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Uchiha Sasuke dies, avenging his brother and regret heavy in his heart.
Katsuki Yuuri is born, stars and ice swirling in his eyes.
As it has always been, and will always be, the first thing he remembers when he wakes is his brother. Yuuri is one when he calls his sister Mari aniki instead of aneki, and while his family laughs and coos at his mistake, he feels tears clump his eyelashes together as he squeezes his eyes closed.
He has never had a sister before; the only girl he had interacted with willingly was Sakura, and even then all their conversations were tinged with hatred and impatience. As Sasuke, girls were rabid creatures, terrifying because it was frowned upon in Konoha to kill their comrades. Stuck in the village, he had no escape from the girls who would ransack his closet, steal his notebooks, and touch his body without any regard for his feelings. When he had told his parents early on, they had merely smiled and patted his hair, saying how the girls surely had good taste to be infatuated with an Uchiha. It was a status symbol, as almost everything he did was.
Only Itachi-nii and Shisui-nii had taken him seriously, teaching him how to wield kunai and make traps to protect himself.
Then Shisui died, then Itachi killed everyone, and then left, and he was all alone in a village that had no qualms about letting their children, and, on some horrifying occasions, women paw at him like feral animals. Sometimes, on days where he spends hours running from painted fingernails and red lipstick on his neck, he thinks that maybe this is another reason why Konoha has to burn and why Itachi has to die.
Why did you leave me alone, aniki?
Even now, when Mari comes close from behind, he startles and flinches. His parents always steady him, but the flicker of hurt on his sister's face never fails to bring a lump to his throat.
I'm sorry, he wants to say, it's not your fault, but he knows exactly how crazy he will sound if he says why he cannot stand the touch of a female who wasn't his mother. This might not be Konoha, might not be a shinobi village, but Yuuri doesn't know what this world does to people who remembered their past life. He doesn't know if there are people here who can see into memories like a Yamanaka can, doesn't know if there is an Orochimaru or a Danzo in this world that abducted special types of children and cut them open to see if they bled red or black or blue.
So Yuuri keeps his mouth shut, huddles near his father, and eyes his sister with a half-mumbled apology.
Yuuri wakes up gasping, once.
He learns to stuff his mouth with his fist before he can scream.
They say he is a quiet toddler, which Yuuri thinks is his family’s way of saying that he is unnatural.
Of course, having lived close to two decades before this, and having lived as Uchiha Sasuke of all people, Yuuri knows he’s not the best example of mental health. Sometimes he thinks that this is hell, that this is his punishment for letting his brother be broken by Konoha and for killing him when the massacre wasn’t exactly Itachi’s fault.
He had thought that once he died, he would end up with Mikoto and Fugaku and Itachi, living out their idyllic lives as ghosts. It’s the least that the world could do, he had thought bitterly, while he planned out Konoha’s demise. The Uchiha had been broken and beaten down, time and time again just for the curse of their eyes. Maybe, just maybe, they would find peace in the afterlife.
So when Yuuri blinks awake sometimes, his dreams filled with his dead mother’s smile and his dead brother’s hugs, he just drifts, quietly ignoring the toys and the books and worried frowns on his family’s face when he just sits there, eyes blank.
He is tired, so, so tired.
When Yuuri looks into the mirror, eyeing his brown eyes and his straight black hair, he frowns.
He is two when he wakes and his mother is holding him, a smile on her face as she pats his head.
It’s okay, Yuuri, okaa-san’s here, I’ll protect you.
Yuuri has to close his eyes at the swell of emotion, biting down hard at the whine that almost escapes his throat.
He thinks of Mikoto, of her soothing his nightmares just like this, and thinks, haven’t I suffered enough?
After the massacre, he didn’t let anyone in, didn’t even try. It had felt too much like a betrayal, too much like he was forsaking his revenge. But after fighting his brother, he had merely felt empty, drained, and too old in his young body. He had spent hours cradling Itachi’s body as it slowly grew colder and colder, face peaceful in a way that Sasuke had almost forgotten. It had chilled him, at first, that he, who had devoted his entire life to Itachi, could forget this expression.
When was the last time Itachi had felt peace? How could he have not known, how could he have forgotten the tears in his brother’s eyes as he fled the village? Was living, all this time after being forced to kill his clan and abandon Sasuke, so hard for him that he only felt peace in death? At his own brother’s hand?
Everything that Itachi had done, after all, was to ensure that Sasuke would live, strong enough to weather whatever storm went his way.
From the moment he was born, Itachi had devoted his entire life to Sasuke.
Live, Sasuke, live, Itachi had whispered, a smile on his face as he fell at his feet.
Sasuke had disregarded his brother’s wishes, had been filled with too much agony and regret and hatred to even listen. He had trampled all over his last words, had gone on to destroy Konoha, and then he died trying, futilely, uselessly, ignoring Itachi’s sacrifice.
Live, Sasuke, live.
When Yuuri opens his eyes, he looks at his mother and finally cries. He won’t make the same mistake twice.
Okay, aniki, I’ll live, and when I die, I’ll see you again.
Of course, his newfound will to live does not fix him entirely. Yuuri is reborn, a new person without all the physical scars and aches Sasuke had accumulated. But even being reincarnated does not stop him from flinching away from his sister, eyes glazed and fixed on memories from a different life.
When he turns four, Mari comes home one day with her hair shorn close to her scalp and men's slacks instead of her usual uniform skirt. Their mother gasps, and their father turns pale, hands worried and asking her what happened. She waves them off, easygoing, and carefully makes her way to where Yuuri is hiding around a corner and kneels in front of him.
Her eyes are the softest shade of brown, and her voice the softest shade of warmth when she tells him not to be scared, to call her aniki if that's what he wants, to think of her as a man if it will stop him from flinching in her presence.
You are safe, Yuuri, safe, she murmurs, wearing the same smile Itachi had whenever Sasuke had clung to his knees.
Yuuri cannot stop himself from staring at her scalp, at the junction between her ears and her skull that is bare, and feels warmth settle in his belly. His sister, while not the most attentive to her looks, had always kept her hair long and unbound. And now, her hair is gone, just for him.
Her eyes widen, and she stumbles back when Yuuri throws himself at her, sobbing and apologizing, because this is his sister and she loved him enough to change her physical gender for him. Mine mine mine mine, he thinks, and his shaky fingers caress Mari's head. He might not have Itachi anymore, but now he has Mari.
One day, this will be enough.
And when he wakes up one day when he is five, eyes blurry and panic rising, he turns to Mari first. She takes him to an optometrist half an hour away from Yuutopia, and holds his hand gently when tears blur his vision even more when the doctor tells them he needs glasses.
An Uchiha with bad eyesight, he thinks a touch hysterically, what a joke.
