'. Yuuri's adroit cinnamon eyes would quickly melt into pools of syrupy chocolate, animosity crumbling away to reveal understanding.

He'd be hesitant at first, understandably so, but when Viktor elucidated his misfortune and regaled its relation to his snide commentary and foul frame of thought, Yuuri would offer him that placid smile everyone else had already gotten a taste of, dimples contrasting the sallow space beneath his cheeks. They'd shake hands and part ways with modest deference for one another.

Nagging nausea abated, heart set on seizing the day, Viktor pulled himself together without bothering to pay the media monkeys any further attention.

The drive left him out of sorts, the glimmer in the distance nudging the worm with enough force to rouse the microscopic beast from its slumber. It had been happening with heightened frequency, the disorientation that came out of nowhere, gnawing on his ankles and wrists and transforming the world into an unpleasant dreamscape. How much longer would he be able to shake it off?

Cusping his cheeks with its frigid furls, the rink air was a welcomed reminder of who he was. Viktor; the figure skater. Viktor; the legend. If he couldn't handle performing under pressure, he had no right to verify the brazen claims.

As always, he was the first one up on the hot plate. Warmup was as it always was, unremarkable, if not a little foreboding. Seeing Chris and Yuuri's green complexion and bloodshot eyes tickled him pink, though he had no intention of making his humors known. They'd earned it, going out on the town and getting plastered during a competition… not that Viktor had any room to talk.

He'd yet to see the video of the pair currently making its rounds on Twitter and TikTok, but knowing Chris, it would be a racy sight to behold. That man can party like a rockstar, tossing back enough liquor to drink a Russian (ie; Viktor) under the table.

Halfway through their six minute warmup, Katsuki tripped over himself. Luckily, the toe-picks on his skates allowed him to regain balance before he landed face first on the floor. Chris seemed to be bearing the burden of guilt, following him around like a puppy and tending to any whim he deemed necessary. Yuuri looked to be less than thrilled with the development, shooing the blonde off with a strained smile on more than one occasion.

It would have been cute, had an absinthal swell of jealousy not tingled within the epicenter of his faintly beating heart. What is it about Yuuri that makes everyone flock to him, doting on him like a helpless lamb? The boy was fully capable of standing his ground and holding his own. Just once, shameful as it may be, Viktor would quite like to be treated with such delicate touch.

The last time he'd been caressed with innocent intent and virtuous expectation had been a couple of days before mama went away. Her black curls were untamed and wiry, oiled with Aragon and clove. The scent still coils around him when he wakes up in the early morning, half asleep and alone.

Yakov wasn't one for frequent physical affections, and although Chris was family to him, the two rarely hugged or did much more than shake hands for that matter. Odd, considering how touchy-feely the man was known to be.

A seed of doubt wiggled its way through each of Viktor's ribs, intertwining itself with his bone marrow and cell membrane. How had he not taken notice of it at an earlier date? Did Chris not think of him the same way?

Squirming, the worm took a small bite of his small intestine. The jealousy doubled in dimension, pushing a mouthful of empathy from his constricted windpipe. It slipped through the cracks of the ice, oozing beneath the blockade. He didn't need it, anyways.

Maybe if he acted like a goddamn lost child, he'd earn the same warm attention. It's human nature to take care of the weak, is it not?

Wait…Where had that come from? Operating on such aimless spite was pitiful and unsophisticated. It wasn't like him to be so wishy-washy. Viktor had always trusted his gut, resolute and stubborn as a mule, yet here he was, having spent his entire morning yoyo-ing between feelings of guilt and jealousy, regret and distaste.

Viktor dusted off the melancholy, willing it to join the empathy in the gutters. Stubborn, it clung to him like cheap cologne. At a loss, he leaned against the barrier, eyebrows pinching just enough to allow a single wrinkle to form between them. Best not make a habit of that, or he'll look like Yakov in ten years time.

The sound of incoming blades denting the ice shoved him back into the present.

