#blip fics

Yuuri stretches rink-side, preparing his muscles for practice. Viktor (as usual) has already beaten him to the ice. It’s only the two of them right now, music drifting from Viktor’s radio and carrying through the air. Yuuri feels like he can take his time like this, without a horde of other skaters to navigate through.

He can’t take too much time, or else Viktor will slip from husband mode to coach mode and demand he get a move on. But he can pause and take a moment to watch Viktor as he stretches his arms over his head, his spine giving a series of quiet pops.

Viktor glides across the ice as graceful as a swan and even now, a medalist in his own right, Yuuri still finds himself in awe.

The awe vanishes, heart plummeting to the pit of his gut as Viktor badly botches his death drop. Yuuri sees the precarious wobble of his ankle before it bends beneath him. A sharp snap pierces the air, echoing like the crack of a fresh celery stick as Viktor goes spilling onto the ice.

Yuuri bolts onto the rink, scrambling in a mad dash to get to him. He too falls, but he immediately gets up and Viktor doesn’t, Viktor doesn’t get up at all— Viktor is sprawled in a heap and the sight terrifies Yuuri like nothing else. He runs even faster and the slippery ice trips him up. He falls again and urgently crawls the rest of the way to Viktor, heart pounding.

Viktor stares up with saucer wide, glazed eyes; not at Yuuri, not at anything. His chest rises and falls with rapid, shallow breaths.

“You’re hurt,” Yuuri anxiously splutters. “How bad? It sounded pretty bad, who should I call?”

Viktor groans instead of answering and fumbles for his ankle with trembling fingers. As he shifts forward, the pitch of his groan heightens until it’s an anguished whine. Yuuri quickly takes his hand and pulls it away before he can make it worse.

“No, don’t touch it,” he urges hastily. “I’ll call an ambulance, hold on.”

Viktor groans again and squeezes his eyes shut, face draining to a ghastly pallor. “Okay,” he says, small and quavery. A shield of unshed tears glistens over his eyes and the dented look of his cheeks draw Yuuri to the conclusion that he’s biting them on the inside.

His husband is trying desperately not to cry.

Yuuri sucks in a breath and tries to get a handle on his nerves. He can’t help Viktor if he can’t harness the anxiety that threatens to send him into a frenzy. Viktor needs him right now. Yuuri paws over his pockets in a blind search for his phone, growing all the more fretful when he finds them empty.

“I’m not sure where my phone is. Do you have yours?”

“Jacket pocket,” Viktor croaks. He winces as he reaches for it and Yuuri stills his arm again, taking it out himself. He doesn’t want Viktor to worsen the pain he’s already in.

By the time Yuuri makes it through his panicky ambulance call, Viktor’s stoic efforts give way to open suffering. He clutches at his ankle before Yuuri can stop him, hissing between gritted teeth. A violent shudder racks through his rigid frame and a lower, weaker groan claws its way out of his throat.

“You’re going to be alright,” Yuuri promises, taking his hand. “They’ll be here soon. Just hold on, Viktor.”

“What did I do?” he all but whimpers. “Ooh, Yuuri, what did I do?”

Yuuri doesn’t know the answer but he knows it isn’t good. It isn’t good at all, but of course, he can’t say that to Viktor. He has to comfort him as much as he can.

“Here,” Yuuri says, bypassing the questions as he unties his own jacket from around his waist. He bundles it beneath Viktor’s head and cards his fingers through his hair, cursing the nervous way they shake.

Viktor blinks up at him, mouth pulling into a grimace as he tries to swallow back another whimper.

“Don’t worry,” Yuuri says, giving Viktor’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’m going to be the best nurse ever. I’m going to wait on you hand and foot, and fluff all your pillows, and cook everything you want. I’ll even let you drink vodka by the bottle.”

Yuuri sees the struggle in Viktor’s eyes as he tries to focus on Yuuri above the pain, this twitch at the corner of his lips when he fails to force a smile. The pale hint of a laugh in his strained breath.

“Sponge baths,” he grates out.

“Yes!” Yuuri exclaims brightly. “Of course. All the sponge baths you want, whenever you want.”

The next noise Viktor makes almost sounds like a sob and the agony that washes over his face just about breaks Yuuri’s heart.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri murmurs, tenderly stroking his fingers through Viktor’s hair. “I’m sorry, I know it hurts. Just hold on a little longer, help is coming.”

Viktor feebly clings to his hand and gives a terse nod. A sheen of sweat glitters along his brow despite the chill of the air in the rink. Yuuri dabs at it with the corner of his sleeve and continues babbling on in a soft voice about all the meals he’s going to cook for Viktor, and the classics they’re going to watch while he’s healing, the lotion he’ll treat him to after every sponge bath, just everything he can think of to give Viktor to latch onto…

“I thought you’d pick blue,” Yuuri says, looking up from his task on the kitchen counter. He’s organizing Viktor’s pills for the week into a plastic container. One prescription is for the pain and another is for the nausea that’s a frequent side effect of the painkillers.

“Hm?” Viktor tosses a glance back to him. He’s experimentally roaming their apartment with his crutches, trying to “break them in” as he’d told Yuuri.

“Your cast,” Yuuri says simply. “I thought you’d pick blue.”

It’s a short cast, immobilizing his husband’s ankle up to the knee. It wasn’t as bad a break as it could’ve been, but the doctor didn’t give a definitive answer on whether or not it would recover well enough to handle the demands of Viktor’s career. They would have to wait and see in regards to that.

It’s a conversation bound to come up even before the cast comes off. It’s not something Yuuri is going to bring up tonight, however.

“You don’t like purple?” Viktor frowns, casting an uncertain glance to his injured limb.

“I like it,” Yuuri assures him, smiling sheepishly. “I don’t know, I just thought you’d pick blue.”

Viktor tries to navigate his way around the ottoman with his crutches, a tad too wobbly for Yuuri’s comfort.

“Well, what color would you pick?”

Yuuri pauses as he considers, warily distracted by Viktor’s near misstep. “Black, I think.”

“That’s dreary.” Viktor wrinkles his nose, shifting to make his way forward. “Or emo. I bet Yurio would pick bla—oh!”

Viktor stumbles and Yuuri swiftly dives around the counter, catching him before he can topple. Viktor gasps, almost frantically grasping for Yuuri as he struggles for balance.

“I’ve got you,” Yuuri insists, bearing up like a pillar to support his husband’s weight. “It’s okay, I won’t let you go. But you’ve got to take a break now, okay?”

Viktor nods, face gone pale. Yuuri can tell he’s shook up from the near-fall. He helps him hobble to the couch and Viktor flops back onto it heavily. He stretches his legs out along the cushions and Yuuri wedges a throw pillow under his ankle.

“Thanks, Yuuri,” Viktor sighs. He sounds tired beyond tired, a catch in his voice that betrays pain.

