Chapter Text
"Dude, what the fuck?"
Katya was hiding behind his broad shoulders, teeth chattering as the rink's chill bit through the sleeves of her sheer violet blouse. Viktor had grown used to the debilitating presence that was Phichit Chulanont, but it seems his rinkmates hadn't yet acquired the skills to drown out the aura of contempt he exuded, giving the evil eye to anyone who so much as breathed in Yuuri's direction.
"Ah, I warned you. Phichit Chulonant, 15 years old, a frequent flyer in the juniors division. He's Katsuki's guard dog. I'd advise against getting all touchy-feely again. The kid is liable to rip off a limb. Knowing the ISU, they'd dock your presentation score if you showed up missing an arm."
There was no real bite to his words. Viktor's tone was cautionary at best, disengaged at worst. The man was too busy gawking at said escortee to pay her any mind. He had been looking forward to this event, anticipating the battle of a lifetime. It had been years since he had felt challenged, but with the ISU on his ass and Yuuri not far behind, the stakes were high.
As it turns out, watching your rival set themselves up for failure really takes the fun out of things. Had he dared to voice these concerns aloud, Victor knew he'd be met with loud opposition. Since when was it normal to throw the walking dead in front of a crowd? The whole thing was a disaster waiting to manifest itself into reality.
Yuuri's skin was doughy and cadaverous. He stood tall, but the hesitance with which he stood contradicted the proud impression he was trying to give off. The sunken bags under his eyes were the shade of spoiled pomegranate juice. There was a thin sheen of setting powder abating the discoloration, but it lacked the opacity needed to mask the issue capitally. Someone needed to apply some concealer, and fast.
Were he and the other skater on better terms, Victor would likely have a word with Celestino, chastising him for allowing one of his students to attend a competition while ostensibly green in the gills. Whatever Yuuri had was presumably contagious. The fingers would all point in the same direction when skaters began to drop like flies. Well, it wasn't like it was any of his business, but Viktor would prefer to avoid catching the plague, or more likely, strep throat. He spurted another dollop of sanitizer into his already cracked palms. God, sick people were gross. No need to make everyone else disgusting, as well. The man shivered, put off by the idea of snot blocking his airways and sores dotting his tonsils.
"I'm gonna go talk to him, make nice and all that."
Katya didn't allow Viktor the opportunity to protest, decisively sashaying towards the unfortunate trio with her head held deceivingly high. As he'd feared, Phichit immediately acted as a human shield, gluing himself to Yuuri's side and glowering at the incoming 'threat'. Oh, great show, dear Watson, and for once, Viktor wouldn't have to compromise his own sanity to see it!
The showdown ended as soon as it began when a flushed Yuuri ruffled his companion's hair, saying something Viktor wasn't close enough to hear, though it was likely an assurance of some sort as Phichit's hackles fell. Boo… There goes any promise of excitement for the day.
As they exchanged greetings, however, Viktor found himself second guessing his antecedent judgments. Yuuri was swiftly transformed into a willful force, life seeping from every pore as he chatted with the other two athletes, his coach too preoccupied talking on the phone to join their little socialization circle. There's no way Yuuri had thought so far ahead as to plan looking frail in an attempt to throw his competition off his trail…right? Viktor knew his reasoning was no more sound than that of a paranoid degenerate, but by god, Yuuri was either an admirable actor or a convincing cheat.
Upon further inspection, however, the truth became apparent, glittering through the blinds like a prophet's hearty declaration of devotion. He was lively, animated and fluid like a buoyant minx… but that glint in his eyes was worth no more than cheap drug-store cellophane. The powder did little to mask his bleached complexion. What really established the farce to be just that, however, was the bestial exhaustion, the malevolent whispers that rested just behind the boy's teeth and above his tongue. A worm seemed to have found its way into Yuuri's throat, and Viktor couldn't help but wonder if he was the one to blame for spreading a repugnant disease all along. His own worm remained, though sleeping in the cavernous home it had eaten away inside of him.
