Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

Next morning, Yuuri was woken by a thundering knock on the hotel door, and he winced his way through a bit of a headache — he wasn’t hung over, but he was a little bit seedy. The people who entered were the man Yuuri recognised as Victor’s coach, and the policewoman from the previous night. Both of them were arguing with Victor by the time Yuuri had wrapped himself in a blanket and shuffled out into the main part of the suite.

(And goodness, how much money did Victor make, to book a suite?)

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“There’s a scrum of reporters outside the hotel,” barked Victor’s coach, “because someone thought it would be a good idea to let all the skaters at the Grand Prix put up photographs of a traveller onto Pinstagram.”

“Oh,” said Yuuri, finding a seat. “I — I didn’t think about that.” Truth be told, he didn’t really know what a ‘traveller’ was. He’d gathered a bit, but there were definite gaps in his understanding.

“He should have thought of it!” said the coach, gesturing to Victor. Yuuri saw a flash of what seemed like misery play across Victor’s features, only to be replaced by a bright, fake grin.

“But Yakov,” Victor replied, almost sing-song. “Yuuri had just won the Grand Prix Final in his own world! He deserved to go to the banquet!”

“I asked to go to the banquet,” said Yuuri. “And I want to go home — ah, to Japan.” A half-remembered conversation from the night before returned to him, Victor gazing at him like he was a miracle. “How does that work? I don’t have a passport or anything. I don’t even have money.”

“What’s a passport?” asked Victor.

“Paper to prove your identity,” said Yakov surprisingly considerate of Victor’s ignorance, considering his gruff mood. “Yuuri, you don’t need one. Passports went out in the 1980s; you were registered with the International Flight Union. They have your biometrics on file.”

“And as a traveller who is a Japanese citizen in your own world, you have automatic rights to citizenship,” said the woman. “Actually, you have automatic rights to dual citizenship, should you want it — the country in which you appeared, and the country identified as your birth nation.”

“How…?” Yuuri bit his lip. How did this work, exactly? His biometrics? What if he’d shown up somewhere in the developing world — would his chances have been the same? How did a Flight Union get his…whatever. He really wanted a coffee. Sadly for Yuuri’s chances of sneaking out and getting a coffee, there was another knock at the door.

“Yuuri,” said Yakov, softly as the policewoman and Victor went to get the door. “You will find this is a good place. We have rules and laws about travellers; their rights are protected in almost every country.” He pulled a slim, brown-wrapped book out of his coat pocket. “This will help.”

Yuuri was delighted to see something that wasn’t glass and holograms. He opened it to find the book written in English, in that old typewriter font. It looked like it must have been published in the 1950s…or what passed as the 50s, here.

“Thank you,” he said, fervently. “Thank you so much.”

“You do not have to stay with Victor,” said Yakov, glancing over at the fuss by the door. “And I will give you my number. I will not stop him going with you, but if you need help, he told me what happened last night. If he needs more than you can give, call my number. You understand?”

“I understand,” said Yuuri, nodding, having absolutely no intention of leaving Victor’s side, and a huge, burning hope that whatever Victor was going through, they could work through it together.

It turned out to be Phichit and Chris at the door. Chris looked a little the worse for wear, but he and Phichit were carrying shopping bags, and Yuuri would have felt nervous except that Yakov glanced at them, sighed heavily, and shook his head.

“It seems you have friends already,” he said, as Phichit broke into a broad grin. Yuuri regretted not getting to know his own Phichit as well as he might have; he could have done with a friend like this.

“We brought you clothes!” Phichit announced.

“And breakfast,” said Chris. “It’ll stretch to everyone if a few people are happy to drink hotel coffee.”

“Coffee?” asked Yuuri, hopefully, and Chris pressed a cardboard cup into Yuuri’s outstretched hand.

“It’s how we had it in Detroit,” said Chris, and Yuuri nearly wept with relief.

Like this, he could almost pretend they were the people he’d known. Suddenly, the tiny table was full of food and Yuuri was caffeinated, headache receding, Phichit leaning in next to him and showing him news articles about himself.

“There hasn’t been a confirmed traveller in Europe for ages,” he said.

“But everyone is just accepting me…?”

Phichit pulled a face. “You died, Yuuri. Everyone knows you died. And someone in the police department has leaked that your blood test was positive for… whatever it needs to be positive for to confirm a traveller.”

“How have I never heard of this?” asked Yuuri. “No-one in my universe…”

“People might not come to your universe,” said Chris. “And people who vanish — who knows where they go? Here, people have been arriving since — well, since forever. They bring valuable things with them. It’ll be interesting to see what you have brought.”

Oh no. No, no. This wasn’t good. Couldn’t he just be here to…see his family and get to know Victor? Wasn’t that enough?

“I don’t have any particularly valuable knowledge,” said Yuuri. “I’m just a dime-a-dozen skater from Japan.”

“Who won the GPF,” said Phichit, raising his eyebrows.

“Y-yes,” said Yuuri, unable to articulate that he’d put everything he had into the GPF, and he’d always felt like such a phoney because everyone else had lives outside of skating, but Yuuri didn’t, so it was… it wasn’t cheating, but it was unfair to compare himself to them.

“The ISU are shitting bricks,” said Chris.

“Giacometti!” snapped Yakov. “Yuuri, bringing things with you is an old wives tale. The important thing is whether you can compete, if you want to.”

“I looked it up last night,” said Victor, picking at the edges of what looked like a rather nice pastry. “Yuuri will need to undergo a skills assessment by the ISU, and if he passes it, then he’ll be eligible for nationals. There’s precedent in cycling, basketball and swimming; in the 1980s a swimmer arrived only a few months out from the Olympics, and the decision was made to let him compete under the Olympic flag.” He looked pensive. “He got gold.”

“So will Yuuri take gold from all of us, then?” asked Phichit, and Yuuri was already stammering out an apology when he caught the mischievous smile Phichit was giving him. “Relax, Yuuri.”

“First thing is to go home to Japan,” said Yuuri, turning to the policewoman. “I’m sorry…I don’t know your name. Yesterday was all a bit of a rush.”

“Katerina,” she said. “And your friends are right. Travellers are valued here, because wives tale or not, usually they do bring something of value with them.”

“But I haven’t brought anything worthwhile with me,” said Yuuri, a little despairingly.

“You brought you,” said Victor, suddenly fierce. Yuuri met his eyes, and felt the thread of connection between them, whatever it was that had brought them together across the universe sparking.

“People are going to want to study how you came here,” said Katerina. “It’s the first time two people who have never met have been caught up in this kind of thing.”

“But I can go home?” asked Yuuri. No-one spoke, and he realised what he’d said. “To Hasetsu. To Japan.”

“Oh,” said Victor. “Oh, yes. I booked us a flight out for this afternoon…I thought we’d need time to get you some things, but it looks like Chris and Phichit thought of that.”

“Yuuri,” said Yakov. “I do not know what people have told you, but…trying to send you back to your own world is risky. It is best that you work out if you can survive here.”

“I—“ Yuuri swallowed, hard. “I don’t have much to go back to. I was going to retire after this season.” He sought out Victor’s gaze.

“Retire?” asked Phichit. “But you won!”

“I didn’t think I could do any better,” said Yuuri. “And I— in my universe, I was in Detroit when the tsunami hit Hasetsu. My parents and sister…my friends…died.” He thought people might have worked that out from last night, but he wasn’t sure if he’d told Chris. From the expression on Chris’s face, he hadn’t.

“Yuuri,” said Chris, quietly, heartfelt. “I’m so sorry.”

Yuuri’s throat was suddenly thick with tears. “Thank you,” he said, wiping at his eyes. “I think — I might go and get dressed, now that I have something to get dressed in.” He was acutely aware that he was wearing Victor’s tracksuit and a blanket, and these people were strangers, no matter how much they looked like the people he’d known.

“I’ll help you pick something out so that you’re not a fashion disaster,” said Victor, jumping to his feet, following Yuuri into the small bedroom. Yuuri spread the clothes out — Phichit and Chris had clearly gotten excited about more than just organising breakfast. The fashions were just this side of unfamiliar — maybe a few seasons ahead, or a few seasons behind. Yuuri couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“There’ll be people trying to photograph you the second we step out of this room,” said Victor, tapping his chin with one finger, then pointing at garments. “That and that. Chris has a good eye for what’ll suit.”

“Thank you,” said Yuuri. “I’m worried that I can’t pay them back—“

“Yuuri,” said Victor, shaking his head. “They missed you. This is their way of saying how much.”

“But they missed the me from this universe, not me,” said Yuuri.

“And to honour him, they’ll love and care for you,” said Victor. “Would you honestly do otherwise, if it were someone you’d lost crashing back into your life?”

Yuuri picked up the soft blue and white sweatshirt, and fashionable-looking jeans that Victor had indicated he should wear.

“No,” he said, the tears that had been threatening all through breakfast slowly making their way down his cheeks. “I’d do the same thing.”

“Don’t retire,” said Victor, suddenly. “Skate against me.” He tapped one finger to his lips. “You’re crying. Should I do something?”

Yuuri laughed through his tears, shaking his head. “It was my childhood dream to skate against you,” he said. “Just try and stop me.”

__________

The plane ride to Moscow was short and comfortable; Yuuri only had a vague idea of the shape and size of Russia, and nothing pinged him as off until they said their goodbyes to the others and got on the plane to Japan. The flight time to Japan was ridiculously short. Looking out at it from the airbridge, the plane had looked like Concorde (except that wasn’t flying anymore, was it?), and Yuuri held on tightly as it took off, not cheered by the explanation on the in-flight screens that they’d be almost in space and that somehow meant they’d get there in quick time.

He’d used the travel time — and the waiting to board time — to Moscow to catch up a little with Celestino; his old coach had been more hungover than Yuuri was, and he’d been touched to find out that in Yuuri’s own world, he’d helped Yuuri overcome so much. Yuuri got a bit overcome, and then had to go and find a bathroom to compose himself in, which led to being yelled at by Victor’s blond rink mate, who was another Yuri, a Yuri that Yuuri had never heard of, because his focus had been on winning, not on encouraging the Juniors.

“You idiot!” the blond Yuri yelled. “You get the chance to start over and you’re crying in a toilet!”

Yuuri washed his face, and left the younger Yuri, which seemed to only make him angrier. It was refreshing, actually — everyone else had been acting like Yuuri was precious, or he was made of glass and might shatter if they said the wrong thing. And then he and Victor got on the flight to Japan, and Yuuri found himself practically twitching out of his skin with nerves for what he might find there.

Victor, for what it was worth, seemed just as on-edge. He didn’t settle properly in the plane, tapping and fidgeting and wriggling as Yuuri tried to read the book that Yakov had given him.

You are probably terribly confused, it said. But do not despair. People have travelled to this universe since the time of Aristotle, and potentially before. You are not alone.

Yuuri clutched Victor’s hand as they landed, probably crushing his bones, but Victor didn’t complain.

“There’ll likely be press when we get out,” Victor warned, as they walked down the airbridge, hand in the small of Yuuri’s back. “We’ve got to get to the train station, and then we’ll be all right.”

“We’re getting the train?”

“It’s the only way.”

Yuuri’s query about what had happened to multiple closer airports was swallowed up by what he saw when they made it out into the baggage area. There were at least a hundred people, not just Japanese reporters, waiting to get footage of Yuuri and Victor, waiting for…what? A statement? Yuuri scanned the scrum, and exhaled in relief when he saw a familiar face.

“Morooka!” he said, speaking Japanese. He made his way to the man. “If you can get us out of here safely, I’ll give you an exclusive interview.”

“You know me?” asked Morooka, nonplussed.

“You and I were…” Had they been friends? Maybe. “You interviewed me a lot. You care about skating, not about advancing your career through gossip. Or you would have, when I knew you.”

“I’ll get you out of here,” said Morooka, and they were bundled, along with Victor’s suitcases, into an outside broadcast van and driven to the train station, Yuuri giving a short and bland interview in Japanese and then English on the train once the three of them got on, Morooka organising a private compartment. Yuuri stared — there was no such thing in his world. He answered honestly — he had meant it, when he said he’d give an interview. Yes, it seemed like he had travelled from another universe. No, he wasn’t sure how. Yes, it was true that he and Victor had never met, but they’d somehow crashed into each other’s lives. Yes, he was excited to return to Japan and see his family. Yes, he knew he’d died in this universe. Yes, once the ISU and JSF got sorted out, he’d be going to regionals, then hopefully Nationals and Worlds. Victor got some questions, then — would he be staying with Yuuri in Japan, or would they separate for Japanese and Russian nationals, which were cruelly on at the same time? What did he think had drawn Yuuri here?

“I am always seeking the next great surprise,” said Victor, charming and false. “Perhaps the universe recognised my deep need?”

Yuuri didn’t get much rest on the train, and he was not remotely prepared to see banners featuring his child-self at the railway station, and a crowd of well-wishers. The station didn’t look like it had before, in his own world — but it was standing. Yuuri wondered if the tsunami had been longer ago, or less fierce, or… but then all thoughts of that fled when he saw his parents, nervously waiting for him just outside the sliding doors.

He couldn’t help it. He ran to his mother, practically throwing himself at her, feeling others join their embrace, tears pricking his eyes. She held him tightly, talking softy to him, soothing him, as he wept unashamedly. There was the sound of cameras and voices; Yuuri didn’t care.

“Yuuri,” his mother said, into the close space between them. “My Yuuri, you’ve come home.”

He couldn’t even speak. It wasn’t a panic attack (although he’d come close, on the train) — it was something else entirely. He wept into her shoulder, until Mari came and pulled him free, and then he wept on Mari. It was like everything from the last two years was finally catching up with him, all the angst and pain and misery, but not, because his parents were here, Mari was here, Minako and Yuuko and the triplets and…

“Breathe,” said Mari, into his ear. “Breathe.”

He breathed, and let her lead him to the car. Victor looked cheerfully lost, until Yuuko grabbed his arm and hauled him off to another car, and Yuuri was left with his family. He looked around, shocked. He’d only been back to Hasetsu once, in his own universe and it hadn’t looked like this.

“The town,” said Yuuri, shocked. “It’s practically rebuilt!”

“There was a lot of investment,” said his father.

“But aren’t people… afraid?” asked Yuuri.

“People know it’s part of life,” said Mari, as they passed a huge tsunami tower, something else that definitely hadn’t been there when Yuuri lived in Hasetsu. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“Neither can I,” said Yuuri. “I — it’s so good to see you all.”

Yu-topia had been rebuilt from what Yuuri remembered — it was styled as a traditional inn, but clearly also beautiful, clean and new. The Nishigoris parked next to them, and it was at that point that Yuuri remembered he should introduce Victor to the rest of his family. The next four hours were a tumult of greetings and happy exclamations, Yuuri being passed from person to person, and Victor being cooed over by everyone, particularly Yuuko, who had clearly shared Yuuri’s youthful obsession with the man. In the end, Yuuri begged exhaustion and Mari took him to his room.

Yuuri had no real bedroom in this new Yu-topia. Academically, he hadn’t expected one, but something in his heart ached at not seeing all his old things. He was given a nice hotel room, very traditional. Yuuri, who hadn’t slept on a futon since he was seventeen, set himself up, and wondered what Victor would think of his accomodations. Hopefully, good. Victor seemed to be settling in nicely — he had pronounced katsudon to be the most wonderful thing he’d ever eaten, gotten into a drinking competition with Minako, charmed everyone he’d met, and then retired to sleep.

Yuuri snuggled into bed, and pulled out Yakov’s book. He added a phone or computer to his mental list of things he needed — new skates; a phone; a new night mouthguard (so he didn’t grind his teeth into dust in his sleep); toiletries that he owned; more than one pair of shoes; something to read; a case for his glasses; a hairbrush.

Yakov’s book was fascinating. Apparently, travellers were a known phenomena in Victor’s world. The general consensus was that they were brought from other universes when a catalyst — another person’s desires — acted on them. Usually, that catalyst was a lost romantic partner, leading to theorising that travellers were linked. One theory — only tenuous, according to the book — was that both partners were soulmates, in the old tradition of thinking of people as two halves of one entity.

Do not fall into the trap of thinking that travellers are here to change the world, the book said, making Yuuri feel a lot better about things. Remember that to one person, you can be the world. And in some instances, it has been clear that the dimension jump has not been to benefit us, but instead to benefit the traveller. People have travelled out of extremity and fear. Many travel during times of war and suffering, and find solace in our world. You do not have to change our world. You are enough.

“You are enough,” said Yuuri, looking up at the ceiling, hearing the sounds of celebration going on downstairs. One of his old therapists had been really into affirmations, and he tried out the idea, saying the words slowly, like he was tasting them. “I am enough.”