"Viktor! Good luck today, Mon Cher. Now, before you give me shit, I do intend to be at the top of my-"

Oh, thank god. He could settle it sooner rather than later. Would he regret it? Maybe. Did he have the strength of mind to care? Definitely not.

The Russian made a semicircle, propelling himself forwards with more desperation than grace. His body went rigid as Viktor stepped into his arms, freezing mid step as if turning to stone.

"You never disappoint. Davai."

With an endearing hesitance, the action was returned. When Viktor finally stepped back, feeling silly and cursing his lack of impulse control, Chris's eyes were watery and meek, a look that didn't suit his confident presence. Shit, he'd crossed some sort of unspoken boundary, hadn't he? Of course there had been a reason for the distance.

"You've never hugged me before."

All plans to backtrack came to a screeching halt as Viktor processed the sweet-tempered inflection that dripped from the blonde's assertion. He didn't sound angry.

"I didn't know if… Well, you looked like you needed it. Guilty isn't a good look on you."

Here's to hoping he had deflected the awkwardness of the situation by tacking a teasing remark on the end of his words.

"You were worried about me?"

"Huh? Well, duh. My best friend drank himself green, anyone would be a little freaked."

Stifling. The atmosphere was positively suffocating, and there was less than a minute left before they were to be called off the ice.

Raw and tarnished, Viktor was perilously fighting off the hurt that accompanied Chris's revelation. Of course he gave a shit. How horrible, to think that he'd implied anything else. Just what kind of role had Viktor been playing in his life until now?

Horrified, Viktor chewed through his cheek, anxiously awaiting a reply as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. There wasn't enough time to prove that he cared, and oh god, how he cared. Chris had been nothing but good, in every sense of the word, throughout their time knowing one another. The announcer's voice extinguished any possibility of further reconciliation.

As they parted ways, branching off at the rink's partitioned door, Chris gave him a firm slap on the back.

"We'll talk later, yeah? Thank you. Best of luck, rival o' mine."

That's right. Viktor had to perform now. The moment was over, and Chris was counting on him to do his best. He had no plans of disappointing his number one fan. It was high time to kick ass and take names.

Channeling energy to widen the sky, Viktor took first position. Yesterday he thought, today he would float. Instead of reminiscing, he would build something brand new, visualizing the future he wanted for himself. If it was all he could offer, that would be enough. In between all the data flying around, the city took an oath of silence, coyly propositioning him to outshine the morning sun.

Each step sequence and jump stood for the words that remained unspoken, to Yura, to Yakov, to Chris, and even Yuuri. Weightless, he floated, not a drop of sweat in sight. The lights weren't the product of camera shutters, they were heavenly beams promising prosperous tutelage. His skates weren't man made, they were ancient relics that kept him tethered to his flesh and bones. His hair wasn't an extension of his body, it was a lazily strewn together embodiment of his favorite daisy's austere farewells.

Even when the beat dropped, he remained an idea, only half human, appeasing the crowd while projecting his own essence. His final combination spin was the culmination of unheard prayers, devout testaments to his moments alone in the shade.

The ghost of what once was kissed him on the forehead as he held his final pose.

His scores reflected the electric current buzzing beneath his eyelids. 214.46. Not a personal best, but that wasn't what mattered to him. Viktor had conveyed his condolences and gratitude in the only way he knew how, even if only to gratify the doubts quelled within himself. Words would come later, though they'd be dispatched with a fraction of the finality.

Chris must have gotten the message, pulling out all the stops and finishing only two points below Viktor, the closest margin he'd achieved in the current season. Javier bailed on quite a few jumps, popping two of his quads and scoring thirty points below the other two scoreboard denizens.

That left Yuuri the chance to land himself a seat on the podium. Viktor had earned himself bronze at his first GPF, and if anyone could replicate that feat, it would be Katsuki. They were so divergent, yet equally analogous in a way that left Viktor yearning to pick apart the other boy's psyche. Just what was it that set them apart from the rest? The title of prodigy had long since expired for the both of them, replaced by a perpetual cycle of backbreaking dedication.