It takes a counterfeit to know one. As fictitious as the whole ploy came across, Viktor found comfort in the notion that his delusions were unwarranted, that Katsuki was candidly pursuing his success in the only way he knew how. In a paradoxical turn of events, they were chasing the same high, not nearly as dissimilar as Viktor had originally ascertained them to be. He shouldn't have been surprised, that the boy wasn't all cauldrons and spite, brew and bitterness. He was only human.
The rhapsody of the passionate crowd allowed him reprieve, consoling his frayed nerves with its familiar rhythm. Only recently had they been permitted to chant vocally instead of clapping along with the skaters soundtracks, but having been in the game for myriad of rulebook revisions, Viktor was taken back to his Junior years, when the whoops and clamors were all he'd ever known. The nostalgia the commotion brought about was sour, unpalatable, but though it made his lips itch to pucker and prune, it brought about a tranquility he'd thought consigned to oblivion.
"Warmup, Wave one, take to the ice please. Six minutes on the clock."
Chris, Viktor, and Katsuki all made their way to the entry gate, handing their skate guards off one by one. He figured it best to keep to himself in order to ward off another possible mishap, such as the calamity that had occurred at Skate America. Chris must have shared the sentiment, as the chatterbox of a man gave off a stoic air, tracing deep edges into the ice with calm, practiced sways or his hips and legs. Katsuki remained out of sight and out of mind, thank god for that.
When they were called off the ice, Viktor gathered his bearings, knowing that based upon the accumulated scores of the season, he would be performing his short program first, setting the tone for those who would proceed him.
One, two, three, one, two three, and to the man's delight, he has returned to his palace laid barren in the limelight, center stage for all to behold. Viktor stood deathly still, consuming the dense ozone of anticipation and hesitance like an ivy of ebbing life would soak up sunlight and water. They were calling him, his mother and the angels, the crowd and the whales swimming in the yawning magma that blistered below the earth's crust. Every sound in the world had met with one another here, a self-contained orchestra of threaded experiences, all tied together with a corroded scrap of hallowed rope.
Quad Lutz- Triple Toe combo; he was just a young boy, the smell of coriander and poppy seeds tainted the air. Poppy seeds that jumped from the frying pan, bursting in the air like fireworks. Have they any flavor? None that he could recall. Purposeless, no claim to rely upon. Dinner was cold and oily. He ate it without complaint.
Ah, here comes the sit spin. The onion made hollow groans as it spun round, beaten against the pot's rounded belly. Whom was it being punished for? Man cannot subsist off of a single onion, not when Mother Earth provides free blackberries on fickle bushes and game trotting from alcove to meadow. This taste did serve a purpose, one of admonition.
The camel spin; flouncing through the overgrown garden, long abandoned stalks of okra creating a corn maze of their own. Water squandered for naught, as they had already received the blessing of rain earlier that morning. The garden hose served a unique purpose in this setting of summer retrospection, one of childish faith and dirt caked feet, colliding with the sun to give birth to a prismatic scene of watercolor showers.
His specialty, the quad flip, this time with both arms above his head. The brush caught on transparent tangles, making unpleasant babel as they parted ways with his scalp, nestled within the delicate fibers of an ivory handled comb. He enjoyed the juncture regardless, because her hands were the ones behind the pain. She could never mean any harm, and he was content to relish in the attention while it was available.
In the second half now, he soared into a triple axel. The cluttered drawers were thoroughly picked through, their miscellaneous contents spread aimlessly about the living room floor, clinging to the carpet like gnats on flypaper. Did the adamant shuffle of forgotten documents, birth certificates and tax write offs serve any purpose? Viktor decided to join in the search, earning praise and a wry smile. They never found whatever it was she was looking for that day. The landline was thrown into the furnace, red plastic corrupted into hellfire and a pungent chemical fog.