He wonders if the effects of overusing the Mangekyou Sharingan had followed him to this world, ensuring that no matter how long he lived, he would pay for his sins with his vision. Blindness, after all, is the worst punishment to bestow to an Uchiha.
Mari tightens her grip momentarily, startling him out of his morbid thoughts, before she wipes his face with her handkerchief. With a critical eye, she picks him a pair of glasses, the frame gold and so thin it is hardly visible.
Her smile is gentle when she tells him it's going to be okay, and that he looks lovely in the pair she picked.
Yuuri believes her, and they go home.
But then he turns six, and the school term begins. Even back when he was Sasuke, the Academy was a battleground. Every second he was there, his senses were spread out and ready. It was there, after all, that most of his fangirls were within reaching distance. Coupled with the expectations that his clan had placed on him, to succeed and be a good spare to the heir, well.
It is no surprise that Yuuri wakes up on the first day of class and finds his throat closing and the room spinning. He only hears his family's worried exclamations before he blacks out.
They take him to a hospital, and the hospital refers him to a psychiatrist when they find nothing wrong with his body. The psychiatrist's clinic is geared towards children, and he takes in the bright yellow walls and cheerful music playing in the waiting room with a frown. When they are finally called into the doctor's room, he takes an involuntary step back when a woman greets them.
Already, he can feel the panic bubbling in the back of his throat, bile tainting his tongue as he looks at her suddenly calculating eyes and the yellow walls and stickers on her clipboard and remembers long hair smothering his face and breasts pressed up against his arm and it's just. too. much.
He doesn't remember the rest of the day, but when he wakes he's back at home and his sister is smoothing back his hair with a small, sad smile. They go to another clinic the next day, this one two hours away from Hasetsu, and the doctor that greets them is a man. His smile is gentle, kind, and when Yuuri relaxes his stiff stance, the smile grows bigger.
The man introduces himself as Minami-sensei, and asks if he can do a couple of puzzles and riddles in the corner of the man's room.
Yuuri's not an idiot, and he's ancient weary bones stuck in a child body, but he answers the psych tests all the same when his sister pats his shoulder and his father ruffles his hair. When he finishes, he accepts the red lollipop from Minami-sensei and they go home.
In the next session, Minami-sensei informs them that Yuuri has an anxiety disorder and something eerily like post-traumatic stress disorder.
We’re not sure about the PTSD, because as you’ve told me, he hasn’t gotten into any accidents that warrant this type of reaction, he tells them, before comforting them in the same breath. Don't worry, he says gently at their worried frowns, Yuuri-kun is young enough that if we start therapy now, he may outgrow it, or, at the very least learn to live with it.
Children are resilient, after all, the doctor says, and Yuuri thinks of Sasuke seeing his entire clan murdered by his brother and living in the same house where his parents' blood had stained the tatami mats, of Sasuke holding back tears when women thrice his age fondled his ass and raked their nails through his hair, and of Yuuri waking in the dark of his room wondering if he is alive or if this is hell, blubbering to the shadows pleas of forgive me brother-
Resilient indeed, he thinks bitterly, head bowed and fingers fiddling with his sweater.
He ends up being homeschooled, and that is the only good thing to come out of this situation.
His parents take turns to teach him how to read, and the characters are thankfully the same as the Elemental Nation's language that he quickly picks up the hiragana and kanji in order to move on to history and science.
For the first time, Yuuri feels a spark of interest. His eyes grow wide whenever he reads about the accomplishments the human race has done, the revolutions and the space exploration, and the chemistry in the brain and the biology of genes. His mind is racing, in awe. Konoha, while progressive, had never reached the heights of this world.
And while Sasuke had to study better and be better in order to catch up to the weighty expectations of his clan and, later on, to catch up to his brother, Yuuri devours whatever they set in front of him because knowledge is power, and he is hungry for it.
Sasuke has been betrayed and misguided almost all his life, swinging his kusanagi widely at anyone who drew near because of the misinformation that had been whispered in his ear by poisonous lips. He will never be that ignorant again.
And maybe, just maybe, when his parents take in his wide eyes and ask him what he wants to be when he grows up, he doesn’t want to live a life where he is constantly running and fighting for his life, doesn’t want to hack and slash and bleed just to survive. Yuuri looks at pictures of the planets and traces the helix structure of DNA and wants.
(Wants to be more than Uchiha Sasuke, wants to be more than shinobi and missing-nin, wants to be more.
He remembers too-yellow hair and too-blue eyes with a ferocious will burning in their depths, shouting from the rooftops, I will be Hokage, I will be great-)
When he quickly blazes through the first grade lessons in just a matter of weeks, his parents take him aside and tell him to slow down, to relax because he has been working too hard lately. It is such a jarring sentiment that he just stares blankly at them, confused. Even when he was younger, he had just fiddled with the toys they had given him anxiously, before climbing up and sitting on the window ledge to watch the seasons pass.
He doesn't know how to relax, he thinks, and feels a bit of restlessness spark in his chest when he looks at his tiny hands.
I am a child, he realizes, and his parents smooth his hair back and caress his cheeks and say, you are a child.
Yuuri swallows, pursing his lips before nodding. The worried light in their eyes dies down, and the furrow in their brows smooth, and guilt festers in his belly.
Sorry, he whispers haltingly, warring with himself before giving in and reaching out with his tiny, tiny hands. Sasuke is old, trapped in chubby cheeks and short limbs- but that isn’t right, not exactly. He is Yuuri now, and on days when his parents fuss over him, he thinks that being Sasuke is just a distant dream, a nightmare lurking in the recesses of his mind that can no longer touch him.
Yuuri looks at his parents, feeling emotion in his chest when he breathes, and thinks, I am alive.
His parents each take one of his hands in theirs, their smiles as loving and gentle as their touch.
It turns out that they had been speaking with Minami-sensei, and the doctor had told them that while it was all well and good that Yuuri-kun was working hard, it wasn't good for his overall mental health to be that overworked. And since he had a son a few years older than Yuuri, he thought maybe they could meet and go ice skating to relax.
When Yuuri agrees, albeit unwillingly, remembering that disastrous C-rank mission to Wave, they drive out to a place called Ice Castle and Yuuri meets Minami-sensei and his son, Kenshin. The boy is a couple of years older than him, and immediately tells Yuuri that his goal is to be a doctor, just like his parents. Here, Minami-sensei chuckles, before nodding at Yuuri in acknowledgment.
I have been studying ever since I was a little boy, Kenshin continues, but studying and relaxing goes hand in hand. And with that, Kenshin guides him carefully onto the ice.
Sasuke has spent years walking on walls and roofs and trees and water with his chakra, but he has never walked on ice before. But when Yuuri steps on the ice, the blades on his feet are steady, and he feels the itch of restlessness settle under his skin. He finds that he doesn’t think of senbons and bridges and ice mirrors and of sacrificing himself to save Naruto. Instead, he thinks of the chill on his skin and the swish of his skates scratching against ice.
