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Yu- VICTOR, on Ice

Chapter Text

Victor Nikiforov wiped his eyes blearily with the back of his hand. A deep yawn escaped his lips as he stretched upward in his bed, arms raised toward the ceiling. The sun streamed in through his window hitting his face at an unpleasantly bright angle. Victor was most definitely not a morning person.


He’d sworn he closed the drapes last night. No wonder he'd awoke before his alarm. What time was it anyway? That bright out. Yokov would kill him if he got in late for another practice. He rolled onto his side, and reached a hand out blindly for his alarm clock. Only, instead of hitting his side table, his hand swiped through open air, arcing downward and thumping solidly against the side of his mattress.


That was odd. Slowly Victor blinked open his sleep glued eyes, and glanced around the room before him. Two things of note startled him.

Firstly, this was DEFINITELY not his room. That was unusual, but not unheard of. He'd woken up after a night of drinks and rowdy company in someone else's bed before. That itself wasn't so surprising. What WAS odd however, was that he had no memory of the events that lead up to his arrival here. A true Russian, Victor prided himself on the fact that he NEVER blacked out. But he didn't even remember leaving home at all last night.

Secondly, and even more startlingly, something was wrong with his eyes. Everything around him was blurry. Not, just woke up blurry, alarmingly blurry.

Something was definitely not right. With haste Victor grabbed the sheet across his chest and tossed it aside, throwing his legs over the side of the unfamiliar bed and rising unsteadily to his feet. Yet another strange development: he was wearing pajamas. A soft gray t shirt and boxers. He grabbed the shirt lightly in one hand and pulled it out in front of himself, examining it with some difficulty. Victor Nikiforov didn't wear pajamas. The shirt certainly wasn’t his.

Who the hell put clothes on me?

Blindly he took a step forward, waving his hands out in front of him, afraid he might run head first into something if he wasn't careful. His vision was vestigial at best. Sure he could see shapes around him, but they were soft colorful blobs that without context made very little sense, they did little more then make him panic.

OW !”

He stepped backward in shock, nearly falling back onto the bed as his bare foot landed squarely on a sharp object. He tried again to clear his vision, but rubbing his eyes didn't seem to do any good. Victor wasn't going to get anywhere fast like this. With a resigned sigh, and a painful squint, he set off again across the small, but apparently perilous room. He thought he saw a shape ahead that looked like a doorway, so towards it he shuffled, hands outstretched, feet careful to slide not step. His eyes were useless, and his foot was sore, and by the time he reached the gap in the wall Victor had decided that today was definitely not his day. The room beyond the gap was smaller, filled with far fewer scary shapes, and he was grateful for the simple fact that he could identify it as a bathroom. He nearly collapsed in relief as he reached the sink. He turned the tap, braced both hands along its sides, and dipped his head gratefully underneath the cool stream of water. He rinsed out his eyes, and his mouth, and when he rose again he was feeling much more refreshed. Though to his dismay, the act had done nothing for his vision. The mirror in front of him might as well have been a wall for all he could see in it. He moved his hands wildly across the vanity in front of him, hoping with rising desperation to find some sort of clue as to who was playing this very unfunny practical joke on him. Suddenly, his right hand struck something, sending it flying to the floor with a clatter.


Victor dropped to his knees, fanning his arms out swiping his hands to try and locate the object again. He had a moment of deja vu as he fumbled, remembering the time he had drunkenly dropped his keys in the middle of a club, and had to crawl beneath gyrating dancers getting stepped on to find them. At least then he had been able to see.


He cried in triumph as his fingers found the object again. He brought it close to his face, squinting and moving the shape in his hands, running his fingers over it's smooth surface. Suddenly, as he angled the object flat in front of him,  he could see two squares of the tile of the floor beneath it.


He rotated the object again, aligning the angel just right, and drew the glasses to his face. Suddenly, the world was clear.

“Ty che, blyad?”

