Chapter Text
Pebbles scrunched and scattered under Yuuri’s shoes as he made his way across the beach, hands dug into his coat pockets, fingers tight around the chilly edges of his gold medal. He still didn’t like the sea. He didn’t think he’d ever feel safe around the sea again — but then, that was why he’d come to the shoreline. He’d craved that queasy, almost frightened feeling that the waves gave him.
This had been supposed to be the best day of his life.
Yuuri weighed the medal in his palm, tossing up whether to give it to the ocean — one more part of him that the sea could take — or whether that was just a dramatic, futile gesture. It was his last medal. He’d thought it would feel right, winning for the people who’d always supported him, who were no longer with him, but instead it felt like…nothing. Hollow.
He had no idea what he was going to do tomorrow. He’d left a letter for Celestino, thanking him for everything; in the end, Yuuri had been the one who wanted to retire, so he hardly had room to complain that Celestino was moving on to a new student. Celestino been the one to cry in the kiss-and-cry, hugging Yuuri, reminding him that he was always welcome to come to stay, that if he needed it, the Cialdini house’s doors were always open to him.
Yuuri knew that, he did, but he had a bit of trouble believing that Celestino and Maria really wanted Yuuri there as a permanent fixture. And he’d become one, if he wasn’t careful.
The sea-breeze felt like it was blowing straight through him, making the medal even colder to the touch. Sochi was nice enough, Yuuri supposed, but he couldn’t live with the constant threat of the ocean. It would solve the problem about what to do tomorrow, if another tsunami were to rise up now and take Yuuri too.
He closed his eyes, drew back his hand to throw, and then the entire world wobbled and shifted, and Yuuri cried out, and he was suddenly and undignifiedly on his arse in the shallows, the cold water soaking his trousers. He felt queasy and weird, and not just because of the ocean — it was like he’d fainted, for a second, or zoned out, because there was a man in front of him who definitely hadn’t been there before, his silhouette lean in front of the moon. He turned, took a step back, and then went over with a wave.
And stayed down.
Yuuri panicked. He shoved the medal back into his pocket, and then splashed over to where he thought the man might be, his feet contacting a soft thing that had to be human. The water wasn’t deep — only up to his waist — but it was freezing cold, and it was tough to get purchase on the rocky bottom. Still, Yuuri managed to get both arms around the man, who weighed an absolute ton, and sliding and panting, he dragged them both free of the sucking cling of the waves, falling to his knees next to the prone stranger.
“Wow,” said Yuuri, panting. He hoped the stranger understood English. “What have you got in that coat, rocks?”
The man didn’t say anything, and Yuuri reached across, fear and cold emboldening him. He put his hand into a pocket stuffed with rocks.
“You were trying to kill yourself,” he said, his voice suddenly not under his control.
“Where…?” asked the man, in accented English, blinking up at him. “Where did you come from?”
“What are you talking about?” asked Yuuri. “I went to the beach to clear my head, and suddenly you were there!”
The man tipped the stones out of his pockets, back onto the beach. He didn’t meet Yuuri’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m very, very sorry.”
Before Yuuri could ask what for?, a bright light shone onto both of them, and someone called out something in Russian. The man cupped his hands around his mouth and replied, while Yuuri blinked in the spotlight. He stayed stunned while people ran down to them — one, an older man who scolded Yuuri’s mystery man and then hugged him, two others clearly police.
“I’m sorry,” said Yuuri. “I don’t speak Russian.”
The man Yuuri had saved broke into a stream of panicky, swift conversation that Yuuri had no means of understanding. Yuuri saw the stance of both the police shift, and he quailed a little inside — sure, he hadn’t known what he’d do tomorrow, but he equally hadn’t thought it would be “sit in prison on charges of trying to drown a Russian national.”
No-one handcuffed him, but it was very, very clear that he’d have to go with them. They squelched back to an unfamiliar hotel, and Yuuri was put into a small meeting room just off the lobby and given a hotel towel to sit on. He checked his phone, but it was wet and dark; probably a write-off. He sighed. A policewoman entered the room with a cup of tea, and offered it to him; he wrapped his hands around it to warm his freezing fingers, and wondered how he was going to get out of this one.
