Chapter Text

“I was reading my destiny inside your eyes without knowing it.”

Franz Kafka.

Could love, when combined with predestination, be more than an emotional experience? Could it be rooted in quantum physics, sociology, and psychology? Researchers exploring The Quantum Entanglement Theory, popularly known as Quantum of Love, believe so. This theory suggests that deep, fateful connections between individuals—commonly referred to as “soulmates”—are not mere chance but manifestations of an entangled bond that operates beyond traditional understanding.

When paired with the Circumfixion Law , which highlights peculiar extremes in events preceding a soulmate encounter, Quantum of Love provides a fascinating framework for examining the science behind love and destiny.

Entanglement Beyond Physics

In physics, quantum entanglement occurs when particles interact in ways that cause their states to become interdependent. If one particle changes, the other reacts instantaneously, regardless of distance. Quantum of Love applies this metaphor to human relationships, theorizing that certain individuals share an analogous bond—one that influences their paths toward an inevitable convergence.

This “entanglement” may explain why many soulmates report uncanny synchronicities—aligned events, shared dreams, or inexplicable feelings of familiarity—leading up to their first interaction. The theory posits that this bond operates beyond the physical, influencing their emotional and environmental states as they move closer to crossing paths.

The Circumfixion Law: Chaos Meets Harmony

Psychologists suggest these extremes may stem from heightened emotional awareness. The anticipation of meeting someone significant—consciously or subconsciously—primes the brain, leading to amplified perceptions of events.

Dr. Amelia Cross, a psychologist specializing in interpersonal connections, explains: “The Circumfixion Law may represent the brain’s natural response to the energetic alignment proposed by Quantum of Love. The individual undergoing a ‘bad day’ might be facing external chaos, but internally, their emotional awareness is heightened, preparing them for the connection ahead.”

The Numbers Behind Destiny

In our next issue, we will delve into the probability and statistics behind these dynamics. Are these roles assigned by chance, or is there an underlying pattern? Can data predict who will bear the brunt of chaos, and who will bask in the glow of serendipity?

 

Scientific American Magazine.
Published in July 21st, 1998.

Katsuki Yuuri has never been the superstitious type.

For the sake of his anxiety, gripping his sanity to things he can logically prove, had been sometimes what saved him when on the brink of an impending anxiety attack. But there were moments when logic seemed to sit on the sidelines, laughing at him while destiny, fate, or some cosmic joke took center stage.

He could pinpoint the moment his life turned into a snowball rolling downhill, gathering speed and obliterating everything in its path. It had been that one fateful semester at the Detroit Ballet Conservatory. Yuuri had spiraled so far into his anxiety that his final audition—his one shot at a part-time spot with the Detroit National Ballet Company—ended in disaster. A move turned into a wobble, then a stumble, and, finally, a complete mental blank. He could still hear the strained silence that had followed.

From that point on, everything became a series of unfortunate events. Losing his scholarship. Saying goodbye to Detroit in a haze of shame. Returning to Japan, not to the warm familiarity of Hasetsu but to Tokyo, where he buried himself in a paramedic program—not out of passion but practicality. He couldn’t bring himself to admit it to anyone, but he’d chosen a path that allowed him enough time to keep dancing in a small studio while earning a modest income. It was a compromise, the only one he could manage, but it felt like a constant reminder of how much he’d lost.

And yet, here he was, three years later, waiting for Phichit Chulanont—his best friend and former roommate from Detroit—to arrive for a brief visit before heading to Thailand for the holidays. A much-needed break even for me, Yuuri had thought, one filled with more fun than he deserved and maybe a little courage as he prepared to record the audition tape that would define the next chapter of his life.

Or at least, that had been the plan.

Of course, in true Yuuri Katsuki luck, Phichit’s flight had been delayed. Naturally, his connecting flight didn’t just get postponed—it got rerouted due to bad weather, which transformed into a full-blown cancellation.

Phichit had texted him updates the entire way, but each new message only seemed to feed his growing anxiety. First, it was a weather delay. Then, the plane needed to refuel. And then came the dreaded: "Flight canceled. They’re rebooking me. I’ll keep you posted. Don’t freak out!"

Yeah, sure. 

Don’t freak out. Like that was an option. But Yuuri didn’t exactly have the mental bandwidth to be reasonable about it.

By the time Phichit finally made it to Japan, Yuuri was already teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown. To be fair, it was December 13th. An overall chaotic month. Flights everywhere were running late, people were scrambling to get home before the holidays or doing some pre-Christmas vacation and the skies were an oversaturated mess. Totally understandable. Logical, even. Too logical to just go down the rabbit whole? Not a chance. Instead, he spent most of the day pacing around his apartment, checking his phone every five minutes, and trying not to spiral into a pit of despair.  Yuuri had cleaned his already spotless apartment twice just to keep his hands busy and even attempted to review his choreography—only to give up when his mind kept wandering to worst-case scenarios.

What if Phichit’s flight got delayed again? What if he never made it? What if the audition tape never happened, and Yuuri was stuck here in limbo, forever too anxious to leave Tokyo?

He stared at his phone for the hundredth time, scrolling through Phichit’s last text:
“I’m finally here, Yuu! Be ready, because I’m bringing snacks and motivation. Lots of it. We’re making magic happen!”

Magic. 

Yuuri glanced at the clock. Finally Phichit landed two hours ago and was trying to get to Yuuri's apartment through the lack of taxis and uber. By the time the doorbell finally rang, he had worked himself into such a state of frazzled anticipation that he nearly tripped over his own feet trying to answer it.

“Yuuuuuuuuuri!” Phichit burst through the door like a one-man parade as he opened the door, his grin so wide it could light up the entire block. 

Phichit hugged Yuuri with a crushing force, the result of not seeing each other in person for so long. He was dressed in a bright yellow hoodie and cargo pants that looked as though they’d seen better days. In one hand, he held a plastic bag and in the other, a tripod.

“Dīcı thī̀ dị̂ phb khuṇ, Phichito-kun…” Yuuri muttered in Thai I'm so happy to finally see you (something Phichit taught him), and the corners of his mouth twitched in an involuntary smile. “You don't know how glad I am to have you here…”

“Better late than never!” Phichit chirped, dropping his bags unceremoniously on the couch. “And don’t even start—I’ve had a travel day from hell. But now I’m here, and we’re going to have so much fun. Let me just say—” He paused, taking in Yuuri’s face. “—you look like you’ve been spiraling since last Tuesday.”

“I have been spiraling since last Tuesday.” Yuuri sighed, closing the door.

Phichit laughed, shrugging off his hoodie and pulling out a box of what looked like some snacks he had grabbed on the way to Yuuri's apartment.

“Good thing I’m here, then. You’re about to get the Chulanont Special: optimism, encouragement, and tomorrow a few questionable camera angles.”

As Phichit busied himself unpacking the snacks and drinks he got for them, Yuuri leaned against the counter, watching his friend with some combination of gratitude and exasperation. Phichit’s energy was infectious, and for the first time in days, Yuuri felt a tiny sliver of hope crack through the dark cloud hanging over him for some time now.

“Okay...” Phichit said, plopping down on the couch and gesturing for Yuuri to join him. “Let’s talk about strategy. What are you wearing tomorrow? And don’t tell me you’ve been practicing on an empty stomach because I will stage an intervention.”

“I’ve been practicing every night for months, and no. I thought you were going to help with that, Mr. Cinematic Genius.” Yuuri groaned, sinking into the armchair opposite him. 

Phichit placed a dramatic hand over his heart. Yuuri-kun, you wound me. Of course I’ll help with that. But first, tell me—how are you really feeling about this?”

Yuuri hesitated, his fingers tracing the edge of a cushion.

“I’m terrified…” He finally admitted. “I want this so badly, but what if I mess it up? What if they don’t even watch the tape? What if they do watch it and think I’m terrible?”

“Yuuri…” Phichit said gently, leaning forward. “You’re not terrible. You’ve been practicing for this moment for years. And don’t think for a second I don’t know that—I know how hard you’ve worked for this…” He gestured at Yuuri with a sweeping motion. “Besides, we’re sending this tape to more than a dozen companies. Someone’s going to press play and send you an offer the next second.”

“...thanks, Peach.” Yuuri sighed and replied. 

“What are best friends for?” Phichit said, reaching over to pat Yuuri’s knee. “Do you have to work tomorrow?”

Yuuri shook his head, a wry smile forming on his lips. 

“I asked for a few days off. Not that it helped my credibility. They already think I’m an unreliable newly graduate. I mean, it’s not like the pay is great either, so...I can’t say I feel bad about it.”

“Then let’s make the most of it! And maybe if we finish early, we can watch the Grand Prix Finals, for old time's sake!” Phichit declared with a big smile, sitting up straighter. “Call Minako. You need the perfect space for this, and I’m betting she can help us find it.”

With a resigned laugh, Yuuri dialed Minako’s number.

