save me from hq!! hell

His future is a rising star in the night sky, shining brighter by the second. He should be happy, Yuuri thinks. He should be proud of what he has achieved so far. And yet— And yet...

Yuuri tries to loosen the tension in his shoulders, one that is ever present, ever growing. Tries to release the strain, but stops short. It makes it even harder to breathe.

The seasons have changed countless of times—ever since his dream had been said with naïve eyes, face pressed up against the TV screen. When he would collect every poster, every cup, every pencil he could find. When life seemed so much easier, back then. Like anything was possible.

Even when his feet would be bleeding and every muscle would scream, he would push further. To reach that impossible goal. To reach Polaris; too stubborn to stop.

And yet, here he stands, surrounded by darkness on a rink full of scratches, a testimony to his pain. His hard work, some would say. His passion. His dream.

He’s surrounded by empty seats and forgotten gloves; while somewhere, some place unknown, families gather. Making jokes over shared dinner, celebrating a new milestone in their lives. Colourful, warm. Everything here isn’t.

He’s standing there, surrounded by shades of blue and white and black, the cold seeping into his bones with every passing second he remains unmoving. His muscles ache as his family sits together, warm, telling each other stories about their day, their plans for next week. All smiles as a seat remains empty.

Yuuri breathes a shaky exhale, mildly watching the small cloud fade into nothing.

Even now, the music rings loud and clear in Yuuri’s ears. A tune so ingrained into his mind, his body, for the countless of hours he’s listened to it; fallen to it.

There’s that short moment of silence after a performance where the world stands still—the heartbeat before the crowd erupts into a deafening cheer. That blink of an eye where the music has faded and he’s standing there, chest pushed out and heaving. He’s standing there on ice full of scratches from previous skaters and his own, having given his all as his muscles strain to keep him upright.

And then he’s searching—searching for the silver hair and eyes that reflect the moonlight on their midnight walks. For the voice that wraps around him like silk and holds him close. For those slender fingers that would entwine with his, would touch further, would dip into danger.

Danger that Yuuri craves.

“You were amazing out there,” Viktor says in a way only Yuuri knows. Low and sure, yet warm like a summer’s sun. It engulfs him; liquid sunshine threading itself into his veins and settling in his heart where only he can see. Where the stars of a new-found galaxy twinkle and shimmer.

The gentle press of Viktor’s palm is enough to choke the words stuck in Yuuri’s throat. It leaves him breathless, lost in the sandstorm of his mind. The sun is too bright; the clouds of dread and failure having disappeared, just like that.

It’s because of you, he doesn’t say. Doesn’t have to say.

Because some things don’t need to be said aloud to be crystal clear, when they douse everything in warmth like the setting sun. When they’re uttered under “good morning” and “welcome home.”

Waiting, waiting, Keith is always waiting for something, for that spark thrown into his life that changes everything. That ends days and nights blurring together. That ends the deep-rooted fear spreading over the world, haunting the generations to come; those that remain. Marking people with scars visible or not. Taking—greedy. Taking houses, land, lives. A battle where no one wins except for one. A battle of loss.

He waits for what ends alone, and starts together.

Waits and hopes for the days where the grass was fresh under his bare feet and the air clean of dust and smoke. When eyes were round and naive, blind to the truth of the world.

Days of laughter, of him at his side.

He holds on to those memories like the lifeguard keeping him sane. Keeping him grounded, when the world around him is shattering.

The hope in Keith’s chest is a fragile flame, a candle in the wind, doomed to be blown out if he slips up for just a second. What was once a raging fire has only left behind ashes and scars—has died down to this pitiful thing, stuck underneath his nails, stubborn.

He wants to let go. He doesn't.

It would be easier. It wouldn't.

Keith lets his head fall back against the wooden wall; lets lightly-tanned fingers curl around the metal ring hanging around his neck. Simple and small—too small for him. Old. Filled with memories and promises. Promises he’s holding on to even if they sting at his skin like thorns. Metal that is smooth and cool, electric and heavy. Not his own. Decorated with the smallest of scratches. A message left inside, carved like a secret.