But what if he wasn’t? Yuuri tried to put the thought out of his mind as he clicked off the lamp, and went to sleep.

_________________

Victor seemed perplexed but interested by a Japanese breakfast, and then he outlined what he wanted to do — to shop for all sorts of things for Yuuri. Yuuri’s mental list of things to buy was completely outstripped by Victor’s physical list that he’d made on the back of the official letter indicating he was supposed to be Yuuri’s guardian.

“I want to spend some time thinking,” said Yuuri, exhausted before they’d even begun. “I — do you mind if you and Mari work things out? I also need to go to the dentist.”

“The dentist?” asked Mari.

“I…I get stressed and grind my teeth. I cracked a tooth in my sleep, once,” said Yuuri. His jaw hurt a little from a few nights of sleeping without his mouthguard. He sighed. He probably also needed to start the miserable process of finding the right therapist again, too. “And I have no money, unless the government has miraculously sent a pension overnight.”

Mari snorted. “He’s responsible for you,” she said, gesturing to Victor. “It’s all going on his credit card.”

“True,” said Victor, happily. Yuuri wondered if Victor felt like Yuuri did — a pull toward him, like Victor was true north, and Yuuri a compass needle.

“Go, Yuuri,” said Mari. “You need to think, think. We’ll be here when you return.”

Yuuri sat for a long time by the household shrine. It was set up in a quiet room, where the morning light slanted in the windows, and he could sit undisturbed. He tried to clear his mind, and think of the version of himself who had lived and died here. Eventually, his mother came and knelt by him, and they shared a companionable silence.

“Yuuri,” she said, once the lines of light had made their way across the floor, and no longer warmed Yuuri’s skin. “You live too much in your head. You’re comparing what was to what is, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” said Yuuri, quietly. “I think — we all know we’re not the people we lost. And I don’t know if it’s disrespectful to want this as badly as I do.” His throat tightened. “I missed you so much.”

“I want you to be happy and cared for,” said his mother. “That’s all I ever wanted for you, my Yuuri. That’s what matters; I love you, all the possible yous, and that love isn’t finite. I can love you, my Yuuri from another world, and it doesn’t diminish the love I have for the Yuuri I raised in this world.”

“But—“ Yuuri began, unable to ask the questions he wanted to. But you don’t know me, not really. You knew the other me. What if we’re fundamentally different? What he was special and advanced, like Concorde, or a glass computer, and I’m…not sufficient?

His mother put a finger to his forehead, right between his eyes.

“Stop,” she said, and, miraculously, it worked. “Yuuri, are you glad for this?”

“I’m so happy,” Yuuri blurted. “I just don’t know what to feel or how to feel it. I — I never met Victor, but somehow I came here to him. I lost everyone and everything, and now I have…I mean…” He swallowed. “I have everything I ever dreamed of. I keep thinking it’ll all vanish.”

“And do you think Victor is glad?”

“I’m afraid for him,” Yuuri said, without saying what he’d seen in Sochi. “He was able to come here right away because he doesn’t have anyone to look after. I mean, he has a dog, but he just sent the dog-sitter more money, and no-one really cared if he came here. There’s no-one waiting at home for him except his coach.”

His mother stroked Yuuri’s hair back. “Tell him to bring his dog here. It’s been a long time since Yu-topia has had a dog.” She looked so much like she had, in his own world, that his heart ached. “Get to know him. The universe has to have brought you together for a reason.”

“What if I fail?” asked Yuuri.

“Fail what?”

“Everything. Everyone.”

She embraced him, then, and he basked in the smell of her soap, the smell of her. “You were wrong,” she said, rocking him a little. “I do know you. And you won’t fail.” She pulled back, and brushed her thumb over his cheek. “Up you get. Victor and Mari were making all sorts of plans, and I know they’ll be excited to take you out.”

“But I look like…”

“They’ll understand,” she said, and Yuuri was surprised when he returned to Mari and Victor to find that they did seem to understand. They were definitely plotting, and Yuuri realised to his surprise that Mari was using her phone to show Victor pictures of the Yuuri that had been. He wouldn’t have thought Victor would want to see them — who was Yuuri to Victor? — but he was cooing over Yuuri’s first competition costume like Yuuri was still a child, not a grown man who’d crashed into Victor’s life like a freight train.

“Yuuri!” said Victor, spotting him. “Come on, shopping! Mari has a plan to avoid any lingering press, and I have a credit card, and we’ve doubled the list!”

Victor loved shopping. The peace Yuuri had found that morning with his mother seemed to have sealed over his frayed nerves, like wax over a knot, because usually Yuuri was ambivalent about shopping. Sightseeing, yes. Shopping, no, especially not for clothes, shoes, the most expensive shaving kit Yuuri had ever owned, which was ridiculous, because he barely had any facial hair even when he didn’t shave.

He was having a ball. Mari had put sunglasses on him and a hat on Victor, and, ridiculously, it seemed to be working. It was all such a joy with Victor, which in turn broke some of the ice with Mari — together, Yuuri and Mari explained Japan, and Mari and Victor treated Yuuri as if he were some kind of anxious dress-up doll, and Yuuri and Victor discovered this new Hasetsu together, new shops and old, the scars of the wave not so prominent as Yuuri had feared. There were big signs up for companies Building the Future, and Yuuri discovered that some of the labour had been automated; no wonder it had been rebuilt so quickly.

It was strange and familiar all at once. They got him a phone, and a laptop that Mari went into raptures about, and then Victor bought her one, too, which was about to get awkward until Victor pointed out that his late parents had left him so much money that he could probably buy his own private island and still have enough left over to build his own castle on top of it.

“I never knew them,” he said, dismissively, when she expressed concern for what they’d think. “Yakov practically raised me.” Then a glittery phone case caught his magpie attention, and he trotted off, leaving Yuuri staring at Mari in surprise.

“He’s a very weird person,” she said, their conversation returning to Japanese now that it was just the two of them. “Amazing, but very weird.”

“I know,” said Yuuri. They looked at each other for long enough that it started to get weird, too. Mari broke the silence.

“I hope you both stay,” she said. “I like having you back.”

“I — I like being here. It’s good to see you,” said Yuuri, and she gave him a playful nudge.

“I hope he stays. He’s the only person I’ve ever seen get you willingly trying on clothes.” She gave him a little wry half-smile that was so Mari that Yuuri had to smile back.

Yuuri nodded, as Victor waved the sparkly phone case at him from across the store. Instead of tired and drained by too much interaction, Yuuri just felt joyful. He was desperately glad he was here, not only because he had his family, his home, but because of Victor. Because Victor wasn’t gone in a mess of stones and seawater; because Victor was alive, and here, and possibly Yuuri’s interdimensional soulmate, if Yakov’s book was to be believed.

“Yuuri!” Victor bounded up to them. “Give me your phone.” Okay, so he was going to have a glittery phone case, because Victor loved it, and Yuuri — yeah. His fingers brushed Victor’s as took the phone, and Yuuri’s stomach did a flip.

Mari laughed, not unkindly. “You know, I think you like him,” she said, in Japanese.

“Yeah,” said Yuuri, heart full and light, as Victor snapped the case onto Yuuri’s phone and then presented it to Yuuri with a flourish. “I do.”

Chapter Text

Life with Victor in Hasetsu was the happiest Yuuri could remember being in forever. The Ice Castle had been far enough from the main wash of the wave that it was still standing, and people still travelled in to attend lessons; Victor and Yuuri took it over after hours, making it their base of operations.

Victor wasn’t always gentle with him. Yuuri was almost certain that Victor felt the pull between them — they were barely apart, even after training. They’d laze around together, Yuuri gaining rapid familiarity with the internet and how to use the technology, Victor reading terrible romance novels and occasionally updating his Pinstagram (some sort of ungodly hybrid of about four of the social networks Yuuri remembered) with photos of himself and Yuuri enjoying Hasetsu. The media panic had calmed; Yuuri emailed with Morooka, but everyone else had moved on when Yuuri hadn’t suddenly cured cancer, or performed some sort of magic trick.

Victor wasn’t always gentle with him. He made Yuuri run, made him work hard, and worst of all, made him confront the things he hated. Yuuri wasn’t sure what his therapist would say, but Victor made Yuuri jog along the sand, just shy of the hissing, grasping sea; and let the triplets pretend to be reporters quizzing Yuuri in a press conference; and wrote up a diet plan for both of them that included practically nothing tasty, and made Yuuri stick to it.

Victor also bought Yuuri new skates and sat with Yuuri while they were heat-moulded. He tended to Yuuri’s feet, which was hideously embarrassing but also great; that unspoken tug practically purred at the attention. When Yuuri tried to do the same, Victor shrugged him off — but then Yuuri discovered that Victor practically melted if Yuuri settled carefully behind him after they’d soaked in the onsen and took the tense muscle of Victor’s shoulders into his hands, massaging out the knots. His family and friends seemed to accept them as a unit — Yuuri-and-Victor — and Yuuri wondered, wondered what Victor would do if he just leaned in a little more and pressed a kiss to the bared skin of his neck, or kissed the corner of his mouth. He especially wondered this when Victor was critiquing his skating, watching Victor’s mouth, a little ashamed of himself.

“We have to be ready for Regionals,” Victor kept reminding him. “And then Nationals, for both of us.”

Regionals. Sure, Yuuri could have done a test and jumped straight to Nationals, but he didn’t want people to think he wasn’t willing and able to work for this. There were still news articles commenting about him, and he was still being called on by the media to comment on life here in this universe. Thankfully, Minako had stepped in as his manager, and funnelling everything through her worked; took it down to a manageable trickle, and the local people in Hastesu determinedly respected their privacy. Yuuri did give Morooka exclusives. He thought that was fair, given that the man had treated Yuuri and Victor honourably in this universe, as well as treating Yuuri kindly in his own.

Victor insisted on staying overnight in a hotel before Regionals, so they could have a leisurely breakfast and meander down to the rink, rather than getting up and travelling. It was a nice hotel — Western-style, with big, plush beds. They shared a room — Yuuri didn’t ask why Victor had booked them in together, and he was embarrassed to put his mouthguard in with Victor there, but by the same token, he didn’t want Victor to be lonely — and he didn’t want to wake up with lockjaw from pre-competition stress.

Ah, pre-competition stress. Yuuri didn’t sleep. Instead, he stared at the ceiling. Played on his phone. Attempted to sleep despite the churn in his stomach that meant he wouldn’t. Caught himself trying to clench his teeth. Watched Victor sleep, enviously. Then lay back down, and listened to the world around him, and heard Victor’s breath hitch, just a little, just enough to worry Yuuri. He got up.

Victor was still asleep, it seemed, but he was…crying? Yuuri didn’t know what to do, and the butterflies in his stomach felt like they were gnawing at his insides just seeing this, just seeing Victor with wet cheeks, hearing his small, choked off breaths. Victor was so — he was so big and bright and gregarious. Victor, though, had put rocks in his pockets and walked into the ocean just as he met Yuuri. Yuuri knew he had to do something; should he wake Victor? Climb in beside him and cuddle him? No, that would be weird, and Victor needed his sleep as much as Yuuri did.

Yuuri slowly, quietly, pushed his bed so that it was flush against Victor’s. Victor didn’t stir, which Yuuri supposed was good — Victor’s sleep patterns sometimes seemed as erratic as Yuuri’s own. One night, they’d both ended up in the kitchens at Yu-topia well after midnight, and Yuuri had made them both an omelet before they settled in the customer lounge and watched a movie on the big television. This time, though, Victor was definitely asleep. Huddling back under the covers of his own bed, Yuuri reached out across the expanse of sheets between them, and took Victor’s outstretched hand, threading their fingers together.

“I’m here,” said Yuuri, steadily. Victor clutched at him like a lifeline. “I’m here, and I’m not going to let you drown.”

He fell to oblivion sometime later, with Victor’s hand still in his, both of them holding onto one another. When he woke, his arm was all pins-and-needles, but Victor was still holding his hand, looking at him across the sea of covers, sleep-soft and warm.

“You were upset,” said Yuuri, not letting go. “In your sleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I don’t understand how you can care about me,” said Victor, a rare candid statement that Yuuri treasured and despaired of in equal measure.

“I don’t understand how I couldn’t,” said Yuuri, shuffling until he had his head resting on Victor’s shoulder. Victor brought his arms up to hold Yuuri, resting his cheek against Yuuri’s hair. “I think we’re together for a reason, Victor. Maybe we’re both broken, but we fit together to make something whole.”

“You didn’t choose this,” said Victor, sleep-hoarse.

“No more than you did,” said Yuuri. “You could be just as angry with me for crashing into your life, spending your money, taking you away from your training.”

“You…” said Victor. “If you weren’t here, I wouldn’t be either.”

Yuuri swallowed. “I’m glad I came, then,” he said, and there were a million other things he could say, but he didn’t really need to.

_______________

Yuuri skated downgraded versions of his two programs at Regionals; Victor was worried about the jump combinations that Yuuri had described to him, especially on such new skates. Yuuri was inclined to agree, and even though the programs weren’t at their fullest, he qualified for Nationals easily.

Besides, he wanted to skate the full programs at Nationals, when everyone would be watching, when it would be properly televised, when he could show the entire world just how good Yuuri Katsuki could be. There was buzz already — how could there not be? He was the traveller, and people wanted to see if he’d been lying about the GPF.

Nationals, though, clashed with Victor’s Nationals, and despite the efficient plane ride, it just wan’t wise or feasible to be together for them. Yuuri didn’t want Victor to go. Academically, he knew what had to happen to get them both meeting on equal ground (equal ice?), but that didn’t make it easier. It didn’t seem to make it easier for Victor, either; he hovered by Yuuri the entire way to the airport, and then once it was time to say goodbye, stepped in and hugged Yuuri, as if he could impress the memory of Yuuri into his body.

“I don’t want to go,” he said, into Yuuri’s ear.

“I’d come with you if I could,” Yuuri replied, breathing in Victor’s cologne, hoping he’d be all right in Russia. “Make sure you watch me. Stream it live. I’ll be watching you.” He smiled. “And bring Makkachin back with you.”

“Now I see the truth,” Victor said, fondly. “You only want me for my dog.”

“Come on,” said Yuuri. “You’ll never make it through security in time at this rate.”

Victor squeezed Yuuri one more time, and then pulled free, practically walking backwards down the corridor to Security and away. Yuuri felt unexpected tears threaten — would he ever stop weeping, in this world? He went back to Yu-topia, did some chores to try to assuage the empty feeling in him, and then went to the Ice Castle late in the evening, warming up and then calling Celestino up in a video chat on the glass laptop. The technology in this world certainly was a boon; Yuuri had sat with Victor for several nights, learning how to use the operating system, marvelling at how much it could do.

“Yuuri?” asked Celestino. “Is everything all right?”

“I need your help,” Yuuri said. “I need you to critique my programs.”

“Of course,” said Celestino. “I’m flattered that you’d ask.” He frowned. “Did Victor not…?”

“I’m competing against him,” said Yuuri. “It would be strange.” He swallowed. “I was just lucky I was using commercially available music for my programs, but I need — I need everything. I know people thought Shattering Sea was unconventional at Regionals, and I need you to tell me if the full version is too much for Nationals.”

“Yuuri,” said Celestino. “If you’re half the skater you were when I knew you, I’m sure your programs are great.”

“They need to be excellent,” Yuuri said. “I — Victor told me to downgrade the jumps for Regionals, because I’m breaking in new skates, and I was having trouble sleeping. I don’t want to downgrade for Nationals, but I don’t want to be perceived as cheating, either, because things were different in my universe.”

Celestino frowned. “Trouble sleeping…were you on anti-anxiety medication in your world?” he asked.

“No,” said Yuuri. “I was going to, but the ones they wanted to put me on were banned, so I—“ Cried my heart and soul out and did so much therapy I think I could have bought a house with what it cost me, he thought, but didn’t say it. “I’ve been okay. Lots of therapy. My anxiety around performance sort of…shifted, after the tsunami. Things changed. Not in a great way, but I’m…okay.”

“If you’re having trouble sleeping…”

“I know, Ciao-Ciao,” said Yuuri, and Celestino broke into surprised laughter.

“All right,” he said. “I trust you to know yourself. But remember we will support you, if you need it. I think the other Yuuri used to forget that.”

Yuuri nodded. “I know he must have,” he said. “Please, will you watch me? Tell me if I’m good enough for your world.”

