#again yurio is motivated by spite

[brinnanza]

a thing I am Emotional about tonight: so yurio is high key motivated by spite. like him being so fuckin’ pissed off at losing to jj motivates him to do better at both the rostelecom cup and the gpf and being pissed off at yuuri for maybe retiring motivates him to skate the hell out of his free skate and claim a narrow victory

the thing that is REALLY hecking me up rn is how yurio, bc he is smol and angry and 15, kind of just.... assumes that same strategy works on other people? which is how you get him yelling at yuuri in the bathroom after sochi -- bc someone coming up to yurio, yelling at him, telling him to retire, that he’s a loser -- that would absolutely motivate yurio to kick ass. same thing with the onsen on ice competition, honestly. yurio wanted to win (and being mad at victor for forgetting his promise was pretty motivating), but winning bc yuuri had an anxiety attack isn’t fair. yurio doesn’t just want to win, he wants to be better than the best.

which brings me to: the beach scene in barcelona in episode 10. there is some fascinating meta out there about victor the hero vs. victor the person and how yurio, who is pretty motivated generally by agape despite his claims otherwise, relates to both of those personas. but his lashing out at yuuri (”you’ll see the ring he gave you is garbage”) seemed a little... idk intense? yurio talks big but he does care for yuuri a lot and is, in his own fiesty tomcat way, protective of him. so I think maybe part of the reason yurio is so harsh to victor is more of the same -- because victor-the-hero is gone, but victor-the-person had better not fuck it up with yuuri. yurio is so contrary -- telling yurio his partner isn’t worthy of him would only make yurio double down. and he knows by now that yelling and spite doesn’t work for yuuri (hence katsudon piroshki) and it doesn’t really work for victor either -- but he’s just so mad at them both, and the only way he can think to express it to them is by yelling.

and then: “this place reminds me of hasetsu”, yurio says. not st. petersburg, the place he lives and trains, the place victor said the gulls in hasetsu reminded him of. hasetsu, the place that means yuuri. it feels like something of an apology, I think -- for the things he said about yuuri, for lashing out, even though he feels it was necessary. an olive branch that puts them back on more equal footing.

[kingfisherunion]

This world is cold and madness

Chapter 7: dead or alive fight back

Read on Ao3

Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)

Relationships:

Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov

Katsuki Yuuri & Victor Nikiforov

Characters:

Katsuki Yuuri

Victor Nikiforov

Yuri Plisetsky

Otabek Altin

Otabek Altin's Sister

Nishigori Yuuko

Yakov Feltsman

Additional Tags:

Car Accidents

Character Death

Married Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov

Anxious Katsuki Yuuri

Angst

Fluff and Angst

Angst and Hurt/Comfort

Grief/Mourning

Established Relationship

Anxiety

Anxiety Attacks

Death

Hurt Yuri Plisetsky

Character's Name Spelled as Viktor

Comforting Katsuki Yuuri

Comforting Victor Nikiforov

Victor's last season

Supportive Katsuki Yuuri

stage husband yuuri

moody viktor

Fights

Swearing

Yuri Plisetsky Swears

Post-Canon

DJ Otabek Altin

Motorcycles

it seems like Viktor is insensitive

but he really does care he's just not great with feelings

Language: English

“That’s enough, Vitenka.” The washer kicked on with a polite whir as Viktor skulked past Yuuri back into the apartment. The latter almost followed after, but his head was already pounding from all the alcohol last night, and fighting with Viktor was like fighting with an incredibly stubborn, incredibly intelligent brick wall.

Yuuri should have seen the fight coming.  All the warning signs had been there the night they had drunk vodka and listened through the Orff piece.  But he had, as usual, been slightly drunker than the other two, which was slightly more than intended.  The ache of responsibility would not excuse itself from his chest, even though he knew it wasn’t even really his business.

           Except that he considered everything about Viktor’s mood his business these days.

           He had seen that frozen look that Viktor had whenever he was trying – and failing – to be gracious in masking his distaste.  The tension behind the eyes that flicked over a translation he’d quickly googled on his phone.  The fingers curled tightly and pressed to his lips.  The impatient huffs and hums.  Yuuri knew that he was not the only one who noticed the little high-pitched whines when the momentum of the piece lulled, like a dog who whines at a siren.

           Their first year together, the year of their engagement, Viktor’s moodiness hadn’t really come up – Yuuri would later learn that his husband attributed his cool and pleasant disposition to his newfound love and the unlimited access to the hot springs.  But almost two years in, he had become no stranger to the grouchy slumps into which Viktor fell, especially when he was stressed, and especially when he was away from Makkachin.

He’d tried to ask their Russian rinkmates for advice, insight, anything to appease the beast that bristled in Viktor’s chest when things weren’t going quite as planned, but nobody had much to say beyond, That side of him can be so scary – I try to stay away when I see him in a huff.  Mila recalled her first years studying with Yakov, watching a teenage Viktor sit through five consecutive skate sessions until his coach finally conceded to let him skate Vissi d’arte, vissi d’amore for his free program.  He’d been a pristine, shining marble statue in his beauty and his coldness and his absolute stubbornness.  Even with Yakov screaming in his face, he’d barely looked up from his phone.

It didn’t take much, especially in familiar company.  Yuuri had seen Viktor’s day ruined by the caption of one of Christophe’s Instagram photos.  One bad proof out of the hundred his last photoshoot had yielded.  A discrepancy between the weather forecast and the actual weather.

Everyone knew to stay away.  Except… well, Yurio knew.  He just didn’t care.