Yuuri purses his lips, wondering if he should offer him another pain pill. Viktor’s already had the full dose so he probably shouldn’t, but still…He’s had a horrible day, putting it lightly. His figure skating career was winding down anyway and this injury very well may have stolen his chance to end it on the showstopper that could be expected of the legend that was Viktor Nikiforov.

This might have killed his chance to end it on his own terms and perhaps the uncertainty, the unknown, was even worse than a solid confirmation for the good or the bad. In any case, it must be tearing Viktor up inside, lest of all the physical pain the pill evidently hasn’t entirely numbed.

Yuuri almost asks if he wants another pill and then almost asks what he wants for dinner instead. What he settles on is putting a gentle hand on his shoulder and asking,

“What else can I do?”

“You’re here,” Viktor says, flashing him a sad smile. “Right now, I think that’s enough.”

“Why are you here?” Yuri pokes his head out from his blanket nest to scowl at his unwelcome visitors.

“Be nice!” Lilia snaps, shooting him a fierce warning look as she takes Yuuri’s coat.

“We were worried about you, Yurio.” Viktor clicks his tongue. “Pneumonia can be so serious.”

“Not my name,” Yuri reminds him tartly. “And I could’ve told you that.”

“Don’t mind him, Vitya.” Yakov lowers his book, glancing over from the armchair. “His mood’s even worse than usual.”

“You’d be in a bad mood too if you could barely breathe!” Raising his voice sets off the dormant coughs waiting thick and leaden in Yuri’s chest. He curls his hand over his mouth to muffle it and sits up to help it settle. The familiar pains stab into his lungs, no more pleasant than they were yesterday.

When he coughs his way through to the oxygen on the other side, Lilia has water for him.

“Yeah, that sounds pretty bad.” Yuuri invites himself to the couch much to Yuri’s chagrin, even more brazenly planting his hand right on Yuri’s forehead. An oddly maternal frown creases on his mouth. “You’re really warm too.”

“Hey!” Yuri swats his arm away. “Don’t touch me.”

“Is he?” Lilia glances over. “Should I get the thermometer? Poor thing’s fever’s been like a rollercoaster. Up and down all night.”

“I just took it about fifteen minutes ago, Lilia,” says Yakov. “No change from breakfast.”

Yuri groans and pulls the blanket over his head. It’s so annoying listening to other people talk about your medical this-and-thats. It’s like rubbing it in your face that you’re sick. Between the constant cough, chest aches, and the stupidly fickle temperature he’s already fully aware of how crappy he feels.

Lilia yanks the blanket down as she winds around the couch.

“Don’t do that. You need as much air as you can get right now.”

“Fuck off,” Yuri mutters tiredly.

Lilia’s eyebrow twitches and and a second later, she lightly bops the back of Yuri’s head.

“Ow!”

“So rude you are.” She shakes her head as she makes her way into the kitchen.

Yuri grumbles under his breathe and rubs the spot.

“You’re not even a little happy to see us?” Viktor invites himself to the couch too, so Yuri’s sandwiched between the pig and the dinosaur.

“No. I wanted to sleep until today was over…”

“You weren’t sleeping when we got here,” Viktor points out.

“I was trying to,” grunts Yuri. He ducks his mouth into his elbow as he starts coughing again, chest crackling with congestion.

Yuuri takes it upon himself to rub Yuri’s back and by the time the teen is through, all the annoyance he might have felt is spent on the increasing soreness of his throat and the residual sticky feeling he gets when he tries to take a deep breath.

“Should you take some medicine for that?” Viktor asks, frowning in concern.

“It’s viral. All I have to take for it is the stupid over the counter crap and Lilia only lets me take it twice a day.”

“If I let you take as much as you wanted, you’d be drinking from the bottle,” Lilia calls over.

“That’s what Viktor does.” Yuuri sighs in disapproval.

“Because that’s what makes it feel better,” Viktor insists. “Let him take some, he’s suffering.”

“He had the correct dosage this morning,” says Lilia. “He’ll suffer more if he doesn’t cough the congestion out.”

Yuri groans, pointedly stuffing another miserable coughing bout into the blanket. Yuuri rubs his back again, hand kneading in small circles until the fit passes.

“Feel better soon,” he says softly. “We should practice together again.”

“Going back to practice the day after tomorrow,” Yuri decisively declares, lifting his head and trying to inhale a full lung. The grip the gunk’s got on his lungs tightens the deeper the breath he takes in, and it ends in another wet cough.

Yakov scoffs. “Oh. And who said that?”

“I did.”

“No.” The older man vigorously shakes his head. “No, three weeks and not a moment sooner.”

“Three weeks!?” Yuri shrieks in disbelief.

“Yes,” his coach continues. “You’ve got double pneumonia, so a week off for each lung.”

“Wait,” Yuri argues. “Okay, first of—“

“And then a third to keep you from overdoing it.” Yakov disregards him.

“That’s stupid! I don’t even think pneumonia works that way!”

“That’s how long you’re going to recover before I let you near that rink, whether you think it’s stupid or not.” Yakov turns away and picks his book up again, evidently not open to negotiation.

“That’s going to destroy me,” whines Yuri. “I’ll fall behind…”

“Don’t worry, Yurio,” Viktor tells him. “Three weeks is nothing. I was out for longer when I hurt my back at your age, and I’m still one of the most famous people in Russia. I’m the most successful skater of my generation, then and now.”

“I don’t think you’re helping,” Yuuri says quickly. “Yurio, you’re— Uh, Yurio?”

Yuri folds forward, sniffling as tears sting the corners of his eyes. He blinks rapidly in an effort to keep them from falling. He feels five instead of fifteen all of a sudden, on the edge of crying and blubbering like this. But suddenly everything is just too much.

Going without seeing Grandpa for so long, being so sick like this, not being allowed to practice for three whole weeks? It suddenly all feels like a huge personal offense against him, this hard sucker punch of circumstance.

He sniffles again and keeps blinking as the sting grows stronger and one tear frees itself. A quiet mewl slips out with it.

“Uh-oh.” Viktor’s hand comes to cradle his forehead. “Think the fever’s getting to him.”

“Leave me alone,” he begs weakly. “I’m tired.”

Viktor withdraws his hand. Yuri’s chest twinges and then he’s coughing once again. He hacks up a storm, coughs harsh and abundant. He pulls a few tissues off the coffee table to expel the nasty blob of phlegm it brings up.

“Cheer up,” Viktor says. “We brought you presents.”

“A present,” Yuuri corrects.

Yuri slowly lifts his head. “Really?”

“Yep.” Yuuri gives him a small, encouraging smile and reaches over the arm of the couch to pick up a plastic bag.

Yuri takes it from him and pulls out a white shirt box. He tips his head as he opens it, blinking the last of the mist out of his eyes. It’s a dark green t-shirt depicting a clouded leopard standing on a branch. Its eyes are huge, tail in the air.

