#really I love Yakov and his quiet and calm behavior | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

katyaton · 7 years

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Five Time Gold Medalist

Written for @rollertoasteroflife <3 I know it’s not your birthday where you live anymore, but I’m still counting it as such. Happy Birthday!!!

1. When Viktor turns six, everything changes.

He receives his first pair of skates, leather soft and blades slightly dull from their previous owner, but they are magical and lovely and unequivocally his.

There, while sliding on the rink, fumbling for hand rails and tending to bruises, the ice seems to caress him like an old friend, welcoming him with each turn and and flick of his blades, simply overjoyed at his arrival.

Where have you been, it seems to say. I’ve been waiting for you for so long. Viktor breathes in the cool air and lets it’s icy presence settle deep into his lungs.

It spreads into his soul, settling a dissonance he wasn’t even aware of.

The ice, his first and most formative friend, provides him a path to a new life.

2. When Viktor is nine, he’s already won multiple regional medals in his division. He overflows with energy and determination, as the recklessness and naivete of youth so often inspires, but in this case he is right to believe in his dreams - he knows it - and if his mother would just try to understand -

“Vitya”

His mother speaks with a quiet grace, so opposite to his own bubbling energy and vivaciousness, and normally that calms him, but all it does now is settle heavily in his stomach like a leaden weight.

“Vitya,” his mother tries again, hand trembling as it grips his shoulder, “I don’t know how much more of this we can afford. With your father gone ... ”

Viktor’s eyes glaze over, entranced by the skaters down below in the rink. Here at the Russian Junior Nationals, it’s easy to imagine himself beside them. All it would take is a little more work, a little more perseverance.

Like the righteousness of his blades carving rivets into the ice, knows he can do it.

“I’ll have to start working full time, Vitya.” His mother’s hand cards through his hair, but Viktor refuses to look away from the show below.

“I just don’t see how this will work.”

Viktor bites his lip. Before he knows it, tears are trickling down his cheeks, but he refuses to wipe them.

“I’m sorry Vitya”

Viktor shudders and finally tears his gaze away from the rink, turning in a flurry as he steps away from her mournful gaze. He hears her call belatedly after him, but it’s no use, not when he feels like his heart is about to burst, when it feels as if a crack has started fracturing through him like shattering ice.

Viktor collides with something stiff and hard and tumbles to the ground. Slightly jarred, it takes a few moments for him to come to, but when he does, he almost wishes he hadn’t.

Almost.

Because standing over him with a withering expression, eyes twitching and veins bulging rather humorously, as Viktor would later come to think, was none other than Yakov Feltsman.

And as suddenly as his relationship with the ice began, Viktor too finds himself launched into new beginnings, and with the financial support he can provide his mother through skating, new hope.

3. Viktor is fifteen and riding high on the success and laurels of the Junior Grand Prix, reveling in the knowledge that his younger self’s dreams had been realized. He waves serenely to the crowd, having recently gone through training with Yakov to shape his image, and while his spirited, enthusiastic personality is fine for private, it wouldn’t be something he’d want to present to the media.

Or so Yakov says.

He suggests a more subdued, aloof persona. Friendly, yet unreachable.

And now as the Junior Grand Prix champion, it’s high time to shelve the spirit of his younger days.

Viktor steps off the podium and glides through the ice to the edge of the rink, breathing in deeply as he takes it all in - the cheering crowd, the blinding stage lights, his exhausted limbs.

When he reaches the edge of the rink, he smiles brightly and waves to the revelers. Russian flags blanket the crowd, the echoes of the national anthem dance across the stadium.

It’s a lot to take in.

“Viktor! Viktor Nikiforov!”

A voice rings out over the din of the cacophony, and normally Viktor wouldn’t take any notice, but a flash of bright blond accompanies the sound, and when Viktor looks up, he greets the face of a young admirer, perhaps just between the precipice of youth and early teen years.

The boy’s face flushes when they make eye contact, and with his light hair and puffed cheeks, hinting at the lasting remnants of baby fat, he rather looks like a cherub.

(Viktor doesn’t know how wrong that assessment will be later on, on multiple levels, but that wouldn’t be for a few years time.)