He set himself up for Porcelain; just before Regionals he’d spent a productive evening on the computer cutting it and his free skate, Shattering Sea into the arrangements he remembered, into something that would fit within the length guidelines set by the ISU. Yuuri skated, and this time he didn’t mark his jumps. When he returned to the laptop, Celestino was looking at him oddly.

“No wonder you won gold,” he said. “Yuuri, how many different quads do you have?”

“Five?” said Yuuri, and Celestino passed a hand over his face.

“Quad flip?”

“Yes,” said Yuuri.

“Axel?”

“No,” Yuuri said, his heart sinking. “Don’t tell me people here have managed a quad axel?”

“Yuuri, no one here has done a flip,” said Celestino. “People are going to love it.”

“Really?” Yuuri asked. “I — I thought you’d all have millions of quads. People will like it?”

“My god, Yuuri,” said Celestino. “I’m getting on a plane to Japan if you’re planning to do that at Nationals.” He exhaled. “No, wait, show me your free skate. And your gala program.”

Yuuri obliged, and realised with a slight horror that Celestino was crying. He rested, bringing his breathing under control as Celestino fought to bring himself under control, too.

“I’m sorry—“ Yuuri began.

“No,” said Celestino. “Don’t be sorry. I always knew you were brilliant, Yuuri. I’m sorry it took so much heartache to allow people to see it.”

They were silent for a moment, something companionable that didn’t need to be filled. Yuuri, though, sensed it might be his only chance to ask something that had been bothering him.

“How…” Yuuri wasn’t sure how to phrase it. “Why did I die here? What was I doing in Japan, if you were my coach? No-one here talks about it, and I haven’t wanted to ask.”

“You’d gone home for your sister’s birthday after Nationals,” said Celestino.

“In my world, we celebrated Mari’s birthday in Tokyo,” said Yuuri. “Her idol was playing.” His throat tightened, thinking about it. “I went back to Detroit, and she went home, and that was — that.”

“Phichit called me and woke me up,” said Celestino. “He was practically catatonic. All he kept saying was your name, and that I needed to turn on the TV. Maria went and fetched him; we were so worried.”

“That’s almost what happened in my world,” said Yuuri. “Phichit called you, because he was scared for me, and Maria came and got me and Phichit. I think I scared him so much that night that we never really stayed friends.” He exhaled sharply. “I’m sorry, Ciao-Ciao. What a disruption I am.”

“A very welcome one, Yuuri,” said Celestino. “A very, very welcome one. Email me the name of your hotel for Nationals, and I’ll be there.”

_____________

The week dragged without Victor. Yuuko had promised not to watch Yuuri’s programs, so that they could be a surprise (Victor had insisted) — so he did off-ice training during the day, rediscovering his love of ballet with Minako, and in the evenings he trained on the ice. Yuuri’s skates still weren’t quite right; he had epic blisters on his right foot, and it was leading him to limp a bit when he wasn’t on the ice. He and Yuuko re-fitted them; and on the ice, he padded the hell out of the blisters and went for it anyway. He hated breaking in skates. At least the costume he had — one of Victor’s old ones — was made of fine, stretchy material that didn’t chafe.

They travelled to Tokyo as a massive group that only picked up members as it went — Phichit and Celestino at the hotel, Morooka at dinner, because he was in the competition hotel and it seemed silly to leave him out, and a very excited Kenjiro Minami with his considerably calmer parents.

Yuuri was glad Minami was a skater in this world, too. They gravitated towards each other by the time the meal was over and people were switching seats and chatting.

“Yuuri-sensei?” asked Minami, nerves practically radiating off him.

“Oh,” said Yuuri. “You don’t need to call me sensei. I’m not— I don’t know.”

“You’re my idol,” said Minami. “I mean — your old performances were —“

“My dark past,” said Yuuri, and regretted it immediately.

“Don’t disrespect him like that!” The comeback was fierce, like suddenly being savaged by a kitten. Others around the table turned to look at them. “He would have been great!”

“I’m sorry,” said Yuuri, instinctively apologising. “I mean…those performances. I did them too.”

“You did?” asked Minami, and the conversation around them started up again.

“I did,” said Yuuri. “I…went on Youtube. I wanted to know what he was like. Turns out we did the same programs.”

From his other side, he felt Mari gently pat his forearm.

“Really?” said Minami. “You still shouldn’t — you know. I looked up to him. You. I still do.”

“I know,” said Yuuri, ashamed.

“Did you and I ever meet, in your world?” asked Minami, bouncing a little in his seat.

“Many times,” said Yuuri, his heart aching for the Minami in his own world. What would he think? That Yuuri had just decided to vanish into the ether? He put a hand on Minami’s shoulder. “Good luck tomorrow. If you’re anything like the Minami I knew, you’ll be amazing.”

Minami practically glowed. Yuuri squeezed his shoulder, and then turned back to his own plate. It was still early, but a huge yawn bubbled to the surface. He couldn’t help it.

“Okay, bedtime for competitors,” said Mari. “Get moving, both of you.”

“But—“ said Minami.

“You’ll see him tomorrow,” said Mari. “Go on, Yuuri, go sleep.”

It was a Western-style hotel again, with the big plush beds that made a change from the support and coziness of Yuuri’s futon. Yuuri phoned Victor once he was curled up between the improbably large number of pillows, snuggled into the duvet like a warm little creature in its nest.

“Yuuri,” said Victor. “Are you nervous?”

“Yes,” said Yuuri. “I want to skate on the same ice as you.”

“You will,” said Victor. “I know you can do it. Your step sequences are beautiful, and your scores will be amazing even if you downgrade every jump.” He got that pensive, worried look again. “Promise me that if you’re even slightly unsure, you’ll downgrade.”

“I’m not going to be unsure,” said Yuuri. “I want to show my friends and family what I can really do. I want to show you what he would have done, if he’d had the chance.” He brushed a finger against the screen. “And are you nervous?”

“I want to skate with you,” said Victor. “I’m not— I know I can do it. I’d have a place at Worlds even if I didn’t want it. But I’m excited, for the first time in a long time; I want to earn my place. I want us to blow the entire world away when they see us in competition against each other.”

“I want that too,” said Yuuri, snuggling into his nest.

“Then get some rest,” said Victor. “I’ll be watching you tomorrow.”

They said their goodnights, and Yuuri hugged a pillow to his chest. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would show the entire world what he could really do.

___________________

Porcelain wasn’t the showstopper out of Yuuri’s two routines, but you wouldn’t have known it from the crowd’s reaction. There’d been minimal fuss at regionals — Morooka had been there, but Yuuri had taken Victor’s advice and downgraded his jumps on the new skates. This time, he went for gold — he threw himself into the air, showing off. It was a dreamy, hazy song, and Yuuri’s program used that, even as he jumped; the aim was to make it look effortless, like he might leave the ice and take wing.

People were on their feet when Yuuri panted to a halt, arms outstretched. He looked around, confused, and it took until he got to Yuuko and Minako to work out what had happened. He’d thought that Celestino’s statement about people not having done a flip meant just that — not that everyone would lose their minds because apparently no-one had ever combined quads in quite that way into the one program before. No wonder Ciao-Ciao had wanted to be here — he knew Yuuri was about to make history.

Yuuri felt a sudden swell of gratitude that Celestino had reassured him, but hadn’t taken the excitement away by anticipating the dizzying reaction happening all around him. He loved this.

“Yuuri,” said Yuuko, hugging him and kissing him and generally making a fuss of him.

Phichit was next in line for hugs. “You’ve just — I can’t believe you — three different quads! In the one program! The internet is going OFF!”

Yuuri’s phone rang. Victor. He picked up.

“Yuuuuuuri!” Victor practically sang. “My beautiful, amazing Yuuri! You’re going to give me a heart attack!”

“You watched!”

“Of course I did!” Victor sounded happy, but without seeing his face, Yuuri wasn’t sure. “Do you have to get back to your people?”

“I do,” said Yuuri. “Call me tonight?”

Wow, thought Yuuri, they’re all going to faint when they see my free skate.

Celestino accompanied him to the kiss-and-cry; ritual was important, in sport, and Yuuri liked the reassuring presence of Celestino next to him as his scores were read out.

“A new world record,” said Celestino, gruffly, and he steered Yuuri backstage, and he and Minako organised Yuuri for an almost-immediate press conference, making him presentable.

“Yuuri,” said Minako, blotting his forehead where he’d sweated into the makeup he’d worn on the ice. “You deserve this. Remember that, all right?”

“I will,” said Yuuri, and he took a breath before stepping forward to the dais, taking a seat behind the microphone.

First question was easy: “What is the theme for your programs?”

“In my world, I lost my family and friends in the tsunami which hit Hasetsu,” said Yuuri. “I was skating for them…in a way which helped me come to terms with that loss.”

“Did it?”

“Not really,” said Yuuri. “When you lose people you love, it’s an ache that never goes away.”

He knew it. He knew that he wasn’t really a replacement for the Yuuri that had been, even though it was tempting to think like that. Which wasn’t to say he didn’t love the people around him — he did, more than anything, and he’d fight tooth and nail to stay here with them. But still, sometimes he missed his own world so much he could hardly breathe.

“How many quads do you have?” This was another reporter.

“Five,” said Yuuri. That caused a stir.

“Do you think that’s why you came here?” asked a different reporter. “To your bring expertise to the skating world?”

“No,” said Yuuri, because he didn’t. “When I asked, Coach Celestino Cialdini explained what had been achieved here in regards to jumps, and I was relieved. I just wanted to skate these programs for the people who, in my world, were never able to see them. To be honest, I’m glad to be on a rink where the most important thing isn’t how quickly you can wreck your knees and back.”

He really was. If the trailblazers of the 1980s and 1990s hadn’t pushed the limits of jumps, Yuuri’s knees probably wouldn’t creak when he got up from a chair.

Laughter. “Then why do you think you are here?”

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Yuuri said. “I think…I think I’m here because Victor and I needed each other. I think I must have called out, and Victor answered me, but because travellers don’t come to my universe, I came here instead.” It was his best guess, based on Yakov’s book and his own feelings. “I was unhappy, in my own world. I’m happy here, because of the people around me — my family, and Victor. I want to stay here forever.”

Yuuri had looked up the swimmer who’d travelled just before an Olympics. The poor man had won his event and then never swum again. Yuuri knew that must be colouring people’s views of him; they were undoubtedly wondering when he was going to decide that a victory wasn’t a victory unless it was in his own universe.

Perhaps they were forgetting he’d already won the GPF?

“Will you keep on using quads like you did today? Do you think it’s fair to skaters from this universe, who didn’t train in that environment?”

“I don’t know,” said Yuuri. “But I want to skate both of my old programs for you all for Nationals. I’ll make a decision then.”

“Do you have anything to say to people?” asked a reporter close to him. “Anything we should know about tomorrow’s skate? Is it like today’s?”

“Please watch me,” Yuuri said. “I promise there’s more where that came from.”

Chapter Text

Shattering Sea broke all previous world records, just like it had in Yuuri’s own world. The program pushed him to his limits — it was meant to evoke the terror of the wave, the loss and loneliness, and the technical difficulty was deliberately almost unachievable, symbolising how overwhelming it was, and how easy it was to lose oneself. The music was perfect; where Porcelain was dreamy, drifting strings, Shattering Sea was urgent, stabbing, something that twisted and turned in on itself even as Yuuri spun until his sight blurred, threw himself into jump after jump after jump.

Yuuri loved the program, but he also knew he had to stop skating it. His father cried, proud and happy, and Yuuri had finally gotten to perform his opus for the people he’d intended it for, and too much more would cheapen it. Which meant that he spent the time until Victor returned from Russia trying — and failing — to choreograph a new program. According to the internet, Victor was a good choreographer. Yuuri was prepared to get on his knees if he had to, but he thought Victor would probably agree to help without kneeling. Though Yuuri wouldn’t mind. He really wouldn’t.

Yuuri’s Pinstagram follower count had quadrupled overnight. He’d never paid much attention to social media in his own world, but now he had Mari to help him plan it, and Victor to help him set up photographs, and the added bonus of being interesting just because of who he was, which made everything easier.

Victor returned to Hasetsu with a medal of his own, and a glorious big brown poodle, which Yuuri liked to snuggle with. Makkachin, for what it was worth, liked to snuggle with Yuuri, too — the dog was a welcome addition to their daily routine. Makkachin patiently waited on the bleachers at the rink each day while they trained: Yuuko had found the old dog a blanket, and Makka curled up under it.

“What is it?” asked Victor, the first day they were back on the ice together, Yuuri frustrated and blocked. Yuuri wondered how Victor was able to read him so easily, so soon.

“I’m no good at choreography,” said Yuuri, spinning and stepping out of it, trying to burn his excess energy. “And I don’t want to skate my old routines.”

Victor cocked his head to the side. “Because they’re about the loss you experienced in your own world?”

“Yes,” said Yuuri, relieved that Victor wasn’t going to just tell him to harden up and do them. “I feel like…I feel like the anger and pain that I put into them is different now. It feels wrong using those routines here. I want to do something new.”

“All right,” said Victor. He looked pensive, turning a swift circle on the ice. “Do you want to improvise with me a bit?” He bit his lip. “I’ve been thinking Stammi Vicino should be a duet.”

“That hardly helps me make a new programme,” said Yuuri, but he bowed to Victor as he said it. He loved that program — he’d watched it enough times on Youtube to have it practically memorised. “All right.”

“I want to see what you do when you aren’t being told what to do,” said Victor, using his watch to control the music. “Come on. Dance with me.”

They danced. And danced, and danced — each time Victor put the song on repeat, Yuuri found himself falling into a routine, something that solidified under his hands as they moved together. Victor lifted him, dipped him, and then Yuuri did the same, took Victor’s fragile ribs between his palms, took Victor’s face in his fingers, until they were just turning, turning in a circle, gazing at each other.

Victor broke first.

“That’s—“ he said. “I think that’s what I wanted it to be. How can you say you can’t choreograph?”

“I was following you,” said Yuuri, his hands still on Victor’s cheeks. Yuuri let go, reluctantly. “I really need you to help me make a new set of programs. I’m hopeless at it.”

“We’ll have to include the jumps,” mused Victor. “No point in being able to do them if you don’t show them off.” He shook off whatever was bothering him, and smiled, bright and real. “And in payment, I want you to skate Stammi Vicino with me as my gala skate.”

“So confident,” teased Yuuri. “You think you’ll get to the gala?”

“Until you arrived, I was the undisputed champion,” said Victor. “So yes.”

The heat between them ebbed and flowed; Yuuri hadn’t been quite brave enough to lean forward and kiss Victor, even though he wanted to, he really wanted to. He remembered in that nostalgic fuzzy way his childhood obsession with Victor, and the devastation he’d felt when Victor’s bright spark had gone out; this, though, was real, and intense in a way Yuuri had never experienced before. He’d met Victor at the station after their requisite nationals, and even the sight of Makkachin hadn’t distracted Yuuri, or deterred him from flying into Victor’s arms.

Victor must have coped badly in Russia without Yuuri, judging by how deep the dark circles under his eyes were. Yuuri had at least had his family, and chores, and drinks with Yuuko and Minako, and babysitting the triplets, and everything to keep him busy. Victor had had Makkachin, and nobody else to go home to.

The third day that they were back together, someone came barging into their rink time. Before either of them could properly react, the stranger — who Yuuri suddenly realised was Yuri Plisetsky, Victor’s old rink mate and sarcastic commenter on Pinstagram — stormed onto the ice in just his sneakers and started yelling at Victor. In English, which meant it was for Yuuri’s benefit, too.

“You!” said Yuri, fiercely. “You said you’d choreograph something for me for Worlds! It’s my last year as a Junior and you said I could wow everyone by doing something I’d never done before, just for that one performance.”

Victor laughed, seemingly completely unsurprised by the sudden appearance of his rinkmate. “Oh, that sounds like something I’d say,” he replied. “I’m gathering I never followed through? Yuuri and I were just discussing me choreographing for him, too.”

“You are the worst,” said Yuri, and Yuuri puzzled over what he was doing here — how he’d arrived, how he knew where they were.

“So cruel, Yura,” said Victor, skating back and away from Yuri. “Is it too late to learn something for Junior Worlds? Don’t you want to compete against us in the Seniors with a shiny new program?”

“Yakov is commissioning someone to do my Seniors programs,” said Yuri. “Unless you do a good job.”

“Oh, he is, is he?” asked Victor. “And he sent you here to extract a program from me.”

“Just as much of an old geezer as you are,” snapped Yuri. “He said you had to do it because you owed him one for Sochi.”