The triple loop; Pangs of hunger, the excess frost that clung to his skates, and blown pupils became his righteous treasures, bathed in the blood of Mother Mary and mangled by the hands of man. The church had christened him, but God was none the wiser. A bunch of pastoral crooks had robbed him of sanctity, yet he too remained ignorant, too busy saving the life of another to consider the possibility of building his own. The future was an extrinsic prospect, one he had no time to dawdle around.
Lastly, a combination spin. The knock. Oh how his body had convulsed, his spine folding in half, once, twice, turning him into a whirlpool of malady. Spin, they said. Spin, spin! Dance for us, for we have the power to grant your wishes! The fae chimed and spattered, the bells on their ankles mimicking the wind's whistling carol. Children make sense of the most elementary phenomenons, but to this day, he believed the breeze had taken sick pleasure in his sudden atrophy. The train tracks were his new play place, where he could be alone in body but united in spirit. The bluebells whined, hushed and lulled to sleep by the daisies. In tandem, they poked their adolescent heads through the chalky pebbles that oppressed their growth.
"Are you happy?" Asked a withered Daisy.
"What a cruel way to send me off." replied the boy.
"Don't come back to this place anymore, darling child."
"How am I meant to live in a world devoid of your company?" He pleaded with the dainty, drooping weed.
"You must create a color of your own, for I am pale and white, malleable and mortal. Ere long, I will turn to dust."
"I quite like your shade, we match, don't you see? Why won't you let me stay with you, Daisy?"
"There will be nothing to stay for…and oh, you poor, silly boy…You and I are nothing alike, for I am pearl, and you are silver."
The boy blinked away feeble droplets of salt and dolor, now on his knees.
"But I don't want to be silver! Only at night, when all else is dark, do the stars shine. The horrid hue has no place in the light of day!"
"Then become gold."
That day, he brushed his own hair back into a high ponytail. That day, he swore to embody a glorious gold for however long he was destined to remain earthbound.
Spellbound, the crowd lingered in their wonderment, remaining mute as Viktor held his final pose, mottled and tabby as he shook off the echoes of years past. Then they detonated, their movement rumbling like a promised storm. He had just written out and relived eleven years of life, the golden blades of his skates alluding to their memory via faint, frosted stencils. The bleachers cried out in distress as the entire arena rose to their feet, some crying, several cheering, but all breathless in their veneration.
His legs were weeping, thorn laden rose vines replacing the veins interlaced with throbbing muscles beneath his skin. Poisoned by the intensity of it all, Viktor very nearly cried. Viktor felt the gravity of his performance tear through the veil of the mise en scène. It would be criminal if the judges resolved themselves to belittle it in any way, shape, or form. Their opinions weren't of any import, but the sentiment remained, plucking through the waves of bittersweet nostalgia beading along his chin.
He and Yakov patiently awaited the final verdict. With bated breath and hands wringing droplets of anxious sweat from one another, Viktor watched the screen carefully. The man couldn't recall the last time he had experienced such amateur disquietude. Like a survey, the score would fill him in on what was to come. How sadistic were the fate's appetites today?
'102.3'
Viktor had been granted amnesty. The worm had already been disturbed, so he wasn't allowed a chance to bask in the momentary relief, but he was sated for the time being, nerves quenched and expression slack.
A rambunctious faction of reporters and photographers hounded the pair as soon as they left the kiss and cry. Viktor had places to be, and their hovering impeded his plan to make a swift exit. In true 'Viktor' fashion, he pawned them off on his coach with a courteous wave, covertly scuttling through the amassment until he was free of their incessant prodding.
Yuuri was up next, and though he'd have to be discreet, the man had every intention of examining the program in its entirety. There were things he envied about the young skater, and if he picked apart every aspect of his presentation, Viktor believed he'd be able to replicate the operatic dignity with which he moved. That's all Katsuki had on him, and with that notch plastered upon his belt, the kid would be left in the dust.