Kenshin gapes at him, unable to believe he has never skated before, but Sasuke is an S-rank missing-nin who was known for his deadly grace even while he evaded kunai and jutsu and slashed throats. Yuuri has not lost that same elegance, and for the first time since he has woken up, he quiets his mind and lets his body take over.
When his muscles feel pleasantly worked and his breath is short, he feels more relaxed than he has ever been. He pauses in the middle of the rink, casually pushing his sweaty bangs up with one hand, takes in the gobsmacked expression in his family and Minami-sensei's family, before biting back a smile.
He is six still when they add ice skating lessons to his homeschooling. Only once had his father taken him aside, eyes serious, and asked him if he was okay with that. Yuuri mulls that over, thinking back to the way his thoughts had felt muted and how it felt like he could fly as he stepped on to the ice.
I'm happy, he replies finally, and that is that.
Then he turns seven, and meets Okukawa Minako when she accosts him at their genkan, his skating shoes hanging over his shoulder. She is a force of nature, barely giving him time to flinch back before she circles him, eying the muscles he had slowly started to put on after months of skating. She eyes him like he is a project, like he is coal that could, with enough pressure, be fashioned into a diamond.
She eyes him like Orochimaru, and the comparison makes his fingers tremble. Behind him, his sister stiffens when she enters the front door and takes in the sight before her. Already, he can feel her anger boiling under her skin, and she wraps a solid arm around his shoulders, uncaring for the way his skates fall to the floor with a thud.
What's this, kaa-san, she asks their mother cooly, who had run after the woman and was just wringing her hands together in worry. There is guilt and sadness and reproach in her eyes, and it is that cocktail of emotions that makes Yuuri take a deep breath and stand straighter. He is an S-rank missing-nin, he scolds himself, viciously shoving away the instinctive fear he has of women. He has survived long enough to kill his brother without faltering because of a civilian girl.
He will not falter now. He is Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri.
He remembers Mari kneeling before him, eyes warm, saying you are safe, Yuuri, safe.
(Yuuri pushes the jagged edges of memories cluttering his mind, locks away the rattling laughter and long hair and delicate fingers growing into claws, and breathes.)
From the approving look the woman shoots him, his sudden courage is not unnoticed. Mari steps closer, her grip steady even when Yuuri's arms spasm at the woman's attention.
After a few moments of glaring tension, they relocate to the family living room. Yuuri wraps his fingers around his warm cup of tea, trying to ground himself in this moment while his mother tries to explain, his sister frowning beside him.
They learn that Okukawa is a retired ballet dancer, who now owns a studio a few minutes away from the skating rink. Their mother, it turns out, had been waxing poetic about Yuuri's gift in skating. She had even shown the woman, who was her senpai in high school, a few videos of him, and it was common knowledge that professional figure skaters more often than not had a dance background to polish their programs.
It is not their mother who says it outright, but the ballet dancer.
Will you be great, or will you let your talent stagnate, Katsuki Yuuri, she asks, eyes flashing with a promise that said- if you follow me, I'll make everyone know your name.
Sasuke has spent years following the heels of a madman before he killed him, but as Yuuri looks closer at the smile lines on the woman's face, at the confident yet gentle way she held herself so that she didn't seem like she was towering over him, he thinks that this woman is not another Orochimaru.
This woman is human.
(Sunshine hair and sky eyes, and a voice that could shake mountains, saying, I will be great-)
And so ballet classes are added to his weekly schedule, his sister and his father a solid presence in every session whenever he feels like there are insects crawling under his skin, and he reads about the burning of stars and swirling of atoms in the universe in his spare time, and Yuuri flourishes.
Until he doesn't. He had been lucky enough to keep the panic attacks hidden and contained, just like he had done after the massacre and during his stint as a nuke-nin, but then he wakes up screaming after a particularly bad nightmare. He had been watching a movie with his family the night before, but there was a scene wherein the boy was clutching a letter from his dead brother who was at war. Yuuri hates that it sets him off, that it makes his dreams morph into ashes and smeared blood on shoji walls and his brother's dead, bleeding eyes staring at him in reproach.
He wakes screaming, a long, terrible cry that only breaks when he gasps for breath. Yuuri is scrambling back, pushing away the heavy blankets on him and pulling on his hair, when his family bursts into his room.
Their first touch is hesitant, especially when he flinches so hard he shocks himself into silence, his scream tapering off. Minami-sensei had told them roughly what to expect if Yuuri had an attack, but his parents clearly seem at a loss when Yuuri starts rocking back and forth, fingers scratching roughly at his scalp and pulling on his hair.
It is Mari that reaches up to hold his hands, telegraphing her movements slowly to give him time to react. That breaks him out of the haze of memories and nightmares of blood and empty eyes and a sword through his brother’s heart, and he blinks wearily at his family. His alive family.
While he will always love Mikoto and Fugaku and Itachi, they are gone, their bodies buried and decaying in a war-torn world, and the family in front of him now holds a very special place in his heart.
Especially when his father carefully pulls him onto his lap and his mother gently promises to make his favorite katsudon for breakfast, his sister's grip on his hands tender but unbreakable.
I love you, Yuuri thinks fiercely in his mind as he looks at them, and feels tears fall. I'll protect you all, and make you proud.
He thinks the same thing when he is nine and skating his first novice competition, and over the loud piano of his music he can hear his family's voices. When he kicks into a jump, his eyes briefly flit towards them and his heart swells when he sees their proud and loving faces.
Yuuri wins gold.
The following years pass in a blur of ice skating, ballet lessons, homeschooling, and therapy. Countless times, he overhears his parents asking Minami-sensei if this is healthy for him, if they should pull him out of training and competitions. It is only because of the worried tone in their voices that the explosive anger he had when he was Sasuke does not make him yell.
This is what it feels like to have parents who care more about me than our reputation, he tells himself to bite back the irritation, and whenever he can, he takes breaks to lay his head on his mother’s lap or sit next to his father after dinner. He grows even closer to his sister as he grows, and when she tentatively starts growing her hair back, he merely smiles and combs the strands.
Family, he thinks, and feels warmth.
When Minako-sensei throws her hands up and asks him to get an ice skating coach after his first competition, he knows it is not because she is tired of him. They had settled into an uneasy relationship at the start of their lessons, with Yuuri flinching every time she had tried to adjust his posture, but over time he had begun to relax. Minako-sensei resembles the retired kunoichi in the Uchiha clan who had set up dango and tea shops, and who had given him sweets and hidden him from the girls who stalked his every move. She is a no-nonsense teacher, but her voice is firm and not scathing.