/ / / / / / / / 

Fast forward through a whirlwind of calls—because when Minako Okukawa got involved, it was less "calls" and more a carefully orchestrated siege strategy—and by the next morning, they were set up in what could only be described as the Rolls Royce of ballet studios. Of course, it helped that Minako was, well, Minako: a recipient of the Benois de la Danse award, a former Bolshoi dancer turned principal in New York, and now a revered icon in Tokyo’s dance scene. If anyone could pull strings to secure a studio like this, it was her.

This studio located in Omotesando, Tokyo was downright ridiculous in its elegance. With polished wooden floors that gleamed so brightly Yuuri was almost afraid to step on them, as if his worn-out ballet shoes might leave some kind of offending mark. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the far wall, letting in sunlight that filtered through a lush garden outside that seemed unbothered by the coldness of the winter weather. The walls, pristine and white, were lined with barres that looked like they’d never seen a sweaty palm. On the opposite side, mirrors stretched endlessly, creating a dizzying illusion of infinite space. 

“Well, this is...uhm, humbling…” Yuuri muttered, standing awkwardly in the middle of all the opulence. 

He glanced down at his tights, suddenly very aware of the tiny thread unraveling near his knee.

“Humbling? This is inspiring!” Phichit declared, throwing his bag onto a bench like he owned the place.

Yuuri could feel something, but it was mostly the pressure mounting in his chest. He exhaled slowly, trying not to think about how many incredibly talented people had probably danced in this exact room before him. He didn’t belong here, did he? He was just some washed-up, dime-in-a-dozen, anxiety-ridden ballet dancer-slash-EMT trying to piece his life back together. And yet...here he was, standing in a studio that looked like this.

He had to admit though, it was stunning. 

“Minako-Sensei really outdid herself.” Yuuri breathed, running a hand along one of the barres. It felt absurdly smooth, like it had been handcrafted by some kind of artisanal barre specialist. “This place is... perfect.”

“Duh, of course she did,” Phichit said, setting up the tripod with a dramatic flourish. “Because you’re perfect and your life-long teacher wouldn't want anything less.”

Yuuri rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the tiny smile tugging at his lips. It was impossible to feel entirely bad about himself when his best friend was around.

“She's like a fairy godmother. Just with less glitter and more sass.” Phichit continued while carrying a tripod and an assortment of props (which Yuuri had already told him weren’t necessary but apparently people -Phichit- never listen), and grinned as he set everything down near a corner of the studio.

“Still can’t believe she managed this on such short notice.” Yuuri agreed, dropping his bag gently to the floor.

“Please… She probably made one call, told someone it was for her most promising pupil ever, and boom—studio secured!” Phichit quipped, winking. “Now, let’s get to it. We’ve got an audition tape to make, and I’m ready to channel my inner Spielberg.”

“More like Michael Bay. I know you’re going to want to add explosions or something.” Yuuri groaned, bending down to pull out his leotard and tights out of his duffel bag. 

“Explosions would make it iconic.” Phichit said with mock seriousness. “But fine, we’ll keep it classic. Speaking of which, remind me what the final piece is?”

“Aria: Stammi Vicino.” Yuuri replied, his voice softening as he laid his clothes out neatly on the bench. “I…I think it's fitting.”

“Oh? Fitting, you say?” Phichit said, raising an eyebrow knowingly. “Fitting to… send it to the Bolshoi, perhaps?”

Yuuri hesitated, sitting down to untie his sneakers. 

“Among others…” He admitted. “I mean, yes. Definitely the Bolshoi. But also companies in Europe, New York, even here in Tokyo. Every opportunity counts.”

Phichit smirked, leaning back dramatically against the wall. 

“You know…” The Thai said, his tone teasing. “...it’s not just Stammi Vicino that makes me think of the Bolshoi. Could it have anything to do with a certain silver-haired Russian legend you’ve been in love with since forever?”

Yuuri’s cheeks turned an immediate shade of pink. 

“Phichit!” He hissed, glaring at him.“I'm not in love, you know it. I just…admire him.”

“Oh, don’t even try to deny it.” Phichit continued, his grin widening. “Your room back in Detroit was basically a shrine to Viktor Nikiforov. Posters, magazines, that one keychain of his dog—what was his name? Makka-something?”

“Makkachin…” Yuuri muttered, his face buried in his hands. “And no…that keychain is for Vicchan, you know it.”

“Right! Right… riiiight…” Phichit said, biting his lower lip and rolling his eyes, clearly not believing him entirely. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten all the times I tried to get you to come to one of my competitions.” Phichit said, wagging a finger at him. “You know, to support your best friend, but also maybe—just maybe—meet your idol, aka your crush, aka the love of your life. But no, Yuuri always had an excuse.”

“I didn’t make excuses.” Yuuri said, lowering his hands just enough to glare at Phichit again. “I was busy.”

“You were busy freaking out at the thought of meeting him.” Phichit shot back. “You could’ve come to Worlds in Vancouver four years ago, you know? Viktor was there, signing autographs and everything. But instead, you stayed home.”

“I did had work!” Yuuri said defensively. “Not lying with that one…my audition was coming up, I was already so stressed binge eating and…”

“You always had work.” Phichit said, crossing his arms. “Or practice. Or some other polite excuse to avoid facing the fact that you might actually meet Viktor Nikiforov and spontaneously combust.”

Yuuri groaned, flopping back against the bench. 

“This is not what I need to be thinking about right now.” He sighed.

“Okay, okay…” Phichit relented, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. Though his grin—a mischievous, all-too-knowing grin—made it painfully obvious he wasn’t done poking fun. “But just so you know, if this tape gets you into the Bolshoi and you end up breathing the same air as Viktor Nikiforov, I’m expecting daily updates.”

“Phichit!” Yuuri’s voice cracked in protest as he launched a towel at his best friend. 

Naturally, Phichit ducked it with ease, his laughter bubbling through the studio.

“I’m just saying...” Phichit continued, the laughter softening into something more earnest. “Life doesn’t hand out opportunities like this every day, Yuuri. Just… don’t waste it, okay? Trust me...you’re much, much incredible than you think you are.”

That brought Yuuri up short. He stood there for a moment, clutching his tights like they were some kind of emotional support.

“I’m just trying to focus on the tape, not… not Viktor Nikiforov or the Bolshoi or anything else.” He muttered.

He hoped his voice sounded convincing, but even to his own ears, didn't sounded too convincing. Phichit didn’t call him out on it, though. Instead, he sighed dramatically, like he was carrying the weight of Yuuri’s stubbornness and moved to adjust the tripod. Meanwhile, Yuuri was busy going to the changing room and beginning to pull on his tights and leotard, trying very hard not to think about what his best friend had said. Viktor Nikiforov. The Bolshoi. Destiny. He shook his head, stretching his arms over his head like the motion could physically banish those thoughts from his brain.

It wasn’t like he didn’t want those things—or, well, one of those things in particular. He wasn’t blind to the fact that Viktor Nikiforov was, in addition to being an unparalleled skating legend, basically the walking definition of "perfection." But Yuuri had already spent too many sleepless nights, sometimes even against his will, dreaming about impossible scenarios where their paths might cross. 

At this point, it was a joke. An embarrassing, ridiculous joke.

“Things like that aren’t logical.” Yuuri thought as he reached down to adjust the hem of his tights. “They don’t happen to people like me.”

Hours later, his nerves were still trying to pull him apart thread by thread. Phichit, on the other hand, was muttering something about angles, lighting and checking something on Yuuri's phone. 

“Alright-” he finally called, stepping back and checking Yuuri's cellphone with the list of the things they needed to include as part of the audition tape. “We covered already the barre work, the adagio, the petit allegro. And now it's time for the last one. Are you ready?”

Yuuri exhaled sharply, his hands brushing over his thighs in a futile attempt to settle his fraying nerves. It was a small, ritualistic motion, as if smoothing out the fabric of his tights could somehow iron out the static zipping under his skin. His mind screamed at him to focus, to move, to do the thing, but his body hesitated.

“Yeah, I’m—” The words tumbled out before his brain had caught up. Then he stopped, mid-sentence, his chest tightening. “No…wait, give me a second.”

Phichit raised an eyebrow from behind the camera, but to his credit, he said nothing—which, frankly, Yuuri might’ve appreciated. But the quiet only made the room feel heavier, like the weight of the moment had doubled in size and was now pressing down on him. Yuuri bit the inside of his cheek, staring at the gleaming floor like it held answers. It’s just your anxiety, he told himself. You’re spiraling because this is important, and you know you can’t screw it up. The studio is booked, the clock is ticking, and there’s no time for second or third chances. But still, he didn’t move. Couldn’t. It wasn’t fear exactly, though it dressed itself in anxiety’s clothes. No, this was something stranger—something quieter.

Like his body had locked itself in place, holding him back with an unspoken wait.

Wait for what?

Yuuri shook his head, trying to push the absurd thought away, but it lingered, stubborn. It was as if he was standing on the threshold of something and all he had to do was wait for the signal. The moment. The cue to step forward.