The ballad began. Viktor had hidden half of his face behind a surgical mask, distinctive silver hair tucked beneath the hoodie he had stuffed into the bottom of his skate bag earlier that morning. He had been less than forthcoming with his rinkmates, sneaking off like a naughty child, but it's not like anyone would notice his scarcely extended absence. It would be as simple as claiming he'd had to pee, and that the line for the bathroom was dreadfully long.
As soon as Yuuri's program began, Viktor was transported back in time, harshly dropped into a bustling concert hall filled with cigarette smoke and drunken teenagers. Beer cans were clinking, women were screaming, and Prince had just made his grand entrance, neon lights illuminating the whites of his eyes and etching out his silhouette from the depths of the inky darkness of their surroundings.
Upon closer inspection, however, his face recasted itself into one of tender youth, of chiseled dedication. Yuuri Katsuki was the emperor of the hour. The year was 1980 something, and he was just another face in the crowd of worshipers.
He had to wonder how someone who looked a mere hare's leap away from passing out had managed to embody the king of rock and roll without so much as a hint of forced ostentation. The boy could have been misconstrued as a little egomaniac, with the haughty smirk he bore brashly exposed to all in attendance. Viktor, an actor in his own right, could graze the surface of his guise, and in that brief flash of integral access, could make out the shadow of strain hidden just below the surface of Yuuri's tailored expression. Katsuki was a dying battery fighting to leave behind its legacy, positive and negative charges slowly working towards self imploding as it trucked on, ever diligent in its mission to prove itself paramount.
What a beautiful tragedy it was. Viktor found himself fiddling with the Daisy charm around his neck. The silver glint of Yuuri's earrings catching below the stage light has brought the action about, reminding him of the chain dangling above his décolletage. Truly a rockstar, huh? Such gaudy expressions would normally repel the respectable, Viktor included, but he took notice of the fact that no bubble of distaste had tainted the tip of his tongue.
Yura wanted piercings like that, and seeing them on his idol would be no help in dissuading him. Hell, even Viktor was tempted to try out the look, seeing how well it translated under the bright lights of the arena. An attention grabber, not that he needed one, would be a fun addition to next season's programs… but he knew better. The press would have a field day with that one, shoving surly 'copycat' accusations down his throat. His little Daisy was decoration enough.
It dawned on him, as the program came to a close, that If Victor was the moon, then Yuuri was the sun.
Viktor who represented all that was good and conventional, who abided by the derision that life threw at him with grace and brevity. Viktor who shone his brightest when all else was dark, thriving on his own suffering. Viktor who gave up his life as an offering for the masses to feed upon.
Yuuri, who could shine whenever, wherever. Yuuri, who radiated a familiar shade, one Viktor long claimed as his own, though it was dull and copper at present. Yuuri who was versatile and everything at once, bringing life instead of offering his own.
Where jealousy hissed, furling up tightly to protect itself, admiration bloomed. One was not stronger than the other, a perfect duality of promised misery. The worst kind of balance was one at equilibrium, for there was no end to it. Like Saint Paul and Raphael, Abbadon and Legion. Ice and flame.
The names he had turned a blind eye to for years, formed of his own initiative? Viktor feared his descent into madness would be brought on by such clerical comparisons. If it ever were to come to fruition, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, the devil would have to drag him into the gorges of hell by the ribbon used to embellish his embalmed corpse, for Viktor would allow no one to witness such a paltry apperception of him.
It was at times like these when he wished to be in his cups, but a plight in any way similar to that which had taken place at the Rostelecom cup would be the hindmost nail in his coffin.
"I FUCKING LOVE YOU CHRIS!!"
"Ok, well Jesus fucking Christ lady, maybe scream towards the rink instead of directly into my ear?"
Oh…he had not meant to voice that one aloud. Thankfully she was too distracted thirsting over Chris, who was currently humping the ice (albeit adroitly), to notice. As was typical of him, Viktor watched the performance, standing to cheer with the rest of the audience when it came to a close. He hadn't been paying enough attention when Yuuri's score was announced, so he took Chris's reveal as an opportunity to check the current rankings.