Oba-san, he whispers one day, when she catches him trembling in the locker room unable to breathe. There is only a second of hesitation before she tugs his hands away from his hair and sings him lullabies until he calms down.
I’m here, she replies, her lips quirked up, and from then on, she is family as well.
So when she sits him down after a lesson, her face serious, Yuuri listens and finds an ice skating coach. She means well, he knows, and he still remembers their first meeting where she asked if he wanted to be great.
After meeting up and finalizing his schedule and fees with his new coach, he sits in the dark of his room and looks at the glow-in-the-dark star stickers on his ceiling and thinks, yes, I want to be great.
(Sasuke owes it to him, to the boy who chased him all over the nations with determination in his fingers and the bonds of loyalty and mineminemine chaining them together, unbreaking even in death.)
So he trains, and trains, and trains, and wins, and wins, and wins. And when Yuuri turns twelve, the Japan Skating Federation sends him a letter, asking him to participate in the qualifying competitions and win the Japanese Junior Figure Skating Championships when he turns thirteen. Win, and we’ll sponsor you for the World Junior Figure Skating Championships.
His family and his coach are all ecstatic, and he looks up, dazed, to see Minako-sensei’s smug smile. He takes in the grins on his family’s faces, and his heart beats faster and faster. Here, in their dining room, with the wood warm against his bare feet and the cloth of his kimono soft against his skin, with happy tears in his mother’s eyes, a proud gleam in his father’s face, and the same, gentle look on his sister’s face when she came home with her shaved head and men’s uniform-
He scrambles out of his seat and bows, his knees scraping the floor and his forehead resting on the backs of his palm.
I’ll win, he vows to his family in this life, and in the past. When his family rushes to pull him out of his bow and kiss his cheeks and hug him, he closes his eyes and can almost imagine the feel of his brother’s fingers brushing his forehead.
When he is thirteen, he wins the Japan Juniors and makes his debut in Junior Worlds in Italy. When he comes home, he greets his parents with a smile, and places his gold medals around their necks.
But then Yuuri turns fourteen during the middle of the next season, and his body fails him. His jumps and spins suffer, and his limbs feel wrong and his balance wavers. Time and time again, he touches the ice when he comes down from a jump, and he irritably waves off the soothing reminders of his coach that it is normal.
Puberty wrecks the core and limbs, the man tells him, but Sasuke had already been dodging hunter-nin and certain death at this age. At fourteen, Sasuke had already killed Orochimaru, had already stolen the Sannin’s pawns and made them his own, had already coated himself in as much blood his brother had when he murdered their clan.
It frustrates him, and instead of gold, he touches the ice twice during Junior Worlds and thrice in the Junior Grand Prix Final and wins silver and bronze. He can hear the commentators and the other coaches saying how much of a strong competitor he is, how unbelievable it is that he had worked out the kinks of his growth spurt so quickly without even taking a season off, but his mouth just tastes like poison and ash. There is a storm in his blood, and his face settles into stone even as he wins gold in Japan’s Nationals by the skin of his teeth.
He forgets, on really bad days, whether he is Sasuke or Yuuri and it is only the feel of ice on his skin and the slash of his blades on the rink that stops him from reaching for a kunai. The faces of his parents and Mari flicker like static, and he defaults to grunting and sitting by windows to avoid looking at their blurry figures. Memories, unbidden and unwanted, attack him at random, and his tongue and cheeks bleed from wounds as he bites down on his screams.
His family sees how quiet he becomes after the season, and they all do their best to draw him out of the shell he withdrew in. Yuuri loves them and cares for them, but as he watches the months tick closer and closer to his sixteenth birthday, he spends more and more time on the ice to quiet his thoughts.
Skating becomes a form of catharsis, a stopgate to the turmoil in his veins, and he pushes himself harder and harder. His training makes him laugh sometimes, when he’s switching out the blades on his skates and bandaging his bleeding feet, because it reminds him of those months leading up to that fateful day. Months of mastering his Sharingan, months of driving his sword into the hearts of his informants to cover his tracks, months of leaving Team Hebi behind and taking shelter in empty caves just so that he can cry and yell and tremble at the thought of what he was about to do.
His thoughts are steel against his skin, and Yuuri enters his third Junior season with anger and hatred and regret in his limbs. When he wins bronze in Junior GPF, he throws himself even more into training and snaps whenever his family tries to stop him. Every word and every touch feels too loud and painful, his senses too sharp in this world with no shinobi waiting in the shadows to cut off his head. It leaves him restless in a way that he has never been before on the ice, and he burns with fury from the moment he wakes to the moment his head touches his pillow.
Even his coach walks on eggshells around him, and when he stumbles and fails to medal in Japan Nationals, it takes his sister crying for him to snap out of his vicious thoughts.
Sixteen is when Sasuke kills his brother, and fifteen is when Yuuri makes his sister cry for the very first time.
Quietly, his rage drained out of him, he tells his worried coach that he is taking the rest of the season off, and goes home to his family’s hugs. When his tears stain their shirts, they say nothing but hold him tighter until Yuuri can almost pretend he is whole.
He talks to Minami-sensei, telling him how it feels like the walls are closing in on him and how he can’t hear himself over the thoughts in his head and how he is just so angry and lost. It leaves him feeling vulnerable, but he has known Minami-sensei for a decade now and the man has never betrayed him.
And when Minami-sensei tells his parents that maybe an emotional support animal would help, Yuuri gets a brown pug that makes him laugh. It is only when the dog climbs onto his lap and licks his tears away that he realizes his laughter had turned into sobs and why his father had been gently rubbing his back.
As a general rule, the Uchiha clan had preferred ninneko, but Kakashi-sensei had taken them to a training ground one day and summoned his ninken to soothe their nerves after that Wave C-rank. It had been a sunny day, and Naruto had yelped at the dogs while Kakashi-sensei had looked at them all fondly. Sasuke, while on the run, had sneered at that memory, but whenever he passed by a starving dog, he had left a couple of rations near it. He always left immediately, no matter how much his hands itched to give the animal a soft scratch. He had no time then to indulge in childish fantasies.
It is different now, because he is not Sasuke; he is Yuuri.
Yuuri Yuuri Yuuri, he mouths, forcing himself to see past the memories of his life as Sasuke and see the worried faces of his family.
I am Yuuri.
And as he chokes back another sob and hugs the dog to his chest, he thinks of being alone and lonely, held together only by his promise to avenge his clan, and thinks that he is glad he is worlds away from that life now.
He spends the rest of his fifteenth year mourning in a way that he had never allowed himself before, praying at their family shrine for his Uchiha family to achieve peace. Yuuri lets himself cry, lets himself remember the cherry tomatoes his mother had placed in his bento, the nod his father had given him when he mastered the Great Fireball Jutsu, the gentle eyes of his brother as he tapped Sasuke’s forehead.