The Japanese skater was effortlessly dynamic, sturdy legs carrying him to the rink's axis. The piece was a swan song, an avowal. His body became cashmere, joints bending with an impossible fluidity.

Every movement had a purpose, not a single breath of hesitation impeding his confession. Could they see it too, his spirit seeping into the ozone? Gossamery and teal, Yuuri's mystique was on full display, dialed up to one hundred. His usual apprehension and anxieties were nowhere to be found, but his eyes were dull and unfocused. Viktor could tell he was overcompensating for something, allowing whatever force was driving him forward the opportunity to drown out the missing puzzle piece.

Something was missing. Augury beckoned Viktor's nerves to the surface. A harbinger of mortality had joined Yuuri in his waltz, just gauzey enough to avoid detection. The program was almost over. All he needed to do was hold out a little longer.

He mutely cheered the boy on in his head, sympathizing with the detached futility he was conforming to. Yuuri could probably see his ill-disposed dance partner as well… or maybe Viktor was just projecting his paranoid sentiments in the hopes of forging a false sense of camaraderie. Confessing your sins is less painful when you feel you've already repented.

Viktor wasn't partial enough to recall the entirety of his program, but when he saw Yuuri step into his combination spin, he knew the grim reaper had grown tired of waiting for the curtains to fall. For a fraction of a second, honeyed irises met his own, and that was all it took for fate to unlace the rigid corset holding the boy upright.

He lunged out of the spin, cutting it short in a shortsighted struggle to save himself from the inevitable. Bowling over, Yuuri slammed into the barrier, flattening his face and neck into the indurate metal plating.

United, the crowd gasped. The blood's luminous pigment contrasted the vacant white of every other surrounding surface, trailing down the offending landmark like ink on a page. Before anyone had time to frenzy, Yuuri was back on his feet, one knee on the floor and the opposite arm raised to the sky. His final pose.

Ruby red stained his lips like fruit punch, trickling from his nose and dripping onto the ice from his chin. In a peculiar sense, the scene was fascinating, like the morbid curiosity of seeing something meant for private eyes.

Pack mentality soon led to an arena full of hushed murmurs, more shocked than concerned. Yuuri was escorted off the ice by on-site medics, humbly protesting with an embarrassed pout as they insisted upon tending to his injuries. As they should, by the way. He could have broken his neck, for Christ's sake!

The little Thai skater joined their ranks with superhuman speed, accompanied by Celestino and several other faceless staff members. Chris held a hand over his mouth, expression drawn into a tight grimace.

The last two skaters didn't weren't received with much enthusiasm, though whether or not it was due to their lackluster performances or the lingering excitement from Yuuri's discomfiture was debatable.

His headstrong refusal to succumb to the hangover fatigue hadn't been in vain, however.

Katsuki Yuuri, as complex he was, as all people are, had been boiled down to a set of numbers. It wasn't an inherently bad development.

Numbers hold significance. The study of numerology, a pseudoscience dedicated to picking apart intercrural numerical connections and their real life connotations could be construed as evidence in favor of their importance. Millions of people believe in zodiac predispositions and astronomy-centric spirituality, so who's to say numerology is a crack-pot theory?

In all sports, an athlete's worth is limited to a set of data. Cold and precise, a stark contrast to most art forms, figure skating proficiency was measured with a pinpoint attention to detail. The numbers, if offered with unbiased consideration, left little wiggle room for misunderstanding.

Yuuri Katsuki, at age eighteen, had earned himself a respectable set of numbers, seating him firmly in third place. He'd won bronze.

Viktor's own gold felt cheap in comparison, allegory a blank slate with no penance in sight. Standing on the podium to celebrate his own victory held no tantalizing allure. He'd much rather lock hands with Chris and squeal like an overexcited schoolgirl in celebration of his silver, or even Yuuri's bronze. Yes, the numbers didn't lie, but at what cost did perfection come? If winning isn't the reward, what is? When had his passion turned into nothing more than a practiced routine?