Viktor Nikiforov - 102.3
Christoph Giacometti - 100.6
Yuuri Katsuki - 98.3
It was as he had expected it to be. There were still three other competitors who would be performing, so the results were still subject to change, but not by much. Javier was the only person who could shake up the scoreboard, and he would be up next, so Viktor opted to rejoin his coach and rinkmates near the foot of the arena.
"You missed Chris! God, every time he skates I melt into a puddle of-"
"Katya, dearest, I love you to bits, but I think some details are better left to the imagination."
"But Viktor! You have his number!"
Viktor had to stop himself from blurting out a secret that was not his to share… though its level of confidentiality was debatable. Chris wasn't exactly subtle. It's why he had received fewer gold medals than what could be considered equitable over the years. Even without blatantly admitting to his preferences, the ISU issued its standard threats, threats that were willfully ignored by said skater. To each their own, if Chris valued love more than life, more power to him.
"Get it yourself, confidence is sexy, yknow?"
The only response he received was a growl of frustration. Instead of dignifying her childish antics with a solid retort, Viktor gave her a gentle shove, leaning against the rink's barrier as the fifth skater made his way onto the ice.
"Excuse me, Mr. Nikiforov?"
A short man with icy blue eyes was standing to his left, one hand outstretched in the air as if requesting a handshake. It was to be expected, considering the fact that he had blown the press off earlier. Just another one of his expectations.
"This is he. How may I assist you Mister…?"
"Liam McClain, but please, call me Liam. I was wondering if I could grab you, only for a second, for a quick interview?"
Viktor looked over his shoulder helplessly, silently pleading with Yakov. His coach's eyes narrowed in a suspiciously gleeful show of vindication. God dammit.
"Of course! I'd love to. Should we take a small walk down the hall? I wouldn't want to interrupt any of the other skater's programs by drawing attention to myself."
"Perfect."
Taking the lead, Viktor played up his air of chivalry, smiling and nodding to each person they passed on their brief trip to the C hall. Viktor had long since abandoned his hoodie, but had also forgotten to replace it with his team Russia jersey, adding to his dismay. He lived for the cold, but the goosebumps that patterned his neck and arms were tickling his sensibilities. He felt silly, as if everyone around him knew that he'd rather be in his hotel room taking a nap. Something about reporters always left him leery, as their intentions were never as crystal clear as they claimed them to be. Thoughts racing from one topic to the next, Viktor forgot himself, wandering about indiscriminately as if he weren't being trailed by the journalist.
"Um- Mr. Nikiforov? I think we've made good ground. Here works just fine, for me."
"Oh, yes, of course. I'm terribly sorry… I must admit, I forgot myself for a second there."
"It's no trouble! I imagine that pulling off a performance like that must absolutely drain the life out of you. I'd still be keeled over on the bleachers, had I been in your place."
Charismatic, this one. Very well, then. Viktor gave a polite, forcefully bashful smile and supported himself on one of the towering metal support beams that cluttered the hall. Taking the cue that had been offered to him, Liam shuffled around the papers nestled atop his clipboard, pulling a mic from what seemed to be thin air. The immediate shift in Liam's tone should have been the first indication of what was to come, but Viktor was out of sorts. Who could blame him for missing such a faint omen?
"Hello, this is Liam McClain, reporting from this year's Grand Prix Final, held in the dazzling city of Turin, Italy. With me today is Viktor Nikiforov, a legendary icon in the world of men's figure skating. At only twenty one years old, he holds several world records and has laid claim to more than fifteen gold medals. My first inquiry today revolves around your programs. What inspired your song choices this year, and are there any specific themes you wanted to portray?"
What a monologue. Viktor pursed his lips as he digested the verbal wall of text that had been thrown at him. At the same time, he weighed out the pros and cons of being somewhat honest with the seemingly earnest reporter. He could get away with keeping it vague, right? If pushed for more information, he could scrap the whole 'half-truth' idea and go full blown perjurer.