“This is cool,” he admits, brushing his fingers over the graphic.

“We thought you’d like it,” Yuuri says.

“Here, Yuuri.” Viktor reaches across Yuri to give his fiancé the remote. “Find something for us to watch.”

“I’m not going to understand anything I hear,” Yuuri huffs. Yet he takes it anyway and flicks the television on, appearing determined to tackle the challenge.

Viktor gives Yuri a nudge. Yuri glances to him, curiously raising a brow when he puts a finger to his lips. He inclines his head, eyes lowered. Yuri looks down. Peeking out of Viktor’s coat pocket is a glass medicine bottle. Not enough of it is sticking out for Yuri to read the label. Viktor scoots a little closer to him and leans in.  

“Codeine,” he whispers.

Morning hurts. All of Phichit’s injuries stiffened up during the night. His back and his shoulder have to be the worst, wrenched with this incessant throbbing that doesn’t even need the prompt of movement. And true to Yuuri’s prediction, his eye is now swollen shut. Not only does it hurt, but the blindspot is messing with him. It’s making him clumsier, he’s having a hell of a time trying to rewrap his palm.

“Can I help you with that?” Yuuri asks after a few minutes of trying not to look like he was watching Phichit struggle.

“This is kind of embarrassing,” Phichit sighs sheepishly, nudging the first aid kit over the comforter.

“That’s a difficult task one-handed,” Yuuri says softly. “Don’t be embarrassed.”

Yuuri slips the roll of bandaging from Phichit’s grasp. He holds the end at the juncture of Phichit’s thumb and index finger and gently swathes his hand layer after layer, until he deems it thick enough. The slash doesn’t look much different today. It hurts about the same too. Yuuri finishes up and tapes it down around his wrist.

“Do you want me to stay back with you today?” Yuuri asks. “I don’t mind calling in sick.”

“Thanks, but I’m not staying back,” says Phichit. “I’m going to practice.”

Uncertainly darkens Yuuri’s face. “Phichit…”

“It’ll be fine,” Phichit insists in a purposely airy tone. “I’m sore but I’m not incapacitated. Besides, things will go back to normal the sooner I act like they are.”

“Well…okay,” Yuuri says slowly. “If that’s what you want.”

“Yeah, I’d hate to fall behind.” Phichit masks a wince with a smile when he stands up.

Raising his arm is still unbearable, even harder than it was yesterday. So Phichit slips on a lightweight track jacket instead of one of his normal practice shirts. Yuuri surely notices but he doesn’t comment on it.

Phichit gets a lot of stares at the rink. He expected that but it’s more overwhelming than he anticipated. From his blog to his social circle, Phichit’s pretty popular. He’s used to getting attention. But handling positive attention with grace is a lot different than handling this. Even before he can get his skates on, his rink mates take turns crowding around.

“Whoa, Phichit! Did you get into a fight?”

“What happened to your face?”

“Who the hell did that?”

“What’s the other guy look like?”

Phichit gulps, throat drying as he struggles to address each rapid fire question. His skin crawls under the saucer-eyed gawking. It really nails in just how bad he looks and he can’t help thinking that maybe he should’ve stayed in today after all.

“Give him some space,” Celestino demands as he makes his way over. “You’re here to skate, aren’t you? I don’t see any skating happening.”

With a chorus of apologetic mumbles, his rink mates disperse and his coach sits down next to him. Phichit exhales slowly. He hasn’t been face to face with Celestino yet. The older man was instructing a newcomer at the opposite end of the rink. His features are tense with concern, mouth lining  in a firm frown as he takes in Phichit’s appearance.

“Thanks,” Phichit says.

“Yuuri gave me a heads up. You got robbed?”

“Uh-huh. It’s fine though,” Phichit reassures him. “I didn’t have much cash and I froze my debit card last night.”

“You look a little worse for wear,” Celestino says quietly.

“Yeah.” Phichit scratches at his wrist self-consciously. “It’s not as bad as it looks though, really. I’m just kind of sore.”

Celestino gives a low hum. He moves a hand to Phichit’s jaw and tilts his head to get a better look at the swollen half of his face.

“You should be icing this and recuperating at home.” He lets him go.

“I took a painkiller. I feel fine.” Phichit smiles in an attempt to put his coach as ease, but the pill he took doesn’t stop the smile from hurting his face. A lot.

“Show me,” Celestino instructs, pensive.

Phichit sucks in a breath that he can’t deny hurts and finishes lacing up his skates. His coach follows him to the ice, keeping a close eye on him. Phichit starts out slow, pace steady. He can’t deny that he’s in pain. His muscles are as taut as bowstrings and his range of motion naturally suffers for it. He attempts a simple spin and grits his teeth under the pain that ignites, his legs wavering at the fragile completion.

Phichit knows this isn’t enough to sell his coach so he sweeps around for a quick flip. A mistake. He underestimates the heightening intensity of the pain and overestimates his ability to tolerate it. He can’t stretch his arm out even enough for balance and trying jerks a yelp out of his throat. A dynamite goes off in his back when he descends floundering and he lands hard on his hands and knees.

“Can you stand?” Celestino calls out urgently.

“Yeah,” Phichit calls out, the certainty of it undermined by the quaver in his voice.

“Do you need help?” Pink skates skid to a stop a few lengths away and he glances up to see the extended hand of another student, Khadijah.

“I’m good.” Phichit denies the offer with a swallow and shakily pushes himself up.

He keeps close to the guardrail as he heads to his waiting, frowning coach.

“You can barely move,” Celestino declares. “You’re in pain, Phichit, go home.”

Phichit deflates, hanging his head. He won’t argue. He knows his coach is right. Even so, this is disheartening. He’d rather skate than sit around the quiet dorm with nothing to focus on other than the fact there was a gun to his head that he can still feel in between the pulses of his contusions.

Then Celestino takes his wrist, lifting it with a soft click of the tongue. Phichit blinks in surprise as he sees the tendrils of blood crawling out from under his glove. Oh. His palm must’ve reopened when he broke his fall.

“I’ll look at this before I send you off.”

“Okay.”

Celestino goes to get the first aid kit. Phichit finds the closest bench and slumps onto it tiredly. He pulls his gloves off and undoes the bloodied dressing Yuuri had applied. Yep, he ripped it open again. Pink meat sits in the split of his skin and glistens with a red glaze as blood weeps down. It isn’t the worst thing ever, but it is pretty gross. Phichit’s stomach squiggles uneasily.

“Are you okay?”

Phichit spooks at the voice, whipping his head. Yuuri had come up on his current blindspot.

“Sorry, just me.” Yuuri holds up his hands and sits next to him.

“I’m okay, I just…” Phichit trails off with a sigh as he realizes how many heads on the rink are are turned in his direction. He shies away and pushes his face into Yuuri’s shoulder. It hurts but right now the pain in his cheek is preferable to being stared at.