Viktor smiles fully now. The emotional barrier he constructed tumbles down in the face of this awe struck fan.

“What’s your name?” Viktor calls.

The teen’s face flushes as his eyes widen, aghast at being acknowledged, but as he perks up, it’s obvious he quickly overcomes the shock.

“Christophe Giacometti!” he calls back enthusiastically, “I skated this year in the Grand Prix circuit.”

Viktor’s eyes widen.

Ah. So not a fan.

A competitor.

Viktor knows better than anyone that while he may look unassuming now - and especially so if he hadn’t qualified for the finals - that bottomless drive and determination could vault just about anyone above the competition if they are willing to make the sacrifice.

But still.

Something in little Christophe reminds Viktor of his younger self that day, and so with a flourish, he tosses his bouquet to him and throws him a wink, declaring with no ounce of doubt that he’d see him at Worlds.

Anyone that can light a competitive spirit in him deserve that much.

Years later, little Christophe goes through a few changes, becoming decidedly ... less innocent anymore, so much so that Viktor finds his earlier cherubic appearance a complete foil to his older, mature self, but regardless, Viktor finds the sentiment remains the same through out all the years they compete together.

Viktor may take the gold on many occasions while in competition with him, but Christophe’s friendship may as well be worth a medal of its own.

4. Yuri Plisetsky is a firecracker of a child, literally. When Yakov first introduces him to Viktor, the kid launches himself at Viktor with unbridled intensity, demanding that Viktor teach him everything he knows about spins and jumps and step sequences.

Yakov, the traitor, slinks off to god knows where as Viktor does his best to pacify the child, but when it gets to be too much and Yuri demands more detailed explanations (because apparently the kid can’t just understand that the trick to the triple axle is to just feel it before you jump), Viktor skates away from Yuri in a flurry.

It continues like this for the next few years.

A part of Viktor is glad he’s so much older than little Yuri, because the drive that the kid has is monstrous, and honestly, he’s not so sure he’d be winning as easily in his younger days had Yuri been around.

In time, Yuri manages to calm down enough to be manageable, but Viktor knows better. The fire still burns within, but Yakov, in all his wisdom, likely coached Yuri to control that vivacious spirit while out in public.

Nevertheless, it manages to burst out during key times.

As Viktor watches a fan turn abruptly and walk away, the din of the crowd and the yells of Yakov fade into nothingness.

Something just feels so off about that exchange, and, frustratingly enough, he can’t quite put his finger on why, other than the fact that a fan seemed to reject his offer, and yet -

“Viktor. What the hell.”

Viktor jolts, eyes snapping away from the distant point where the man disappeared from his field of vision. Even Yakov seems startled, voice halted mid rant.

When he meets Yuri’s eyes, he sees fire.

“I can’t believe you just did that to him.”

Viktor’s brows furrow. He doesn’t understand.

“To him ... ?”

Yuri rolls his eyes so sharply they nearly disappear behind his lids. He shakes his head as he huffs.

“Yuuri Katsuki. You skated against him, remember? He bombed and got last. Utter train wreck, it was. Painful to watch,” he mutters, face flushed.

There’s something Yuri isn’t saying, something more, but before he can comment on it, a larger problem takes hold of his brain.

Yuuri.

Yuuri Katsuki.

Ah.

Well ... that makes things a bit awkward.

“You better go talk to him and apologize at the banquet, idiot,” Yuri remarks, chastising him. Even Yakov looks shocked; this isn’t typical Yuri behavior by a long shot, after all.

Yuri lowers his head and flushes. “Someone should ... ” He mumbles, the rest coming out a bit muffled, but it doesn’t matter, really, because Yuri is right all the same.

He should probably at least talk to the other skater tonight.

It’s the least he can do.

Turns out, years later, Viktor owes Yuri far more for that little exchange than he could offer.

It was priceless, what he did - worth far more than a gold medal.

5. Viktor shakes slightly, tears blurring his vision.

Now matter the closet full of golds in his apartment, no matter his countless accolades and achievements, nothing is more priceless, more hallowed, than this.