"Well, I've always liked the concept of growth. I think that we, as human beings, have an innate knack for evolution. Basically, what I did with this program is attempt to fit ten years of my life into a minute and a half performance block. It's abstract and messy, but I think that's what makes it a worthy watch."
Liam pulled a pen out from behind his ear, unlatching the lid with his teeth and jotting something down before launching into his next inquiry.
"Wow! I hadn't imagined you'd go for something that profoundly personal. You skaters are known to keep things under lock and key, yknow? Anyways- The next question I have for you is a bit of a doozy, but if possible, I'd like an honest answer. We're all friends here, yeah?"
Happy that his answer hadn't been dissected, but agitated by the brassy implication that they were anything more than strangers, Viktor prepared himself for the kiss of death.
"So Viktor, do you think you'll be leaving this competition with a gold medal?"
Oh, he'd been asked this question dozens of times. In fact, he had a well thought out answer engraved into his psyche, well oiled from years of repetition.
"The competition is insane, everyone here is so hardworking and talented that it's anyone's game. Skating is inherently a game of luck. One bad day, a single slip in concentration could lead to a fifteen point deduction. I'd love to leave here in first, but I'm sure everyone else would as well."
"I see. Is there anyone you're especially wary of out there? A certain Japanese skater, maybe? I've heard rumors that you and Mister Katsuki have a budding rivalry. Is there any authenticity to those claims?"
There it is, the pièce de résistance. It was all anyone wanted to talk about as of late. That and his little 'scandal'.
"Those of us in the competitive skating community all share a sense of friendly rivalry. Katsuki is a talented skater, musical and fluid. He has his strengths, and I have mine. That's all there is to it."
"Of course… Now, pardon me if I come off as presumptuous, but you've never openly commented on another competitor… that is, until Katsuki came along. I seem to recall an publicized interview where you stated, and I quote; 'I guess Yuuri is a bit on the chubby side for a skater, though. He is sort of like a little piglet. If he lost a little weight, he'd probably pull off some groundbreaking scores.', end quote."
Viktor forced the bile lacquering his throat to return from whence it came, which Liam took as an opportunity to continue his sudden indictment.
"Many fans have expressed their opinions on the matter, citing flagrant accusations of bad sportsmanship on your part. Do you have anything to say in regards to the matter?"
Hesitation would be perceived as guilt, but Viktor didn't have anything to say on the matter. Yeah, he'd been in a bad mood, and the kid was kind of an ass, so sue him. It's not like he had lied, either. A single ounce of extraneous body fat could lead to a career ending injury, putting pressure on the knees and ankles that wore their ligaments down over time.
"I never said being chubby was innately negative, I simply stated that it would lead to adverse consequences further down the line. His potential would be squandered, so I took a chance and encouraged him in my own way. That's what a good competitor does. I don't want to watch him throw away his chance at making a name for himself."
He deserved a pat on the back for coming up with that one on the fly, if he does say so himself.
"For better or worse, your actions have resulted in a prompt lifestyle change on his end. Several athletes, who have elected to remain anonymous, have expressed concern over his abrupt weight loss. If you look at these two pictures-"
Liam held his phone out, the incandescent screen burning Viktor's tired eyes and imprinting the image of Yuuri Katsuki into his retinas.
"You'll be able to see just how drastic the difference between his photos posted around the time of Skate America and current are. Fans speculate a twenty pound drop. What do you have to say for yourself?"
It was rare for Viktor to find himself tongue tied. After years of careful deliberation and exposure to all the tricks that the press had to offer, he had long since grown accustomed to their acrid imputations. They were obsessed with drama, feeding off the public scrutiny and outrage. The fact of the matter is, they generally focused on the negatives, as that is what garnered the most radical response. Viktor was special in that right, for he was the skating world's golden boy. No one dared throw around antagonistic assertions, not when it would lead to total annihilation.