Yuuri doesn’t even budge and Phichit feels the quiet unfurl of friendship in his chest. He doesn’t look up when Celestino comes back but he knows he has when he hears the first aid kit being put down. His coach exhales as he takes Phichit’s hand and gets to work. Phichit doesn’t flinch when the cool squirt of saline hits the wound.

“Keep an eye on this,” Celestino says slowly. “If it won’t close, you might need stitches.”

“It’s fine,” Phichit promises without lifting his head. “I just landed on it hard.”

“Nevertheless.” Celestino secures the split in his flesh with several butterfly strips and wraps it up, touch efficient but not unkind. “Yuuri, take him home. I don’t want to see him here today or tomorrow.”

At this, Phichit finally turns away from Yuuri’s shoulder wand gives a disbelieving cry. “Tomorrow too? Ciao Ciao, that’s too much.”

“You can barely move,” his coach reiterates. “You need to give yourself a couple days to heal.”

“Mm…Fine, you’re right,” Phichit admits softly.  “Everything hurts. I don’t even want to stand, I can’t skate. Yuuri, please carry me.”

“Huh? Aright, I guess. You are smaller than me.” Yuuri blinks at him and then shifts his position on the bench, one arm around Phichit’s shoulders as he slips the other under his knees. To Phichit’s disbelief, he picks him up.

Phichit sputters and lets out a laughs that hurts, finds himself laughing again anyway. “Oh my god! Yuuri, put me down! I was kidding.”

Although Yuuri doesn’t carry him back, he walks closer to Phichit than normal and hovers the whole way.

“I don’t think you really had to come back with me,” Phichit tells him at the dorm, even though he’s grateful for the company.

“I know. I wanted to.” Yuuri chews at his lip. “It scared me, you know.”

“It wasn’t that bad of a fall. I mean, Ciao Ciao was right, I can’t move so great but I—“

“No, no, not that.” Yuuri sits down on Phichit’s bed next to him, and lightly touches his shoulder. “What happened to you. You could’ve gotten killed. It scares me to think about.”

“Might scare me a little more,” Phichit mumbles earnestly, fingers twitching to touch his temple. “But I’m okay.”

“This time,” Yuuri says, gaze hardening. “I don’t think we should leave alone too often. Or without telling each other how long we’ll be gone…Or maybe that’s going overboard. I don’t know, the whole thing just freaks me out. What if you didn’t come back at all? And I didn’t do anything because I assumed you ran into friends or something? What if I made a bad call not taking you to the hospital? Like, if you had internal bleeding or a head injury with late symptoms.”

“Okay, okay.” Phichit keeps his voice light and tries to pacify him. “Maybe it did scare you more. If there’s one thing I know about you, Yuuri, it’s that you’re really good at working yourself up.”

“Sorry.” Yuuri hangs his head.

“No, I’m glad you came back with me,” Phichit tells him. “I don’t really want to be alone right now.”

Yuuri’s lips twitch in a gentle smile. “I have some heat patches in here somewhere. Want me to find one for your back?”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Phichit says, irresistibly touching the tender place and grimacing.

“This is such a small room. They can’t be far.” Yuuri crosses the short distance to his own bed and gets down, digging around beneath it.

Yuri is taken aback by the sight of the Canadian skater sprawled across his hotel bed.

“Hey!” He squawks. “What the fuck are you doing in here?”

JJ picks his head up enough to glower and that’s when Yuri sees he looks like total garbage. His complexion is terribly ashen around the stoplight red splotches of color in his cheeks. His glisten blearily and startlingly bright.

“Quit yelling,” he groans at Yuri, dropping his head again. He sounds as awful as he looks, every syllable rasping and feeble.

“Why are you in my room!?” Yuri demands, making an effort to be somewhat softer.

“My room,” JJ mumbles.

“No, it’s not. Look around, that is all my stuff!” Yuri heatedly gestures to the clothes strewn on the floor and the open suitcases. Everything is unmistakably his own belongings.

“My room now,” JJ mutters tiredly. A cough ripples through his broad frame and all if takes is the one to lead him into a fit. He hacks all over Yuri’s poor pillow, gross-ing it up with all his spit and germs.

“Come on,” Yuri groans. “Couldn’t you find somewhere else to die? I don’t want to room with Georgi. He’s still whining about Anya and it really creeps me out.”

“Not dying yet,” JJ grumbles weakly. He starts coughing again and it’s so bad Yuri can’t believe him. He curls inward under the strain of the fit, burying his mouth in the now certified germ-ified pillow to muffle them.

As much as Yuri doesn’t want to care, it startles him to see the other skater so sick. He goes over and puts a hand to JJ’s back. He can feel the blaze of fever heat even through his clothes and this does nothing to mitigate his uneasiness.

“Damn, dude,” he hisses. “Should I go get your coaches? Or call a doctor?”

“Water?” JJ proposes in a rough whimper, raising his head.

It’s just so pitiful that Yuri can’t deny him. He sighs warily, and goes to the fridge to get JJ a bottle of water. JJ starts coughing again, each one grating out of him dry and painful.

“I’d better not catch this,” Yuri warns him without as much ferocity as he hoped would carry the words. He gently bumps the cool bottom of the bottle against JJ’s face.

JJ blinks and clumsily reaches up for it. Yuri doesn’t let him have it until he’s sure he can keep a steady grip. Then he has trouble screwing the cap off so Yuri just sighs and leans over, hit with a wave of the uncomfortable, roasting heat teeming off the Canadian skater. He unscrews the cap for him and props the pillow a little higher under his head so he won’t choke as he drinks.

“Thanks,” he croaks when he’s had his fill.

Yuri cringes, bristling with alarm. JJ expressing suck gratitude to him is just wrong. So wrong. Yuri concludes whatever disease he has must be of the intensively delirious variety. Logically, Yuri should just get as far away from him as possible and take a hot shower right now to scrub away the contagion…

Instead Yuri lets out a sigh and goes to look for another blanket, because the older skater is quaking with chills and Yuri can’t find it in him to abandon someone who looks as pitiful as an orphaned kitten. 

Yuri slips out at midnight and runs the way to Yakov’s rink for the fifth night in a row. He has to practice his new program overtime because it just isn’t working out so far. Yuri hasn’t preformed it proficiently since being assigned.

Not once. He keeps screwing up in one fashion or another. Yesterday he flubbed his Russian split twice and Lilia keeps calling him out for losing rhythm. Charlotte spirals aren’t normally for guys, but she thinks Yuri’s flexible enough to pull it off.

He knows he’s flexible enough to pull it off and has several times, but that’s not going to matter if he messes up every other move or his presentation score tanks. And in a few years he won’t be flexible enough to pull it off, so like hell he’s going to bomb this program now.

Yuri’s puffing by the time he reaches the rink. Fatigue weighs down on his limbs and nothing sounds better than sleep right now. Yuri isn’t oblivious to how tired he is, but it’s a secondary concern when he needs to tackle his program. He kicks back some sports drink and puts his hair up.