The view was fine. Being at the top allowed him to see above the heads that saddled him, to thoroughly scan the inflamed movements of each spectator. What he couldn't observe were his comrade's contortions. His pedestal raised him too far above the clouds, their mist obscuring his line of sight. If he bent down, only slightly…

Unaware until it was too late, Viktor realized he had wrapped his arms around both Chris and Yuuri, smiling with genuine inclusion-fueled joy as the photographer snapped countless shots of their interconnected energy.

Everything would have been awash, easy going and forgivably comfortable if Yuuri hadn't gone stiff at his touch. Like a wild animal, Viktor could practically smell the younger boy's fear. Fear again, why fear? Indignation begged to supplant the egregious shame, for anything was better than playing the villain. The least he could do is step back behind the line he'd unscrupulously crossed.

Viktor melded into the scenery after that, content to be more of an object than a person. He could pull off courteous humility without sacrificing his energy reserves.

It came as no surprise when Chris reluctantly shuffled over to him, gaze dodgy and lip pinched between his pearly whites. Their talk was to be postponed, as the blonde felt it was imperative he supplied himself to Yuuri as a shoulder to lean on. Still spacey, Viktor took it in stride, or at least acted as such. Internally, he was a bit miffed, but good things come to those who wait. There was always the banquet and period of afterglow that filled the empty area after the gala.

Lying awake in bed that evening, Viktor contorted into himself. His head felt like it would burst, values and generalizations bouncing to and fro as he staved off the urge to obsessively check his phone, skirting through comments and replies like a junky addicted to shooting up words of praise.

When nothing else made sense, he found stability in affirmation. As a boy, mama would sing his compliments anytime he managed to exceed expectations, and in doing so, taught him that positive reinforcement reaps the sweetest rewards.

There was no Chris to distract him. He'd been abandoned in favor of the newest name on the roster. It was an unfair grievance, self serving and baseless, but Viktor couldn't crucify the caustic conviction. No liquor or medal could appease his leering internal monologue.

If he could, he'd throw up. Putrid sick painting the porcelain bathroom yellow would be undeniable proof that he was still alive. Being physically ill was excusable. Whatever was wrong with him was not. No one would come to his rescue. Life wasn't a fairytale, and no knight would blot his warbling tears and sing him to sleep.

Restless hounds cried in the dead of night, mute to all but one. They were awfully loud, terribly so. Makkachin would never howl so antagonistically. Viktor turned the dial within himself, praying to tune into a station that would drown it all out. Something had to give, the cycle had to be broken, otherwise he'd lose his mind.

Viktor felt so small, less than human as he hid beneath the heavy comforter and barricaded himself amongst decorative pillows. Their scratchy fabric reminded him of his mortality, eventually dragging him into the realm of insipid dormancy.

Eyes glued shut with tree sap tears, Viktor awoke the next morning later than deemed polite, missing breakfast with his sponsors, much to Yakov's chagrin.

Chris had sent him a few updates via text message, inviting him to have a side-bar with him at some point during the evening festivities. A sick sense of deja vu left him deliriously impassioned.

When the time came to make himself up, Viktor began to see the signs of odious constraint appear upon his battered countenance. God, he almost looked as bad as Katsuki. Nothing a little powder and blush can't fix.

Irritatingly, his freckles seemed to be intent on standing out from beneath the thin film of maquillage. He'd considered getting them lasered off, but the procedure had too many questionable variables for him to feel comfortable doing so. He'd choose the faint beige splatters over scarred pock-marks any day.

The outfit he wore was boring, in his opinion. All straight lines and solid colors, a far cry from Viktor's idea of red carpet ready, but to cater to his sponsors' whims was to guarantee himself financial stability…Even if it meant wearing the ugly suit a lecherous sponsor had shoved into his arms a month prior.