Yuuri’s eyes sparkle as he slides the ring onto Viktor’s finger, where it would remain, blissfully, for the rest of his life.

The gold of the ring shines like a beacon in the night, and when he fumbles for the other ring and manages to slide it on Yuuri without dropping it, doubly so.

Viktor clasps their hands together in a vice grip, although Yuuri shows no sign of discomfort. He only smiles wider at Viktor and sniffles, face screwing up and eyes shining.

Honestly, with the state of the two of them, it’s amazing they’re able to read their vows, but read them they do, even if the majority of the crowd can’t quite understand what they’re saying under their shaky voices and frequent sniffs.

But it doesn’t matter.

They understand each other perfectly, being well versed in each others unique language.

As they seal their bonds with a kiss, or really, a lengthy make out, as a groaning Yurio would balefully complain weeks later, they turn to the crowd, bonded as one.

Viktor’s heart swells. Looking out into the crowd, into his family, he sees everything so clearly: the gold medals he’s accumulated are just that - medals. A inanimate, symbolic object that would do nothing more than sit around and collect dust.

But this - his love of ice skating and all the joyous memories and experiences it brought him. Of Yakov, Christophe, and Yurio. Of the Russian skating team, the Katsuki’s, and of course, his dear husband.

They are all factors that saw him here, to this moment, to this stage in his life.

These events, Viktor thinks, are a Grand Prix gold one hundred - no, one thousand times over.

Nevertheless, the outcome remains the same.

Five time gold medalist Viktor Nikiforov wins gold once again.

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ellipsesarefun · 7 years

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all these feelings wrapped in parcel

Fandom: Yuri!!! On Ice Character: Otabek Altin, Yuri Plisetsky (mentioned) Summary: In which there was a misunderstanding and Otabek tries to be poetic. Inspired by: @victuri-oh-nice‘s I Moved Further Than I Thought I Could

Enjoy.

[__]

Dearest Yura.

Dear Yura.

Dear Yuri.

I left this in your pants pocket for you to read. An apology and an explanation. I hope you find this before you do your laundry and I hope you read this before you burn this letter.

His heartbeat thrums in sync with the thunderstorm looming in the skies. Otabek sat still, ears deaf to the lull of the air conditioner and mind heavy with words he doesn’t speak. He feels his thumb listlessly smooth the crease on his blue sweater, adding a silent note to the background noise around around him. The landscape is as gloomy as his own consciousness. A sigh came and he shifted to his ornate table where his now cold cup of tea sat still. He reached out to his phone beside it and opened his screen. No messages.

Your hair looks nice today. I’ve always admired your hair and you asking me to braid it is Venus begging for a thousand kisses from a mere, insignificant mortal. But it’s not just your hair that looks nice, and I can’t find a better metaphor for it. There are other things about you that I’ve admired about. Your cusses are endearing. Your lips never run out words to utter, for they’re always about the mundane things about your day, about Viktor and Katsuki, about Mila and her sisterly love, about Georgi and his love mishaps, and of Yakov and Lilia for their parental nature over you. Every meticulous detail of the day, of cats of your grandpa of your pirozshki you always breath them with passion and love. Your animal prints, while overbearing, lights a smile on your face. your music and ballet is exquisite and your performance on ice still takes my breathe away. Even on a boring day like this, my eyes never tire from this wonder that is you. God, I’m so cheesy. You must hate me for this.

He stands, stretching his muscles from hours of sitting and he saunters off to his bedoroom to change into a simple t-shirt from the laundry basket and yesterday’s pants. He grabs his black leather jacket hanging by the door and puts it on, the scent of last week’s cologne still perforate through his nose.

Hm. Still smells good.

His gaze wanders down to the floor, where leather black gloves, lay. A piece of clothing that he used to borrow every time, along with the motorbike that he uses occasionally in the days where he’s out somewhere with someone that’s not him. That’s never him. Otabek shakes his head and turns away from the cluttered mess filled with remnants he couldn’t bring himself to burn.