He can tough out the tiredness. Yuri won the fucking Grand Prix Final and he worked himself to the brink to do it. He won’t let himself succumb now. He has his own scores to surpass and a reputation to keep. He’s going to practice until he gets it right and he’s not going to take a break for some nap like a freaking toddler. He’ll fuel himself on will entirely if that’s what he has to do.

Or so he resolves…

Once Yuri’s on the ice, it seems a hell of a lot more like he’s regressing than making any kind of improvement. He skids out of sync and falls on his face on his very first attempt.

Attempt Two ends in Yuri’s supposedly impressive flexibility failing him. He wobbles when he tries to straighten the lift of his leg and then he slips.

Attempt Three he’s simply too slow. His momentum dies and leads him to spill on his side.

Yuri curses and furiously punches the ice. His hands are so numb it takes a minute for the pain in his knuckles to even register at all. Damn it to hell, why can’t he get this right!?

All of his subsequent attempts end just as embarrassingly. At a quarter to three in the morning, Yuri finally calls it quits. Official practice starts at 6:30. Like it or not, he does need a little sleep if he’s going to be clearheaded enough for that.

Fuming and thoroughly put out, he bags his skates and jogs back to Lilia’s place. His body is drained but he forces a brisk pace out of it, maybe just because he’s pissed. Maybe to prove he can accomplish that at least, even if his program currently seems out of reach. ___

Yuri feels like a lump of dog shit that got hit by a garbage truck by the time morning practice comes around. He didn’t really sleep after getting back to Lilia’s the night before. He was too frustrated to relax. Now he’s so tired his eyelids feel like lead. His limbs are sore with strain and he feels brittle somehow, just stiff and off kilter. Every bruise he earned while flopping around the ice last night like some kind of discombobulated poultry twinges just to mock him.

“You alright, Yuri?” Mila plops down next to him while he adjusts his skates. Her program is probably working out just fine. She looks positively glowing right now, bright-eyed and sleek.  

“I’m annoyed,” he mutters.

“You’re always annoyed,” she replies. “That’s not what I meant. You look pale.”

“You’re making it worse,” he snaps, more irritated with feeling so crappy than he is with Mila herself. “Go away.”

“Jeez.” Mila waves her hand and gets up. “Sorry I asked.”

She makes her way to the rink and Yuri puts his hair up, then takes a long swill of sports drink. He’s usually the first one on the ice but today just about everybody’s beaten him to it. Georgi, Mila, even that dinosaur Viktor is here today and out there before he is.

Yuri curses under his breath and stands up. Suddenly the headache that’s been nagging at the corners of his skull all morning intensifies. His vision darkens in unison with the abrupt spike of pain. Yuri tilts sideways and someone grabs him by the arm, gasping.

“Yurio? What’s wrong?”

Yuri blinks away the black spots and takes a breath. He turns to the arm grasping his own and squints irritably at the concerned face of its owner. Of course. He should’ve figured Yuuri would be around here somewhere once he spotted Viktor. Yuri huffs and jerks his arm out of his grasp.

“That is not my name,” he reminds him in a growl, shuffling to the rink.

“Wait,” Yuuri insists after him.

Yuri ignores him. He leans against the guardrail as he takes the protectors off his blades, swallowing thickly. He…does not feel right at all. His headache keeps on throbbing and his legs aren’t just sore, they’re trembling. He’s trembling all over, in fact. Yuri grips the guardrail tighter as he catches his breath.

For a moment, he isn’t sure he can stand up without its support. But he can’t just stand here like some kind of moron, so he pushes himself off and onto the ice.

Yuri glides as far as two meters out when his calves start cramping up. He brakes and bites back a whimper, silently willing for it to stop. Instead, his headache hammers all the harder and an inescapable dizziness crashes into him like a typhoon. Yuri’s legs buckle and he drops heavily to his hands and knees.

His vision blurs. His hearing follows suit, all the sounds of the other skaters becoming distant and indistinct. Yuri tries to pick himself back up, but his limbs fold under him and he finds his face pressed to the ice. He groans weakly, the darkening blur of the rink spinning like a carousel before his eyes and then fading out completely.

“Yuri? Hey, Yuri!”

Yuri stirs, blinking slowly. His head is killing him but he’s no longer greeting the ice with his face. His head’s pillowed in someone’s lap. He starts to sit up, only for the world to spin again. Hands push him back down.

“Not so fast, Yuri,” Yakov tells him lowly. “You blacked out for a minute there.”

Yuri blinks away some bleariness and becomes aware of his surroundings. It’s Mila’s lap he’s resting in. Yakov, Yuuri, and Georgi are gawking on standby. Viktor’s kneeled on the ice and has his wrist in his hands. Yuri grunts at him and tries to pull it back, but the dinosaur won’t release him.

“His pulse is racing,” Viktor reports to Yakov, ignoring Yuri’s feeble protest entirely. “Weak, too.”

“He’s been overdoing it again, damn it.” Yakov frowns down at Yuri, worry written all over his face. “Well? How do you feel?”

“Dizzy,” Yuri admits wearily.

“Let’s get him up slow,” Yakov says, glancing between Mila and Viktor. “Get him some water.”

Yuri doesn’t struggle when they help him up. They practically carry him to the exit of the rink and then Yakov takes over, helping him get to a bench.

“You can’t do this to yourself, Yuri,” his coach lectures severely.

“I’m fine,” mumbles Yuri.

“You collapsed,” Yakov retorts. “Rest for a bit, then tell me how you feel. If you’re still dizzy you’re going to the doctor.”

Yuri blinks tiredly at the thought and goes limp against Yakov instead of arguing any further. The older man seems surprised but doesn’t pull away. He puts his hand on Yuri’s back and pats him gently. Yuri tries to even his breaths out, feeling marginally better.

His head still hurts. He’s still exhausted. But he doesn’t feel like he’s going to pass out again. Yuuri brings him a bottled water and unscrews the cap for him, apparently taking stock of the way Yuri’s still shaky.

“Drink it slow,” Yakov warns him.

Phichit pays for his takeout of chicken wings and leaves the restaurant, holding the door open for the next trio of people walk in. He trots down the steps and heads for the bus stop. The zesty aroma of the wings floats up to tickle his nostrils. It smells so good Phichit’s nearly drooling.

But he can’t eat them yet. If he starts now he won’t stop and half are for Yuuri. Neither of them have too much schoolwork to do right now so they were going to hang out and and play the evening by ear. Phichit’s thinking maybe they should see if there’s anything up at the Renaissance Center and this is when the styrofoam takeout box is ripped right out of his hands.

“H-Hey!” He sputters, wheeling around to the figure in the hood who just swiped it. He lunges to get it back, hand outstretched and the person (a girl? narrow shoulders) moves faster. Light glints on silver and the next thing Phichit knows, his palm is stinging. He lets out a yelp that gets choked off as someone else grabs him in a headlock from behind.