Yuuri’s breath seized. Surely Yakov hadn’t spilled Victor’s secrets? Victor sighed theatrically and did a quick spin, showy, hiding behind the mask. Yuuri watched Yuri — no, Yuri had pulled out the reference, but he must have thought it just referred to Yuuri’s presence, or something like that. Either that, or he had the emotional sensitivity of something with too many teeth and claws.

“Whatever that means,” Yuri qualified, and Yuuri exhaled.

“All right,” said Victor, affecting a dramatic pose. “I’ll think of something for the two of you.”

“Yakov only let me come because he knew you’d forgotten. You’d better choreograph me something that will have at least as high a base score as him,” said Yuri, pointing. “This is my last year in Juniors, and I want to make a splash.”

“You don’t have any quads, and Yuuri does,” said Victor, dismissively. “So, no. I can’t choreograph you something with the same base score.”

“He can teach me,” said Yuri, accentuating the pointing at Yuuri with glaring and shaking his finger. “I looked up this rink before I got here. They have a jumps harness setup, so we can do it safely.”

“No,” said Victor and Yuuri at the same time, and then they looked at each other, a little shocked.

“Besides,” said Victor, into the silence. “Jumps are boring.”

“You’re boring!” said Yuri.

“Yuri,” said Victor, pinching the bridge of his nose. The intense and somewhat disproportionately angry teenager seemed to have finally got to him. “Time out. I want to talk with Yuuri, and I don’t need you there. Are you staying at Yu-topia?”

“Yes,” said Yuri. “Yakov set that up, too, so don’t blame me for it.”

“Then go back there. We’ll see you later,” said Victor. Yuri went to argue, but Victor raised a hand. “I don’t want to hear it. You want to be a champion, start acting like one.”

“Wow,” said Yuuri, once Yuri was gone.

Victor sighed. “I can’t tell if Yakov was sick of him, or if he really did tell him to come check on me,” he said. “Do you mind if we go to the beach? I think better when I can see the ocean.”

Yuuri still hated going to the beach, but it was easier with Victor, and easier still when he could see that something was preying on Victor’s mind. Part of him was ice-cold at the thought of heading to the water, but another part of him wanted to wrap around Victor and keep him safe. They left the ice and changed in near-silence, Makkachin running to the sand ahead of them, chasing seagulls as Yuuri and Victor sat on the breakwater, low tide keeping the waves well away from their feet, gulls wheeling overhead.

Yuuri didn’t know if he was brave enough to ask Victor what he wanted to talk about, so instead he just settled beside Victor, and waited for him to speak.

“Yuuri?” asked Victor, after a while. “Did you ever ask anyone how you died?”

“Yes,” said Yuuri. “I — it didn’t help.”

Victor sighed. “I thought so. But I still need to know. I died in your world doing a jump, didn’t I?”

Yuuri didn’t know what to say. “Yes,” he went for, eventually.

“I know I won’t stop you from doing as you did in your world,” said Victor. “But if you could — don’t help Yuri start in on quads. Not yet.”

“You don’t like quads,” said Yuuri, watching Victor watch the ocean. “I looked you up on Youtube. You’ll do the most ridiculous combinations to get your scores, but you only ever have one quad in a program, if that. And you’re good enough that everyone’s followed suit, without questioning why.”

“Ridiculous?” asked Victor, glancing at Yuuri from under his hair, bottom lip quivering theatrically. Yuuri nudged him, and got a grin in return.

“You fell,” said Yuuri. “You fell in my world, and died. But you fell here, and somehow you made it back onto the ice.”

“Yuri is hot-headed,” said Victor, almost a non-sequitur. “As bad as me when I was his age. He can’t see that he’ll push too far, too fast, and he won’t walk away.” He reached for Yuuri’s hand, and Yuuri let him take it. “But then, perhaps I should just let him make his own mistakes?”

Yuuri felt almost as if they were talking around each other, weaving their conversation together, like two people painting different parts of the one image. He persevered, because it was Victor, and he wanted them to meet in the middle.

“Quads are inescapable in my world,” said Yuuri. “Celestino spent months and months on each of mine — he still won’t let me do anything but a dress rehearsal or a performance without a helmet and padding on.” He reconsidered. “Wouldn’t let me. I don’t know what he’d do here. Here, he cried when he first saw my full performance.”

Makkachin ran back to Victor’s arms, and Victor hugged the dog one-armed, Makkachin immediately leaning over to Yuuri for a scratch. Yuuri petted Makkachin’s wooly ears, and waited for Victor to say something.

“I’ve never told Yuri what it was like,” said Victor. “I nearly didn’t make it back. My heart seizes whenever I see you jump.”

“Tell me all of it,” said Yuuri, and Victor did, the two of them curled close, Makkachin in doggy heaven between them. Headaches, an unreliable memory, particularly for names and faces. An ACL injury that still ached in the cold. When Victor overtrained, being tired, so tired, and the tiredness leading to that familiar sick spike of anxiety that Yuuri knew so well. Yuuri put both arms around Victor, and after a while they didn’t say anything, just basked in the comfort of each other’s presence.

Yuri was waiting for them back at the inn, being coddled by Mari, who rapidly explained that she had decided he should be ‘Yurio’, after her idol, and that she thought he was an absolute grumpy delight. And Yuri and Mari and Yuuri’s mother were in the kitchen, Yuri learning the easy way to make sweet mochi, because apparently he had expressed a liking for both mochi balls and cooking.

“Yura,” said Victor, as Yuri used deft fingers to shape one of the treats. Yuuri would have to run laps for days if he ate as many as he wanted to eat. “We should talk.”

“So talk,” said Yuri. “Hypocrite. You were doing quads at my age.”

“Yakov told me I wasn’t to attempt them,” said Victor. “But in the end, he couldn’t stop me.”

Yuri laughed. “That’s what he told me, too. I thought he was going to have a stroke.”

“Yura,” said Victor, again, very gently. “Who do you think looked after me for the year it took me to get back on my feet? Who do you think stands beside me at competitions and tells me people’s names, because I can’t remember them? Yakov knows exactly what can go wrong, because I know what can go wrong, and neither of us want to see you go through that.”

“Other Yuuri can do them fine,” replied Yuri.

“Other Yuuri spent years learning,” Yuuri said, stealing one of the fresh mochi. Mari gave him a smack, but when he met her eyes he met her smile, too.

Victor exhaled. “Look,” he said. “If you’re determined to learn, and Yuuri’s willing to teach you, then perhaps…perhaps it will work. But for your last juniors program, I want to see you wow the crowd without relying on jumps.”

“Shake on it,” said Yuri, holding out a somewhat messy hand.

“Yuuri, you’re our witness,” said Victor. His expression turned mischievous. “Of course, Yuuri’s got to be willing to teach you.”

“You’d better be!” said Yuri, jabbing a flour-covered finger at Yuuri.

“We’ll see,” said Yuuri, mildly. “You might begin by being polite to me.”

It took all of about ten seconds of Yuri’s enraged expression to make Mari break into laughter, as Yuri and Victor shook on it. The laughter was infectious — first Yuuri fell, then Victor, and finally, Yuri.

“What are you all laughing at?” asked Yuuri’s mother, in Japanese, and Yuuri stole another sweet before moving to hold onto her. She smiled, and hugged him back. “You are more…tactile these days, Yuuri. I like it.” She patted his back. “Now, you’d better take a few more mochi before your Victor works out what you’re doing and tells you to stick to your diet plan.”

“You’re the best,” said Yuuri, hugging her again for good measure, his brain choosing that moment to sharply remind him that he was the luckiest person on the planet.

__________

Yuri had a pass from Yakov to be in Hasetsu for a fortnight. Yuuri wondered if Yakov was using the boy to check up on them, but Yuri was so unsubtle that he probably couldn’t have kept it from them if he were here as a minder. Victor brought them both to the rink, early in the morning, before anyone else was there, and made them warm up together. Yuuri wished he had the same flexibility as Yuri — but then, he had almost nine years on Yuri.

“So,” said Yuri. “What are you going to give us?”

“Something I’d been working on for myself,” said Victor. “I had the shape of it, but now I know what it’s for, I’ll finish both of them working with you. The same music, different programs.” He smiled. “I’d wanted to show how one person can embody different kinds of emotions.”

“You don’t mind? Giving both programs to us?” asked Yuuri.

“I have so many ideas that I’ll never skate them all,” said Victor, his expression dreamy. “All right. This group of programs will eventually have more to it, but for now, love — two kinds of love. Eros, and agape.”

“Greek?” asked Yuuri, frowning.

Victor clapped. “Brilliant!” he said. “Now watch me skate them.”

Yuuri watched in awe; Victor was willing to give them his programs. They’d played around at the beginning of the week, but got nothing solid — now, here was Victor giving him a program complete and tied up with a bow. He loved watching Victor skate — the same old thrill that had endeared the man to him when they were both still children curled in Yuuri’s chest. Victor skated one program after the other, and Yuuri wondered which was for which skater. The first, Agape, was beautiful; Yuuri fell even more in love with Victor, a big, warm love which could stretch to encompass the entire world. The second…well.

“Give me Eros,” Yuri said immediately, once Victor had finished skating a routine that would make anyone fall in lust with him.

Yuuri nodded. He could see this firebrand skating Eros, and to be honest, he’d like to have Agape; to express his admiration and love for all of the people around him, all the people who’d helped him — hell, even all his Pinstagram followers.

“Not a chance,” Victor replied. “You get Agape. If both of you want to grow as skaters, you need to skate outside your comfort zone.” He smiled, one finger to his lips, a familiar and beloved gesture. “Also, I really want to see my Yuuri skate Eros.”

“Gross,” said Yuri. “I bet he can’t do it. He’s just some nobody from Japan who…”

“Do not finish that sentence,” said Victor, voice light, but expression serious. “This is why you need to skate Agape. Agape is… it’s the love of your fellow human being. The unconditional love you feel for others. Any good performer must be able to project that, and to project it, you need to feel it.”

“Like you ever felt that,” scoffed Yuri, and something in his face a voice spoke differently to his words. Yuuri suddenly realised what the sharp, spiky exterior of Yuri Plisetsky was hiding — a heart afraid of being hurt.

“Of course he has,” said Yuuri. “He’s here with me, after all.” He bit his lip. “Although, I’m not sure Eros is really—“

“You have the talent, and your step sequences are…astonishing,” said Victor, cutting across his doubts. “I don’t want to see you just make the world sit up and take notice. You’ve done that, and without your jumps, you need to do something different. If I’m choreographing for you, I want you to set the world on fire.”

Yuuri’s inner self preened at the praise, even as his outer self quailed a little at being sexy. Sexy had decidedly not been in his repertoire for the last few years. Yuri made a disbelieving noise, which fairly well mirrored Yuuri’s own feelings about being “sexy”, but Victor ignored them both in favour of taking them one at a time to drill the routines. Yuuri had an awkward morning of waiting for Victor to finish with Yuri, stretching, jogging with Makkachin, and then he finally got onto the ice again.

“I’m really not sure,” he said.

“I’ll make you sure,” Victor replied. “Stammi to warm up?”

“Yes please,” said Yuuri, because Stammi Vicino with Victor was one of his favourite things to skate. Victor had that tightness around his eyes that meant he’d probably had a trying morning with Plisetsky; he began, alone, and Yuuri practically stumbled to him, wanting to be near. “Rough morning?”

“He’s not as bad as you think he is,” murmured Victor, as Yuuri held him. “I was like that. I remember being like that, thinking that everyone older than me was a boring old geezer who just wasn’t smart enough to recognise my brilliance.” He laughed, and Yuuri dipped him, deep. “To be fair, I did do some brilliant things.”

“Why do you think he’s here, really?” asked Yuuri, breathless as Victor went for the lift, but it was obvious before Yuuri left the ice that it wouldn’t happen, so he stroked Yuuri’s sides instead.

“Yakov thinks it will be good for Yuri and me to bond,” said Victor. “He tried it back home, too. We’re both children of the ice.” He trusted his weight to Yuuri, again. “You understand.”

Yuuri did understand; the grace and surety he felt on the ice, he felt nowhere else. This time, when Victor tried to lift him, they managed it, Yuuri flying for just a few seconds, weightless and amazed at how easy it was to do and say anything with Victor. Except…

“Why did you really give me Eros?” asked Yuuri.

“I already told you,” said Victor. “What, you don’t think I want to see you skate it?”

“I think I’m the least sexy person to visit this rink, and that includes Makkachin.”

“Well, if Makkachin is the standard one must reach…” Victor began, and they both broke into laughter, Yuuri leaning forward to press his forehead to Victor’s shoulder. “Yuuri, Yuuri. You wanted a break from the past. This is it. Learn the choreography, and the eros will come.”

“Victor,” said Yuuri, because seriously, that pun, and collapsed into laughter again. The afternoon was spent skating and trying to out-dork one another, until the lines of tension went away from around Victor’s eyes, and Yuuri was the sort of happy tired that he thought he’d left behind years ago — the pleasurable ache in his limbs from hard work, eyes drooping when he made it into the onsen. He even indulged, thinking to bring sake with them, and while Yuri P relaxed under his towel, Yuuri and Victor drank small, cool cups of sake, a tray floating lazily between them. The alcohol hit him all at once, making him feel sleepy and pliable, leaning against Victor because it was comfortable, and it made something in Yuuri’s chest feel like purring.

They trailed upstairs after, Yuuri stopping by his room to drag his futon across the hall. Since returning from Regionals and Victor crying in his sleep, Yuuri had come to join Victor in his room most nights, setting his futon down right next to Victor’s. They’d fallen into a comfortable rhythm — each curled under his own blankets, but touching the other — Yuuri’s head on Victor’s shoulder, or one or other of them tucked up tight as the other’s little spoon. The most they’d said about it was Yuuri’s nervous “is this—okay?” on the first night and Victor’s breathless “Yes, yes, of course.” Makkachin, big fluffy boof that he was, liked to snuggle up close to Victor, too, so some nights Yuuri found himself fighting a poodle for cuddles, and (usually) winning.

“You know you’ll win against me if you skate Shattering Sea again, right?” asked Victor, once they’d both got comfortable. Yuuri felt like he was melting into the floor. It was fantastic.

“I know,” said Yuuri. “But it wouldn’t be a fair victory.”

“You don’t have to clip your wings so that I feel better,” said Victor, and he sounded bitter. Yuuri couldn’t have that; he sat us, and leaned over Victor.

“You said it yourself,” Yuuri countered. “Jumps are boring. I want to know if I can beat you, not mass up a gigantic score based on jumps. I did that. I won, in my own world. I fulfilled my dream and I felt hollow doing it, because I didn’t have anyone to share it with.”

Victor reached up and hugged Yuuri tightly, suddenly fierce. “So what do you want, then?” he asked.

“Make me a free skate with the same base values as you,” said Yuuri. “And we’ll see who performs better.”

“Find me some music, first,” said Victor.

Which was going to be a problem, because Yuuri had wallowed in sad music these last few years, and he wanted something hopeful. Happy, even. So Yuuri put the call out on his Pinstagram. He was used to the interface by now — there were, after all, only so many ways to design a social network. He was flooded with adoration, and links to a range of songs — some serious, some clearly joking. He thanked people, and listened, and didn’t find anything until two days later, when he got a video call request from Phichit.

He’d messaged a bit with Phichit. They weren’t bffs, exactly, but Yuuri felt the potential there, the possibility for growth if he let it happen. Phichit was sitting against a wall, with another person — a woman, who was about the same age as both Phichit and Yuuri.

“Yuuri,” said Phichit, excitedly. “I — this is Ketty. She and the other you were friends, for a while. She was going to write you a piece for your skating, but then. You know. But you’re here now!”

“Hi,” said Ketty, and Yuuri greeted her in return.

“Yeah,” said Phichit, beaming. “But.”

“But?” asked Yuuri, only just managing to follow Phichit in his excitement. He hadn’t known a Ketty in Detroit — he wondered just how many people his standoffishness and single-minded focus had pushed away.

“Yuuri,” said Ketty, gazing at him through the screen. “Phichit said you were thinking of changing your program. And I have something — I’m a music major and I composed something for you, I was composing something when you — I guess — we played it first at your memorial, but it wasn’t quite right. It was missing something. But I found the missing bit, and I — can I send you the file?” She gave him an embarrassed half-smile. “I know you probably don’t know me, or remember me, but I wanted to help. If I could.”

“There’s a play button in the bottom left corner,” said Phichit. “That’ll play the song.”

Yuuri pressed play, and his eyes went wide. This was — this was amazing. “You…you did this? For me?”

“I called it Yuri on Ice,” said Ketty. “I hope that’s okay?”