When the Russian party stepped out of their respective limousine, Viktor pleaded with a god of whom he would rather forget. He begged for the worm to behave itself, for his own self control to stand firm, for peace. What he wanted more than anything, however, was a break in the parchment. Anything would do, as long as its results weren't catastrophic. The catatonic repetition was luring ghouls of questionable intent into his ruefully damaged psyche.

Each moment seemed to pass as a snapshot, only the who's, when's, and what's inking their presence into existence. The curvy southern congresswoman who agreed to sponsor him two years ago was tracing circles atop a visibly uncomfortable man's upper bicep. Two rowdy skaters were playfully poking fun at one another near the bathroom's domed entryway. Katya was making goo-goo eyes at some brunette he'd never seen before in his life.

The ballroom remained unchanging from venue to venue, location be damned. It's like the mysterious forces of nature had figured out a way to replicate the exact same scene from continent to continent. This one wasn't any more or less spectacular than the last. It's all the same.

Baubles and trinkets gleamed and glimmered in passing dame's hairlines, earrings tickling their necks with ornate metal architecture of modest scale. The men attending were less spectacular, but equally lavish in their apparel. It's all the same.

The lampshade yellow tint that caressed each of the room's four corners made the gathering appear more intimate, competitors bumping shoulders beneath the watchful eyes of mother moon, her own luminance drowned out by the artificial lemon-tinged candelabras. It's still the same.

Jingling, the coin purse in Viktor's coat pocket reminded him that he had a debt to pay. Lamenting the circle of stale happenings would have to come later, after he'd flirted with and flattered the opportunistic villains who paid his bills, after he hashed out the unabridged junctures of the past three months, after he patched up his rocky relationship with a certain Japanese skater.

Several opportunities to pull Yuuri aside presented themselves as the evening droned on. Viktor was starting to grow jaded, ants of preconception leaving crude bites and welts between his clavicle and sternum. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't nervous to approach the boy.

Their less than stellar track record had created an invisible wall of sorts, one that towered only when Viktor took up a little too much space. Yuuri's presence was delightfully light, so much so that a single stray foot within his precinct alerted him to stand watch for unwelcome trespassers. A guarded little critter, that one.

Two hours in, Viktor arduously balanced his weight against one of the structural pillars that formed a near perfect circle around the dancefloor's perimeter. They were stylized and sturdy, modeled to mimic Ancient Greek architectonics.

The hollowed out incisions lining his own personal pillar jutted out against the divots of his spine with brutish persistence, grounding the man well enough to keep him present in both body and mind. It was all too easy to slip into the current, head filled with thoughts heavy enough to drown an army. He had to keep his head above water, even if he sunk down into Marianas Trench the moment he stepped foot on the plane tomorrow morning.

Yuuri was on the opposite side of the room, his back to the snack bar. A man in a felt fedora was talking his ear off, or at least appeared to be, from the strained expression on Katsuki's face. Here and there a slight furrow in his brow and curl of his lips had Viktor curiously leaning forward in the hopes of catching brief snippets of their conversation, but the distance was too great.

At long last, thirty minutes in, Yuuri broke away from the man, steps suspiciously stuttering as he headed for one of the many carpeted hallways that connected to the main floor.

Heart pounding out of his chest, Viktor decided to give chase, grateful that the plush velvet underfoot softened his footsteps enough to elude immediate detection. Two steps forward, three to the left. God, he was giving himself the creeps. The whole situation felt so forced, but if not now, when?

Four steps, then six to the right. The younger skater's brisk pace faded, giving way to static immobility. His shoulders were rising and falling rhythmically as if he'd just run a sixty yard sprint. It's not like they'd actually been jogging or anything, so what gives? Like a lightbulb had gone off, Viktor connected the dots. Yuuri had likely given himself a concussion the day prior, and that paired with his prior apparent frailty must have taken its belated toll.

They were nearly to the adjacent tea room, the hallway would open up to it in three or so meters. The more secluded, the better. Viktor didn't want to risk prying eyes, but if Yuuri decided that this is where their journey ends, so be it. Now or never. Ok, but maybe he could find a better time-

"Do you need something?" Yuuri drawled, voice thick.