He struggles, trying to claw the arm off his throat. Blood gushes freely from his stinging palm, red canals coursing between his fingers and making it all the more difficult to grip. His heels scrape along the sidewalk as he’s dragged into an alley, desperate for purchase. The smaller person laughs as Phichit gets thrown into the brick.

His shoulder takes the brunt of the impact but it all happens too fast for him to find his feet. Phichit crashes to the concrete, gasping when he reaches out to break the fall and inadvertently rips his injured palm wider. He struggles urgently to get up, but freezes entirely when something cold and circular presses to his temple.

“Don’t move, don’t make a sound. Understand?”

There’s a gun to his head. A gun, oh god, he’d just gone out to get some spicy chicken wings and now there’s a gun to his head. Phichit swallows heavily, his throat gone bone dry. He’s desperate to say yes, nod, something, but the shock of what’s happening has him petrified.

Phichit pays for this delay. The larger assailant pistol-whips him, gash blown open right under his eye. The pain sparks hot as white flashes across his vision. He’s yanked away from the wall by his sweatshirt and then kicked stomach-flat to the ground. Then they’re both kicking him, keeping him down. One foot catches him right in the ribs, violently launching the breath from his lungs. Phichit coughs and tries to tuck into himself, but he’s not quick enough to protect himself from a devastating kick square in his gut.

Spittle flies from Phichit’s lips and splatters the pavement, pain detonating through his frame with every strike. One keeps kicking him while the other digs through his pockets. They take his wallet and even the loose change, turning out the inside of his pockets.

When Phichit was walking earlier, he’d passed some cool graffiti he’d have liked a selfie with and sorely regretted that for once in his life he’d forgotten his phone on his desk. Now that’s the only thought he can take comfort in.

“These are nice shoes,” coos his shorter assailant, her voice scarily sunny.

Phichit remains tensed and passive as his shoes are pulled off his feet. He keeps his teeth clenched and endures the last of the kicks as quietly as he can. The final one is delivered directly to the base of his back and he can’t silence the squawky cry that leaps from his tongue. The pain ratchets up every rung of his spine. When his head clears from the fog of it, Phichit can hear the last of their retreating footsteps as they sprint away.

He remains lying still, his heart hammering and hands clammy. His entire body throbs incongruently, some places throbbing bluntly and others stabbing like knives.

Did that really just happen?

Phichit replays the events in his mind and touches the tender spot on his temple where the muzzle of the gun had been.

It really just happened.

Phichit tries to get up and he’s shaking so badly. Too badly, it doesn’t pan out. He gives himself a minute and tries again, gingerly pulling himself to his shoeless feet. There isn’t a bruise-free bone in his entire body.

Everything just hurts all over. He finds himself patting his back pocket, cowed by the tactile confirmation it’s flat, empty. His wallet is gone. He just got mugged. They’re probably eating his chicken wings right now, gobbling them up before they get cold.

Without money for cab fare or bus fare, he begins a walk that feels much too long back to the dorm.

Phichit isn’t sure how long it’s been when he stumbles over the threshold. The entire walk is a nondescript blur. He’d made it back on autopilot.

“Hey, I thought you’d be back earlier,” Yuuri says as he looks over his book. “I thought—“

He cuts himself off with a gasp as he takes in Phichit’s appearance. He stands right up and scrambles over, mouth agape.

“What happened!?”

“I got robbed,” Phichit blurts. Somehow it feels detached from him.

“Robbed?” Yuuri echoes, tense with urgency.

Phichit feels the cold kiss of the gun again and fingers at his temple just to confirm there’s nothing there. No metal. Just bruising.

“Yeah,” he says simply, just like he’s giving Yuuri the time of day. “They uh, got our chicken wings. And my wallet. And my shoes.”

Yuuri blinks rapidly, glancing down to Phichit’s feet and up again. His brows are up to his hairline, gaze wild with alarm. “You’re bleeding. Do you need to go to the hospital?”

Phichit isn’t sure where his laugh comes from but it bubbles out of his throat uneasily, tinny and frail. “I can’t do that, Yuuri. Didn’t you hear me? They took my wallet.”

Yuuri nervously licks his lips and very gently curls a hand around Phichit’s elbow. He shepherds him to his bed and sits him down. Phichit’s grateful for the guidance. His thoughts aren’t really in order, they’re jumbled together in mismatched fragments.

“You’re shaking,” Yuuri says. “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”

Phichit laughs again and it’s weaker this time, almost a whine that he feels pierce down to the roots of his ribs. He nods and Yuuri goes to get the first aid kit. The pain seems like the only thing grounding Phichit. Everything else feels unreal, too out there to actually be happening.

Yuuri’s back with a towel over his arm, the box awkwardly under his arm, and a bowl in his hand. Phichit should take something from him, probably, but then Yuuri’s kneeling and managing well enough.

“Sorry,” Phichit sighs.

“You didn’t do anything.”

“Exactly. I’m not helping…”

Yuuri shakes his head, wetting the towel. He gingerly dabs at the gash under Phichit’s eye, brow furrowing in concentration.

“That’s okay,” Yuuri says slowly. “You’re the one that needs help. Just stay still for me, that’s all you have to do.”

Phichit bobs his head, sucking his lip between his teeth. Yuuri digs a tube of antibiotic cream out of the box and squeezes it out along the wound. He spreads it flat with just the tip of his finger. Very gently, he pats a square of gauze overtop and adheres it with medical tape.

“You’re good at this,” Phichit tells him.

“I’m glad you think so. I’m a little nervous.” Yuuri touches the area around the cut, a dull pain stirring even though his probing is feather-light. “Your eye is puffing up pretty bad. It might swell shut.”

“Guess I’ll have to hold off on the selfies for awhile,” Phichit mutters flatly. “Or find a super glamorizing filter.”

Yuuri gives him a sympathetic look and takes his injured hand. Phichit flinches and Yuuri murmurs an apology, uncurling his fingers to get a better look. It’s not pretty at all, a diagonal red mouth of a slash across his palm. It’s raw but mostly stopped bleeding, only trickling off and on at the corners.

Yuuri washes it out and sprays it with antiseptic that stings. Phichit makes a face, appreciative when the antiseptic gets replaced by the cream. Yuuri dresses it carefully with a sterile roll of bandaging.

“Not too tight?”

“No, it’s good.” Phichit tentatively flexes his fingers. “Thanks.”

“Where else are you hurt?” Yuuri studies him up and down.

“Everywhere.” Phichit tucks forward. “They kicked me a lot.”

“I know. There are shoe prints on your clothes.” Yuuri gently presses a hand to Phichit’s side, the place where dried mud leaves the imprint of a heel. It twinges painfully and Phichit grimaces. “How are your ribs? You’re breathing okay, right?”