And when his tears dry, he straightens his back and sets his regrets and vengeance to the grave.
His parents and coach are understandably wary when he tells them that he is going to compete in the next season, but his sister and Minako-sensei take one look at his determined face and nod. He’s going to be okay, they tell them, and reluctantly, Yuuri is allowed to compete.
His dog, which he had bashfully named Ita-chan, his sister, his coach, and Minako-sensei watch at the side, and when he finishes his programs, he has to bite back a laugh when they all end up crying and hugging him when he wins his very first gold at the Junior GPF. He holds the heavy medal in his right hand, buries his other in Ita-chan’s fur, and breathes.
As his lungs expand and fill with air and as he feels the flashes of light from the cameras behind his closed eyes, he finds a tiny smile on his face and thinks, I am alive, and that is enough.
He is sixteen when he wins Junior Worlds, and when his coach smiles regretfully at him. Yuuri listens to a man almost three times his age tell him that he can’t help anymore, that maybe Yuuri needed another, better coach than him. At sixteen, Yuuri has two gold medals from Junior Worlds and one gold from the Junior GPF, and already, there are other, better coaches salivating at the thought of pulling him to their rinks.
Yuuri hesitates, going back and forth over the different coaches’ profiles, until Mari nudges him to one in particular. His eyes widen at it, taking in the benefits of moving all the way to America for this coach. Celestino Cialdini had included that while skating under his tutelage, the nearby college would accept him as a scholarship student if he maintained a certain GPA.
Before this, Yuuri has already finished his high school curriculum, and had been worrying about continuing his education. On one hand, he loved skating. It gave him purpose, made his blood pump and spread his lips into a smile. But learning and reading made him feel human, made him feel grateful for the bones under his skin and for the rights and laws that kept society functioning without turning to sanctioned murder and theft and lying.
Didn’t you love learning about the stars and science and history, Yuuri-chan, his sister asks him quietly, a knowing look on her face. Yuuri’s breath catches, and he thinks of having both skating and college. He thinks of lecture halls and the heady scent of books and lessons on molecules and English literature and carbon and gases in the universe.
Mari ends up laughing at the expression on his face, and suddenly the remaining months of his sixteenth year are filled with preparations for his visa and filling up the applications for scholarships and packing his books and clothes into boxes.
When it is time to book his plane tickets, Yuuri shakes his head and insists that he goes alone. He is old enough, he thinks, and places his foot down. Sasuke has lived more than half of his life alone, with nothing but the kunai in his pouch and the lightning in his hands to keep him company.
But he regrets it immediately when he enters the plane, his heart rate racing as he curses his pride. Leaving home to get better and stronger just reminds him of running away from Konoha, running away from hallowed halls and bloodstained legacies and suspicious eyes that watched his every move for the same madness that plagued his entire clan.
He remembers blonde hair blinding him, whiskered cheeks wet with tears, a voice that is so soft Sasuke has to lean in, birds chirping around his lightning fist, you're my (friend, rival, kin, mine), Sasuke, please, let's just go home and I'll help you, please don't leave-
It is only Ita-chan on his lap, a yellow vest that reads ‘Emotional Support Animal’ on him, that prevents him from hyperventilating. When they finally touch down and reach Detroit, Yuuri’s nerves are shot and his eyes red.
Celestino Cialdini takes one look at his bedraggled appearance before whisking him off to bed in his new apartment, assuring him that the other procedures can wait. When they meet the next day, Yuuri is less tired and the world feels more steady under his feet.
The man accompanies him, step by step, in his application to the university, and Yuuri is too grateful to be irritated at the way the man shifts his larger body to hide him from some prying, female eyes. When they finally reach the rink after a few days of paperwork, Yuuri breathes in the smell of the ice, works up the courage, and asks how the man knew about his aversion to females.
To his credit, Celestino merely settles against the boards of the rink, face solemn, and tells him that his sister had mentioned it in passing. While Yuuri is a far calmer individual than Sasuke had ever been, the anger that heats his body up still surprises him. There is no surprise in his new coach’s face though, and he tells Yuuri that he won’t ask what other triggers or issues he has.
No matter your age, it is clear from your eyes that you are an adult, he says a bit wistfully, and you can make your own decisions on what and who to confide in. The only thing I won’t budge on is your therapy session, because those are important, he continues, and Yuuri feels reluctant gratitude towards the man. He is turning seventeen and not yet legal in America, but Yuuri doesn’t know what he would do if he is coddled as a child by this man that he barely trusts.
Between his skating and his classes, he continues his sessions with Minami-sensei through Skype. While the doctor is less than happy about him choosing to continue their sessions instead of finding a more accessible therapist in Detroit, he knows that stubborn set on Yuuri’s jaw and resigns himself.
Yuuri settles uneasily into his classes at first, always arriving first and seating himself at the very back corner of every room. He rejects any form of friendship offered, head turned away and regressing back to his monosyllabic replies. After sixteen years of homeschooling, he is unused to the slow pacing of his classes and the noise his classmates make. It makes his skin crawl, makes him wish he had his sword or even a kunai to arm himself whenever eyes flicker towards him.
The only time he feels relief is when he is in his dorm, curled up around Ita-chan, or when he is on the ice. His rinkmates quickly start ignoring him and gossip behind his back, especially when their first conversations end with Yuuri staring blankly at their faces. They whisper that he is a snob, that he thinks himself too good for them after medaling in international competitions. Sasuke is no stranger to envy and mocking, but it still stings bitterly all the same.
His shoulders grow heavy and bags form under his eyes; being on constant edge tires him.
So when Mari asks if he has made friends already during their nightly Skype call, a frown wobbles on his lips and his fingers pull at his hair. It has been less than a month, but Yuuri feels like he is at the end of his rope.
Oh, Yuuri-chan, she says sadly, her face blurry on the screen as tears cloud his vision. Do you want to come home, she asks next, and Yuuri shakes his head roughly, even as tears spill onto his laptop. He is not a quitter; he will see this through, even if his heart aches and his cheeks miss the feel of his parents’ shoulders.
Yuuri has never wanted anything more than this. He is selfish and he wants the feel of ice under his blades and to learn about Renaissance art and Greek mythology and galaxies a billion miles away.
He is no stranger to pushing himself, and even as he bleeds and cries, he will get what he wants. Sasuke has spent years sleeping with one eye open, ears straining for a rustle of leaves that preempts the slashing of blade and blood. The feel of a hundred strangers eyeing him and his rinkmates whispering about him is nothing.
He can withstand more than this, he tells himself.
(I will be great, he had vowed, a twisted little promise to himself and to the blonde boy Sasuke had unwillingly cared for, and he will not give up now.)