We have (had) five great years... Five years of friendship... Oh, Yura.. there’s just so much to say to you... so much time I’ve had with you, only spent watching you fall in love with another man. And it tears my heart apart every single hour you spend it with him, and not me, but you don’t need to know that. I was just person at the front row seat of my own heartache, and I probably am using too much words that have heart but who cares First meeting at the grocery store to coffee dates that you blush and gush about... to doing the things we did together, you’re now doing it with him... And then.. Fawning over each other just as I fawn over you. Our time together shortened and it just... I really don’t know what to say here. I’m nothing but a fool who tries to be Shakespeare...

I’m sorry.

I love you.

I’m truly, sincerely, sorry.

He sees his horrendous reflection in his bathroom. Eyebags are dark and aparent, with dull brown irises and a lifeless mien glaring back at him. Another languid sigh came as he drags his hand up to rake his messy hair. He casts a look at the mirror and decides that he looks like a passable zombie before grabbing his keys and umbrella. He pauses at the open doorway to check his phone only to turn it off and shove it back into his pocket. Otabek vehemently presses the lock on the door, pauses again for a momentary thought, and, gently this time, pulls the door to a quiet shut. He exhales a large puff of air, easing the tension of his muscles.

It doesn’t lift his spirits.

He looks at the sky, eyeing the light brush strokes over grey with a flash of lightning in the distance.

No. Nothing lifts his spirit at all.

There’s nothing to justify for the way I behaved. Nothing at all. You were just kissing him naked and sweaty with lust and I just bolted from your room with tears in my eyes actually, it was more of me standing there, in disbelief at the sight of you kissing another man that I hadn’t realized the tear tracks on my face until I found you staring at me, at my waterworks that I ran. I avoided you for the last three days during my stay and left abruptly without a good bye. Dramatic, right? You were having the time of your life and I ruined it for you by being a selfish, passive-aggressive asshole/shithead/whatever fits. I knew you were seeing someone and yet I just... I couldn’t stand it anymore. Still, no excuse for my behavior... because that’s no way to react like that to the one I love.

You probably hate me even more right now..

You should hate me. You have every right because I was too late to be someone who would hold your hand at every second you spare, kiss you anywhere and everywhere at anytime and every time you’re in my arms, whisper sweet nothings in your ear when the insomnia kicks in and we’re lying in bed in the darkness of our fears and nightmares.

But I still love you. I still do. These are my feelings and my feelings are my responsibility to hone it and be honest with you this time. Feelings aside, we’re friends. And as a friend, I failed you...

But whatever response or lack of you give, I accept. No matter what happens, I’ll always care for you. There’s always a cup of coffee waiting for you right here in this tiny apartment.

I’ll still love you.

- O. Altin.

He walks and walks and walks. Past the nameless people who have important things to do in their lives, past the pedestrian lane before the cars honk in vexation, to the an open cafe that rests at the corner of the street. He buys his usual beverage and takes a seat at the very corner by the window, where he witnesses heaven’s water still drenches the earth with its chaos. Otabek looks down at his still warm cup of latte, tries to draw his shapeless face in this tiny black ocean.

He counts his breath.

One.

Two.

Three.

It’s baseless magic number that doesn’t have any sense of magic. He gives up and blinks up at the crowd, a brilliant cluster of emotions and hand gestures and it’s.. nice. Calm. And he wonders and wonders and wonders...

What was he wondering about again? What should he be wondering about? It’s numb. His chest is numb. There’s a pang of realization in his head that he’s an empty shell of a robot for the past couple of days.. weeks.. and he doesn’t have any semblance of a high or a low that he’s digging through the cluster of his own mind, with nothing but the darkness that pulls him further and further and further into a null void.

And then a buzz was felt in his pocket. Otabek stills, finding his pace of breath once again. His heartbeat pulses in allegretto and slowly, he slides his hand down, feeling the cold, slightly damp object before pulling it out, now staring at his astonished expression on the sleek black screen.

One.

Two.

Three.

At the third beat, another buzz came and the light poured through.

Was this the sign he has been waiting for?

#otayuriwc #otayuri #otabek altin #yuri plisetsky #introspection?#numbness of all emotion?#ellipsesarefun writes

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