And then, there it was. A breath. Not his.

It was faint, barely perceptible, but it wrapped around him like a whisper. His pulse skipped, his skin prickling with an awareness he couldn’t name. Whatever had been holding him froze, then gently nudged him forward, as if to say, Now.

Then, Yuuri nodded and Phichit pressed play to the music and raised a finger above the record button.

The song began, soft at first, rising into a hauntingly beautiful melody carried by the voice of an opera soprano. Yuuri let his eyes close, inhaling the sound like it was oxygen for his tangled thoughts. When he opened them again, his body moved instinctively, as if every ounce of his uncertainty evaporated into the air. Every turn, every leap told a story—a bittersweet narrative of yearning and closeness that he couldn’t seem to find in real life. His grand jeté hung weightlessly in the air; his plié was so deep it might as well have been reaching for his non-existent self-esteem. 

Each movement was a plea, a whisper to the universe, to anyone who might be watching—not just for validation but for connection. And then, unbidden, the word surfaced in his mind, clear and unwelcome: soulmate. It lingered there, heavy and unreal, like it didn’t quite belong but refused to leave. 

Sure, governments had their registries, and yeah, 60% of people somehow managed to find the one—complete with glowing eyes, flickering streetlights, and the whole cosmic light show. When soulmates finally crossed paths, it wasn’t just a metaphorical seeing the light moment; it was quite literal. Their eyes lit up like high-beam headlights, artificial lights flickered ominously, and for a brief second, even the sun seemed to dim just to spotlight their reunion. It was dramatic, awe-inspiring, and maybe a little terrifying.But Yuuri? His soulmate was probably lost in the Bermuda Triangle or happily settled with someone who didn’t turn any complex task into a four-stage anxiety process. 

Honestly, the odds were completely against him. And was this strange for him? No. And in a way, it was a relief. He had a highlight reel of shortcomings that played on loop in his head. Lost a scholarship in Detroit? Check. Spiraled so hard after failing that he slunk back to Japan with his tail between his legs? Oh, double check. And then there was the thing where he’d avoided going back home to Hasetsu entirely, too embarrassed to face the people who actually cared about him. Because really, how do you explain? Oh, he could go like: “Hey, remember how I was supposed to make it big? Yeah, turns out I crashed and burned so hard they gave me a participation trophy for effort.” Instead, he’d pivoted—studied for a career he never really wanted because it felt like the only thing he could salvage from the mess he’d made. And while EMT work was noble (and severely underpaid), it didn’t exactly scream dream come true for Yuuri.

So, no. Yuuri didn’t believe in soulmates—not for him, at least. He’d spent too much time being not enough for himself, let alone someone else. Maybe, though… maybe if he danced well enough, just once, he could feel like he was enough for something.

Maybe.

Stop. Stop doing that. Yuuri’s mind snapped at itself, though it felt less like a command and more like a plea. The void of his inner voice—it was definitely his, right?—clawed at him, a tug deep in his chest that silenced every spiraling thought before it could fully form. It wasn’t the usual cacophony of self-doubt he’d grown so intimately familiar with; this was quieter, firmer, and somehow…not entirely him. Like someone had leaned in close, grabbed his shoulders, and whispered, Not now. Just keep going.

Then, suddenly, everything shifted.

The tight coil of nerves in his stomach unraveled just enough for his legs to move, his hands to find their purpose. A peculiar calm enveloped him—not the kind he struggled to reach, but a silence that blanketed him so completely it muted even his own relentless self-awareness. It was disorienting, surreal, and overwhelming, yet it felt oddly natural, like slipping into a dream he hadn’t realized he was having. His chest swelled, not with the usual flood of panic but something softer, warmer—something that felt like forgotten courage dusted off and handed back to him. It wasn’t a voice exactly, and it wasn’t his usual anxiety disguising itself as pep talk.

It was a push, a pull, a certainty. Like he’d borrowed someone else’s strength for a moment—someone who was just as doubtful as he was but who had learned to shove it down and move. It was overwhelming, like a forgotten strength—something borrowed, something shared . And though Yuuri couldn’t understand it, he leaned into it. Because for the first time, it wasn’t his fear that guided him.

It was something steadier. Something sure.

It felt like home.

Phichit watched from behind the lens, completely mesmerized. He’d seen Yuuri dance a million times, but this wasn’t just dancing—it was something raw and electric, the kind of thing that gave you goosebumps and it made Phichit’s chest tighten with pride for his friend.

The music swelled toward its crescendo, and Yuuri launched into a dizzying sequence of spins, his movements perfectly in sync with the rising tension of the melody. Then, with a flourish, his back arched dramatically, his hand reaching upward as if grasping for something just out of reach. His chest heaved as the final note hung in the air like an unanswered question, his gaze locked on his reflection in the mirror.

The last note hung in the air, trembling, as Yuuri froze in his final pose shaking a little and the entire room seemed to hold its breath. Yuuri, panting; Phichit, wide-eyed and even the mirrored walls and wooden planks...the studio itself had decided to still.

Time stopped.

Phichit hit the stop button on the recording, and finally his voice broke through the silence.

“Oh my god, Yuuri. That was incredible! Like, wow!”

Yuuri was still rooted to the spot, his breathing uneven as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. Something about it looked… strange. The way the light hit the glass, scattering golden streaks, felt less warm and cozy and more unsettling, like the beginning of a really weird art house horror movie.

And then it happened.

Crack.

Both of them jumped as the sound split through the studio, sharp and unexpected. Their heads snapped toward the mirror just in time to see a massive fracture spiderwebbing across its surface. The lines streaked outward like a frozen explosion, jagged and mesmerizing.

“Was the…?” Yuuri’s voice barely made it past his throat.

Phichit took a hesitant step forward, his sneakers letting out an overly cheerful squeak against the polished floor. They both stood there, shoulder to shoulder, staring at the fractured mirror. Yuuri’s reflection stared back—broken into jagged, overlapping pieces, each shard catching the light in a way that made the whole thing feel oddly alive.

“Maybe it’s just old…” Phichit suggested, his voice doing a terrible job of sounding confident. “You know, like… studio mirrors. They’re probably cheap. Could’ve been the heat. Or the humidity. Or like… I don’t know?” He waved a hand, clearly trying to summon an explanation from thin air.

But Yuuri didn’t buy it.

A cold shiver rolled down his spine, and the fine hairs on his arms prickled to attention. The cracks in the mirror didn’t feel like something humidity or cheap materials could explain. It felt… purposeful. As if the mirror hadn’t shattered by itself—it had been broken.

Meanwhile, Phichit had switched gears trying to avert their attention, already on a verbal joyride about editing the footage.

“We’ll do some color grading, add a nice fade-in. Maybe some text overlay? ‘Yuuri Katsuki: Shatteringly Good.’ No, that’s cheesy. We’ll brainstorm something better. Also, what do you want for dinner while we edit? Ramen? Sushi? Pizza? Oh, we could go wild and get all three—editing takes a lot of fuel, you know. Also, do we have snacks back at the apartment? Because if not, we should stop on the way—”

Yuuri didn’t hear half of it. His eyes stayed fixed on the mirror with his fragmented reflection staring back—broken, but magnified. The world felt wrong in a way he couldn’t explain, and for a moment, it was as if someone else had been watching him.

“… Yuuri? You okay?”

He blinked, finally tearing his gaze away from the cracks. 

“Yeah…” He muttered, though he didn’t sound convinced. “Let’s… let’s just pack up.”

Miles away, across continents and a couple of time zones, a Champion stood at the center of the ice in Sochi, Russia.

His silver hair clung damply to his forehead, catching the sharp glare of the arena lights. Around him, the crowd’s cheers roared like a tidal wave, crashing against the walls of the rink in thunderous ovation. Stammi Vicino, his free program for the Grand Prix Final, had been nothing short of extraordinary—it was the kind of performance people would talk about for years. And yet, standing there, chest heaving from the effort, he felt… off. Not in a way anyone else would notice—he was, after all, the master of concealing his real self. But deep in his chest, something tugged. It wasn’t the familiar ache of loneliness he knew all too well, the weight he carried beneath his glimmering perfection like a well-worn costume.

No, this was different. 

Sharper. Stranger. Alive .

As he raised both arms higher, a picture of effortless grace, he couldn’t shake the feeling. There was something—something electric. It prickled along his skin, hummed in his pulse. It was ridiculous, fleeting. He dismissed it with the ease of a man used to batting away his own inner musings. Still, even as he let his practiced smile curl across his lips, the sensation didn’t fade. The pull in his chest lingered, heavy and insistent, daring him to acknowledge it. This Champion did his best to ignore it. He tried to refocus on the cheers, the lights, the cameras flashing in rapid bursts like they were afraid to miss a moment of him. But the weight stayed. Quiet. Undeniable. It left him breathless, a feeling he couldn’t name but couldn’t seem to deflect. No matter how hard he tried, the ache refused to fade. 