That had all gone to hell as soon as Yuuri Katsuki came into his own, unknowingly directing the spotlight onto himself at the worst of times. The ISU had cultivated just enough evidence to conclude Viktor dispensable, and intended to act upon their ruling remorselessly if the Russian chanced disobeying them again.
Long story short, Viktor was treading unfamiliar water. Was this how Chris felt, constantly belittled and blown off as nothing more than 'Nikiforov's best friend'?
"Mister Nikiforov?"
Ah, shit. Well he had definitely lost the battle, but the war's outcome was still ambiguous. Remorse and concern. If he could pull off a believable act here, then this whole storm would blow over in no time. Viktor wasn't the least bit bothered… he was an incredible actor. There was no way Yuuri would take his words to heart on such an extreme level. Katsuki was obviously just sick with a stomach bug or something, and his sudden frailty was being used to push unsavory propaganda. Unfortunately, Viktor couldn't outright plead his case, lest he come off overzealous and cold-blooded.
"Oh wow… I don't usually pay much attention to social media.."
A lie.
"-But having the comparisons laid bare here is… crazy. God, no wonder he looks so exhausted. If I'm being honest, I was kind of concerned earlier, when I saw him rinkside. The poor boy looks awful."
That part was true.
Viktor made a show of chewing on his lower lip, eyes falsely wandering to emulate a look of deep thought. Even he had to wonder just how much of it was an act and how much of it was genuine. The guilty buzzing in his ears was indicative of bona fide remorse, whispering theories of improbable legitimacy in response to Liam's assertion, but who knows? Maybe he was just that good.
"I extend my sincerest apologies to Mister Katsuki and anyone else who may have felt deprecated by the statement I made. It was never meant to be a dig at his physical appearance."
"How gracious of you."
Liam's tone suggested he felt anything but compassion towards his interviewee's attempt at reparation. Viktor was growing antsy. Would they be wrapping this up soon, or what?
"Alright, moving onto the final question; Do you have any thoughts and feelings to share in regards to your competitors programs?"
"Uh- Not really. They were all spectacular."
"What about Katsuki? Any further notes, technical advice, or 'encouragements'?"
The derisive lilt in the small reporter's tone set off alarm bells in Viktor's head, wailing loudly like the tower of Notre Dame on a windy afternoon. Liam was openly chastising him, looking to bait him into an argument. Good luck with that, pal.
"I think his short program was gorgeous. His musicality is second to none, and watching him out there today was like hopping into a time machine headed straight for the 80's. The artistry with which he emotes is all captivating."
Twist that into something shady, you conniving little bastard.
With an exaggerated sigh, Liam gave a clipped smile and powered off the mic and recording equipment. Viktor offered no thanks, thoroughly drained by the whiplash-inducing interview.
"It was a pleasure meeting with you, Viktor."
So they were on a first name basis now? Awesome. Peachy.
"On behalf of Skate Daily, we thank you for your time."
The words were rancid and tart, as concise as they were repugnant. Viktor wouldn't further dignify Liam's poignant pursuits. The worm was wide awake now, dulling the world into its barest framework.
The bathroom. He needed away. There were too many people around. They'd all spread filth in a fervor of rancor. The halls winded into a labyrinth. Viktor didn't want to be alone. Pounding, his heart was beating out of his chest. He wasn't a child anymore. Voicing these fears wasn't an option.
The bathroom. Yes, he'd finally found his way to the bathroom. The scraping weakened, maggots of the mind squirming as they languidly drowned in the acute privacy.
"Peach?"
Viktor could have cried. Mercury must be in retrograde, because the universe was taking no chances on his behalf. Three seconds, he'd only been allowed three seconds to catch his breath before another dilemma developed, snatching away his hard fought pastoral composure.
Yuuri was bent over the sink, arms bearing the brunt of his weight as he heaved, sweat cascading down his narrow chin and rounded cheeks. Viktor was not a fan of cleaning up sick, much less Yuuri's, but something about the boy's timid tone disturbed an interest buried beneath layers of apathetic sentiment.
"Nope.