“All right,” said the policewoman, very kindly. “I will be recording this interview, and it may be used as evidence later.” Great. That sounded encouraging. “Your name?”
“Katsuki…Yuuri Katsuki,” said Yuuri. “I don’t — my passport is in my hotel room.”
“Your purpose in Russia?”
“I’m here for the Grand Prix Final. Ice skating.”
“Oh, a fan?” asked the policewoman.
“A competitor. I…uh…won.”
She frowned. “Really,” she said. Yuuri pulled his medal out of his pocket, and slid it across the table to her. She looked at it, and then let him have it back. “Yuuri, you just sit tight, all right?”
“My coach is Celestino Cialdini,” said Yuuri. “My, er, my phone is a bit waterlogged, but we could put it in rice?”
“Just wait a moment,” she said, and phoned someone. The door opened, and three other police came in. Yuuri felt his insides shrivel up a little, and then a little more when he had his finger pricked and the blood test strip inserted into one of the fancy bits of equipment the police had brought with them.
“Please,” he said. “My coach is Celestino Cialdini. If someone can get him, he can verify my identity.”
“We’re already doing that,” said the woman, as if talking to a spooked animal. “Yuuri, tell us where you were born.”
“In Japan. A town called Hasetsu. It was destroyed by the tsunami two years ago.”
One of the policemen was tapping away at the weirdest laptop Yuuri had ever seen — the screen wasn’t a screen, it was some sort of glassy hologram. Another sharp conversation in Russian, and then the door opened again, and the man that Yuuri had saved entered, a policeman practically frogmarching him.
“I have you,” said the policeman with the laptop, tapping twice on the screen, which doubled its size and turned, showing a picture of Yuuri in his Lohengrin costume. “Yuuri Katsuki, Japanese figure skater. Blood test confirms this one’s a traveller.”
“Oh thank goodness,” said Yuuri. “But I don’t — I don’t understand.” How would a blood test prove he’d travelled anywhere?
“Yuuri,” said the man that Yuuri had saved, shamefaced. He was in a hotel bathrobe, and the lines of his face looked…familiar, somehow.“I’m afraid your presence here is all my fault.”
Yuuri searched his memory, trying to place the face, and his brain suddenly screeched to a halt.
“Victor Nikiforov?” asked Yuuri. “But you’re…” Dead didn’t seem to be the politically correct thing to say, particularly given that Yuuri had never known Victor as anything more than a glossy smile on a poster. A glossy smile a good ten years younger than the man sitting in front of him right now. Plus, he didn’t really want to seem insane in front of these officials, who were already giving him the creeps.
“Am I dead, in your world?” Victor asked.
This prompted a hissed warning from the policewoman, which Victor seemed to ignore.
“You — you fell. In competition,” said Yuuri, and then, before he could stop himself, “I cried for a month.”
“We knew each other?”
“No,” said Yuuri. “You were my idol.” His face went hot with shame. “And I don’t know what kind of dream this is, but it seems like a very cruel one.”
“It’s not a dream,” said Victor, his expression surely mirroring the humiliation that Yuuri was feeling.
The policewoman put a hand on his, speaking kindly and gently, as if he were a child. “Yuuri, how much do you know about the multiverse?”
“I know it’s a theory,” said Yuuri. “The idea that there are multiple worlds, multiple versions of everyone and everything in parallel to each other. Different choices send you on different paths.”
“In this world, you died two years ago,” said the policeman with the weird laptop. “And now Russia’s best figure skater has dragged you here from your own world.” He sounded absolutely contemptuous, but whether with Victor or Yuuri, Yuuri didn’t know.
Victor looked, if it were possible, even worse. “We’ll do everything we can to get you back there, and I’m so sorry — I —“ Victor wrung his hands, but didn’t say anything more.
“I don’t understand,” said Yuuri, heart beating fast in his chest, throat threatening to close up. “I’m not in my own world?”