And so Viktor Nikiforov stood there in front of the crowd, holding his breath.

The universe, it seemed, was holding its breath too.

Chapter Text

 

The Science of Soulmates: Energy, Time, and Pre-Encounter Phenomena

Authors:
Dr. Amelia Cross (Psychologist, Interpersonal Dynamics)
Dr. Hiroshi Takeda (Quantum Physicist, Energy Field Theorist)

Soulmate connections, once considered mythical, are gaining credibility through scientific exploration. The Circumfixion Law and Quantum Theory of Soulmate Energy suggest that soulmate bonds are timeless, operating beyond conventional physics. These bonds manifest most strongly in the 24 hours preceding a soulmate encounter, triggering vivid dreams, heightened emotions, and even synchronicities that could transcend time. This paper explores how energy fields between soulmates overlap, creating shared experiences across years or decades.

Neurological Pathologies and Pre-Encounter Awareness

Heightened Sensitivity and Emotional Resonance

Individuals with neurological differences—such as autism spectrum disorder (ASD) or ADHD, among others—demonstrate heightened sensory processing and emotional intensity, allowing them to perceive subtle energetic shifts. This sensitivity may explain why such individuals report pre-encounter phenomena like dreams or feelings of familiarity with their soulmate. These individuals who can experience anxiety, depression or other pathologies have a heightened experience and can in some encounters with their soulmates have a much intense connection.

It is also funny that in most of the case studies, they also experienced a day filled with positive experiences.

Example:
A mathematician diagnosed with autism in his childhood, dreamed of walking through a forest with an unknown figure. Five years later, they met a writer who described the same forest as inspiration for the novel they had wrote for the past three years, sparking an immediate connection.

 

Quantum Theory: Energy and Time

The Quantum Theory of Soulmate Energy suggests that soulmate connections mirror quantum entanglement, where two particles remain interconnected regardless of distance or time. This energy synchronizes significant emotional states, creating shared experiences across different points in their lives.

Temporal Bonding

Soulmate energy can bridge time, linking individuals during moments of heightened emotion or need. These connections often manifest as shared dreams or inexplicable resonance with another person’s past or future.

Example:
At age 16, a musician dreamed of playing a duet with a partner they had never met. 20 years later, their soulmate—a pianist—experienced the same dream, as if witnessing the musician’s memory. This shared moment created a temporal loop, connecting their emotional states across years.

 

The Quantum Theory of Soulmate Energy

Energetic Resonance and Temporal Fluidity

The Quantum Theory of Soulmate Energy posits that soulmate connections function like quantum entanglement, with energy flowing bidirectionally and unbound by time.

• Temporal Resonance:
  Soulmate energy operates outside conventional time constraints, allowing individuals to perceive moments from their soulmate’s timeline. This resonance often manifests as shared dreams or feelings.

• Bidirectional Energy Flow:
  The connection strengthens as soulmates approach their meeting, creating a feedback loop that amplifies emotional and environmental phenomena.

Example:
In a documented case, a 35-year-old engineer experienced intense déjà vu and a series of inexplicable technical malfunctions while designing a bridge. Six months later, he met a structural analyst who, coincidentally, had been troubleshooting similar issues on a model of the same bridge design. Their shared expertise led to an immediate bond, later revealed to be part of their soulmate connection.

First Encounters: Energetic Alignment

When soulmates meet, their energy fields align, producing profound and measurable effects:

• Neurological Reactions:
  A surge of oxytocin and dopamine creates immediate recognition and trust.
• Environmental Disruptions:
  Subtle phenomena like flickering lights or static, sparks of electricity and shocks of energy sensations often accompany soulmate encounters, signaling energetic alignment.
  
  

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The Circumfixion Law and Quantum Theory of Soulmate Energy provide a scientific framework for understanding soulmate phenomena. These connections could defy linear time, allowing individuals to share emotional states across years and lifetimes. The heightened experiences in the 24 hours preceding a meeting are a testament to the profound, energetic nature of soulmate bonds—an enduring force that unites individuals in extraordinary ways.

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For further exploration, see “Quantum Entanglement in Human Relationships,” Scientific American, July 2013.

3 Months Later

Tonight the ER hummed with a strange, uncomfortable kind of quiet.

Not the kind that allows you to relax or breathe a little easier. 

No. 

This was a quiet that buzzed just beneath the surface, fragile, like a wire pulled too tight. Yuuri hated it. It wasn’t calm; It wasn’t peaceful; it was full of holes, and his brain had a bad habit of falling into all of them.

He fidgeted with a stack of forms on the counter, shuffling them pointlessly, over and over, just to keep his hands busy. Outside, the faint glow of Tokyo seeped in through the glass doors, muted by the hospital’s fluorescent lights. Even in the early hours of the morning, Shibuya didn’t really sleep. Neon signs blinked their colors onto the smooth, polished floors—pinks, greens, and blues flickering in a rhythm too steady to feel real. It was… pretty, in a way, but also overwhelming. 

Like the city was alive in a way Yuuri never could be. Too big, too fast, too much. He avoided looking at it for too long, afraid of that creeping feeling of being left behind.

The Tokyo Metropolitan Hiroo Hospital wasn’t the most modern or remarkable place, but it was solid. It wasn't the IUHW Mita Hospital, nor NTT Medical Center, and much less the upscale, modern and private Toranomon Hospital. No. Its rectangular, gray exterior seemed like it was designed to be practical above all else. No sleek curves—just flat concrete and sharp corners. He couldn’t say if he found that comforting or oppressive. Maybe both. Most days, it felt like a reflection of how he saw himself: practical, plain, and trying not to fall apart under the weight of everything pressing down. Through the automatic doors, the faint outline of the courtyard came into view. It wasn’t much—a handful of parking spaces and a row of carefully planted trees. But tonight, the sakura blossoms were in full bloom. They’d burst to life just yesterday, as though the trees had been waiting for this exact moment at the end of March. The pale pink petals were delicate against the harsh backdrop of streetlights, casting soft shadows on the pavement. 

A breeze sent a few scattering, some landing gently on the red “ER” sign outside.

Inside, the air felt too clean, too still. 

The bright hospital lights didn’t do the space any favors—just sharp angles and white walls. Yuuri glanced at the bulletin board on the wall, hoping for some kind of distraction. It was cluttered, as always. The night shift schedule was pinned at an awkward angle, surrounded by colorful flyers and stray announcements. Someone had doodled little hearts next to Takahashi-sensei’s name, which felt totally on-brand for him. Below that, there was the usual cheery flu season warning and, of course, the hospital mascot, a cartoon ambulance with unnervingly large eyes and a big speech bubble declaring: “Stay Cheerful, Stay Safe!”

Yuuri’s lips twitched in a dry, humorless smile. ‘Cheerful? Right. Ambulance-kun doesn’t have rent to pay'. 

He rubbed the back of his neck, turning his attention back to the counter and the stack of forms waiting for him. Outside, the cherry blossoms swayed in the breeze, their petals catching the faint glow of the city lights. Yuuri’s gaze lingering on the blossoms for a little longer than he meant to. 

For a moment, he envied their simplicity, their effortless timing, their ability to just…be. 

Because he couldn't afford that luxury. 

The quiet pressed in closer, and he busied himself again, sorting the papers with more force than necessary. The blossoms outside were fleeting, perfect, and temporary. Meanwhile, Yuuri felt like he was caught in a loop, running in place, the weight of his thoughts heavier than anything he could put into words. Though his thoughts were waiting for the perfect opportunity to tumble out of the tidy boxes he tried to keep them in. And, as always, when his thoughts wandered too far, they inevitably found their way to him .

Viktor Nikiforov was Tokyo’s main event tonight—or at least that’s how it felt. 

The World Figure Skating Championships had wrapped up earlier in the evening at Yoyogi National Gymnasium, barely 2.5 kilometers away. That wasn’t far. A short cab ride, maybe fifteen minutes on foot if you weren’t rushing. Just a handful of blocks. Close enough that Yuuri could almost feel the energy radiating from this specific area of the city. When he was having a break to eat his dinner, he wondered if he’d be able to hear the echo of the crowd if he opened a window. 

Not that it mattered—he wouldn’t dare. But still…he could picture it so vividly it made his chest ache.

Of course, Viktor had won gold again. His fifth. How could he not? Viktor Nikiforov didn’t lose. He stood on the podium, bathed in white-hot lights, his silver hair catching every beam like a crown of silk. That dazzling smile—effortless and untouchable—would light up the cameras… hell, Yuuri was sure that his smile could light the entire world . He’d lift the gold medal to his lips and kiss it and the crowd would lose their minds, while the commentators spilled over with words like genius and legend.

Yuuri tugged at his uniform, twisting the fabric between his fingers, his mind coming back over and over to the scene for the next 10 minutes. 

He wasn’t sure why he tortured himself like this. 