“It’s so okay,” said Yuuri, his insides warming almost painfully. How lucky he was. How amazing people were, in this world; how amazing people could be. “Oh my god. I have to tell Victor… you…this is perfect. Thank you. Thank you.” He couldn’t help it, so he thanked her again. “Wow.”

Chapter Text

Sometimes, Victor wondered at how much life could change in such a short time. By the time Yuri Plisetsky went back to Russia, Agape was developing nicely. He still didn’t have the feeling behind it — but then, neither did Yuuri with Eros. It didn’t matter, really; while Victor would love them to surprise the world with new routines, he knew that there was always next season to perfect and finish them.

Yuri had finally softened a bit, in Hasetsu. There was something about the place — maybe something in the air — that helped you to unbend, helped you to come to terms with life. No wonder Yuuri had wanted to return. No wonder Victor had stayed. Victor still felt like pinching himself, most days; or maybe the opposite — he wanted to never wake up from this dream. Maybe he had hit his head again, or these were the last, infinite seconds before he breathed in enough water to drown, but he never wanted them to end, because of Yuuri. Yuuri, who hadn’t been there when Victor filled the pockets of his favourite coat, Yuuri, who hadn’t been there when Victor stepped into the waves, wincing a little at the chill, Yuuri, who’d caught him and dragged him to shore and then barely left his side since.

Discovering that a traveller had come to him was possibly the biggest surprise Victor could have imagined, and the best thing that had ever happened to him. Yuuri, who crashed into his life and then, when Victor’s thoughts had been about to circle back to something self-destructive, asked go to the GPF banquet anyway, danced with him, and stole Victor’s heart as thoroughly as if he’d put a hand right through Victor’s ribs and taken it out to keep. Ugh, no, that was a disgusting metaphor. But he’d still come to Japan with Yuuri, despite the fact it was the middle of the season.

“Do what you need to,” Yakov had said, and then proceeded to email him every day, requesting and critiquing videos and livestreams, reminding Victor of the little things that might make Yuuri more comfortable getting used to the world, prodding gently every so often and how are you? Yakov was the one who boxed up some of Victor’s old costumes and sent them to Japan so that Yuuri had something to perform in. Thinking about it, he’d probably had people ready to swoop in if Victor was late with an email, or seemed even vaguely unhappy, but he’d let Victor go anyway, trusted him when he’d said he wouldn’t try it again, not now that he had Yuuri to look after, and that he’d Skype in to his therapist, he promised, really. Victor felt guilty about asking too much of Yakov, because he had been the one to find Victor’s letter — he’d been the one to call the authorities, running down to the beach, trying to stop what Victor had set into motion.

He’d forgotten how much Yakov loved him.

And then, another surprise, Yuuri had proven to be brilliant. Brilliant and beautiful and tentatively reaching out to him; Victor had reached to Yuuri with enough force to make him jump through space and time, and now Yuuri was reaching back in all sorts of subtle, tiny ways. If Victor didn’t put a companionable arm around Yuuri when they walked together, Yuuri might nudge Victor’s hand with his own, silently urging him to tangle their fingers. Yuuri rested on his shoulder when they flew anywhere. Yuuri was there all the time, and the emptiness in Victor’s life, the void that had made him want to just give in, was vanishing, filled by Yuuri. It was almost visceral. Victor loved it.

European championships this year were in Copenhagen, which Victor liked, because he liked the food and the architecture and the Danish beer. Not that he was meant to drink before a competition, but he’d booked them an extra few nights, so that they could go sightseeing and catch up with friends. Mila loved Tivoli; Victor booked for all of them to go, even though it was winter. They could just rug up.

European Championships also brought them a chance to catch up with Yakov — for him to critique Victor in person, and to meet Yuuri properly, over dinner, and for Yuuri to shyly thank Yakov for a book about travellers, and Yakov to get gruff and embarrassed, in the way he did when he genuinely cared about someone. And then Yakov dropped a bombshell that Victor wasn’t ready for.

“I don’t like to say this,” said Yakov, “but you should come home for the time after Four Continents and before Worlds. Katya agrees with me. I assume Yuuri will be competing?”

Victor felt his heart sink right out through his stomach. Katya was his therapist, which meant that Yakov was serious — she must have seen something that he didn’t. Or maybe she had seen something when he was at home for Nationals that just wasn’t a problem when he was together with Yuuri. Going home before Nationals had felt awful — like there was a thread that connected him to Yuuri, and it was getting stretched and frayed, a distinctly uncomfortable sensation — and he wondered if that had made him seem worse than he felt. He’d felt so much better lately.

“I’ll be competing at Four Continents,” said Yuuri. “I — ah. I don’t know that…”

“It will be fine,” said Yakov. “You will need Vitya and the others to help you translate, I think, but there is space enough for you at the rink. It will be good for Georgi to see how different champions approach training. And you can go over the choreography with Yura, who is determined to get it right for Junior Worlds.” He looked at them, and seemed to see something in Victor’s face. “What, Vitya, you think I would order you home and not let you bring your Yuuri onto Russian ice? He’s welcome. You know…if he wants to, he can compete for Russia.”

Victor had forgotten that — he’d forgotten that appearing in a different country to that of their birth entitled a traveller to dual citizenship, a holdover from travellers arriving in times of war and persecution, being unable to go home. He wondered what it would be like to compete together, for the same team. Bliss, or bitter rivalry?

“With all due respect,” said Yuuri. “I’ll continue competing for Japan.”

Yakov waved a hand. “Of course you will,” he said. “But you both need a coach. Cialdini and I agree on this, but we also know that you will not willingly separate, or he would have you in Detroit in a heartbeat.”

“You both know…?” asked Yuuri, searchingly.

“You young people forget that we old people know what it is like to be young and in love,” said Yakov.

Yuuri went wide-eyed and red, flapping his hands. “That’s not—“ And Victor’s heart, which had been buoyed by the news that Yakov was happy to have Yuuri in his rink, crashed through the floor again. “We’re not—“

“Maybe you should go to Detroit,” said Victor, the rejection stinging, something vicious in him wanting to sting back. He and Yuuri — what were they? Yuuri had been the one to push their beds together, to press close through the covers, to seek affection but not voice it. What had it all meant?

“No!” said Yuuri, and the other people in the restaurant turned to look at them. Yuuri visibly composed himself. “Victor, I don’t understand. Aren’t you happy to have me with you?”

Happier than I’ve ever been, thought Victor. He forced himself to smile. “Of course,” he said.

“Victor?” asked Yuuri, his expression crestfallen.

“Excuse me,” said Victor. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

He locked himself in a bathroom stall, wondering what Yakov was saying to Yuuri. He didn’t cry — he breathed through it and wondered how on earth he was going to go back to a hotel room with Yuuri and know that Yuuri didn’t feel the way Victor had thought he felt. Perhaps that was the problem with unspoken understandings.

When he went back to the table, Yuuri and Yakov had been joined by Chris, and Chris’s ridiculously attractive boyfriend, and Mila, and another girl Victor couldn’t remember. Victor felt shaky and shattered on the inside, which was stupid, but Yakov had always said that skaters’ hearts were fragile, and Yakov was so often right.

“Victor!” said Chris, with delight. “We’re going to go catch a burlesque show later — you must see it. And they have a club next door with poles, and I have a mighty need to celebrate my silver medal.”

“This is when I say goodnight,” said Yakov, getting up. “Think on it, Vitya. It would be best.”

“Oooh, think on what?” asked Mila.

“Victor and I are going to come and train in Russia,” said Yuuri.

Mila cheered and hugged him, beaming. “It’ll be so much fun!” she said. “We can show you everything in St Petersburg.”

“If we do it,” said Victor. “All right, Christophe. Let me pay, then show us where we’re headed.”

The burlesque show was all right — though Victor was far more aware of Yuuri than the dancers. Yuuri, Yuuri. How much he was drinking. How close he sat, so that Victor could feel how warm he was. How frustrating were the several abortive attempts at conversation between them, where neither was able to really say what they wanted to say.

And then, at the club with the poles, a very drunk Yuuri did say something.

“You’re angry with me,” he said. “And I don’t know why. So you watch me, and tell me if you’re still angry after this.”

So. Apparently Yuuri could pole-dance; what a brilliant, beautiful surprise. And drunk Yuuri wasn’t shy at all about announcing he was dancing for Victor, wasn’t shy at all about sitting in Victor’s lap after, wasn’t shy at all about losing most of his clothes and balancing on top of Christophe.

“Why are you angry with me?” Yuuri slurred, once it was time to go, Victor’s coat wrapped around him to keep out the cold.

“Because I’m afraid you don’t love me,” said Victor, alcohol and the sheer shock of Yuuri’s drunken antics making him honest.

Yuuri laughed, and then poked Victor’s cheek. “Oh boy,” he said. “Oh boy, if you knew how much I loved you, you’d run for it. I love you thiiiiiiis much. All the love. I was your biggest fan when we were kids, and now I’m here, and now I get you all to myself. But I can’t say anything. I wish I could tell you.”

“Why can’t you tell me, Yuuri?” asked Victor.

“Because you’re you,” said Yuuri, with the completely illogical logic of the very drunk. He reached up and patted Victor’s cheeks, and then led off down the street, laughing to himself.

Victor didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as they stumbled into a cab. He helped Yuuri to bed, and then spent a while looking at the ceiling before falling into a dreamless sleep. He wasn’t petty enough to pull the beds apart, but he didn’t reach for Yuuri before he slept.

Next morning, Yuuri didn’t remember anything after arriving at the restaurant with Yavkov; he was horrified to think he’d pole-danced in front of everyone, and excited about training in Russia. On matters of love, he was silent. Victor left it that way, not wanting to know if it had been the champagne talking or Yuuri had been lying to get him to stop being angry, or what even because you’re you meant.

It was probably better never to know.

______________

Yuri On Ice wouldn’t be ready for Four Continents, but Eros was. More and more, Victor was regretting giving it to Yuuri — he couldn’t help but think of that night in Copenhagen, Yuuri sinuous and sexy around the pole, Yuuri saying I love you thiiiiis much (complete with hand gestures) only hours after he’d denied loving Victor — after he’d looked horrified even at the possibility.

The misery Victor was trying to subdue was almost worse than it had been before Yuuri, because before Yuuri, Victor had simply been empty. Now he was full of feelings that he didn’t know how to process. Yuuri still joined him at nights, because Yuuri didn’t remember what he’d said and done; didn’t know how far off balance he’d pushed Victor in one evening. Victor kept waking up wrapped around Yuuri, the invisible thread between them drawing him close, even when he could feel himself pulling away.

Eros was ready, but it wasn’t right. Yuuri was an incredibly talented skater, with outstanding merit in his step sequences. He worked with Minako in her studio whenever Victor was rehearsing his own programs on the ice; every step, every jump, every sequence was perfect, but something was missing.

“Think of something that makes you feel sexy,” said Victor, after watching a run-through which left Yuuri obviously frustrated.

“I’m not sexy,” said Yuuri. “I know you wanted me to surprise people, but maybe you should have given Eros to Plisetsky.”

Victor blinked at the strangeness of Yuuri Katsuki describing himself as being “not sexy”. He rallied.

“What makes you feel good?” he asked. “Think about your last lover.”

Yuuri sighed. “I haven’t,” he said.

“You haven’t what?”

“I haven’t had a proper lover. Not for years. My life kind of fell apart, and I wasn’t really…dateable. I tried a few times, but I …I’m not someone people should spend too much time with.”

“I’ve spent a lot of time with you,” said Victor, carefully. “And I thought you were capable of skating Eros.”

Yuuri shook his head. “It’s not the same. You have to.”

“You think I’m here with you because I have to be here?” asked Victor, and to his horror, his throat suddenly tightened. “Are you only here because you think you have to be here?” God, if Yuuri was only with him because he thought it was his duty…

Yuuri reached forward, and pushed Victor’s hair out of his eyes. Victor reached up and caught his hand, stopping him, not wanting him to see.

“Don’t,” he said, because he didn’t want to be comforted. Not if Yuuri just thought it was his duty.

“Skate it with me,” said Yuuri. “Alongside me. Just for this run-through.” He let go of Victor, and re-set the music.

Victor marked his place, and felt the familiar thrum of the music roll through him. This was stupid. This was stupid, and he wasn’t just going to have his glass heart chipped, he was going to have it shattered. But he took his place, and skated into the music.

It wasn’t like Stammi Vincio; they performed alongside each other, twirling and stepping and always aware of the other skater in their peripheral vision.

“Again,” said Yuuri, when they’d finished, but he grabbed Victor’s hand, and they did what they’d done best before Copenhagen — they improvised. Suddenly, Yuuri was holding Victor and pulling him into the tango they’d danced on the night they’d met, but where that tango had been playful, this was serious. He could hear his own heartbeat as they gave up on the run-through and just skated, Yuuri’s arms around him.

The piece had been choreographed as the story of a playboy, a heartbreaker, but this duet was the flipside of that story — the lonely, untouchable beauty who wanted to be loved, and the playboy whose reputation made people only want him for a night — who actually, really wanted to be invited to stay.

“Victor,” said Yuuri, once the song ended, breaking the quiet space between them. “I’m not here because I have to be here. And I don’t think you are, either. But I don’t want to drag you down, just because you’re stuck with me. If you want to leave, it’ll break my heart…but I won’t stop you.”

“I don’t want to leave,” said Victor. “Not without you. And you’re not dragging me down. But I need you to tell me who you want me to be.”

“I don’t want you to be anyone. Just Victor,” said Yuuri. Well. That answer didn’t help at all.

And then, Yuuri kissed him.

And kissed him again, and then Victor might have initiated the next kiss, and then Victor lost track, because — and it still didn’t answer the question. Yuuri broke the kiss, and leaned their foreheads together.

“In Copenhagen,” said Victor, “you said to Yakov that we weren’t — there wasn’t—you and I weren’t…And then you said you loved me, when you were drunk.”

Yuuri sucked in a breath. “I did a great job that night, huh?” he asked, and he leaned forward to kiss Victor again, just softly.
“Let me try it again. The routine. I’m horrible at saying what I mean, so let me show you.”

Victor pursed his lips. “Show me?”

“Eros,” said Yuuri, as if that should be obvious. He struck the opening pose, and Victor skated to the edge of the rink, watching, watching — Yuuri blew him a kiss. And the thing that had been missing from the performance was there — Yuuri, directing his energy, that same beautiful strength he’d shown on the pole in Copenhagen, minus the near-lethal blood alcohol concentration. Yuuri, dancing the routine for Victor, and Victor, who thought he’d read Yuuri wrong, coming to the realisation that he’d read Yuuri right, that he’d been completely right.

They returned to Yu-topia hand in hand, like furtive teenagers. Dinner was unbearably long, the air between them thick with anticipation; so was their usual soak in the onsen. Yuuri washed Victor’s back, and if the long, languorous movements of his hands were anything to go by, he knew that his every touch was sending sparks shimmering along Victor’s spine. Victor dared, when he took Yuuri’s foot between his hands, to press a kiss to the instep, just as he’d wanted to do for some months now. Yuuri’s breath caught, and Victor knew that Yuuri felt the same electricity, just under his skin.

Makkachin had trotted off to Mari’s room by the time Yuuri pulled his futon next to Victor’s. Victor reached out to touch Yuuri, to run his hands over Yuuri’s smooth chest, over his back, down to his thighs. Yuuri sighed into his mouth, artless and beautiful; on the ice, he might dance like a god, but he kissed like a man. They took their time kissing and touching, until both were sated, and this time Victor pulled Yuuri under the covers with him so their bodies met, skin-on-skin, Victor’s head on Yuuri’s chest, Yuuri holding him tight.

“Yakov has a book,” said Yuuri, apropos of nothing. “He gave it to me. It’s about travellers, and it says that people like us are…well, not common, but known about. In another universe, where we both lived, we met, and fell in love, and it was good. So when we were alone, and lonely and desperate, the universe…the multiverse…brought us together.”

“You’re talking as if the universe is sentient,” said Victor.

“Maybe it is,” said Yuuri. “It’s all theories. Even the idea that you somehow brought me here — that the strength of your desire for someone to know you, for someone to love you like I do as the catalyst which sparked me travelling — is just a theory.” He kissed Victor’s forehead. “I think it was the opposite way around. I wanted to be known and loved by someone, so the universe brought me to where I’d meet you. I don’t — I don’t like the lack of choice that implies, though.”

“You think we shouldn’t…”

“If you think I’m giving you up,” said Yuuri, fiercely, “then you’d be wrong. I don’t know how I feel about how we came together, but I know I can’t live without you.”