Mari watches him now, a frown on her face. She knows him best after all, and is better at reading Yuuri’s blank face than anyone else. So she sighs, muttering about his stubbornness, before making him promise to at least ask for help from his coach or teachers if it gets to be too much. Yuuri barely puts up a fight, his senses too stretched out and weary.
So when his coach takes him to the side during practice the next day, asking him gently if he wanted him to ask the school if he could bring his dog to classes, Yuuri bites back a tired sob, bites back his pride, and nods.
His classes go better, and even when he doesn’t make friends with his classmates, they all seem to treat him more gently when they see Ita-chan with his vest. If this had happened when he was Sasuke, he knows that he would have snapped and killed everyone who pitied him, unable to bear the thought of being weak, because he cannot avenge his clan if he is weak.
But he has already killed his brother, learned the truth about Konoha, died trying to avenge his brother, and spent close to two decades basking in Yuuri’s family and working out his issues in therapy. Now, when his teachers smile kindly at him, when his classmates offer him sweets when he fidgets in class, he merely works on his breathing exercises and nods at them.
When he returns to practice, the gossiping tapers off to a stop and there is less animosity between him and his rinkmates. Yuuri glances at the hard glint in Celestino’s eyes when the coach surveys the other skaters, at the way Ita-chan growls at his rinkmates, and shrugs.
And then the season starts, and he bags himself golds in each competition he joins for his last season as a Junior, and the flush on his cheeks and the burn in his muscles reminds him that he is alive. Yuuri smiles.
He meets Phichit Chulanont when he is on a high, skating almost deliriously after winning gold. He is broken out of his reverie when a cheerful whoop and clapping resounds in the usually quiet rink, and he whirls around to see his coach and another boy beaming at him.
You’re really good, the boy tells him honestly, and Yuuri almost has to shield his eyes from the brightness of the boy’s smile. Immediately, Yuuri is reminded of a bubblier, less annoying Suigetsu, and when Phichit moves into his apartment and solemnly appoints himself as Yuuri’s best friend in the whole world, Yuuri cannot stop himself from rolling his eyes, even as he hides a grin.
They spend almost every waking moment together, eating unholy mixtures of Thai and Japanese food for meals and running to the campus for their classes. Phichit cajoles him into watching Gilmore Girls and whines at him till he makes a Twitter and Instagram account. Yuuri retaliates by banging pots together instead of letting their alarm ring and graciously allows Phichit to skim over his beloved encyclopedias.
Yuuri almost feels offended when he spots the relief on Celestino’s face at him making a friend, but he ends up deciding it’s too much effort and just droops over Phichit’s shoulders.
It’s been too long since he’s been hugged by his family, and Phichit is just the perfect size for a cuddle. Valiantly, he ignores the giggles from his friend and buries his face into Phichit’s shoulder.
His family is ecstatic when he introduces Phichit over a Skype call, and whenever they send packages for him they always make sure to send enough for the both of them. It makes his breath catch, when he looks at Phichit laughing with his family, and his heart feels so big it could burst.
And even when Phichit comes home from class one day and finds Yuuri hyperventilating on the kitchen floor, Ita-chan nudging his chin, Phichit doesn’t treat him differently. The younger boy merely threads their fingers together to prevent Yuuri from ripping out his hair, and hums a melody. When his gasps come to a stop, Phichit carefully helps Yuuri into bed and tucks him in, smoothing his hair back just like how his sister used to.
He falls asleep to Phichit’s voice and touch and wakes to his smile, and feels grateful beyond words.
When he blows past his qualifying rounds during his first Senior season, Phichit calls him after every program and yells congratulations at him. It is worth the ringing in his ears, and the muffled laughter Celestino tries to hide. Phichit tells him how amazing and strong he is, and how he definitely will win the GPF.
So when he gets silver, he stares at the medal around his neck in disappointment. He stays long enough to grimace and politely answer the press before locking himself in his room and calling his sister. The phone rings once before Mari immediately answers, and Yuuri finally bursts into messy tears.
Rationally, Yuuri knows that there will always be someone better, someone more talented than him. This world is large, and vast. There are countless people teeming in each country, in each continent, each with their own strengths.
But as he looks at the medal hanging heavy like a noose around his neck, all he can think of is the promise he tucked in his heart, a promise of I will be great, and how silver is so different from the gold that flickered in Naruto’s hair under the sun.
It is the same when he competes at Worlds, and a pit settles in his belly even as Celestino tells him that Victor Nikiforov has been winning golds for even longer than Yuuri has.
The Russian is a lot more experienced, has even won the Olympics, his coach whispers as the scores tally and declares Yuuri a silver medalist. Don’t beat yourself up, Yuuri, this is your first Senior season. You’ve got the rest of your career ahead of you, and you’ve already done spectacularly.
It does nothing to settle the roiling in his stomach, and as he peeks up at the older man on the podium with him, he feels bile rise up in his throat at the fake smile on Nikiforov’s face when he looks down at the gold in his hands. It almost seems like glass to him, like the shine of gold doesn’t matter, and Yuuri frowns at the emptiness in the man’s eyes that reminds him of older shinobi that had nothing more to live for, who only kept on living so that they could take suicide missions and die on the field.
His heart rate skyrockets, and he is glad when the press conference ends.
When they pass by each other in the hallway later, their eyes meet and the Russian skater plasters on a brittle grin.
Yuuri can barely hear the man’s words of congratulations, of how he had been surprised and amazed at Yuuri’s step sequences, when all he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears and his breath quickening.
He looks at the wide smile, the eyes so blue they seemed as blank as the ocean, and the pallid sheen on the older skater’s face. If Yuuri steps back, he knows that the silver-pale hair will shift into a sunny blonde, the ice blue eyes into sky blue, but the smile will stay as empty and as fake as the boy who tried to save Sasuke from himself.
So he stands his ground, no matter how much he wants to run.
Yuuri has spent close to a decade working out his issues, pacing the confines of the pale blue-green walls of Minami-sensei’s clinic, but even as he closes his eyes and works through his breathing exercises he knows he cannot stave off the anger that is cresting in his chest.
When his eyes snap open, Victor Nikiforov flinches back at the intensity in them.
Good, he thinks, before hissing at the man who reminds him so much of Naruto it hurts.
Don’t smile if you don’t mean it, he bites out, memories of a blonde boy’s fake laughter and trembling fingers stealing his breath away. If you’re not happy, then fucking do something about it, and don’t let this goddamn world take you down with it, usuratonkachi.
Let them all burn, and fire your useless coach if he can’t see that you’re burned out, he continues, ignoring Celestino’s gasps, ignoring the furious yells of Nikiforov’s dumb coach, ignoring everything but the wide blue eyes looking at Yuuri like he is the messiah and the end of the world all at once condensed in a small body.