Not only was his vision perfect again, even though Victor had never needed glasses IN HIS LIFE , but now another mystery supplied itself. His voice. Victor touched a hand to his throat, still crouched on the floor of the strange bathroom. The right words had come out of his mouth, but he had had trouble forming them, like his vocal cords weren't made to move that way. Not to mention that his normally silky voice was high pitched, and squeaky. Ty che blyad indeed. Victor was getting TOO weirded out at this point. His vision, his voice, the strange room, it was all too much. Shakily he rose to his feet again, standing towards the wall. He carded his fingers through his hair as he stood, trying to understand what in hell was going on. The only thing that he could think was that he was sick. He must be. His voice, his vision, they could have been affected. Maybe he was so sick that he blacked out. Maybe someone from the rink had taken him home to care for him, dressed him in strange clothes, and placed him in a strange bed. Yakov, or Mila or someone. Yes. That must be it. What else could possibly be going on? Feeling slightly satisfied with his thin explanation, Victor turned to inspect himself in the mirror.  If he felt like this, he must look like hell. He had a performance and press appearance in a few days, and he needed to look his best. Only, when Victor turned he didn't find his reflection.


Victor stared blankly at the image before him, not quite sure what he was seeing. In front of him stood a young man. He had black hair, and smooth pale skin, he was handsome, in a forgettable way, and he looked absolutely perplexed. Victor stared a few moments more. Before his mind formed one helpful thought.

Who the hell hangs a framed photo of a chubby Japanese guy in their bathroom instead of a mirror?

Only, as Victor posed this question to himself, the man in the mirror raised an eyebrow.

AHH!” He yelled, tumbling backwards, which only made him yell all the more, because the strange man in the mirror, well, he yelled too.

Chapter Text

Katsuki Yuuri was almost certain he hadn't set an alarm. No, in fact, he was positive. After coming in 6th at the Grand Prix Final that year, and subsequently dismissing his coach, heading back to Japan, and all but announcing his retirement from skating, Yuuri had decided he was taking things easy for a little bit. Maybe a little too easy. Ok, maybe he was wallowing, but why shouldn't he be able to wallow a little bit? He had practically failed out of the only thing he had ever been good at. Not to mention Vicchan was dead. And to add insult to injury his name sake had mistaken him for a stupid fanboy instead of recognizing him as a competitor. Well, in all fairness he was probably both. But the fact that the man hadn't even remembered his face after they skated right after eachother was too much for Yuuri to bear.

Victor Nikiforov’s words kept ringing around in his mind.

“Commemorative photo?” He had asked sweetly, flashing that signature smile.

Yuuri almost wished he had taken him up on his offer. Even if it was pathetic, it was probably the last time he was ever going to skate on the same ice as his idol ever again. Hell, it was probably the last time they would ever be in the same room as each other. At least he would have had that to remember his career by.

Yuuri shifted in his bed. Damn. He had almost forgotten about the alarm. It chirped incessantly in his ear as he groaned and smooshed his pillow tighter around his head to drown it out. Where was it coming from anyway? The alarm on his phone sounded different. Maybe Mari had set hers? No. The sound was too close, her room was all the way down the hall. It was coming from his left. Without thinking, Yuuri reached his hand out towards the noise, and without even opening his eyes, dropped his fist firmly down upon a solid square object. With a ‘Cachunk!’ the beeping subsided. He didn't think much of the fact that his hand seemed to know what to do without him even telling it to. He was far too comfortable.  His room was dark, and cozy, and somehow his sheets felt softer than usual. Soon Yuuri was snuggling back down under the covers, and slipping back into a deep and dreamless sleep.



Yuuri went from 0-60 REAL fast! He shot up in bed, head whipping to the source of the commotion that had suddenly invaded his space.


A large, angry looking bald old man had just kicked his door open and barged into his room, yelling loudly in some language Yuuri felt was familiar,  but did not even remotely understand. His mind had absolutely no idea how to process this information.


“YA skazal, chto yesli vy opozdayete yeshche raz, ya by perestal trenirovat' vashu zhalkuyu zadnitsu! Teper' posmotri, gde my nakhodimsya!”

The only thought that Yuuri could process was that he was scared. Very, very scared of this angry stranger in his room who was walking towards him now.