Phichit takes a deep breath just to be sure. It hurts but he can take the air in without struggling. He exhales slow. “Yeah. They’re just sore.”

Yuuri nods and moves on to the minor scratches and scrapes. He dabs the ones on Phichit’s face and rolls his socks down to spray the cuts he got walking shoeless. He sticks adhesive bandages over the bigger ones and Phichit is immensely grateful. He doesn’t think he could’ve done this himself. He still feels shaky and muzzy. Weird. He can’t quite adjust to the fact that he really just got mugged in the middle of the street.

When Yuuri’s done, Phichit gets up to change. He doesn’t want to be wearing the clothes with the dirty impressions of every kick he took. He grabs some lounge clothes and ducks to the bathroom. He unzips his jeans and wiggles his lounge pants up just fine, but he can’t lift his arm high enough to get his sweatshirt off. Immediately upon raising it up, pain explodes in his shoulder and he can’t swallow back a sharp cry.

“Phichit?” Yuuri gently raps on the bathroom door. “Do you need help?”

“Yeah…” Phichit lets him in, the tiny area completely cramped with the presence of the both of them. “I can’t take my shirt off.”

Yuuri frowns. “Where does it hurt?”

Phichit nods to his shoulder. He thinks this must be the injury from getting slammed into the brick wall.

“Okay,” Yuuri says. “We’ll take it nice and slow.”

He takes the hem of Phichit’s shirt and works it up, Phichit pulling his uninjured arm in so Yuuri can take that sleeve. Yuuri shifts the fabric over his head and gently works the whole thing down Phichit’s arm, jarring it as little as possible.

Phichit’s bruised all over. His skin is mottled with dark purples and blues, the bruise on his shoulder a particularly nasty sight. It’s a fat eggplant blotch, tender to the touch and darkest in the middle.

“Why don’t you ice it for awhile before you put on a shirt on?” Yuuri suggests.

“Good idea.” Phichit follows Yuuri out of the bathroom. “Thanks for that…for everything.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “It’s nothing. How do you feel?”

“I’m okay,” Phichit says even though he doesn’t feel okay at all. “Just a little shaken up, I guess.”

Yuuri gets him a gel pack out of the mini-fridge. They don’t have a freezer so it isn’t exactly frozen like ice packs are supposed to be. But it’s cool and it’s a comfort when Phichit holds it to his shoulder. He takes care when he sits on the bed.

“Are you going to report it?” Yuuri sits next to him and Phichit can see the effort it takes not to stare at the bruises cluttering up his torso.

“Maybe? I couldn’t give a description. I didn’t see their faces and it happened pretty fast.” Phichit pinches the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t know what was going on at first and I didn’t fight back at all. I’m not sure if that was smart or stupid.”

“Smart. You’re safe.” Yuuri looks ready to hug him for a moment, but pauses, eyes flickering over the bruises. He cups the uninjured side of Phichit’s face instead. “You’re safe. That’s the most important thing. Let’s try to relax tonight. Do you want to watch a movie? I still haven’t seen The King and The Skater II.”

As the overdose wanes, the backlash explodes. It crashes into Nic like a train and he hits the floor knees first before falling flat on his face entirely.

He sputters into the carpet as pain spears molten hot through every nerve. Nic writhes all over, clenching his teeth so tight they hurt. It feels like he’s being shredded from the inside out, his synapses tearing seam by seam. His marrow implodes as uncontrollable shaking wracks his limbs.

No one else is home. Worick is out, Alex is out. Nic is left to succumb to the attack in solitude.

It’s probably better that way. He’s already frothing at the mouth like some rabid beast and it’ll only get worse before it goes away, and there’s not a damn thing either of them can do about it.

Nic thinks he might be screaming. His throat burns like he he might be but right now everything burns everywhere anyway. Nic flails for something to grasp, something to squeeze, his fingernails scratching desperately at the carpet. Any semblance of coherent thought is washed away in the wake of excruciating agony.

The recoil of the overdose rages on and Nic’s bare to its mercy. He thrashes with convulsions, new bruises formed every time a particularly violent one takes hold. But more bruises are the least of his problems when it feels like his insides are melting.

Nic heaves for breath. Each gasp he can draw in scorches his lungs, as hot as lit coals. The room spins and blurs before his eyes. It fades entirely as silver pinpricks burst along his sightline like fireworks. The fit just goes on and on, kicking him through a tunnel of torture that doesn’t seem to have an end.

His bones grieve as his muscles pulse and throb, cinched by unyielding cramps and just as quickly yanked to snap like old rubber bands. Sweat pours from Nic’s pores in buckets, soaking his clothes until the fabric is so tight it’s restricting.

The full-body pain flares and transfers intensity to ignite full force in specific places, establishing a kind of chaotic pattern. Nic is bombarded with a sensory overload of every pain imaginable until his heart hammers at an alarming pace. Any second now and it’s going to tear right out of his chest. it will kill him and Nic will be thankful because then the backlash will finally stop.

Except it doesn’t. Because the reality is Nic is too sturdy to die just like that, and this isn’t the first time crashing down from an overdose has rode him through hell.

After what feels like hours, his shaking limbs stabilize. The pain recedes nerve by nerve. Perspiration cools on his skin. Nic is left drooling and feeling like a breathing steam burn, but he is left breathing all the same.

He isn’t sure how long he’s on the floor before Worick’s shoes come into view. The other man drops beside him and pushes his hair out of his face, squawking something that Nic is too dizzy to lipread. His alarm is evident so it’s not like the specific wording of it matters all that much anyway.

Worick yells to someone that isn’t him and predictably, Alex comes speedily trotting in her heels. They haul Nic up together and drag him off to bed. Nic lets it happen, drained to exhaustion and rather relieved he didn’t have to get up himself. He doesn’t think his legs would’ve been able to support him.

“Oh,” Viktor says suddenly, looking up from scrolling through his phone. “Oh Yuuri, did you know your friend’s out of the competition?”

“Huh?” Yuuri closes the hotel room’s fridge and quizzically tips his head.

“Chulanont’s in the hospital.” Viktor sits up straighter and holds out his phone. “There aren’t many details but apparently he’s ill.”

Yuuri scrambles over and snatches the phone. The headline of the article reads; Thai Skater Officially Pulled from Event. Yuuri’s heart drops into his stomach, veins pulsing ice. This isn’t real. He just saw Phichit a few days ago and he was fine. Well, sniffling, but nobody gets hospitalized for the sniffles!

Except it is real. Yuuri skims down a little farther and there’s an excerpt straight from Phichit’s own twitter, an apology to his fans.

Sorry to let you guys down right when we were almost there. :( Thank you all for cheering me on and supporting me. I promise to make it up to everyone next season! <3

Yuuri clenches his fingers in his shirt, heart racing with alarm.

“I need to see him! It doesn’t even say what’s wrong or how he’s doing anywhere!”