He vaguely heard more arguing in Russian, as his world spiralled down the drain of a panic attack. That, more than anything, convinced him that it wasn’t a dream; he’d never had a panic attack in a dream. He’d had dreams that induced panic attacks, but he always helpfully woke up for those.
Strong, cool hands grasped his, and Victor’s accented voice said his name. “Yuuri, listen to me. Listen to me. There’s been an accident, and you were transported to this world. But you’re safe. You’re safe. I promise. I’ll look after you, Yuuri, I promise.”
“Victor,” said Yuuri, once he could get a breath in. There was a lot of Russian happening in the background, and Victor was the only real thing in the room.
“All right,” said the policewoman. It seemed to be what she said when she wasn’t sure what to say, Yuuri decided, and this was a decidedly weird enough situation that people might not know what to say. “What he is saying is true, Yuuri. You are safe here. This has happened before; not to you and Victor, but to some people, over the years. There are protocols. Victor, as the one who transported you, is responsible for you; we’ll be releasing you into his custody once we can get things sorted out, unless you don’t wish it, in which case we’ll find a permanent shelter bed for you, and you can begin the process of integrating.” She looked sorrowful. “Yuuri, I do not think it is wise or likely for you to fixate on returning home to your universe. Many travellers lead good lives here.”
“But how did I get here?” asked Yuuri, still a bit shaky and a lot confused. Victor squeezed his hand.
“There’s a counsellor at the station who can explain it,” said the woman, and Yuuri suddenly realised that they meant to take him away from Victor.
“Please release me into Victor’s custody tonight,” he blurted.
“He hasn’t even been vetted,” she said.
“Please,” said Yuuri, feeling close to another panic attack. They’d take him away from the only person he even vaguely recognised — and if Victor had been feeling bad enough to try to drown himself, who knew what he’d do without Yuuri?
“I booked a suite,” said Victor, still holding Yuuri’s hand. “There’s room for him. Or I’ll book him another room. I don’t mind.”
“You’ll have to sign a waiver,” said the woman.
Yuuri nodded, and he signed onto someone’s clear glass tablet computer, and then Victor was allowed to take him across the lobby and up in the elevators, to a very nice room that was well high enough that if (when) the sea came crashing in, they’d probably survive. Both of them took a shower, Yuuri first, then Victor, and Yuuri wound up in Victor’s practice clothes, which were too big for him but were at least clean, warm and dry.
He didn’t allow himself to think about the possibilities, in case he was disappointed. He couldn’t work out the weird computer that Victor had left him to play with, and that felt like a blessing — the tsunami had still hit Hasetsu, the policeman had said, but in this universe Yuuri had died along with everyone he loved.
Victor looked a hundred percent better once he’d showered — he was flushed pink, and Yuuri was struck by how beautiful he was as a man. Yuuri had been in love with Victor when they were both teenagers, but then Victor had never made it to adulthood. No wonder Yuuri hadn’t recognised him immediately, with his hair cut, and his face reflecting the firmness of a man’s jaw, rather than a boy’s.
“What are you thinking?” asked Victor, sitting opposite him at the pathetically small hotel table.
“How different you look to the way you were in my world.”
“Different worse?”
“Different different,” said Yuuri, playing at frowning. “Actually…different better.”
Victor smiled. “Did you look for family and friends?”
“I couldn’t work the computer,” said Yuuri, a little ashamed. “I’m not…it’s very different.”
“We’ll find them,” said Victor. “They’ll be so happy.”
“Why are we both dead?” asked Yuuri, and then he shook his head. “I mean — why are you dead in my world, and I’m dead in this one?”
“I don’t know why I’m dead in your world,” said Victor. “But you couldn’t travel here if there was a living version of you here, too. Travellers… they come from other worlds, when someone wants them enough. Usually they come when there’s strong emotion — like a parent grieving for a child, or soulmates who’ve been separated.”
“But we’ve never met,” said Yuuri. “Have we? How could you want me so much that you brought me from another world?”
“I don’t know,” said Victor.
“Do they know you were trying to kill yourself?”
“No,” Victor said. “I told them I was shocked by your arrival, and I slipped.”