He didn’t know him—probably didn’t even know he existed. Yuuri Katsuki wasn’t anyone but a failed ballet dancer who chose another career out of sheer panic of not being grateful to his parents, and… people in his life that seemed to still think of him as something worthy. And this, he knew, was a shitty way of seeing himself but after so much time raveling in his self-pity, even the past few months and his constant efforts to be more understanding and patient with himself—as Phichit's and his therapist advised—sometimes, it still was…an uphill battle.

His phone buzzed on the counter, startling him. 

He glanced at it reluctantly, already knowing who it was. Phichit . Of course. The messages from Phichit earlier that week flashed unbidden in his memory, the ones where he’d tried—repeatedly—to convince Yuuri to skip work and try to attend the Figure Ice Skating Championship happening at Yoyogi.

Phichit: You’re literally in there. You can’t skip this. Viktor is skating! 🔥

Yuuri: I’m working.

Phichit: You could swap shifts. Yuuri!!!!! Celestino says he can get you tickets!👀 

He had brushed him off then, too anxious even to entertain the idea. He hadn’t told Phichit that he couldn’t face the thought of being there, of standing in the middle of all that noise with Viktor’s brilliance swallowing the room. He hadn’t told him how just thinking about it made his hands shake for some reason that he himself couldn't understand. Instead, he’d said the same thing he always said: It’s fine.

But tonight, Phichit was back at it.

Phichit: Viktor almost slipped on the ice when he got his medal tonight. Almost. Obviously, he recovered because he’s Viktor, but still. It was a moment. 😂😅

Yuuri froze, the words burning into his brain. Viktor slipping? He could see it so clearly: the brief stumble, the flash of humanity, followed by an effortless recovery that looked so intentional the audience probably thought it was choreography. Viktor would turn even a mistake into something beautiful.

Another buzz.

Phichit: And he looked AMAZING✨✨✨. Like, unfair levels of amazing. Not even a single hair out of place. How does he do it? I need his skincare routine.🤔

He shook his head, lips twitching despite himself. A small, reluctant smile escaped Yuuri before he could stop it.

But the smile didn’t last long.

Viktor under the lights, kissing his medal, slipping just enough to remind the world that he wasn’t perfect—except, somehow, even his imperfections made him feel further away.

He glanced at the clock. 

2:33 a.m. 

Yoyogi was probably empty now, the crowds long gone, the lights dimmed, but it might as well have been another planet. And Yuuri? Yuuri was here, caught between the hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors, as small and insignificant as a speck of dust floating in the air. His fingers hovered over the screen, itching to type something back to Phichit. A sarcastic reply, maybe, or even just an acknowledgment. Anything to prove he wasn’t drowning in his thoughts. But the words wouldn’t come. They were tangled in his head, a mess of half-formed sentences and unsaid things that felt too fragile to drag into the open.

Look how far away you are.

The thought slithered into his mind, quiet but sharp, like a whisper slicing through the noise. It wasn’t new—it had been there for years, really. Always reminding him of the distance between himself and everything he wanted but couldn’t reach. And Viktor… or the idea of someone like Viktor stood at the farthest edge of that distance, a shining figure on the horizon, never coming closer no matter how much Yuuri stretched.

The phone buzzed again, pulling him back from the spiral.

Phichit : Next year when I qualify, you’re coming to Worlds with me. I don’t care if I have to drag you myself. 🐹

Phichit said it so easily, like it was just a matter of logistics: buying plane tickets, packing a small suitcase and deciding where to sightsee. Like Yuuri’s anxiety and self-doubt could be packed neatly and left behind for the night. But it wasn’t that simple. It was never that simple.

He glanced at the clock again.

2:37 a.m. 

The minutes crawled forward. 

Yuuri rubbed at his sleeve, twisting the fabric tighter around his fingers. Phichit’s words lingered on the screen, almost glowing in the dim light of the desk lamp. The phone buzzed again, breaking the silence once more. But this time, Yuuri didn’t look. 

Look how far away you are. The voice in his head whispered again, softer this time, but no less cruel. And Yuuri, as always, had no answer.

Sliding the phone back into his pocket and letting his hands return to the stack of forms on the counter, pretending they were urgent. Yuuri’s hands still. The lights blurred slightly in his vision. His fingers gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening under the pressure. He winced, breathing through the familiar tightening in his chest. 

Nope. Not doing this. Not tonight.  

He wasn’t about to let his brain drag him into another endless rabbit hole. He knew this cycle too well—how it started like a whisper, then snowballed until it left him raw and exhausted, clinging to what little self-worth he had left.

Why did you even send those audition tapes? The thought crept in like an old enemy, uninvited but persistent. Did you seriously think anyone would pick you? Want to hire you?

He shoved the heel of his hand against his forehead, trying to physically push the voice out of his head. It didn’t work. Yuuri sank into one of the plastic chairs near the wall, the kind that were always just a little too stiff to be comfortable. Dropping his head into his hands and pressing his palms hard against his eyes, the pressure grounded him for a moment.

Why would they? His brain whispered, soft but cutting. You’re not good enough. You’re not worth the time. They probably saw your audition tape and laughed.

His jaw clenched as he shook his head. 

The thing about that voice, though, was that it knew how to hit where it hurt.

It didn’t care how hard he worked, how many shifts he pulled, or how much he tried to make himself useful. It always found a way to creep in, to remind him that no matter what he did, it would never be enough. His mind was a battlefield, but there were nights—like this one—when the fight felt impossibly one-sided.

Stop it. he told himself, his voice sharp and commanding, even if it was only in his mind…he tried to bring back the voice he had heard on December and the one who made him feel at peace. Just stop. But the voice that answered back wasn’t sharp at all. It was quiet. Inevitable. You don’t belong here, Yuuri. You don’t belong anywhere. His breath catching in his throat as he stared at the tiled floor. A crack in the linoleum caught his eye—small, barely noticeable—and he focused on it like it was the only thing holding him together. The irony wasn’t lost on him. That crack was like him: trying to seem whole, trying to hold the weight of something so much bigger without splitting further apart.

He straightened up in the chair and glanced at the clock on the wall.

2:46 a.m.

Another hour and a quarter before he could go home, collapse into bed, and hope sleep might reset whatever this was. For now, though, the forms waited, the quiet hovered, and Yuuri sat in that uncomfortable chair, gripping the edge of his resolve like it might slip away entirely.

And that was the thing, wasn’t it? Yuuri liked helping people.

It wasn’t glamorous, and it wasn’t the kind of work anyone ever dreamed of as a child, but it made sense to him in a way few things ever had. He needed that sense of purpose, something solid to anchor him when his thoughts began to spiral. At first, during training, it was the strict, methodical rhythm of the protocols that gave him something to hold on to. Every step, every procedure, memorized down to the smallest detail. It was comforting, really, knowing there was a right way to do things, that if he followed the rules exactly, he wouldn’t screw up. 

Instructions were logic. Rules made sense. People didn’t.

Reading people had always been a foreign language to him—full of nuances and unspoken cues that he never quite understood. His friends could pick up on a mood with a glance, adjust their tone or posture like it was second nature. Yuuri? He was always a beat too slow, overthinking every interaction, second-guessing every word that left his mouth. 

It was exhausting.

But patients…Patients in pain or panic didn’t have time for subtlety. Their emotions were stark and raw, stripped of layers. Fear, grief, confusion—it all came rushing out in ways even Yuuri couldn’t miss. And in those moments, he found clarity. He knew what to do, how to act. His hands moved with purpose, his voice calm and steady, grounding them as much as it grounded him. He could be something solid in the middle of their chaos. And it worked. Every time someone’s breathing evened out or their frantic sobs faded into hiccupping sighs, Yuuri felt a quiet relief bloom in his chest. In those moments, he could forget himself entirely.

It didn’t matter that he wasn’t enough—because it wasn’t about him

It was never about him.

The irony, of course, was that everyone else seemed to think Yuuri was more than enough. 

Too much, even.

He’d spent so long being invisible that when the teasing started, he didn’t know what to do with it. At first, it was easy to ignore the nurses’ comments, brushing them off as jokes he wasn’t supposed to take seriously. But it had grown harder to ignore. The little nicknames—Katsuki-sama, Prince Yuuri, ER’s Darling—were always accompanied by grins and knowing looks. Yuuri would stammer out a protest, cheeks burning, but that only seemed to encourage them.

And then there were the younger doctors, who seemed to find any excuse to consult him. They’d hover over charts that didn’t need second opinions or linger by the ambulance bay as if they just happened to be there. Once, during a particularly chaotic night, one of them casually asked about his favorite tea while a patient was actively being wheeled into surgery. Yuuri, assuming nothing, answered without thinking ‘ matcha’ , only to be teased about it for weeks after.

“You’re stealing hearts, Katsuki-kun.” Takahashi-sensei laughed later, shaking his head. 

Yuuri had rolled his eyes at the time, brushing it off as a joke.

But moments like that kept happening. More nurses with sly smiles, more doctors with excuses to talk to him, even the occasional patient who seemed to linger on his name. It didn’t make any sense to Yuuri. Him? A prince? Charming? The very thought made him want to crawl out of his skin. If someone so much as complimented his shoes, he’d mumble a thank you and flee the conversation as quickly as possible.