“Breathe, Yuuri.” Viktor stands up and puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Call first. Find out what hospital he’s at and we’ll go.”

Yuuri takes a few deep breaths, his husband kneading a calming hand between his shoulder blades. When he’s collected enough, he dials Phichit’s number. After the third ring, his call is answered.

“Hello?”

“Celestino! Is Phichit okay?”

“Oh, hey Yuuri.” HIs former coach exhales a low, heavy sigh. “He will be. The nurse’s checking on him right now.”

“What…what happened?” Yuuri asks, voice shaky.

“He’d been a bit sick and then he suddenly got a lot sicker. Scared the life out of me, Yuuri.” Celestino gives another sigh. “The doctor said it’s a bacterial infection. He’s on an IV and they’re going to keep him for a few days.”

“I want to see him,” Yuuri declares apprehensively.

“Good. He’s pretty upset he can’t compete, seeing you will probably cheer him up.” Celestino gives him the  hospital and room number. 

They take a cab and Yuuri clutches painfully tight to Viktor’s hand the whole time, won’t let go. His anxiety is raging and he needs Viktor’s touch to anchor him.

“You’re really freaked out about this, aren’t you?”

“You know it’s bad if they pulled him, Viktor.”

“Not necessarily,” Viktor says. “The timing is suspect. The final’s in less than a week. Did Celestino seem worried?”

“Maybe? He sounded…tired.”

“Then I’m sure it isn’t too bad.” Viktor gives his hand a squeeze. “Calm down, Yuuri.”

Yuuri nods slowly and presses a little closer, not quite able to shed his apprehension. 

“Hey,” Phichit greets faintly, hand raised in a wave and wan smile on his face. He looks frail, hooked up with a nasal cannula,  another long tube tethering his hand to an IV pouch. His complexion is dull and scrubbed out, unkempt hair sticking up all over.

Yuuri releases Viktor’s hand and hurries over to hug him. Phichit hugs back, weakly winding his arms around his friend. Yuuri can feel the sticky, broiling heat of his fever and frowns.

“Mm, move back a little, Yuuri,” he requests, voice as rough as sandpaper.

“Sorry!” Yuuri lets go of him and quickly steps back. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, I just d-d—“ Phichit breaks off coughing harshly and tucks his chin into his shoulder to muffle a bad bout of it.

Yuuri’s almost worried he’s going to crack his ribs with coughing like that, so deep and persistent. He nervously glances back, but Celestino and Viktor have disappeared.

“Didn’t wanna cough on you,” Phichit finishes then noting Yuuri’s dubiety, adds, “They probably went to get coffee. I guess the coffee here isn’t bad but I can’t have any.”

“You sound terrible.” Yuuri pulls a chair up to the bed and sits.

“I know.” Phichit exhales a burdened sigh that catches like it might set him off coughing again. “M’windpipe swelled up.”

Yuuri’s eyes widen. “That sounds serious!”

“Nah, not for me. When it happens to kids they can stop breathing, but it just made it a little harder for me. Got kinda lightheaded. And it hurts sort of, but I’m not gonna die.” Phichit groans. “Well, not from this but I might do myself in for quitting right before the final skate…”

“You didn’t quit. You’re in the hospital,” Yuuri emphasizes.

“Still,” Phichit protests, glassy eyes wavering. “I should’ve pushed through. I didn’t wanna come here. Guess I really scared Ciao Ciao though.”

“He did the right thing, Phichit,” Yuuri murmurs. “You can’t skate in this condition. You could barely hug me. How would you pull off any of your spins lightheaded?”

“Alright, I know. I’m just bummed.” Dejection washes over his face.

Yuuri gives him a sympathetic look, patting his hand. Phichit’s body had been radiating fever but his hand feels almost icy.

“You have to win, okay Yuuri?” Phichit sits up from the pillows as another coughing fit takes hold, painful to listen to. He’s wheezing a bit when he finally struggles out of it. “If I can’t win, I want it to be you.”

“I’ll try,” Yuuri promises. “Extra hard.”

“Good.” Phichit lies back and Yuuri doesn’t miss it when he shivers.

“Got a chill?”

“Yeah,” Phichit quietly admits, hugging himself. “Think my fever’s back.”

“I don’t think it left,” Celestino comments, walking over the threshold on Viktor’s heels. Sure enough, both of them have coffee. Viktor was considerate enough to grab Yuuri one too.

“It had to get better at least, they gave me a shot. I don’t want another shot.” Phichit looks thoroughly put out by the idea, hanging his head as he continues to shiver.

“I’m sure we could get you another blanket,” Yuuri says.

“How’s this?” Viktor sets the coffee down and takes his coat off. He leans over the bed and gently drapes it over Phichit. “Suede with fleece-lining.”

“I can’t keep this,” Phichit says, body and mind evidently on opposite sides of this matter as he pulls the coat up to his chin.

“Sure you can,” Viktor offers genially.

“Really?”

“Of course. I have another one anyway.”

Phichit nuzzles a smile into the lining. “Oh man, I have Viktor Nikiforov’s coat. And it’s so soft.”

“Manners, Phichit,” Celestino chimes in.

“Right.” Phichit looks up to Viktor. “Thank you. This is really nice, I feel warmer already.”

“No problem.” Viktor beams. “A friend of Yuuri’s is a friend of mine. Especially when they’re as cute as you.” He cranes around his husband to pat the younger man’s head.

“Liar.” Phichit laughs, which spurs him into another bad coughing bout, and that makes him groan miserably. “Ugh. I’m anything but cute right now.”

“You don’t look that bad,” Yuuri tells him even though Phichit in fact, looks as bad as Yuuri has ever seen him look, bar the food poisoning incident three years ago. “You sound worse than you look.”

“I know I sound like crap.” A frown twists Phichit’s lips, expression shifting to mortification. “Actually, I don’t know how much longer I can keep talking. I don’t want to kick anyone out but I don’t think I can keep my voice up.”

“You don’t have to,” Yuuri promises. It’s painfully audible that Phichit’s vocal chords are straining and he looks drowsy, eyelids drooping. “We can come back later.”

“Take Ciao Ciao with you,” Phichit mumbles. “He’s been here the whole time. S’gotta be bored.”

Celestino blinks rapidly. “Really? Will you be okay if I step out for a bit?”

“Mhm. I’m gonna nap,” Phichit says, sounding already halfway there with a hazy slur in the words. “Thanks again for the coat.”

“Enjoy it,” Viktor chirps.

“I’ll come see you tomorrow,” Yuuri tells him as he stands up.

“If you’re too busy, don’t feel pressured.” Phichit gives him a gentle look. “I know how busy you are. Especially  now that you’ve got to win for two.”

‘I’ll try, at least,’ is what Yuuri almost says. But he decides better of it and smiles. “I’m sure I can squeeze you in and still take the gold.”