Yuuri shook his head. “You needed someone to save you, and the universe gave you me. I’m sorry.”
“I think that apology should be my line.”
“No,” said Yuuri. “You got a bad deal here.”
“They told me you’d just won the Grand Prix,” said Victor. His expression clouded. “And I’ve taken that away from you.”
“Victor,” said Yuuri. “Did you just win the Grand Prix too?”
Victor smiled. “Yes. We should be at the banquet.”
“Will it get you in trouble not going?”
“Oh, Yuuri,” said Victor, putting his face in his hands. “I’m already in more trouble than I know how to explain.”
“Then we should go,” said Yuuri. “I think we both need a drink.”
________________
Victor didn’t have a spare jacket, but apparently Christophe Giacometti had three, and was absolutely delighted to be involved in suiting up Victor’s plus-one. He showed up at the door, garment bag in hand, and then upon entering Victor’s suite made a noise that Yuuri didn’t recognise as human.
“Yuuri,” he said, breathless. “Yuuri Katsuki…you’re a traveller?” He dropped the jackets and embraced Yuuri tightly.
Shocked, Yuuri embraced him back. No-one here liked him that much, did they? Chris had been an acquaintance — sure, they’d had a few good nights out after competitions, and there’d been that training camp where they’d bonded over their mutual exasperation with JJ Leroy, but it wasn’t like Chris actually liked Yuuri that much. Did he?
“You know Yuuri?” asked Victor.
“We met at a training camp in the USA,” said Chris, and Yuuri grinned.
“We met there in my universe, too,” he said, marvelling at how easy it was to start thinking about himself as some sort of dimension-hopper. “I’m glad to see you.”
Chris squeezed him again. “Not as glad as Ciao-Ciao and Phichit will be to see you!”
Once Yuuri was dressed to everyone’s satisfaction in a spare pair of Victor’s trousers and shoes, and a spare shirt, jacket and tie of Chris’s, they made their way downstairs. Yuuri wasn’t completely certain that a slightly-too-large red jacket over black pants suited him, but Chris slung a friendly arm around his shoulder, and there’d be booze at the banquet, and food, and Yuuri desperately wanted a distraction. He wondered what his own Celestino would think— would he think that Yuuri had ghosted him, or would he think Yuuri had successfully done what Victor had tried to do — drowned himself in the sea at Sochi? He didn’t know. His Celestino would move on, though — he had Phichit to focus on, which had been…well, difficult, with Yuuri around. It wasn’t Phichit’s fault that he and Yuuri weren’t close — Yuuri had practically shoved the poor guy away after the tsunami, when he didn’t want anyone knowing anything about his life, and he didn’t want to bring anyone close ever again. Maybe here he’d been kinder to Phichit, accepted the overtures of friendship.
Maybe here they’d never met. The Yuuri from this universe was dead, after all.
Yuuri braced himself for failure as they entered the ballroom, but it wasn’t too bad once he was in. The fashions were unfamiliar, but there were enough people there that Yuuri recognised. Chris shepherded Yuuri across the room to a man Yuuri recognised as Celestino — thinner, greyer, but with the same kind eyes.
“Yuuri! It's you!” he said, suddenly pale with shock, but then his expression broke into a grin and he took three steps forward and lifted Yuuri from the ground in the warmest bearhug. "I didn't believe it when they called me. My god!" Yuuri closed his eyes and clung to his old coach; this man didn’t know it, and wouldn’t remember it, but Celestino had been the one to pull Yuuri back together after the tsunami, after Yuuri had been continents and oceans away, unable to help his family even if it were possible to do so. Sometimes it felt like the wave had cut his life into two neat sections, the part where things were okay, and the part where nothing was okay.
“Ciao-Ciao,” Yuuri said, happily, and then there was a shout, and Phichit barrelled in and joined the hug. Yuuri had never been all that close to Phichit, but clearly he had here, because Phichit was barely making sense in his excitement.
“But who brought you here?” asked Phichit, after a stream of exclamations. “Do you get travellers in your own world? Are they as rare as they are here?”