He’s dead. He’s not.

Keith closes his eyes. The air reeks of dusty wood and soil, gunfire replacing the sound of chirping birds.

I should leave.

The words are stuck in the tension between Shiro’s shoulders, in the tight press of his lips, eyes unable to meet Keith’s. He’s close; not close enough. Keith only wants to reach out, silence static thoughts. He wants to wrap his arms around Shiro’s waist to selfishly steady himself and whisper “please don’t do this.”

But there’s and odd sense of acceptance in his chest. Makes his shoulders slump, numbs his mind from any irrational thoughts.

“Keith...” And he’s breaking. He’s breaking and Keith knows it and yet all he can do is hold his breath and stare head-on into dark brown eyes that have moved up but still can’t meet his.

Keith remains silent. Waits. Keith hates waiting.

“I’m leaving...” Shiro’s eyes flick up, and they’re squeezing, squeezing, squeezing and Keith is sure he’s choking.

“I know,” is all he says instead.

Keith doesn’t know whether he wants to run or just stay very, very still; to not make the sword piercing his chest go any deeper.

Shiro takes a deep breath, shaking. Recollecting. Scared, but he doesn’t say that. Doesn’t allow his chest to be crushed.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

And Keith steps closer, piercing his chest fully, bleeding, bleeding; the invisible tears he cannot spill. There's a waver in his step, but not in his voice.

“I don’t care.” His hand moves forward, shaking more than he'd like to so he intertwines his fingers with Shiro’s. A burning warmth, bittersweet. Palm bigger than his, fingers hesitating to curl around his own.

Shiro’s mouth parts, brows knitted into an expression that only drives the sword deeper. Broken. Disbelief. Lost. Tears reflected in deep brown they both hold back from spilling.

Will you miss me?

Of course I will.

Shiro’s hand comes up to cup Keith’s cheek, a touch so gentle it’s barely there. As if he’s afraid. Afraid to touch, afraid to speak, afraid to leave. Deep-rooted and ugly.

He marvels the deep purple eyes, so close, so trusting. Bold—sure. Thinly veiled hurt reflected in the shine in them. He lets his thumb slide across Keith's cheek, slow, gentle, burning skin even when the touch is gone.

Shiro's eyes fall closed, his head dips low; meets Keith's.

Lips brush together, words whispered like promises.

Time isn’t an option here. Days blur together like the air on a hot summer’s day, every breath shallower than the one before as you wait, leaves your heart racing the quieter it is. Silence isn’t good. Silence is just the countdown for when you’re next. Silence allows for your thoughts to speak louder, consume you.

Shiro clenches his hands together, a strain in his knuckles strong enough to distract his mind just a bit. To ground him, to remind him who he is. That isn’t an option here, either. To be who you are, to fight for it, to disobey. So he has to do it in quiet, in this solitary cell with a guard on the other side of iron bars. Where every move of his is recorded and reported.

His eyes fall closed, tired lines at the edges.

Inhale—his lungs ache. So he stops short, releases the tension in his shoulders. Focuses on the drumbeat of his heart, and returns home.

Inhale. Keith’s smug smile when he had beat his record for the first time. Exhale. Keith pinned underneath him in the empty training room after hours, when they should be asleep but aren’t. Inhale. Keith’s thigh pressed against his own in the cafeteria, hidden in plain sight, a secret of their own. Exhale. Keith moving closer with mindful steps, careful, eyes unwavering. Never stopping to look into his, deep purple like a cat’s. Moving closer, closer, until he’s pressed against the wall.

Inhale.

His heart is the ocean at dawn, tired waves reaching for the shore. Pulling back, reaching out again. Unsure, but steady.

Shiro falls back onto the cold bed barely enough for one, the wall pressed right against his arm.

It’s dark here. It always is. Where the only sources of light are neon purple and out of his reach. Where an empty void surrounds them, holds them capture, away from home. Where scars mark his skin, reminders for him to carry and hide, regret for his actions collecting like stars in the sky.