Yuuri takes a step closer, poking the man’s chest with a finger and rolling his eyes at the wince.
If you’re so done with winning and figure skating, then quit, he says, or else enjoy the view from the bottom of the podium, because I’m going to knock your sorry ass down.
Apparently that declaration of war breaks his coach because then he’s being dragged down the hallway back to his room, Celestino’s hysterical apologies and cries echoing in the suddenly quiet hallway. Yuuri takes one last peek at the frozen gold medalist, takes in the eyes that no longer looked empty, takes in the flush on the man’s face that made him look alive, and takes a deep breath. When he arrives in his room, waving away Celestino’s nagging, he heads to the window to look up at the sky.
It almost feels like there is lightning coating his fingers, the warm chest of Naruto around his arm, and gentle blue eyes staring at him as he decides at the last second not to murder the boy who had begun to mean more than his revenge.
With a thunk, he lets his head rest against the cold glass and sighs. Tomorrow, he will apologize to Celestino, because the poor man had never had to deal with his angry outbursts before. It must have been a shock to see quiet, polite Yuuri swearing and threatening to dethrone Russia’s living legend.
Tomorrow, but for now, he lets memories of Naruto’s blue eyes and broken voice asking him to come home wash over his skin. Tomorrow, tomorrow, he tells himself, but today he lets himself mourn for the loss of his very first and most loyal friend.
He spends his break on the ice and on his couch, skating to the image of empty blue eyes, and burying himself in texts of peaceful revolutions, human rights, and society as a whole learning the value of a human being.
And his short and free skate start taking shape beneath his blades.
When he meets Nikiforov in next season’s GPF, he grabs the man’s jacket, ignoring the exclamations of the people around them, ignoring the cameras pointed straight at them, and tells the man to keep your eyes on me, before stepping onto the ice. Yuuri pours his heart into his programs, pours the memories of blond hair tickling his cheeks and sharp teeth spread into a grin and the sound of footsteps chasing him to the ends of the earth. He pours Yuuri into it, and his story of how he learned to be a person and not be a tool to be used by others.
When Yuuri breaks Nikiforov’s world record for the free skate and steals gold from the man’s fingers, Yuuri raises an eyebrow at him in challenge.
Well? he taunts with his brown eyes, a polite smile in place for the press.
Yuuri, the man whispers reverently from his lower step in the podium, blue eyes sparkling with so much wonder and relief and happiness it makes him shift uncomfortably.
The press shouts questions at him, asking how he felt competing and breaking Nikiforov’s record and winning streak. He thinks back to when he was six, reading about democracy and stars and the moon landing, and looks straight into Nikiforov’s eyes.
I feel human, he says, and catches the moment blue eyes bloom.
Later on, in the banquet, Nikiforov immediately hones in on him when he enters behind Celestino. The Russian quickly prattles to his coach while Yuuri bows and smiles to his sponsors, and he lets out a squeak when long arms wrap around his waist, pulling him away and into the crowd.
He elbows the man irritably, and shoots the laughing Celestino the darkest of his glares when the man merely tells him to have fun.
Nikiforov apparently thought that Yuuri’s declaration of war had been an offer for friendship, just like how Naruto had believed his rivalry with Sasuke meant that they were tied and bonded for life, and it stuns him into silence that allows the older man to manhandle him into the corner of other skaters.
Yuuri has been skating and competing since he was nine, but the only friend he ever made was Phichit. In this, he is not so different from Sasuke. He still prefers to be left alone, finding long interactions tedious. So he awkwardly sulks behind Nikiforov's tall form, fiddling with his champagne glass and nodding politely at their congratulations, his skin crawling. He remembers that first month at Detroit, where his rinkmates whispered vitriol about him while he stood a few feet away before turning and smiling prettily at him. These skaters might not look angry, but he has dethroned Nikiforov’s winning streak and beaten them all. And he knows all about masks.
So when another Russian, Nikiforov’s rinkmate Georgi Popovich, teases him about how he confronted Nikiforov last season, Yuuri is on edge just enough for his fragile control on his temper to snap.
Nikiforov looks alive now, looks less like a cutout of a person walking and dancing to someone else’s tune. But Yuuri still remembers the haunted look in his blue eyes, still wakes up gasping from dreams of Nikiforov shifting into another lonely blue-eyed boy Sasuke knew with his entire heart.
You are his rinkmate, he asks politely, waiting for the older man to nod. Then why did you not talk to Nikiforov? Why did he continue to skate and skate and shred his heart and mind while you and your stupid coach stood by? What use are medals if you are not happy, if you smile and feel your face crack? What use is winning if it just makes you emptier inside?
Out of kindness for Nikiforov, he keeps his voice level and soft to avoid other people outside their circle from hearing. But already his vision is blurring with angry tears and he glares at the stricken expression on the skaters’ faces. Sadness and regret had come first when he got his memories as a child, but anger had been one of the strongest emotions he had when he was Sasuke. And on some days, whenever he lets himself feel too much, the only thing he can taste on his tongue is wrath.
It took Yuuri a long time to realize that his first world was flawed, so, so wrong in the way they raised their children to be slaughterers or to be slaughtered. Even now, Yuuri carries that burden of feeling blood slick on his fingers and eyes glowing red as he carelessly and cruelly cuts off people’s heads. Being brought up in a world of shinobi, of bringing honor to the clan to the point of dying, of the mentality of us against them, of being a weapon more than a living, breathing person, ruined something in Sasuke, broke him beyond repair. And seeing the dull eyes that Sasuke had seen in his reflection and in Naruto’s sullen face looking straight out from Nikiforov’s blue eyes-
Yuuri startles when a hand rubs his back, and a voice tells him to breathe. Shakily, he places the glass he had been clutching on a table and roughly wipes his face under his glasses, counting his breathing and trying to control his trembling.
When he looks up, he sees that Celestino had made his way to his side and he exhales harshly.
There is only understanding and kindness in the man’s face when he asks if he wants to go back to his hotel room or if he wanted him to bring Ita-chan back down here.
Yuuri mulls that over, peeking at the silent Nikiforov next to him, his large hand still flat on his back, and decides that if he could survive being Sasuke, he can survive this.
The other skaters huddle awkwardly at the fringes of their circle, and Nikiforov has yet to say anything or move his hand away from Yuuri’s back. When Celestino returns with Ita-chan, Yuuri drops to his knees and buries his face in his dog’s vest, and breathes. Gathering what’s left of his courage, he looks up at the skaters around him, taking in their expressions at him cuddling a therapy dog, and swallows.
I’m sorry for losing control like that, he says stiffly, standing and gripping Ita-chan closer.
Immediately, they all fall over to wave his apologies and while he might have been irritated at their obvious pity, he merely snorts and relaxes into Nikiforov’s body, too tired and too lonely to hold himself apart. There is longing in his veins, and Nikiforov is strong and silent next to him. Just this once, he tries to tell himself, and knows that it is a lie.