“I’ve never heard of a traveller,” said Yuuri. “So I suppose…we might? But if we do, no-one knows about them.”
“Your mom is going to be over the moon,” said Phichit.
“My mom?” asked Yuuri, the bottom dropping out of his stomach. “But — the tsunami?”
“Did it happen in your world, too?” asked Phichit. Then he looked horribly guilty. “I. I guess you didn’t go back for your dog, then.”
“I was in Detroit when it happened in my world,” said Yuuri. “My mom’s alive?”
“You were in Hasetsu here,” said Phichit, sounding shell-shocked. “You’d all just got up the tsunami tower when your dog wriggled free of your arms and ran down the stairs. Your sister tried to stop you but you told her you’d be right back.” He covered his mouth. “Sorry. I — is that rude? I don’t know what I should and shouldn’t tell you.”
“My whole family are alive?” asked Yuuri. There’d been no tsunami tower in Hasetsu in his world, but then, there’d been no freaky holographic laptops, either. “Phichit, are you serious?”
“As serious as can be.”
Yuuri grabbed a bottle of champagne from a passing waiter, and they set themselves up at a table — soon, more skaters came to join them, delighted that Yuuri was there, that Yuuri was alive, that Yuuri had travelled between the dimensions to be with them again. Yuuri managed to get Phichit to call his parents on one of the glass phones, and he managed three words before he was a sobbing mess, and his parents were a sobbing mess, and he found himself promising to call them back once he was somewhere more private and he’d let the alcohol concentration in his bloodstream subside a bit.
Elated, walking on air, he grabbed Victor from where he was sulking in a corner with a blond Russian skater.
“Dance with me,” he commanded, and Victor shook his head. Yuuri was pleasantly buzzed, and not easily dissuaded, so he grabbed Victor anyway, and pulled him into a dance. Thirteen year old Yuuri would have given his right eye to dance with Victor Nikiforov; twenty three year old Yuuri was pretty sure he’d accidentally given up his entire life to dance with Victor Nikiforov.
But it wasn’t like it had been much of a life, anyway. The question of what am I going to do with tomorrow? was no longer unanswerable — Yuuri had a million things he wanted to do. Chris swept him off, then others — people he didn’t properly recognise, but he kept finding himself drawn back to Victor, who reached for Yuuri when Yuuri reached for him.
Maybe this wasn’t all Victor’s fault. Maybe he had called across space and time for Yuuri, but Yuuri was increasingly beginning to think he must have called back — as the shock wore off and the champagne took hold, he was more and more aware of how happy he was. They leaned on each other on the way back to Victor’s rooms, and Yuuri found himself tucked in by Victor, who sat on the edge of the bed and gazed down at him with something approaching awe.
“Victor?” Yuuri asked, blinking up at Victor, eyelids heavy. “I— can we go to Japan?”
“We can go anywhere you want,” said Victor.
“My parents are alive,” said Yuuri, the quiet excitement of that fact still thrilling through him.
“They weren’t, in your world?”
“They died.”
“Oh Yuuri,” said Victor, very gently stroking Yuuri’s hair back from his forehead. “Yuuri.”
“I don’t think anyone much will miss me from my world,” said Yuuri, sleepily. “Would you miss me, Victor?”
“I’ve only known you for an evening, and I would miss you like someone had chopped off my leg,” said Victor.
“But then you couldn’t skate,” said Yuuri. He smiled up at Victor. “Will you help me get new skates? Be my coach? What’s the calendar like in this world? Can I still qualify for Worlds?”
Victor looked startled for a second, but then his expression shifted into a warm, open smile. A real smile, not like the smiles he’d given to people downstairs. His banquet smiles had been all light and no warmth. This was so warm Yuuri almost reached out to touch it.
“That’s genius,” said Victor. “There’s still time. Nationals are yet to come.” He laughed to himself with evident delight. “We can skate against each other.”
Yuuri patted his thigh. “Good,” he said. “Now go get some sleep. Long flight tomorrow.”
Victor shook his head, chuckling a little, and petted his hair one last time before vanishing, leaving Yuuri to a blessedly dreamless sleep.