Victor felt a pleasurable shiver, low in his stomach. “The feeling’s mutual,” he said.

“Good,” said Yuuri, running his foot up and down Victor’s calf, which made Victor arch his back, and then they were on each other again, kissing and feeling and touching, and the conversation continued without words.

______________

Nothing and everything changed. Yuuri, it turned out, had some wicked performance anxiety when he was preparing a new program — Victor, who usually spent the day before a performance in bed, had to practically pin him to the bed to get him to rest. He even had a panic attack, which was something Victor hadn’t seen for months — not since he’d first met Yuuri. The anxiety was made worse by Phichit being at Four Continents, and a bunch of people whose names Victor didn’t know, and would struggle to learn, because the wiring in his brain that let him connect names and faces was patchy at best. Maybe that should have been a clue, that he remembered Yuuri so readily.

It was made worse and worse, because Phichit was really a very good skater, and Yuuri was mentally comparing them, and Yuuri knew he had to do Shattering Sea as his free skate, and he’d confided in Victor that he really didn’t want to. But Yuri on Ice wasn’t ready, so he had to do it. Victor just trailed around after him, using his celebrity and the fact that Yuuri had no-one else in the position of coach to get behind the scenes. He wrapped his arms around Yuuri’s waist from behind, resting his chin on Yuuri’s shoulder as they watched the television relay of the other Japanese male skater, a young blond with a startling streak of red, who was so awe-struck around Yuuri that Victor was almost tempted to play up the touching between them, put on a show for the boy.

Yuuri leaned back, trusting his weight to Victor. Victor wouldn’t let Yuuri fall.

Eros, though. Yuuri’s costume was one of Victor’s old ones, from around the time he’d had his accident. It excited Victor more than it really should to see Yuuri in his old costumes — and to know that Yuuri was so lithe and compact that he fitted into a costume from Victor’s teenage years. There’d been media commentary on it, but there was media commentary on everything. People on the internet were more forgiving — they thought it was adorable that Yuuri was wearing Victor’s costumes, and that Yuuri and Victor fitted together so well, so quickly. As long as he ignored the haters, the Internet could be Victor’s happy place at the moment.

Still, they had to get through Eros, first. Victor had selfishly given Yuuri Eros, thinking of how beautiful he might be performing it; now, it was like he’d unleashed an incubus, because whenever Yuuri blew him a kiss or cocked his hips, Victor was thinking of Yuuri’s body, sleek under his fingertips, Yuuri’s mouth, Yuuri’s touch. Victor stood in as coach — Celestino was there with Phichit, and he offered, but Yuuri explained that Victor had choreographed Eros, and so he should get the acclamation.

And acclamation there was. Victor’s Pinstagram was a river of notifications; even the mainstream news covered Yuuri’s transformation from tortured, beautiful traveller into someone that the entire world couldn’t tear their eyes away from. Even Yuri sent Victor a message — a succinct I can see why you gave it to him, which spoke volumes if you knew Yuri.

By contrast, Shattering Sea was a disaster. The choreography pushed over the limits of what was humanly possible — and this time, Yuuri didn’t make it. He fell, hitting hard onto his hip. Got up. Fell again. Victor ached to run out to him, to tell him to get off the ice before he did some real damage. The relief he felt when Yuuri downgraded his jumps was palpable; but then Yuuri made up for it by making his spins inhumanly fast, and Victor felt sympathetically ill watching him. He looked sick, too tired to do this, like he was drowning in air, drowning on the ice. Finally, the song was over — Yuuri held his final position, and then practically bolted for the exit. Victor was there, and he opened his arms, and Yuuri threw himself at Victor, who ignored the people taking photographs of them in favour of holding onto Yuuri.

“I failed,” Yuuri managed, chest heaving against Victor’s. His poor Yuuri must be exhausted.

“Let’s get your scores before deciding that,” Victor, replied, with a confidence he almost felt, feeling guilty that he’d let Yuuri put all his energy into the new programs, while neglecting to rehearse Shattering Sea. A lack of decent rehearsal coupled with the almost impossible program, Yuuri’s sleeplessness and anxiety; anyone would fall. But Victor knew Yuuri well by now; knew that Yuuri didn’t always see things that way.

But Yuuri had saved Victor — had literally pulled him to safety when he was drowning, and then filled his lonely life. The first few nights after Yuuri had arrived, Victor had read horror stories about travellers who resented being pulled from their own world — whose presence made things worse, because they’d had their own life, and meeting its mirror was at best disconcerting, at worst too distressing to live with. Then he and Yuuri had arrived at Yu-topia, and instead of being angry that he’d brought them a version of Yuuri who wasn’t the one they’d lost, the Katsukis had welcomed them both with open arms; Toshiya telling Victor that he was glad Victor had brought Yuuri back to them, because he and Hiroko couldn’t bear to think of any version of their Yuuri being alone and unhappy. And now this Yuuri-from-another-world was in a place where he didn’t just have his family to return to; he had a true peer, someone who would understand and appreciate his skating.

Yuuri was disconsolate after the scoring — he hadn’t scored so poorly as to knock him off the podium, but he got a respectable bronze rather than a gold medal.

“I knew I shouldn’t have skated it,” he grumbled, as Victor helped him ice his hip. “And now I have to do the gala, with everyone thinking I’m a complete fraud.”

“They won’t,” said Victor.

“Easy for you to say,” Yuuri replied. “You won Europeans.” He reached for Victor, and Victor reached back, stroking Yuuri’s soft hair. “Do you think Yuri On Ice will be all right for Worlds? I can’t — I don’t want to skate Shattering Sea again. I think it’ll destroy me if I let it.”

Something clicked into place for Victor. He remembered a conversation with Yakov, when they first began choreographing Yuri On Ice, and he suddenly couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought it through like this before. He’d told Yakov about Yuuri’s disenchantment with his current programs, and how wearing it was on both of them to be choreographing the new ones, Victor acting as a de facto coach in the absence of anyone else, and the next time they’d seen each other, Yakov had made space for Yuuri on his rink.

He was going to have to buy Yakov a Ferrari, or something equally extravagant.

“It will be,” said Victor. “We’re going to St Petersburg, remember? The most beautiful city in the world.” He let Yuuri settle in his arms. “We’ll share a coach. Yakov’s a hard worker, but he’ll get you there…in time for me to beat you at Worlds.”

“If I beat you, what do I get?” Yuuri asked.

Victor could think of a thousand joking answers, and even some that weren’t joking, but in the end he just leaned over and kissed Yuuri, full on the lips. Yuuri leaned into it, soft, like an answer to a question Victor hadn’t even asked; they stayed in their room for the evening, avoiding the internet, avoiding the press, who’d turned from fawning to vicious in the press conference after the medal ceremony.

Next day, Yuuri had bruises that hurt just to look at; Victor was careful to get him set up on a comfortable chair in the green room, and Phichit came to sit with them, chatting animatedly to Yuuri while Celestino watched on.

“Yesterday was rough,” said Celestino, once the two skaters made their way to warm up, and coaches (and whatever Victor was) were shunted off to their exhibition seating. “Is he all right?”

“He will be,” said Victor. “We’re putting together a new program for Worlds.”

Celestino whistled. “That’s a tall order, isn’t it?”

“Not as tall an order as forcing him to skate Shattering Sea again,” said Victor.

“It’s a beautiful program,” said Celestino.

“It’s had its time,” said Victor, because he knew what it was like to skate something that felt like it was tearing you apart from the inside. He only wanted to skate Stammi Vicino anymore because he’d written a new chapter to its story with Yuuri — the original program had given voice to his longing, and Yuuri had answered with the same plea — stay with me, stay with me.

Yuuri’s gala performance was a beautiful, flowing skate to three parts of Saint-Saen’s Carnival of the Animals — he didn’t try to evoke the subject through mimicking animal motions, instead finding the beauty and motion through the music. It was almost a relief after yesterday, like the equalisation of pressure after a thunderstorm. The ever-fickle internet turned back onto itself, congratulating Yuuri, and Celestino shook Victor’s hand, congratulating him, exhorting him to take care of Yuuri, like Victor was Yuuri’s coach.

Now there was a thought.

But first, Worlds. No, first, home to St Petersburg. No, first, Yuuri; Yuuri first, and everything else would follow.

Chapter Text

St Petersburg was huge; Yuuri, who’d lived in Detroit, thought he’d got a handle on cities, but the monumental architecture and stunning beauty of Petersburg floored him every time they walked out the door, let alone when they went for a run, or went sight-seeing. Victor was determined to show off his city, and Yuuri didn’t blame him; he let himself be led around, marvelling at palaces and gardens, Victor’s arm around him, or hand-in-hand.

The bruises from Four Continents hung around for a ridiculously long time. They’d made the travel hell; he didn’t think he’d felt them properly until after the gala, and then he was a ball of misery like he hadn’t been since he was a baby skater tripping over his own feet. And it hadn’t helped that he’d been leaving Hasetsu; no matter how much he and Victor promised to come back in the off-season, the horrible fear that this might be the last time he saw his family grasped at his heart and clenched. Yuuri spent the first three days in St Petersburg curled up in Victor’s bed feeling sorry for himself, until Yuri Plisetsky invited himself over and insisted on explaining who was who on Yakov’s rink, complete with embarrassing Pinstagram photos and unflattering details about both their skating and their personalities, and the distinct subtext that all of these people were waiting to meet the man who had so thoroughly captivated Vitya. It was unexpected, and kind, and enough to make Yuuri drag himself out of his funk and onto the rink.

And every evening, Yuuri got to go home with Victor — he got to hold Victor while they watched a movie, cuddle up in Victor’s arms to sleep, watch Victor walk naked around the house while he had a clothing crisis, kiss and touch and possess Victor as Yuuri was possessed in return. Victor thought Yuuri was adorable; even things that Yuuri had feared would be embarrassing, like his mouthguard at night or his tendency to look like a stunned mullet in photographs, Victor adored, and he told Yuuri so.

During the day, they trained together on Yakov’s rink. Yakov, Yuuri learned, was indeed a hard taskmaster, but a good coach — he cared a lot about his skaters, and Yuuri was glad from a competition point of view that they’d come, because he and Victor had practically been their own coaches these last months, and having someone else there who was objective and realistic made them both work harder, better.

Yuuri wasn’t sure what to expect when Yakov called him into a meeting without Victor, not long after the move. Yakov looked terribly serious, and he was accompanied by a man who looked even more serious, with neat white hair and thick glasses, and for a second Yuuri wondered what had happened. Was someone ill? Had they died? His body was on the verge of hyperventilation when Yakov smiled companionably.

“This is Mikhail,” he said. “He’s a scientist who studies travellers.”

“Oh,” said Yuuri. “Are you…studying me?”

“Only if you consent,” said Mikhail, lightly. He had an accent that Yuuri didn’t recognise. “I’m here because Yakov let me know that you’ve had almost no direct support…and because I have a proposition for you.”

“I’ve had plenty of support…my parents, my friends,” Yuuri said, bristling. “Victor has been—“

“Yuuri,” Yakov interrupted. “Direct support from people like Mikhail.”

“I don’t think I need…” Yuuri began, and then he stopped. “I’m being rude, aren’t I?”

“A little,” said Mikhail, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Tell me, Yuuri, do you like being here?”

“St Petersburg is very different to Hasetsu,” said Yuuri, hesitantly. “I’ve been calling my mother a lot more than I should, probably, but I’m getting used to the food and the weather. It’s a very beautiful city.”

“Ah, I was unclear. Here, in this world.”

Yuuri blinked. “I…yes?” he said, cautiously, pieces falling into place. A proposition. Oh no. No, no, no. That’s why they were having this meeting without Victor — Yakov had found a scientist who would send Yuuri back to his own world, to a world where Victor didn’t exist, where Yuuri would be alone and— He could feel himself spiralling, his heart beating harder.

“Yuuri?” asked Yakov, and Yuuri backed toward the door.

“I don’t have to go back there, do I?” he asked, hands suddenly shaking, palms damp. “You want me to go back there; is that why we’re meeting without Victor?” An even worse thought occurred. “I’m not…it’s not bad for Victor that I’m here, is it?”

He heard Yakov swear in Russian. “Yuuri,” he said, gruff and gentle. “Yuuri, stop. No-one will make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

It was too late. Yuuri was fighting panic and losing. It hadn’t really struck him that Yakov had brought Victor back to St Petersburg because he was worried about Victor, and now he was being forcibly confronted by the thought that maybe coming back to St Petersburg hadn’t helped in the way Yakov had wanted it to help. And he was just making things worse by panicking, because he was just proving that he was too unstable to be Victor’s touchstone. Yuuri couldn’t breathe. The world greyed in at the edges, and he ignored everything until someone hugged him, their smell, the feeling of their body familiar, grounding. He clung onto them for dear life.

Eventually, he registered that he was in Victor’s arms, with an argument in Russian happening around him. Humiliated, he tried to wriggle free, but Victor held him tightly.

“…did you need a drink?” asked Victor.

Yuuri took a breath in, and nodded, surfacing to find that all of them were still there, and all of them looked worried. Yuuri swallowed with a dry throat.

“I think we all need a drink,” said Mikhail. “Yuuri, my deepest apologies. Someone should have contacted you properly long before this so that this meeting was a lot less…traumatic.”

Yakov offered them vodka, but Yuuri took tea instead. Victor took the vodka, pale with…anger?… and he kept a tight hold of Yuuri’s hand.

“I think you need to tell us both what’s happening,” said Victor, bluntly.

“This is Mikhail, Vitya,” said Yakov. “He studies travellers; how they move through universes, and how to break the barriers between worlds. Yuuri assumed that Mikhail meant to send him back to his own universe, if I’m not mistaken.”

Victor’s grip tightened on Yuuri’s hand. “You can’t,” he said.

“You’re right,” said Mikhail. “We can’t. It’s not possible. Part of why I’m here is that Yakov was worried that no-one had talked with Yuuri to make sure he was truly happy here. Something that usually happens without the locus—the person they travelled to—present, so that the traveller isn’t intimidated into saying they’re happy when they’re not.” He looked at the pair of them. “Sending travellers back to their own universe is a lie. A nice lie, but a lie. The best we can do is to make sure that they’re provided for, and that if they want a new life entirely, they can have it.”

“There should have been a conversation like this many months ago,” said Yakov. “It’s not even really why Mikhail is here. If I’d realised…”

“I don’t have to leave?” asked Yuuri.

“None of us want you to leave, Yuuri,” said Yakov, and Victor put an arm around him.

“I’m here because my organisation’s had a breakthrough,” said Mikhail. “We’ve finally managed to send information between two universes. Not much information, but enough to be exciting.”

“I don’t understand,” said Yuuri.

“There’s no-one in your world who would want to know where you are now?” asked Yakov. “That you are happy, and safe, and loved?”

“There’s been a lot of argument about how the technology should be used,” said Mikhail. “Many people think it’s the first step to deliberately sending a person; but even the most unfeeling of us thought that it would be a kindness to let the existing travellers that we know of…send a letter, for want of a better term.”

“Celestino,” said Yuuri, quietly. “I could tell him where I am, and that I’m okay?” Mikhail nodded. “Well. Now I feel stupid.”

“Don’t feel stupid,” said Yakov. “Come, Vitya. We’ll leave these two to talk.”

Victor shot him an anxious look, and Yuuri then sat and answered Mikhail’s questions as diligently as he could. The small scientist wanted to build a picture of Yuuri, a dataset to match to other travellers, and in return he told Yuuri about the things he could expect in this universe. Yuuri had known that Victor was responsible for his upkeep right from the start, but he hadn’t known that he could have requested to never see Victor and instead to go into hiding, that he could simply have received a stipend for the rest of his days, living with a new name in a new life.

“It’s a way for people to cope,” Mikhail said. “Some people don’t cope at all with being with the people who they love, and who have lost them in another world. A case like yours — where you have few strong bonds in your own world — is terribly rare.”

In the end, Yuuri was given instructions to follow in constructing his ‘letter’, and once he’d finished it, he’d be given a transmission window, and then it would be sent. There was no guarantee he’d get anything back — the computing power needed to punch through universes was just too great. Yuuri nodded, tried to seem intelligent, and then fled back to the side of the rink, watching Victor spin his way through his short program, Yakov barking orders at him across the rink.

“I’m sorry,” said Yuuri, approaching Yakov.

“Ah, Yura,” said Yakov, sadly. “It’s me who should be sorry. I forgot how frightening it is, to think everything will be taken away from you.”

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” asked Yuuri. “That I don’t want to go back there?”

“Yuuri,” said Yakov. “I know how you feel.”

Yuuri felt a little dizzy. “Really?”