(Ever since he saw that haunted look in the Russian skater's eyes, that sharp smile, Yuuri knows that he won't be able to look away again.
Kindred souls, he thinks, and laughs.)
The older man stills, before long arms gleefully wrap around his torso, careful not to jostle his dog.
Popovich comes closer and quietly apologizes, earnestly, about how he didn’t mean to come across as rude and how he and their other rinkmates have been trying to help Nikiforov with his problems after last season’s incident. Yuuri blinks, shifting his head to look at the man curled up around his back, and huffing when Nikiforov smiles brightly and nods.
The usuratonkachi is out of his mouth before he can stop it, and he watches light flicker in Nikiforov’s eyes as he happily tells everyone that Yuuri has given me a nickname!
Rolling his eyes, he buries his burning face in Ita-chan’s fur.
When he goes to sleep that night, he ends up with more friends and Nikiforov’s number in his phone.
Going back to Detroit after smashing Nikiforov’s records is an exercise in patience. It starts when press and fans crowd him after he disembarked the plane, cameras blinding him and screams deafening him.
It grates on his nerves, already tired from the jetlag, and he catches himself reaching down to his waist and unsheathing a sword that is not there.
Calm, he tells himself, calm. My name is Katsuki Yuuri, he breathes, not Uchiha Sasuke. It gets him through the crowd, Celestino and airport security forming a tight barrier between him and the masses.
When he reaches his apartment, he is met with a bright smile and a warm hug from Phichit, and finally, the want for violence in his blood settles.
But then the press drops another bomb, and he stares at the headlines on his phone. He can hear Phichit and Celestino flitting around him, worried and angry in turn, but all he can focus on are the articles that question his capacity as a skater just because he has an emotional support animal.
Yuuri thinks back to masks and orange books covering Kakashi-sensei’s tired face, to the brittle fake smiles on Naruto’s lips, to the angry punches thrown by a flustered Sakura, and feels a boiling in his veins. Shinobi cannot show their weaknesses, he knows this as much as he knows every word in the UN Declaration of Human Rights, but Yuuri is not a shinobi.
There is a galaxy of confusion and bitterness in him, swirling and never ending. Should he hide his anxiety, his anger, his past? Should he cover up the pride that swells in him when he looks at his family and Phichit and his medals and pretend he did not crawl his way up to reach this point? Should he wear another mask of determination and stoicism, grunting his answers and glaring at anyone who came close?
(Should he be Sasuke again, feigning his strength even as he spends his nights blistering and bleeding in training grounds because he couldn’t sleep in the house where his parents were murdered by his brother?)
He doesn’t understand why this world sneers at him, at his weakness, when they don’t need him to be strong and fight and kill. This world is supposed to be different, he wants to scream, tears blurring his vision and resentfulness filling his mouth like bile.
He had worked so hard to accept that he was weak, and now he has to try to make the world accept the same? How is this fair, he thinks, and for just a moment, thinks of breaking Itachi's dearest wish.
(Live, Sasuke, live.
Can he even live like this? In a world as fickle as this, in a world as judging as his first one?)
He blinks, shaking his bitterness away when he receives a text, and already he is composing his reply in his mind to soothe his family when he sees that it is from Nikiforov instead.
Don’t listen to them. You are the strongest person I know, it says, and Yuuri feels a lump in his throat. Weak weak weak, he chides himself, but Minami-sensei had carefully taught him that it is better to let yourself cry than to hold it all in.
Yuuri sobs, holding tightly onto his phone and onto Nikiforov’s message, and when Phichit and Celestino hold him in their arms, he pushes away Sasuke’s glittering black eyes. He will always bear the scars of his first life, bear the gouges in his soul from everything that went wrong when he was Sasuke, but he is not Sasuke now. He will never be again.
He will never make the mistake of throwing his life away because of other people. Itachi had treasured him, and he squandered it. Never again. He is not alone, not like how he was as Sasuke. He has his family, has his dog, has his friends, has his ice.
I am Katsuki Yuuri, he says in between gasps, and wants.
He holds a conference two days later, Ita-chan proudly wearing his vest and Celestino proudly wearing a smile behind him.
I have an anxiety disorder, he says to the press, but that does not make me weak or invalid. Every day, I wake up a wreck, obsessing over every little thing that could go wrong. Crowds scare me, long hair against my skin makes me panic, and loud sounds make me jump. I have undergone years of therapy, working through my issues, and I have Ita-chan. I am not perfect, but I am strong. I don’t care if you all think that I shouldn’t be competing, that maybe the judges will be swayed and score my jumps higher because they pity me. They don’t because, unlike you, they see me and not my disorder.
Yuuri eyes the sullen faces of the reporters, and smiles, eyes hard. He tells them, I have clawed my way up from the very bottom, fought my demons, and learned exactly what it is to be human. I won’t let you people take away my ice, my freedom, and I won’t let you put me in a box of mental disorders under the guise of “for my own good”. We are all people; all of us have problems and issues. That doesn’t make us weak- it just shows us how much we have to struggle. And every day, that struggle proves that we are still alive.
There is a heavy silence in the room. When he walks out after he says his piece, no one stops him.
Later that night, after his Skype call with his tearful and proud family, he receives a message from Nikiforov.
See? So strong, Yuuri, the man texts, and even a hundred miles away, Yuuri can almost hear the teasing tone.
Huffing, he replies, the late night and the tiredness in his bones making him a bit too honest,
It’s because of you, usuratonkachi.
Yuuri thinks of empty blue eyes filling with emotion, of the flush on sharp cheekbones, of silver-pale and blonde hair glinting under the light, and sighs.
He turns off his phone, and sleeps.
Phichit wakes him up the next day, beaming, and shows him the various tweets and posts his fellow skaters had made. They all linked videos of his speech, rallying behind him and supporting him.
One tweet in particular stands out.
Yuuri Katsuki is the strongest person I know, and with every word he says and every step he takes, he inspires and enthralls me. I’ve never met a person like him before and I am blessed to have him in my life.
Attached is a picture from his press conference after the GPF, where he was staring straight into Nikiforov’s eyes and saying how he felt human, right after he skated a program filled with thoughts of blonde hair that shifted to silver-pale and blue eyes so deep Yuuri felt like he could drown, red on his cheeks and Nikiforov looking at him with awe and so, so much gratitude.
(Sasuke remembers sad gentle eyes filled with so much emotion it brimmed over, a soft voice that usually screamed whispering, come home, Sasuke, please come home with me, don’t you see, we’re bonded, you and I-)
Yuuri stares numbly at Nikiforov's tweet, feels his heart thump irregularly, feels the flush on his nape and cheeks, and curses.