Sitting in the breakroom now, his head in his hands, Yuuri couldn’t reconcile that image with the person he saw in the mirror every morning. 

No.

What he felt like—what he’d always felt like—was a dime-in-a-dozen with nothing to offer. A puzzle piece jammed into the wrong spot, its edges bent and frayed from years of trying to fit where it didn’t belong. He couldn’t figure out what they saw in him, how they saw a version of Yuuri that felt so foreign to the one he carried inside.

As his fingers curled into the palm of his left hand, pressing half-moons into his skin, he let his mind circle back to the question that always lingered at the edges of his thoughts: How could they see that version of me when all I see is… this?

His breath hitched as he lifted his head. Yuuri stared at them for a moment, trying to focus on their patterns instead of the heaviness in his chest. But the weight didn’t lift. It never did. Instead, it settled deeper, curling into the spaces between his ribs, whispering the doubts he couldn’t shake: They don’t see the real you. If they did, they wouldn’t even spare a second glance. And maybe that was why he didn’t believe them. Why he couldn’t let himself believe them. 

Because if he let himself think he was enough, even for a moment, and it turned out to be wrong…

“Yuuri-kun!”

The sudden noise stunned him and dropped his pen, now clattering to the desk. He spun around so quickly he nearly tipped out of his chair, his heart lodging itself somewhere near his throat. Yamada, one of the EMTs of the team, leaned casually against the doorframe grinning, entirely unbothered by the hour.

“Y-Yamada-san?” Yuuri stammered, still trying to catch his breath.

“Relax, Yuuri.” Yamada drawled, waving a hand. “I come bearing gifts.” He sauntered in, a cup of coffee in hand, the steam curling lazily into the air like it had all the time in the world. “Figured you could use this. You look like those forms are trying to eat you alive.”

Yuuri blinked at the cup like it might sprout legs and dance. “Is that… for me?”

“Sure is.” Yamada set it down in front of him, the faint clink of the cup against the table echoing in the small room. “Don’t get too excited, it's not from Starbucks but it does the job.”

“Thank you… I think?” Yuuri cradled the cup hesitantly, the warmth seeping into his cold fingers. 

“Don’t mention it.” Yamada leaned back against the table, folding his arms. “But, uh, just so you know, Takahashi-san was looking for you earlier.”

Yuuri froze mid-sip, the cup hovering just below his lips. “He was? Why?”

“Beats me.” Yamada said with a shrug that felt almost deliberately nonchalant. “But he had that look, you know?”

Yuuri’s stomach sank like a stone. “What look?”

“You know…” Yamada’s grin widened as he mimed an exaggeratedly cheerful expression, his hands framing his face. “That look . The one he gets when he’s about to casually throw someone under a bus and pretend it’s no big deal.”

Yuuri groaned, setting the cup down like it might suddenly make things worse. “Great… Thanks for the warning.”

“Hey, thought you should know…” Yamada said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just here to deliver caffeine and vaguely ominous news.”

“Gee…thanks, then…” Yuuri muttered, clutching the cup a little tighter.

Yamada laughed, patting Yuuri on the shoulder as he pushed off the table. “Don’t stress it. It’s probably nothing. Maybe more paperwork. Or, who knows, maybe he wants you to be the face of the new safety campaign.”

Yuuri’s face burned at the suggestion. “Please don’t even joke about that.”

“I’m just saying,” Yamada teased, grinning as he strolled toward the door. “You’d look great on those posters. Real prince-like.”

“Stop it, already!” Yuuri said, waving him off with a flustered gesture, but Yamada’s laughter lingered even after he disappeared down the hall.

Left alone again, Yuuri stared into the swirling steam rising from the cup in his hands. The vending machine coffee wasn’t anything special—Yamada hadn’t lied about that—but the warmth felt like a small victory against the creeping exhaustion at the edges of his mind. He took a careful sip, letting the heat settle in his chest and hoping it might give him courage against whatever Takahashi-san had planned.

The EMT lounge around him was as unremarkable as ever. The microwave on the counter hummed faintly, its corners dented from years of use, and the kettle on the adjacent shelf emitted its usual forlorn wheeze. The vending machine, affectionately nicknamed Steve , stood in the corner like a tired old soldier, its keypad worn down from decades of indecision. Yuuri had a complicated relationship with Steve , who was as likely to dispense a torrent of snacks as he was to dispense none at all. Tonight, Steve-san had been merciful.

Yuuri glanced at the table in front of him where a pack of crackers he bought from the machine sat open. Its surface is a patchwork of coffee rings, pen marks, and chips that hinted at more chaotic nights. One corner looked suspiciously like someone had taken a bite out of it, though no one had ever confessed to the crime.

He let out a slow breath, the cup still warm in his hands. 

Now, it was 3:00 am.

One hour. Then he could leave, shuffle back to his apartment and collapse into bed. The thought was tempting, almost dangerously so. Maybe he’d sleep until noon to wake up in a rush and run back to his eighteen hour shift that would start at 1:00 pm. Or maybe, Yuuri thought with a faint grimace, he could just quit and go practice and dance to the barre at his heart's contempt. No fucking way he could do that. 

Takahashi’s booming voice tore through the quiet like a bull charging through glass.

“Ah, Katsuki-kun! Are you around?”

Yuuri nearly jumped out of his chair, his mug tipping precariously on the table as his heart somersaulted and his paperwork dangerously on the verge of being messed up by spilled coffee. The adrenaline was instant, a sharp jolt through his already overstimulated system. Takahashi’s unrelenting cheer at this hour felt like a cosmic joke—unavoidable and always too much.

“Oh no…” Yuuri muttered under his breath, instinctively clutching his mug like it was a protective talisman anti-demon like bosses full of evil cheer. His shoulders hunched as if that might somehow shield him from the incoming storm. 

Seconds later, Takahashi was bursting into the room, clipboard in hand and grinning so wide it practically glowed. His uniform was, of course, impeccable. Takahashi wasn’t the kind of person who broke a sweat, at least not visibly.

“There you are, Yuuri-kun!” Takahashi’s voice was as loud as it was chipper, and Hiragashi-san, just stepping inside, visibly flinched. “Fantastic news!”

Yuuri’s brain stuttered. Fantastic news? From Takahashi? At three in the morning? There was NO way that was remotely possible.

“...What?” he managed weakly.

“Starting in two days, you’re on paid leave for a whole week!” Takahashi’s grin widened, defying physics. 

The words didn’t compute. 

“I… what?” Yuuri spluttered, shocked.

“The March Bonus Raffle!” Takahashi proclaimed, waving his clipboard like it was an ancient decree. “You won!”

Yuuri blinked slowly, as if trying to clear a fog. 

“The… what raffle?” He followed, stammering.

“The March Bonus Raffle!” Takahashi repeated with undeterred enthusiasm. “Admin forgot to do the New Year’s holiday draw, so they’re making up for it now. And guess who’s the lucky winner? You! One week. Paid. Starting in two days.”

Yuuri sat there, staring as if Takahashi had just informed him he’d been crowned emperor. 

“Are you… serious?”

“Dead serious!” Takahashi said, tapping the clipboard like a judge delivering a verdict. “And to sweeten the deal, your shift tomorrow—technically today—is starting at 4 PM instead of 1. Admin already signed off.”

“Four?!” Yuuri’s jaw slackened. 

Takahashi nodded solemnly. “No arguments. It’s already settled.”

From the couch, Suzuki stretched like a satisfied cat, his long frame lazily sprawled across the cushions. His short, bleached hair, which always seemed like it had been haphazardly styled, somehow managed to look presentable. It framed a face that was deceptively youthful for his 32 years, with sharp cheekbones and an easy smirk that gave him an almost boyish charm.

“Yuuri-kun’s too lucky…”He drawled, his tone amused and drowsy, his legs stretched out as though the entire couch belonged to him. “I won the raffle last year, and they gave me an expired bento voucher.”

Suzuki’s laid-back demeanor was misleading; while he played the part of the devil-may-care slacker to perfection, he could clean up shockingly well when the situation demanded. It was a stark contrast to the ripped jeans and band tees he favored when he wasn’t in his EMT uniform.

“That’s because your handwriting looks like a chicken scratched it out.” Takahashi retorted, puffing his chest out in mock offense.

“Efficient, not pretty.” Suzuki yawned, folding his arms behind his head. “I’m conserving energy. That’s smart.”

“That isn’t efficient, Suzuki.” Hiragashi cut in, her tone sharp but measured as she placed her bag on the counter with practiced precision. “You’re just being lazy.”

Hiragashi Kia didn’t need to raise her voice to command a room—her sharp eyes and arched brow did all the heavy lifting. Her long, sleek dark hair gleamed, tied back in a ponytail so practical it looked intimidating. Gave her the air of someone who saw through excuses before they were even spoken.

