Chapter Text
“ Yuuri, look at him! Isn’t he handsome?” Yuuko cooed, grinning from ear to ear. “I would die if he was my soulmate, I wish I still had a chance.”
Yuuri nodded in agreement, abashed at the sheer amount of blush that formed across his face from a single picture. It was a shared sentiment, based on the plethora of articles dripping with praise for the world acclaimed “sexiest man alive”.
No one could help it. Victor was just that beautiful, no matter if he was made of gold.
“Hey, fatso,” Takeshi yelled from across the rink, startling both of them. “Are you skating or not!” His finger pulled at one eye, blowing a raspberry in Yuuri’s direction.
Yuuko glared, snapping the magazine shut before stomping onto the ice. “Takeshi Nishigori, we do not tolerate bullying in this establishment!” She glided towards Takeshi; an audible slap accompanied by muffled groaning echoed through the room as soon as Yuuko closed in on him.
Yuuri cringed, squinting in sympathy. He knew Yuuko was a terror when angry. It was also common knowledge that she wasn’t particularly fond of Takeshi’s growing list of harsh nicknames for him either.
He stepped off the ice, deciding to head home before he got caught up in the screaming match. Yuuri grabbed the magazine off the barrier, gazing at the front cover with awe. Narrowed golden eyes stared back at him, polite smile pulling around sharp cheekbones sending him into a haze. He carefully cradled it against his chest, beaming.
Yuuri couldn’t have been gladder to have Yuuko lend him something.
“Guys,” he called out, steering Yuuko’s attention away from cold blooded murder. “I think I'm going to head home. Vicchan will start to miss me.”
Yuuko perked up, giving him a large wave. “Okay! Tell Vicchan hello for me!” Takeshi, who had taken her distraction as a means to get away, quickly skated to the opposite entrance to the rink. Yuuri waved goodbye to him as well, getting something more akin to a hand flap than a wave back.
He looked back over at them before he sat down, eyes following the way they chased each other around the rink.
Sometimes Yuuri wondered how they could be soulmates.
Yuuri traded his skates for shoes and walked out of the door, a hot stream of air suddenly setting his face aflame as he baked in the afternoon sun.
Upon Yuuri’s arrival at Ice Castle Hasetsu, he was immediately bombarded with Yuuko’s obsession with Victor Nikiforov, which quickly grew into his own. Documentaries and movies with much more sap than he thought tolerable were quickly watched, all telling stories of those who were Victor’s soulmates, leading him around the city that was nothing like his own.
It seemed as if the world was full of those who dreamed of clasping his gold-plated hand with his, hoping and praying that he would jump into their arms, finally being able to unlock the statue.
Of course, Yuuko’s dream died the moment that she held hands with Takeshi for the first time, an electric shock going through both of their bodies. She was happy of course, if not the least bit shocked, but it took away her ability to lust after Victor as fervently as Yuuri.
Now, it was only him who could think about it religiously, grabbing at any chance he had to stare at the man’s face, wishing and fantasizing about seeing Victor’s golden eyes melt to blue.
Not that it would ever happen, of course, Yuuri thought as he walked home, the skating rink fading into the distance.
Victor Nikiforov is an enigma to people and scientists alike, urban legends telling the story of how he turned to gold on the night of a medal ceremony in 1952, a living statue that could only be awakened by the touch of his soulmate. Not to mention how far away he was born, his soul residing in Russia, his golden form put on display for the public decades ago.
Yuuri was in no way special enough to even touch him, much less deserve the honor of being his soulmate.
(“Isn’t that so romantic Yuuri?” Yuuko said, tracing her hand around the border of the magazine between them.
Yuuri shuffled closer, hand propped onto his cheek. “How do they know if it’s true?”
She glanced up, thinking. He sighed, eyes looking along the gold-filled page, absentmindedly shoving his glasses up on his face.
“Well,” she answered, “some people don’t think it's true. They say that it’s just a legend, and that what happened to Victor was just a phenomenon. I guess it just depends on what you believe.”
Yuuri frowned. “The media sure seems to believe it’s true.”
Yuuko smiled, eyes glowing. “It's more fun to believe in it than to withhold hope from the heartbroken men and women who can't get over him.” She laughed, quickly shielding her mouth. “I say that like I'm not one of them.”
Yuuri snorted, giggling along with her until the coach yelled for lessons to start.)
He quickened when he reached home, sprinting up the steps to the door, eager to pour over the borrowed magazine in full once he got to his bedroom.
Yuuri walked into the foyer, slipping off his shoes. “Tadaima,” he called to his mother, disposing of his backpack.
“Okaeri, Yuuri,” Hiroko responded in full, peeking her head into the room. “How was skating?”
“Good, I guess. Where is Vicchan?”
“Ah, your father took him out just a minute ago, he might still be outside.”
The piercing sound of claws scraping over wood interrupted them, Yuuri’s eyes catching onto the streak of golden-brown fur that came through the door, his father following.
Yuuri bent down to greet his dog, smiling when he tried and failed to bowl him over. “Hello boy! I know, I missed you too.”
Vicchan licked his face, skittering around the room afterwards.
“Welcome home Yuuri,” his father said, “how long have you been back?” Toshia smoothed his hair, pulling off his shoes.
“You just missed him dear,” his mother said, fond expression prominent on her face.
Vicchan had taken to pawing at his pants, whining. Yuuri frowned, looking down at his poodle. He usually only did this when he was tired from what Yuuri had gathered in the month that they had him.
“I’m going to my room!” Yuuri called, turning and continuing down the hallway with Vicchan in tow. His parents nodded, disappearing the moment his door came swinging shut. Yuuri watched as Vicchan hopped onto his bed, curling into a little ball near his pillow.
His room was slightly messy, as taken from the discarded clothes that were scattered across his floor. Posters littered the walls, all decorated with pictures of Victor, either of his golden form or the surprisingly vivid ones that featured him in the flesh. Yuuri sighed as he sat down, flopping onto the sheets.
He pulled the magazine out of his bag and held it in the air, cuddling closer to an oblivious Vicchan. For the next few hours, he read about the accomplishments and beauty of the Soviet legend Victor Nikiforov, hearing the story of how he ratified the first triple flip in history at the Olympics for the millionth time.
Victor was his motivation, who he strived to be like in all leaps of life.
Later that evening, when Yuuri lay in his bed that night, his stomach close to bursting from his dinner, he rolled over to his side, wide awake. His arm slung over Vicchan with an ever-tightening grip, eye’s staring ahead.
When he spoke, it was nothing more than a whisper, but it meant nothing and everything at all to him. “I promise that I will skate on ice like Viktor did one day.” His eyes shined in the darkness, a sliver of the moon gently caressing the skin of his back.
He had no clue what part of him decided to rationalize tacking one last part on, although it seemed as if his body was already craving acceptance.
Acceptance for what?
Being worthy of being Victor’s soulmate?
He huffed and rolled onto his back, skirting around the brown lump of a dog in his bed. Absurd. Never would happen. But there was some part of Yuuri that wanted to hope.
And so, begrudgingly, he gave in.
“And I will win.”