“Vy dumayete, tol'ko potomu, chto vy vyigrali, vy mozhete byt' takim lenivym?!”

Yuuri scrambled backwards quickly away from the advancing figure, forgetting in his startled state, that most beds, have an edge.

“AAH- oOF!”

Yuuri sputtered from the ground, lungs knocked free of air, shoulder sore from the impact, legs still thrown over the side of the mattress.

The old man was at the foot of the bed now, peering down at Yuuri with what looked like contempt. The cold look was nothing next to the stiff, cold breeze that wafted across the floor. It was then in the face of that breeze that Yuuri could feel, with a shock, that he was completely, and utterly, nude.


He grasped wildly for the comforter above him and pulled it down to cover himself, face hot with an embarrassment that nearly rivaled his fear. The old man placed his hands behind his back and shook his head in an expression akin to disappointment.


“Zhalkiy. Bud' spushchen cherez 30 minut, gotov katat'sya s Viktorom, ili ya nakormlyu tebya tem tigrenkom, kotorogo ty zovesh' Yura.”


With that, highly frightening, and equally unintelligible declaration, the man turned on his heels, and walked back out the door he had come through. Yuuri couldn't feel his extremities.

What the HELL just happened???

He laid there for a few moments more, dashed across the floor like a cracked egg, comforter pulled over his cold, bare form as he tried to drink in the encounter he had just had. First he was asleep. Then, a large, angry, foreign man had burst into his room to yell at him. Then he fell backwards off the bed, realized he was naked, and the man had shook his head and left. What. The. Hell.

Yuuri pulled the blanket farther up until it covered his head too, a habit his anxiety perpetrated even in this incredibly startling moment. It was only then that he realized an important detail he had missed in his ensuing terror: this wasn't his blanket. Yuuri blinked, and pulled it away from his face to inspect it. It was a clean, white, down comforter that smelled like dryer sheets. Yuuri normally slept with the gray and blue quilt his mother had sewn for him years ago.

Where did this come from?

As soon as Yuuri noticed this, other things he hadn't realised before popped into his mind.

Why in the world am I naked?

Yuuri specifically remembered putting on his ‘eat, sleep, skate, repeat’ shirt before going to bed. Mostly because it depressed him in an acute way. His next thought had him springing to his feet.


Sure enough, as Yuuri glanced around wildly, he realised that he had never been here before. The walls of this room were gray, and mostly bare, though quite grand. The bed that he had been laying in was at LEAST twice the size of his own, as was the room itself.  And as he strode over to a pair of lush looking drapes, flinging them open, he realized that the ornate windows looked out over a bustling city he didn’t recognize.

“Sekai no doko ni iru no?!?”

And OK, THAT, was different. Yuuri didn't spend a lot of time listening to himself, but he knew he never sounded like that! Not to mention how hard it felt to form the words he wanted to say.

“Nani ga okotte iru?”

“Nani ga okotte iru?”

He rolled the words over his tongue a few times, trying to get his mouth to make the right shapes. His words felt clumsy., but his voice, it felt…. Familiar, somehow. It didn't sound like his own, but it sort of sounded like… someone he knew? He couldn't put his finger on it.

“Nani ga okotte iru?”

He tried again, but that nagging feeling just persisted accompanied by his tripping tongue. Maybe, in english…

“What is happening? AHH, HOLY SHIT!”

He clasped his hands to his face in shock Suddenly Yuuri knew EXACTLY where he had heard this voice before. He looked around wildly, and his eyes landed on a different door then the one the man had come through. He raced towards it, shoving it open without even stopping.  He rushed into the lavish, marble covered bathroom, flipped on the switch, and stared in awe as he stopped in front of the gigantic mirror. There, standing in the blinding lights, bare except for a down blanket clasped around his waist, stood the reflection of a gorgeous, silver haired man whose likeness Yuuri knew all too well. His, Yuuri's, both of their jaws dropped open as he continued to stare in muted shock at the sight before him.

“Holy shit.” he said, in a voice so smooth and enchanting that he hardly believed it had come out of his mouth,

“I'm Victor freaking Nikiforov.”