“Yamada…” she snapped, her tone dangerously calm as she flicked a pen in his direction. “The vending machine isn’t going to fix itself. Stop flirting with it.”

“I wasn’t flirting—I was…negotiating.” Yamada, leaning against the machine like it owed him money, grinned sheepishly. 

“Negotiate faster, would you?” She said flatly before turning to Suzuki, who had sprawled even further across the couch, looking like a very smug rockstar. Which, to be fair, he technically was. “And you. Stop pretending you’re conserving energy when you’re just lazy.”

“I prefer ‘ strategically resting ’” Suzuki quipped, his bleached hair somehow managing to look both effortlessly disheveled and impeccably styled.

Hiragashi rolled her eyes so hard they almost circled back to Yuuri. She could sense when to let him be, though, her sharp gaze softening just enough to redirect the breakroom chaos before it overwhelmed him. Kia’s wit was surgical, slicing through nonsense with ease, but when it came to Yuuri, she was unexpectedly gentle—like steering a skittish cat away from a noisy vacuum. Yuuri always admired her ability to juggle chaos with grace, though her precision left him constantly on edge.

“One day…” Suzuki muttered, watching her stride off to her next target, “she’s going to take over the hospital.”

“And you’ll still be napping on that couch.” Yamada quipped, earning a rare, faint smile from Hiragashi as she left.

“Strategic rest.” Suzuki corrected once more, as he stretched out even further. “I’m ready to go at a moment’s notice.”

“Ready to nap, maybe…” Yamada said as he leaned casually against the doorframe, grinning. His perpetually disheveled ponytail threatened to fall apart with one wrong move, and his tall frame took up most of the doorway. Yamada had the kind of easy, magnetic personality that made even vending machine malfunctions seem entertaining. “Hey, Yuuri-kun, maybe you should use your week off to pet a dog or something. Therapy, you know?”

Yuuri blinked, caught off guard. “Pet a… dog?”

“Yeah,” Yamada said, gesturing vaguely. “Go find a park, sit under a tree, and meet a dog. Guaranteed to change your life.”

“That’s surprisingly wholesome.” Suzuki murmured, yawning. “But maybe Yuuri-kun can finally find a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Break some hearts. I hear staff morale is too high these days, anyway.”

3:33 am.

Yuuri flushed a deep crimson, nearly choking on his coffee. “Suzuki-san!”

“Suzuki, that’s out of line!” Hiragashi snapped, her sharp gaze slicing toward him. The quiet authority in her tone made Yuuri sit a little straighter out of instinct, even though it wasn’t directed at him.

“What? It’s not bad advice.” Suzuki replied, his tone so casual it bordered on defiant.

“Not a terrible idea…” Yamada chimed in, his grin widening. “Maybe romance would inspire Yuuri-kun to ask for more time off.”

Yuuri buried his face in his hands, overwhelmed by the absurdity. The breakroom had devolved into chaos, and yet, somehow, Takahashi’s announcement still loomed large in his thoughts. One week. Paid leave. The concept felt alien, almost too good to be true.

“Shut it, you two! You’re making Yuuri-kun uncomfortable.” Hiragashi yelled. “Pair of brutes. It won't surprise me when you two end up alone for life or discover your soulmate is Steve.”

“Huh? But Steve is a vending machine.” Suzuki replied.

“Exactly!” Hiragashi quipped, too happy with herself.

By 4 am., Yuuri shuffled out of the hospital into the cool predawn air, his thoughts still circling the strange, unexpected fortune he’d been handed. The city stretched before him, and Yuuri let out a long, steadying breath. First thing on the agenda: sleep. Then, maybe tomorrow he could go stretching in the barre and practicing a little to make his time count.

Because that was he was sure: starting tomorrow, he could…no, he must make his time matter. 

Because maybe he needs to repeat himself that he mattered. 

The small hours of the morning carried a weight that felt like the edge of a dream—quiet, still, and heavy with something unspoken. For the first time in weeks, Yuuri had slipped into sleep without a fight. 

He was in Hasetsu.

The sun was bright, the air rich with the scent of saltwater, sand and the faint cry of seagulls broke the silence. It was a picture home, familiar in a way that tugged at his chest. Vicchan darted across the sand, his tiny paws kicking up little bursts of dust as he barked, his small form leaving a trail of footprints behind. Yuuri crouched, calling to him, but the sound of his voice was carried away by the wind before it could reach him.

The warmth began to fade.

Yuuri straightened, looking out at the horizon. The edges of the scene blurred, smudging like an unfinished painting. The sun dimmed, swallowed by a creeping shadow that stretched across the sky. 

Vicchan’s barks grew fainter until they disappeared entirely.

His heart tightened as he searched the empty shoreline, but Vicchan was gone. He looked down, his bare feet sinking into white sand…

No, not sand.

Snow.

The warmth evaporated, replaced by an icy chill that clawed its way into his lungs. The air bit at his skin, sharp and unrelenting, and the familiar sounds were replaced by a deep, hollow silence. When he lifted his head, he was standing in the middle of an endless expanse of snow. The world stretched out in every direction, vast and white. He was wearing the teal jacket, the one he had used a lot when in university—its weight familiar against his shoulders— now shielded him from the cold, though the wind still slipped through the cracks like icy fingers.

The pull began. A faint electricity.

It stirred in his chest, insistent, like a thread winding tighter with every beat of his heart. His boots crunched softly as he took a step forward guided by an invisible force. The pull grew stronger with every step, a magnetic force he couldn’t resist, guiding him across the frozen expanse. The air carried a sound that wasn’t quite the howl of wind—it was softer, low and constant, like the sea itself was whispering secrets. He stopped at the edge of the frozen shore, where the snow met the ice. The horizon seemed to stretch infinitely, the faint outlines of land in the distance smudged and unreachable. 

Ahead, the horizon shimmered with the faintest glint of water—or ice. Yuuri’s breath trembled in the cold, curling into mist that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

Why does this feel familiar?

The pull in his chest vibrates like a second pulse beneath his ribs by now. He wrapped his arms around himself instinctively, but the cold wasn’t what unsettled him—it was the ache in his chest as if something inside him was trying to break free.

And then it happened.

Two arms wrapped around him, firm, holding from behind him like he might disappear. It was desperate. It spread through him, chasing away the cold in a rush of sensation that made his entire world narrow to the sudden warmth pressed against his back. It shouldn’t have been possible—not here, not in this place of cold and emptiness. But there it was: steady, strong, desperate…raw. 

The arms circled him like a lifeline thrown out to a drowning man.

Electricity hummed through him, not sharp, but warm, a low vibration that thrummed in the center of his chest, spreading outward until it reached every nerve and every corner of him. It wasn’t just the cold that made him shiver—it was this. And the arms weren’t rough or heavy; they were lean, strong but delicate, as though they belonged to someone younger—someone who hadn’t yet grown into the full weight of their strength. 

He should’ve been afraid. Why am I not afraid? The thought surfaced, but it was brushed aside like it had no place here, as if some invisible hand smoothed it out of existence. He felt himself lean back instinctively into the embrace, and he gripped the arms that held him—fingers trembling but firm—because something told him that if he let go, this anchor would vanish into the icy wind leaving him adrift. The hum of energy surged again and his thoughts tangled with it, blurred and strange, until they weren’t just his thoughts anymore.

The words came to him as brushes of pure emotion that transformed into words of a language he didn't know until now—and it was as if he had known...since the day he was born.

Stay close to me.

Yuuri’s eyes fluttered shut as his chest tightened with the quiet plea.

Don’t let go. I don’t want to be alone.

The ache behind those words hit him. He felt it, what the words meant. It wasn’t just loneliness—it was isolation, a depth of solitude so vast it made Yuuri’s breath tremble in his throat. The feeling bled into him, filling the hollowness that had lived inside him for years.

Where are you?

The question felt like a painful complaint. And it made the pull in his chest sharpen, twisting like a rope being yanked taut. Yuuri’s own thoughts slipped into the hum, unguarded and vulnerable, whispered into the freezing air like confessions he hadn’t meant to share.

I’m not enough for anyone.

The arms around him tightened, like they heard him, like they understood the truth he didn’t dare admit out loud.

I need you.

Yuuri’s throat ached, his breath shaky. The warmth at his back pressed into him more firmly now, holding him like he was precious—like he was necessary. His chest swelled with something hot and heavy, like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to spill over into tears or laughter.

But you don’t even know me.

The thought slipped out from him. It was the truth…and he knew that this…this person, whoever might be, wouldn't even ask for Yuuri if he knew him. If this someone knew how much of a failure he was.

I know enough.

The reply was soft but unyielding, a conviction dancing with a steady beat carried through the hum and very air vibrated with its certainty. The warmth didn’t waver; it only wrapped itself closer around Yuuri, like the arms at his back were a shield against everything cold and cruel. Yuuri’s grip on the stranger’s arms tightened again, his fingers curling desperately into the fabric of their coat as if trying to convince himself this wasn’t a dream. 