“Really,” said Yakov. “I lived somewhere where there was a war that never ended. And people like me were put into camps, or were killed. When I arrived, the authorities thought my mother had brought me here — the me in this universe died from a bee sting — but I knew I’d fled here because my own world wanted to kill me.” He smiled sadly. “I don’t want to go back there. Everything I’d lost was found again, in this universe.”

“I’m hardly a victim of war,” said Yuuri. “It’s not the same.”

“It’s not,” said Yakov. “But you were unhappy, and you needed to find a place where you could be comforted. And Vitya was unhappy, too; I didn’t realise how unhappy until it was almost too late to help him. And then you arrived.” He patted Yuuri’s shoulder. “Things aren’t perfect, but they’re better. Why did you think I wanted you to leave, just when things are going so well?”

“You called Victor back to Russia,” said Yuuri. “I thought…you did it because being in Hasetsu was bad for him. That being with me was bad for him.”

Yakov shook his head. “You both needed dedicated coaching; rather than relying on your fellow competitor to help you, you needed someone who could push you to work harder without it spilling into your lives together.”

“I feel so stupid,” said Yuuri, quietly. Yakov patted his shoulder.

“It takes a long time,” said Yakov. “When you’re used to things going wrong in your world — when you’re used to people dying, or to everything seeming to be against you — it takes a long time to stop assuming the worst. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“You sound like that book,” said Yuuri.

“Hmm,” said Yakov, and to Yuuri’s great surprise, he winked. “Off with you now; you’ll be late for your strength session.”

Wide-eyed, Yuuri blinked at the old coach. No way. No way. Then his watch beeped, and he had to jog to make it to the gym for 1500 hours, thoughts of Yakov and Celestino and Victor all muddled up as he trained.

_______________

Yuuri looked out over the water, and he wasn’t afraid. Victor, brimming with excitement, had insisted on one last run where Makkachin could chase seagulls, and despite the frigid morning air and the veiled threat of the ocean, Yuuri had agreed. He suspected he’d probably agree to almost anything if it were Victor asking.

“Are you excited about going back to America?” asked Victor, when they stopped to catch their breath.

“I don’t know,” Yuuri replied. “I’m excited about competing against you.” It was true — the usual twist of anxiety in his gut had been replaced by a ticklish thrill instead. They’d played at competition for months, now, and Yuuri knew it would come down to who was better on the day — whose presentation score, who wowed the crowd, who didn’t flub anything.

“What do I get if I win?” asked Victor, teasingly.

“Whatever you want,” Yuuri replied, stretching up. Victor laughed, catching him around the waist, drawing their bodies together.

“And if I want you?”

“Whatever you want,” said Yuuri, using their proximity to steal a kiss. “It’s an easy deal, though — I’m going to win.”

“And what will you win?”

“I get Makkachin on my side of the bed,” said Yuuri, and Victor spluttered a laugh.

“I think you’ve already accomplished that goal,” he said. “What else?”

“Surprise me,” said Yuuri, breath back in his lungs. He squirmed free, and led off running again, Victor catching him quickly, but then falling back as Yuuri’s stamina won out.

Victor was good at surprises — the nice kind, not the “give Yuuri a panic attack” kind. The latest had been a trip to Hungary to watch Yuri Plisetsky skate (and win) Junior Worlds — he’d booked them a honeymoon suite, which Yuuri had thoroughly enjoyed, particularly the huge spa bath. Yuri had been furious with them for coming, but then he’d let Victor hug him tightly before he went on, and then again after he had his medal, Yakov beaming like a proud parent.

“Remember our deal,” Yuri threatened Yuuri. “You don’t get to take it back. I won Worlds, you teach me all the quads you know, even the impossible ones.”

“I don’t think that was the deal,” said Yuuri, but he took pity on Yuri. “I haven’t forgotten. I’ll teach you.”

“Under Yakov’s supervision,” said Yakov, who seemed torn between laughter and seriousness.

“Under Yakov’s supervision,” Yuuri agreed.

For Worlds, Yakov had organised for all of them to travel to Boston together; Victor complained bitterly about not being permitted to fly first class, but then Yuuri lifted the armrest between them and the complaints stopped as quickly as they’d begun. Yuri pulled faces at them. Mila gave Yuuri a thumbs up. Yakov had also required that they all be in adjacent rooms, with strict admonitions that Yuuri and Victor were not to get up to anything, which made Yuuri’s face heat. Mila gave him another thumbs up before vanishing to her room.

It took half an hour before there was a knock on the door.

“You should get that,” said Victor, coyly, and Yuuri wondered what was happening. He got the door, and there was —

“Mari?” he asked, and then he saw his parents and Minako, and he cried out with joy. “How? How are you here?”

“Your Victor,” said Yuuri’s father. “He said he wanted to surprise you.”

“I haven’t won yet,” said Yuuri, turning back to Victor, who somehow managed to look both innocent and guilty at the same time.

They went to dinner together at a restaurant where the portion sizes were so huge that Yuuri could only finish half; Chris, Celestino and Phichit joined them, along with Chris’s delightful boyfriend and some of the other competitors that Yuuri didn’t know as well. Even JJ arrived; Yuuri wasn’t exactly shocked to see that JJ was the same in this world, but he was so surprised to see him that his brain just went oh, it’s JJ rather than comparing universes.

“So what will you do after this, Yuuri?” asked Phichit, who’d managed to sneak in next to Yuuri when they took their seats. “Don’t tell me you’re going to retire?”

“I don’t know what I’ll do,” said Yuuri, but instead of the gaping empty maw of uncertainty he’d felt in his own world, this uncertainty was filled with promise. Train Yuri; visit Hasetsu; holiday with Victor. He reached and touched something he’d put in his pocket for safekeeping, for the right moment; after they’d skated, probably, but he couldn’t risk Victor finding it earlier.

“It’s just, I have an idea for an Ice Show,” said Phichit, and he began expounding happily about his show. “And if we’re all in Thailand for that, maybe you and Victor could run a training camp in Japan? I know I’d come. Teach us your jumps. That’s gotta be why you’re here, isn’t it? Because our version of the sport was so far behind, and yours was so far ahead.”

Yuuri shook his head. “I don’t think it was,” he said. “Because I don’t think everyone having to do freakishly inhuman jumps is as fun as skating is in this world. Maybe there’s a world where there’s a happy medium, but I don’t think I came here to make this world the same as the one I left.”

Something like that had been in the book that Yuuri now knew Yakov had at least had a hand in writing, if not written himself. There are harsh worlds, and there are gentle worlds. This is a gentle world; lucky and kind. When you think about what you have brought with you, bring the good things. Leave the bad with your old life, and find joy in this place.

“Then why do you think you came?” asked Phichit.

“Because Victor and I needed each other,” said Yuuri, and beside him he felt Victor’s hand clasp his knee.

“That is the most romantic thing,” said Phichit, dreamily. “You really think that?”

Yuuri nodded. “I’ve never been more certain of anything,” he said.

And then JJ changed the topic abruptly, by dragging a chair around and planting himself in the middle of the conversation, sitting back-to front on the chair, arms resting on the back.

“So, which of you and Victor will be silver, and which bronze?” he asked. “Because I’m getting gold.”

“JJ, no,” said Phichit.

“JJ, yes!” said JJ, and Yuuri did the hand gesture.

“JJ-style!” he said, and then JJ roared with laughter.

“I existed for you, then?”

“How could I forget?” asked Yuuri, because JJ had chased him on the podium for years, just below Chris, but with 500% more annoying hand gestures and theme songs. “If I beat you tomorrow, will you make me a song?”

“You’re on,” said JJ. “And if I beat you, you have to tell me all about the me in your universe.”

At that point, Victor nearly choked on his drink — he’d been a silent observer, but that was perhaps too much even for Victor.

“Deal,” said Yuuri, putting out his hand. They shook. “You’re on.”

________________________

Eros went off beautifully. It wasn’t even a problem when Victor kissed Yuuri in front of everyone as soon as he’d gotten off the ice, and Yakov yelled at them about no funny business, you both still have your Free Skate to think about. Yuuri sat with the others to watch Victor skate, and then sighed along with everyone.

“He’s so much more expressive than he was before,” said Chris. “I want whatever techniques you’re giving him, Yuuri.”

“He might have cause to complain about that,” said Yuuri, because whatever he was giving Victor, it wasn’t on the ice.

Chris raised his eyebrows. “Oh my innocent Yuuri, how you’ve grown.”

Yuuri ignored him, and cheered for Victor.

They spent the next day on recovery sessions and training, everyone following their little rituals, the points too close at this point to determine a clear outcome. Victor was leading, but his margin on Yuuri was so small as to be almost non-existent. And the others were snapping at Yuuri’s heels — although Yuuri and Victor were the undisputed champions of the competition, there was enough depth in the programs of the other skaters to threaten their lead, if Yuuri were to have another disaster like the one at Four Continents.

But he wasn’t trying to do the impossible, this time.

Debuting Yuri On Ice was thrilling. It felt daring and stupid to debut a new program on the last big skate of the season, and it excited Yuuri with its wrongness as much as it did with its newness. If Shattering Sea had been Yuuri’s pinnacle as a technical skater, Yuri On Ice was his ode to the people he loved, and the most joyful skate he could ever remember doing. He and Victor had pulled it together from nothing — from Yuuri’s memories, from old videos of this world’s Yuuri. And, finally, Yuuri had made a small change to it that he hadn’t told Victor about — he’d plucked an iconic step sequence from one of Victor’s old routines, rehearsed it under Yakov’s critical eye, and gotten it as perfect as it would ever be.

He couldn’t hear much over the music, but he heard the roar of the crowd every now and again, and he knew he’d got through to them. He’d been watching the internet, the people watching himself and Victor, the people who wanted them to fail, but also the people who wanted to believe in true love — a love that lasted through the ages. The people who looked for hints, who’d been vindicated when Yuuri moved to Russia. The people who liked to point out that Yuuri’s wardrobe seemed to consist of quite a lot of Victor’s clothes, and that travellers came for a reason, and maybe Yuuri’s reason was Victor.

Those people, he reasoned, might see the same message as the one he was giving Victor. And, as Yuuri held his final position, he searched for Victor, the brown blur of his coat over his costume, because Victor had promised to watch him, even though he should be going on next.

The brown blur resolved into Victor as Yuuri neared him. Victor didn’t enter the ice — he was a competitor, he’d ruin his chances. But he did hold out his arms for Yuuri, who skated right off the ice and into Victor’s embrace, excited and happy and full of love. They’d kissed in the dressing rooms after Eros — now, they kissed in front of all the cameras, and Victor refused to let go of him.

“Get your skate guards on, Yuuri, and Vitya, let go of him and get ready,” said Yakov, rather more sensibly and with considerable exasperation. It was Yakov who steered Yuuri to the kiss-and-cry, and who put a steadying hand on Yuuri’s shoulder when his score was announced.

If Victor was at his best, he’d win. But there was still a margin for Yuuri to squeak ahead of him; it would all come down to what he did out there on the ice. Yuuri sat close to the boards, skates on the seat beside him, glasses on; Mari had held onto them for him, and she was just as tense as he was as they watched.

“He’s lovely,” she said, as they watched.

“Can you believe I came here for him?” asked Yuuri, as Victor skated the lonely version of Stammi, the one he’d sent out into the universe in the hope that someone would come to him, would stay with him.

“I can barely believe you came here,” said Mari. “So I guess…I can.”

Yuuri was mentally tallying points in his head, unable to stop, unable to look away. Victor was so beautiful, and so lonely on the ice — reaching for someone he couldn’t catch, dancing for someone who didn’t see him. Yuuri stopped counting points, and instead just watched in awe; once it was over he hopped up and went to meet Victor at the boards, but instead of kissing him, Victor buried his face into Yuuri’s neck.

“Vitya,” said Yuuri, which got him to look up.

Victor was crying silently, huge, shockingly beautiful tears. He looked like a tragic prince; Yuuri couldn’t bear it. He reached forward, and brushed Victor’s hair out of his eyes.

“Are you okay?” Yuuri asked.

He was completely unprepared for Victor to kiss him, to crush Yuuri close and kiss him desperately, hungrily. Yuuri lost his breath, and they parted for an instant, only for Yuuri to press forward and kiss Victor. The crowd roared, and Yuuri belatedly realised that they must be up on big screens.

Well. They’d probably get an email from the ISU about keeping PDAs off the ice; Yuuri vaguely remembered JJ and his fiancee getting one back in Yuuri’s own world.

“I was thinking about how lucky I am,” said Victor. “How things have changed, since December.”

Yakov parted them before the officials could, and Yuuri found himself anxiously clutching Mari’s arm as he waited for Victor’s scores; half a point difference between them, in the end. Yuuri had won, by a bare margin, and the thought that next season was going to be brilliant hit him like a sledgehammer — himself, Victor, Plisetsky, Chris, Phichit — even JJ. Minami might get a slot. For now, Yuuri’s family was showering him with joy, and Victor bolted from the kiss-and-cry to shower him with more joy, and it took some efforts on Yakov’s part to get them to go back into the competitor’s area, to get them to ready themselves for the presentation of medals.

They did nothing of the sort, really. They got into their tracksuits — heavily branded with country colours and sponsors — and then Victor posted a few photos of them to Pinstagram, and then Chris came and found them. As bronze, he shouldn’t really have been in charge of rounding up the gold and silver medalists, but Victor was remarkably good at finding places where other people couldn’t find them.

What Chris found was Yuuri resting his forehead on Victor’s, unable to bear being too far from him.

“Children,” said Christophe, lightly. “You’re lucky it was me who found you, and not the terrifying woman from the ISU who wants to coach you on how to behave in public. I think she’s got four press conferences planned thus far?”

Yuuri turned to Chris, noting how Victor kept a hold on him, both arms around his waist; Yuuri put his hands over Victor’s, holding him there.

“Thanks, Chris,” said Yuuri.

“Congratulations, both of you,” said Chris. “But don’t think I’ll go easy on you next season.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” said Victor. He sighed. “All right. We’ll go and finish this.”

They walked to the podium hand-in-hand, and the roar of the crowd drowned out everything except for what they had between them; there’d be time later for Yakov and Yuri P to go through a frame-by-frame video for critique; time to deal with the people on the internet who thought that one or other of them was overscored; time to catch up with everyone who wanted to see them, give interviews, and time to be courted by sponsors. Time for the internet to explode when they did the pairs skate of Stammi Vincio, and for Hollywood to actually start negotiating for the rights to a biopic, which was ridiculous but delightful, really.

But in that moment, Yuuri remembered the euphoria of sharing his skating — skating with people you love, for people you love — and he let himself fly on the wings of that happiness, up and out of the feelings that had threatened to drown him for so long.

Chapter Text

Of course, their season wasn’t really finished until the gala, and the banquet. Victor had commissioned a costume for Yuuri — his first real costume in this place, one which hadn’t previously belonged to Victor — and they dressed together, the quiet companionship of a shared dressing room feeling comfortable, so comfortable that Yuuri was completely sure of what he wanted to do next.

The dressing room wasn’t really a dressing room — it was a weights room that had been repurposed, and there wasn’t a decent makeup mirror. Victor looked critically at Yuuri, tapping his chin with one finger, and then reached over and finger-combed Yuuri’s hair, tweaked the way his costume sat before Yuuri pulled his Team Japan jacket over it, made him sit for a little eyeliner and mascara, just enough to make him look bright-eyed and dewy. Victor knelt in front of him to put it on, and Yuuri worried about Victor’s knees, but then caught a hint of shimmer high on Victor’s cheekbones and it distracted him from everything he’d been going to say about Victor not making his legs go numb.

“You did your makeup before we came, didn’t you?” asked Yuuri. Victor smiled, gently feathering something at the corner of Yuuri’s eye.

“I thought there might be paparazzi,” he said, and Yuuri couldn’t help a bit of a snort. “Hush, you’ll smudge.”

He sat back on his heels, so Yuuri leaned forward, and kissed Victor. He was still 100% sure about the box burning a hole in his jacket pocket, and sure he wanted to do it before they went out on the ice.

“Victor,” he said, taking a deep breath, reaching for his pocket, but then—

“Yuuri,” said Victor, still on his knees, producing a small box of his own. “Will you stay with me? Forever, I mean? Let me take care of you, and you take care of me, and live half the year in Russia and half the year in Japan and just be happy together?”

“Really?” asked Yuuri, looking at the ring in the box. He shook his head with disbelief, and Victor looked as if Yuuri had just struck him. “No, I —wait — “ He dug in his jacket pocket, and pulled out a box of his own. “I was going to ask you the same question.”