Viktor grimaced. How long had Yuuri known he was trailing him?

"Oh, I…"

God, he'd spent all afternoon rehearsing for this moment just to stutter like an insecure preteen during speech class. Concise and genuine, Viktor. Slow and steady.

"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?"

The brunette seemed to be glued in place, shoulders still shaking. Viktor couldn't decipher whether it was from fear, rage, or illness, as he'd previously assumed. What he did know is that the conversation would pass with infinitely more ease if Yuuri would just turn to face him. A shuffle broke the stagnant air.

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

It didn't.

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

No, he didn't know. Why would he? Yuuri's voice was terrifyingly calm as its soft tenor carried in the hallway's stretched corridor.

"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-"

Like a wind chime caught in the breeze, Yuuri's soft chuckles crescendoed into a full blown fit of laughter, cutting Viktor off before he could push the boy to elaborate. It was an ugly sort of sound, one soggy with grief and urgency, sopping with resigned despondency.

Ever so slowly, Yuuri turned, head hanging loosely to the left as if his energy had been zapped away with the maniacal spell of hysteria. His eyes traced the dressy white wallpaper. Dull and listless, copper met with periwinkle.

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

He'd read the article. Viktor needed someone to shove a script in his hand, asap. Anything he said would be construed as a feeble excuse. Yuuri was trembling. Oh god. The fear again. Who would it topple first?

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

Mouth dry, Viktor clenched his palms so tightly they blistered white. Pain would keep him in his body. One of his nails folded under the pressure, cracking against his skin.

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

All he wanted to get out was an apology, but his larynx was sealed shut. Yuuri took his silence for defiance. Gritting his teeth, the boy's volume faltered, borderline shouting out cruelties.

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

One step forward. Viktor couldn't breathe. How was he fueling the fire with fear? Why was he so immeasurably irate? How was Yuuri taunting him so valiantly while tremors wracked his wiry frame? Where was all of this raw strength coming from? Questions, answered with more questions. A rapid internal ceasefire.

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

Where was his own strength?

"What was that? I can't hear you…"

Yuuri pursed his lips before continuing.

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

Viktor took a step back as Yuuri moved forward. He looked away. The emptiness would have swallowed him, had he not. He had done this. Viktor had turned him into…this. Where was the shy sweetheart Chris prattled on about over FaceTime? Where was the demure, Bambi eyed boy who clung to Phichit like a lifeline?

"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?"

It was so much worse than he'd ever conceptualized, watching someone implode like a dying star.

"Jesus Christ, you're disappointing."

Viktor choked. Those were his words. He'd said that, hadn't he? To have them thrown back in his face like that… Well, if Yuuri was looking to shame him, he was doing a damn fine job of it.

Yuuri was back to laughing. It was shorter this time, chafed with air and interspersed with wet sobs. Sobs? Yuuri was crying. Viktor's eyes shot up from the carpet.

What rested in those wide hazel eyes was not an imploding star, nor a dying sun, but an entire galaxy on the brink of collapse. Red rimmed and water-logged, hatred tore a universe to the ground.

It shouldn't have, but it did. It took him by surprise, the absolute loathing that reflected his own image in those once kind eyes. Fear, disgust, acrimony, misery, all wrapped up in little bundles formed of salty droplets that drizzled down the boy's cheeks like a morning shower.

His once gentle curves were now all angular, razor sharp, like his words. It was tragically beautiful.

Viktor wanted to disappear. Yuuri wasn't meant to look like this. He was mahogany and silk, not cedar and cement. There is no one else to blame. He did this. Viktor had pushed this man as far as he could go.

Frozen, Viktor could do nothing but watch as Yuuri steadied himself, tightly gripping the fabric of his own dress shirt until a button flew across the room.

"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 was too close. Viktor could feel the heat emanating from his trembling hands.

"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."

They were nearly touching, now.

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

What was once a star became a black hole.