How can you know me? The hum in Yuuri's chest buzzed louder, tangling his thoughts like threads pulled tight. I’m broken.

The response came immediately with unshakable force.

You’re enough.

It struck him like an avalanche how the weight of the words cracked through his defenses, sweeping away the parts of himself as he attempted to put some space between them. His vision blurred, heat pooling behind his closed eyes, as though some hidden part of him—some fragile, buried part—had been seen for the first time.

I don’t understand. Yuuri thought. How can you know…?

I feel it. The hum softened, curling around him like a whisper. I feel you. You’re kind. Gentle. Warm.

Yuuri’s pulse was a fluttering mess beneath his ribs. 

You’re brave, even when you don’t think you are. You’re stronger than you believe.

The voice pressed closer and caressed him like a hand reaching out through the dark to touch him.

I can feel it when you hold on, even when it’s hard. I can feel how hard you try.

The spark of electricity matched the rhythm of his own stuttering heartbeat. Yuuri felt it—deep, undeniable, something he couldn’t have imagined even in his loneliest dreams.

But I’m nothing special. His thoughts whispered back.

You’re everything.

Yuuri’s hands trembled, his grip on the stranger’s arms slipping as his body sagged. The hum carried on, steady and insistent, threading through his soul like it was trying to stitch him whole.

I can feel how much you care. About everyone. About everything. You give so much of yourself even when you think it’s not enough.

No, that's not true. Yuuri squeezed his eyes shut, the burning behind them spilling hot tears down his cheeks. I’m not—

You are. The reply was a whisper that resounded like thunder, its presence filling every empty, broken space inside him. I know it. I know you. I feel you, and I need you.

Yuuri’s breath shattered as he felt it—the hum stretching between them, vibrating with a connection he couldn’t understand but couldn’t deny. It was there, alive and real, like two heartbeats trying to beat as one across an endless distance.

How can you know it? Yuuri’s mind trembled with the thought.

The hum around him softened, cradling him with something close to tenderness.

Because you’re mine.

The certainty in the words knocked the air from his lungs. The words twisted together, like two strings being pulled tighter and tighter until they threatened to snap. The wind howled, tugging at his teal jacket and scarf—no this…this was not his scarf.

A deep royal blue scarf flared out in the wind, vivid against the pale landscape.

Yuuri blinked, confusion threading through the haze of warmth and static. His fingers curled tighter into the arms around him, clutching at them, his body trembling under the weight of the unspoken pull between them.

Please, I don’t want to be alone anymore.

His hands tightened around the arms that held him, his grip desperate now. His vision blurred as something burned hot and unsteady at the back of his eyes. His knees trembled and before he could think to stop it, his legs gave way. The frozen sea tilted beneath him, the ice rushing up to meet him in a blur of blue and white.

And then—

Yuuri bolted upright in bed, gasping as though he’d been pulled out of deep water. 

His chest rose and fell rapidly, his pulse pounding so loudly it felt like it might echo through the room. The darkness was soft, faintly split by thin slashes of light seeping through the edges of the curtains. 

Morning. 

For a moment, he didn’t move. 

His eyes stared blankly at the shadowy wall across from him as his mind reeled. His skin prickled with the unmistakable sensation of being held—arms wrapped around him like an anchor, like someone had only just let go. His hand shook as he pressed it to his chest, feeling the echo of something that had thrummed through him moments before. Yuuri dragged his fingers through his damp hair. The images from his dream—if he could even call it that—refused to fade as the sharp bite of the freezing wind, the endless snow stretching out to the horizon, the sound of ice cracking beneath his feet came back to his mind… it was all so vivid. Too vivid. He could feel it, taste it, as though the cold still clung to his skin.

And then there was the scarf. 

That blue scarf .

The color had seared itself into his memory. It was as real as the ache in his chest.

"Please, I don’t want to be alone anymore."

The words lingered, soft and desperate. It was just a dream. It had to be.  

Sliding his legs over the edge of the bed, Yuuri sat hunched forward. His breathing came in uneven bursts, each exhale curling into the stillness of the room. He stared at the floor, at the faint patterns of light and shadow painted there by the curtains. 

His gaze flicked to the clock on the nightstand. 

Almost ten in the morning. It was still early and maybe it would be best if he tried to sleep some more, but his limbs weighed down. He flexed his fingers against his thighs, trying to shake the remnants of that unreal warmth.

“...I… well…” His voice cracked as he murmured aloud, breaking the silence in the room. “Uh… maybe I should go for a run.”

The words hung awkwardly in the air, as though saying them might convince him they made sense. The idea didn’t feel natural—more like grasping at something to fill the growing emptiness in his chest. His heart still thudded faintly against his ribs, as if it hadn’t quite caught up with the fact that he was awake. 

Moving would help. Moving always helps.

He stood slowly and made his way toward the small pile of clothes he’d left by the dresser. The light filtering in through the curtains grew brighter as the minutes passed, painting faint lines of gold across the room. Yuuri stared at the pile for a moment longer than necessary with his hand hovering just above his running jacket. What are you running from?  

The thought slipped through unbidden, unshakable, but he pushed it aside with a shake of his head. 

He didn’t have the answers. 

Not yet.

/ 10 years prior /

2005

A gasp sound broke through the darkness of the room. 

His chest rising and falling as though he’d just sprinted miles, made him touch the center of his ribcage to hold himself together.

The dim light of the room did little to soothe him. The space felt suffocating, walls pressing in around him like a cage. He shoved the damp blanket off his body and sat, restless, and let his fingers rake through the damp mess of his hair and smoothing long strands with a combing motion.

He felt the dream that just woke him up like a second skin, looming over. The beach. The sharp tang of salt air, the chill of the wind slicing through him. But most of all, the figure in a teal jacket. He could still feel them, warm, pressed against him as he held on for dear life. His arms ached with the memory of it, the phantom weight of someone who had felt too real to be a figment of his imagination.

But their face—why couldn’t he remember their face?

None of it made sense. None of it mattered. It was just a dream—a stupid, fleeting dream. That’s all it was. And yet, the ache in his chest refused to agree. No matter how much he tried to shove it aside, it stayed, persistent as the faint pull in his ribs that he couldn’t name.

He pushed himself off the bed abruptly and crossed the room to the frost-kissed window. His reflection stared back at him in the glass—pale, drawn, and shadowed with exhaustion. The heavy bags beneath his eyes told the story of sleepless nights he didn’t want to admit to, nights spent trapped between the mounting pressure of the world and the fragile loneliness that refused to leave him. Beyond the glass, St. Petersburg stretched out in icy silence. He pressed his forehead to the cold glass, the chill biting into his skin as his breath fogged the surface. That beach wasn’t some random fabrication of his mind. He knew that beach. It was real—his favorite beach near the city, a spot he went mostly alone or with his dear dog. But the way it had appeared in his dream, made his stomach churn. 

Why?

He clenched his jaw, forcing the feeling down, burying it alongside every other fragile emotions that he knew were better keeping five feet under.

It wasn’t real.

The world loved to romanticize soulmates, didn’t it? The perfect connection. The perfect person. He’d heard the stories, seen the movies, read the books that painted soulmates as the ultimate fairytale, the one thing that could make life feel whole. And yes, there was some science (a lot of science, really) but science also told the cautionary tale of all the ways soulmates could go wrong…and all the ways a lot of people weren't supposed to have one. Despite the logic, it was better to think of it as a fairytale.

And fairytales didn’t exist. Not for people like him.

The electricity in his chest gave a faint, stubborn thrum, as if to argue with him. His fingers curled against the windowsill. Soulmates were just stories, after all. Stories people told themselves to feel less alone, to give life meaning when it felt impossibly cruel.

He couldn’t afford to waste time chasing fantasies. 

Not when the world expected so much from him.

He pushed away from the window with a sharp motion, the ice in his veins thawing into a slow burn of frustration. He grabbed the glass of water on his nightstand, downing it in one go. He set the glass down with more force than necessary, the sound sharp against the quiet, and climbed back into bed. The blanket felt too heavy, the silence too loud, but he pulled it over his head anyway, a futile shield against the lingering ache.

“Don’t expect me to wait around for something that doesn’t exist.” His lips twitched with a sour smile.

As he shifted onto his side, his gaze fell to the bedside table, where his most recent triumph sat in display. The gold medal from his first Senior World Championship glinted faintly. The one he had chosen, on a whim, to kiss for everyone to see—proof of everything he’d worked for. And also a blue flower crown rested on his desk—the one thrown to him by a fan just moments before he stepped onto the podium. The same one he’d impulsively chosen to wear when accepting his medal. It was all there. Everything he’d dreamed of. Everything he’d worked for.

So why did he feel so hollow? 

The ache in his chest pulsed faintly, the hum vibrating through him once more, as though mocking the emptiness he couldn’t ignore.

You already have everything you wanted. The thought whispered. Why would you deserve anything more?

Viktor Nikiforov closed his eyes and waited for sleep to come.