Victor’s expression cleared into a diamond-bright smile and he laughed, a sound of pure delight. “Look at us,” he said, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Yes, Yuuri. My answer to your question is yes.”

“Yes,” echoed Yuuri, as Victor slipped the ring onto Yuuri’s finger. Yuuri followed suit, thrilling with the thought of it.

Victor brought Yuuri’s ring to his lips. “Let’s go wow them.”

Yuuri watched in awe as Victor gracefully climbed to his feet; Yuuri followed him out, and they put their skates on together, warming up on the ice still wearing jackets over their costumes, so that people wouldn’t get what was going to happen. Yuuri couldn’t help it — he was so happy that he found himself improvising little step sequences, and then Victor joined him in what was really their old game, the process they’d used to choreograph together, the way they’d fallen in love. Except this time, Victor grabbed Chris and swung him around in a wild sort of waltz, and Phichit tried to copy Yuuri’s movements, and even people who usually never got involved, like JJ and Otabek were acting like idiots on the ice, much to the collective chagrin of their coaches.

Yuuri wondered if he’d have got involved, had someone tried to do this in his own world. Probably not. He’d been so focussed on winning that he’d forgotten how fun skating with your friends could be.

“Whoa,” said Phichit, as he spun and nearly wobbled over, Yuuri catching him before he could fall. “Is that a ring?”

“Don’t spoil the surprise,” Yuuri whispered. “Wait until you see our gala piece.”

“Our?” asked Phichit, a bit too loudly, but thankfully JJ was doing something loud and with lots of hand gestures, so no-one noticed.

Yuuri shushed Phichit, and they all tumbled into the waiting area, Victor stretching as they watched the first performances on the television relay, Phichit and Chris pressing Yuuri for details and practically hyperventilating when they got them. And then — too soon — it was time.

Yuuri felt rather than heard the roar when he joined Victor on the ice; he felt the music, too, like it was pulling him along, like the imaginary thread that connected him to Victor was twining around them both, hopelessly tangling them together, drawing them back when they parted, the connection between them thrumming and alive. He barely remembered the routine once it was over and he was ushered back by the attendants who were working on stage managing the whole gala, Victor helping him to quickly change for Carnival of the Animals, and Victor… changing too?

“The game we play in rehearsal?” Victor asked. “I want to bring it to the gala.”

Yuuri felt his eyes widen. “Really?” he asked. “We’ve never…”

“Be brave with me,” said Victor. “I’d forgotten how good it feels to surprise people.”

And of course, of course, it was Victor, so how could Yuuri say no? They tumbled out to the rink together, just in time for the ushers to manoeuvre Yuuri into place, for the music to set, for the cameras to turn to him. If this had been his own world, Yuuri was sure his anxiety would have been the displeasing kind, the kind that wracked his body and left him worn out and miserable. But now, with the thought that Victor was just there, just behind him, wanting to play and wanting to make a statement that the world couldn’t ignore, Yuuri found his heart beating in eager anticipation, nerves thrilling, not hurting.

The game went like this: Yuuri skated his Carnival of the Animals program, Saint-Saëns’ timid long-ears and clattering fossils, finishing on the shimmering fish. Victor tried to mimic him and chase him, first the rabbit, seeking to play — then the bones, separated by years, finding each other as rocks formed and changed, then the aquarium, coming together, elegant alongside each other. They’d done it a thousand times when they were warming up, or when they needed a break from the seriousness of Stammi, or when the weirdness of changing universes was too much for Yuuri, or the thunderclouds in Victor’s head threatened to overwhelm him.

Victor caught him easily this time, and before Yuuri could do anything, kissed him. He wriggled away, and then let himself get caught again, let them both draw together, until they floated on the ice as one; this time, Yuuri leaned in to Victor. He heard the crowd, and thought that’s right, that’s right, he’s mine. He called me here, and he’s mine.

Of course, there was a press conference after. The woman from the ISU — who Chris had quite rightly described as terrifying — made them do it, hustling them and organising them and bringing them together. Yuuri was too excited to respond very coherently, but Victor held his hand under the table, and gave the crowd his megawatt smile, and after, they did a quick interview for Morooka, who raved at them and asked when they were coming back to Japan.

“In the off-season,” said Yuuri, casting a quick glance at Victor to confirm. Victor wasn’t looking at him — instead, he was looking at his hand, at his ring, his expression something like amazement. A look at Morooka confirmed that he’d seen it too. “Victor?”

“Oh,” said Victor, looking up. “Yes, the off-season. But we’ll be trying to divide our time between countries.”

Yuuri noticed him watching his ring three more times during the interview, and fiddling with it when he wasn’t watching it. His heart felt huge; he’d never let himself imagine anything like this, never thought he could have it. Morooka had thanked them, and the minders from the ISU finally let them go back to their room and shower properly, relax before the gala, have a bit of time to recharge.

Of course, once they were alone and clean, Victor pushed Yuuri down onto their plush hotel bed and Yuuri rose to meet him; they nearly missed the start of the banquet and turned up a little late, still flushed, just showered for the second time, and happy.

___________________

They went to St Petersburg before they went to Switzerland to meet with Mikhail the scientist for a month in the middle of the off-season. The St Petersburg crew insisted on an engagement party, which somehow also attracted basically every other skater in the Northern Hemisphere and ended with Yuuri and Chris having a dance-off on some poles that had “mysteriously been installed” at the venue the morning before.

Yuri P also insisted on insinuating himself into their lives; even his grandfather helped with the cake for the engagement party, which Yuri claimed was because he was a weird old man, but Nikolai claimed was because Yuri had begged him. Whatever the truth was, Nikolai Plisetsky met Yuri at the rink most days, and provided delicious food to the skaters that absolutely wasn’t on their diet plans; according to Mila, he’d lived in Moscow for ages, but then Yakov had pulled some strings and gotten the old man across the country, so that Yura got to live with his grandpa. Yakov was big on family, Mila confided, even though he was a grumpy old man with no kids of his own, just his skaters, who he treated like they were his and Lilia’s own.

Of course Yakov was big on family, Yuuri thought, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he accepted what the St Petersburg skaters wanted to give him and Victor — Yakov taking over as his coach and giving them strict plans for the off-season, dance classes with Yuri and Lilia, afternoon coffee with Mila and Georgi, occasional dinners with Yuri and Nikolai, who insisted on getting to know Yuri’s ice skating friends.

Victor seemed a little shell-shocked by how easily Yuuri had slipped into life in Russia. Yuuri got the truth of it from Mila one afternoon as they walked through the city, drinking coffee that Mila called ‘raf’ out of thick-walled cardboard cups.

“He never used to come out,” she said. “He was friendly and over the top, but he never wanted to go anywhere, or come and have coffee. It’s like he’s a whole new person.”

Yuuri wasn’t about to say anything; Victor had bad days, where getting out of bed was a struggle, or where he’d snap at Yuuri and then apologise a million times. Yuuri wasn’t remotely surprised that he’d been anti-social, before. Yuuri had bad days, too, where he’d hear the ocean as he woke and freeze, or where he’d think he was back in his own world, or where his anxiety would bloom in his chest and he’d spend the rest of the day on the couch wrapped in blankets, Victor by his side.

“When are you going to CERN?” Mila asked, as they approached the meeting-point they’d agreed to with Victor and Yuri, who’d gone for a run while Yuuri and Mila walked.

“Next week,” said Yuuri. Truth was, going to CERN still worried him, even though academically he knew he wasn’t going to be sent back to the universe he’d come from. “Then we’re going to Hasetsu for the rest of the off-season.” He looked up at her. “You should all come for a visit. There’s space in the inn, and we could do an ice show. I bet people would come see it.”

Mila laughed. “With you in it? Tickets will sell out in ten minutes”

Yuuri sipped his coffee as they walked, catching sight of Victor and Yuri in the distance. At the same time, Victor seemed to see them — he raised a hand and waved, drawing them over.

“Yuuri wants us all to do an ice show!” Mila said, by way of greeting. “We can all go to Hasetsu once you guys are done at CERN.”

“Yes!” said Yuri P. “We all go to Hasetsu, you teach us your jumps, we use them in the ice show.”

“Victuuri and friends on ice,” said Mila. Yuri made a gagging sound, and Victor frowned in seeming confusion. “What? Like you don’t know that’s what the internet calls you.”

Yuuri was well aware of what the internet called them — he kept getting tagged with it on Pinstagram. They’d become the sporting world’s favourite couple, and as long as you ignored the more extreme fans, it was a gratifying and humbling position to be in.

“Who will we invite?” asked Victor, and the rest of the afternoon was subsumed into that — the four of them plotting, ringing Yuuri’s parents in Hasetsu and Yakov and Georgi, and then going further afield, until Yuuri’s irrational worry about Switzerland was smoothed over with the thought of where they’d be after.

Switzerland wasn’t as Yuuri had feared, once they got there. Geneva was beautiful, and they could commute to CERN practically from Chris’s doorstep, and Yuuri got to experience Victor speaking French, which was a delight all of its own, especially after a long day of being questioned and studied. Victor would put an arm around him as they walked to the station, and take the lead in their social interactions, protecting Yuuri without stifling him.

And then there was Hasetsu, after it all, and the small room in the top of the onsen with futons rolled out beside each other at night, clothes rapidly getting jumbled until it wasn’t really clear what was Yuuri’s and what was Victor’s, chores assigned, rehearsals at the Ice Palace, which aside from the water was the only place to get cool in the summer heat. Victor got sunburnt right before the others arrived, even into the parting in his hair, and Yuuri gave him cool towels and petted him where he wasn’t red and shiny, and wondered at the normality of it all.

They ate katsudon, and went running in the cool of the early morning. They went drinking with Minako and Mari, and Yuuri found himself in the role of the proud host, taking Victor on day trips and mini-breaks, showing him the beauty of Japan.

And — wonder of wonders, once they’d been at Hasetsu for a week, Yuri P and Mila managed to convince Yuuri to join them in the ocean. Victor wound up holding him tight, both of them moving in the swell, as Yuri used the gentle waves to practice impossible jumps, spinning and turning, until Mila and Phichit ducked him under and he rose, sputtering like an angry cat, and chased them to shore.

Victor kissed Yuuri’s neck, just below his ear.

“When we met,” he said, “you must have been terrified.”

“So must you,” said Yuuri, looking back to the sand, leaning back against Victor. “I didn’t think about it at the time. I just wanted you to be all right.”

“You saved me,” Victor said.

“We saved each other,” said Yuuri, and Victor held him tighter. Yuuri turned his head so that they could press their cheeks together; over Victor’s shoulder, he saw a sudden wash of white foam. One of the normally mellow, soft waves was breaking earlier than the others, churning on the way to shore.

“Jump,” said Victor, into his ear, and Yuuri jumped into the wave, Victor’s arms still around him, safe together. The water fizzed and swirled around them, Victor’s skin warm against Yuuri’s where they touched, and for the first time in a long time, Yuuri was pushing beyond his limits but he wasn’t afraid of anything. The sea had taken everything from him, true, but the sea had also given him Victor, because Yuuri had been brave enough to reach out and bring him to shore.

When they went in, finally, they collapsed together onto their warm towels on the sand, sunglasses shielding their eyes, seagulls wheeling overhead in a perfect sky, deep blue and endless; Yuuri tangled in Victor and Victor in Yuuri, while somewhere down the beach their friends were chatting and playing, a million miles away from a cold dark night in Sochi.

Chapter Text

Dear Ciao-Ciao,

I am going to need you to bear with me for this letter, because it’s so crazy that I don’t think I’d believe it if I wasn’t living it. The scientists here said that the people on your end would explain most of it, so I don’t have to, which is good, because seriously, I have no idea how to even start. I think I’m just going to write it and then not edit it, because then no matter what I said, it’s done and I don’t have to worry anymore.

We’re staying in Switzerland for a few weeks so that CERN can study me. Not in a creepy way — it’s a little creepy, I guess, but in a way where they can start to learn what makes people skip universes, and how to help them when they do. They all think I’m very lucky to have found Victor. Which is getting ahead of myself. So. After Sochi, I came here, to a different universe. If you think that sounds crazy, wait for the next bit… my family are alive here. The tsunami still happened — but the me from this universe is the one who died. And when I came here, I came and I found the person who won the Grand Prix in this universe — Victor Nikiforov.

I don’t know if you’ll remember Victor. He was my idol when I was a kid; he died in our world. But here he’s alive, and he’s actually really nice, and an amazing skater. And we’ve finished out the season and now we’re staying with Chris — Christophe Giacometti, I know you’ll remember him — and going for tests at CERN, and the trade-off for hours of interviews and monitoring is that I get to send something home so you’ll know I’m okay. I hope you’re okay. CERN said they don’t think our universe has the technology yet to send anything back, so I have to hope you’ll be okay. Phichit is an outstanding skater, and I wish you both all the best. Please say hi to Maria for me, and tell her I’m sorry, but I’m not coming back.

I don’t know how to even explain it all. I came here, to Victor, because the universe is a strange and amazing place and it brought us together. I know you said once that you thought Maria was your soulmate, because making her happy made you happier than just making yourself happy. I think Victor is my soulmate. It feels like there’s something that pulls us together when we’re apart; he says he feels it too. Yes, he’s taking care of me. We’re getting married next year, after Worlds. I still can’t believe I can type that; I wish you could meet him. He’s such a beautiful skater, and he knows how I think. Every time I hesitate, or my anxiety flares up, or I just don’t know what to do, he meets me where I am.

I want you to know I’m okay, Ciao-Ciao. I’ve come here and I’ve had the opportunity to…not start again, exactly, but to breathe and find my place in the world again. But I wouldn’t have made it this far if it wasn’t for you, and I will always be grateful to you. I’m glad I can finally let you know where I am, because I know you would have worried for me. And it sounds crazy, but it’s true.

Thank you for everything. I miss you; sometimes I feel guilty that I’m so happy here, when there were people who loved me where I was. And I can hear you saying “Yuuri, it’s not bad to be happy” like you did, and it’s a comfort to me. And Vitya tells me that it’s all right to mourn for what happened, but to be happy for what makes us happy, so between the two of you, it’s okay.

Vitya says I should leave you with a picture, but we’re not sure if photos will come through, so in case it doesn’t — it’s me and Victor, at the Worlds gala. I won — and I can see you saying “as if there was any doubt”, but in this world, there was — and Victor got silver, and we both had routines in the gala, but Victor wanted to surprise everyone, so… we skated his gala piece together. That’s what the photo is of. He’s lifting me, and the light’s catching on my costume, and ugh, I hate describing myself, you know what I look like.

Maybe someday I’ll be able to send you more than just a weirdly disjointed letter, but for now, I hope this is enough. Good luck, Ciao-Ciao, and goodbye for now.

With deepest respect,

Katsuki Yuuri

___________________

Yuuri’s letter winged its way across the space between worlds; the barrier was at its thinnest between these two parts of the multiverse, and no-one quite knew why. There were theories around luck and fate, but luck and fate can’t be measured (yet) or replicated, and mysterious feelings of belonging can’t be quantified. It doesn’t make them any less real.

Celestino Cialdini was approached by a serious-looking, grey-suited scientist at Worlds the year after Yuuri had vanished at Sochi and he listened to what the woman had to say with increasing hope and incredulity. As he watched his skater fly on the ice, he imagined Yuuri in another place, happy and bright, and the weight that he’d carried since he’d lost Yuuri lifted as he looked at a grainy photograph on a screen, switching between it and Yuuri’s letter, just to see the expression on Yuuri’s face.

“Can I send something in return?” he asked.

“We’re still working on it,” said the scientist. “But when we can, we’ll let you know.”

He’s okay, Celestino thought. He’s unreachable, but he’s okay. He could live with that.

And in the places between those universes, every story that could happen to Victor and Yuuri did happen — but the best ones were the ones where Yuuri found Victor, and Victor found Yuuri. There was a Yuuri who said “sure” when offered a commemorative photograph, a different Yuuri who woke up in Victor’s hotel room the morning after and somehow never left, another Yuuri who won at Sochi and found himself the centre of his idol’s rapt attention, a Yuuri whose red thread of fate seemed to have no end until the first time he met Victor on the ice, a Yuuri who married Victor at Worlds, a Yuuri who married Victor on the beach at Hasetsu, a Yuuri who never married Victor, but lived in a state of unwedded bliss with him for seventy years.

And a thousand, thousand universes away, there was a Yuuri who lost at Sochi and who found Victor anyway, unaware that across the universe, two people had been brought together not because they’d lost each other, but because of their potential to find happiness in each other.

(And they did.)