           Viktor didn’t like Carmina Burana.  Specifically, he didn’t like it for skating.  A lifelong legacy of wins had groomed in him a compulsion-like reflex to love or hate the music he heard.  It was obnoxious, the black-and-white-ness of it, especially considering his harsh first impressions were usually right.

           That wasn’t to say Yuuri especially loved it himself – there were certainly one or two strong movements, but the themes tended to be repetitive and without direction, like the chanting of the monks the composer had clearly tried to emulate.  There were a time and place for this kind of music, for sure, and when he had first heard Carmina Burana years ago in Detroit he had been swept away by a story of loneliness and fellowship and love and loss. There were even a few movements he himself would consider skating.

           “It’s all about sex,” Viktor huffed, pacing their apartment the next morning under the weakest pretense of unpacking.  “It’s springtime!  Lusty spring!  Everyone drinks and fucks and one day you’ll die!  Perfect!”  Yuuri wished Makkachin were there to lighten the atmosphere, and possibly to motivate his husband to be a bit less aggressive with his stomps.  “This is not the work to honor with dignity the death of a loved one.  No matter how much he may have liked it.”  He threw the last of his shirts into the washing machine and slammed the door shut.  “I understand Yurio’s in pain but we are not here to humor his every whim.”

           “Viktor, he’s trying to find his footing,” Yuuri muttered, leaning in the doorway to watch his husband’s irate clothes-sorting session with quiet concern.  “It’s something Otabek left behind.”

           “Yes, well, I’m sure he left behind some underwear too, so at least Yurio already has a costume.”

           “That’s enough, Vitenka.”

           The washer kicked on with a polite whir as Viktor skulked past Yuuri back into the apartment.  The latter almost followed after, but his head was already pounding from all the alcohol last night, and fighting with Viktor was like fighting with an incredibly stubborn, incredibly intelligent brick wall.

           Yuuri had fallen asleep before the fight proper had even begun, but in retrospect, he had definitely seen the warning signs.  Yurio had grown more and more irritated at Viktor’s audible displeasure, responding with his own little snorts, an eye roll, a middle finger.

           Viktor had let out a dry, humorless laugh when he heard the song of the roasted swan.  The tortured nasal cry of a countertenor raked against their eardrums as he cried, “Now I lie on the plate, and cannot fly anymore, I see bared teeth!”

           “This one would be perfect to skate – I think I’ll recommend it to Georgi,” he’d mumbled.  Yuuri, in spite of himself, could not help but giggle, but Yurio was approaching totally incensed.

           Why had Yuuri let himself get so drunk?  Could he have stopped this?

           He’d sprung awake to the strangled shouts of a heated argument in what must have started out as hushed tones.  Viktor was half-shouting in Russian while Yuri, tears streaming down his face, jammed a finger over and over again into the older man’s chest, hissing his own retaliation.

           “…отвали, мудак, блядь!”

           “…нет оправдания быть эгоистичным!”

           “пошёл на хуй, я любила его!”

           The bottle dangling from Yurio’s hand fell to the floor with a crash.

           Yuuri was already deep into what promised to be a day-long hangover.  He could feel the room lurch around him as he pulled himself to his feet.

           “What on earth is going on?  What happened?  Viktor?” he shot his husband a pointed glare, swallowing down the bile burning in his throat.  The clock on the stove read 5:14.  He gestured towards it, rubbing his temples with his finger and thumb.  “Don’t you see it’s… where are your neighbors? Shit.”

           “Anata, this is foolish.  He’s being hasty in his…” Viktor started in Japanese, but he was soon cut off by Yuri’s furious snarl.

           “You married a selfish piece of shit, pig,” he clipped.  “This is fucking stupid.  Get out.  Go home.  I don’t want to see your fucking faces.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

           The best way to deal with a fuming Viktor was to give him space, let him stomp it out, and let him get hungry enough to think he’d just been hangry.  Yuuri retreated to the bath with a cold sports drink, his Bluetooth speakers, and his copy of The Name of the Wind.  The steamy waters eased the tension from his headache just enough to let him focus on Kvothe’s epic tale, and his classical music playlist was just enough to drown out the sullen grunts and stomps from the other side of the door.  This was supposed to be the list of prospective pieces for his free skate program, but this skating season hardly felt like a reality anymore.

           Besides, Viktor’s fits were nothing compared to Yurio’s.  This little “mood” had been timely enough to potentially settle his decision to take the season off.  Viktor was supposed to start coaching the younger in full this year to open up Yakov’s time to more students.  He’d get over a drunken spat in no time.  He might even hear Yurio out on a few of the solos from the Orff.  Presuming Yurio would forgive his behavior at all, which at the moment was presuming a lot.  What a damn mess.

           The clock on his phone read 15:39.  Ten hours since he’d dragged his seething husband home.  Ten hours since Yuri had kicked them out.  Yuuri knew he wouldn’t be over it, but it was worth a shot.

           He opened a new message and quickly typed out,

 >We should talk about Estuans interius or Stetit puella for your short program if you’re serious about this music.  Don’t let him discourage you.  I’ll even help you choreograph it.

           He reviewed it, not entirely satisfied but not sure how he could make it better, then pressed “Send”.  A reply came in the amount of time it took him to read two more pages.

 >Fuck off.  I’m done.

[jinlian]

Anna multiple people have reblogged my twitter rant about Yuuri and gone on about how he's such a Slytherin in the tags. What is going on that entire post was like 'here is Yuuri doing Gryffindor things'. How??

GOD KDFHJGKJHSD WHAT??? THAT WAS A HUGE COLLECTION OF GRYFFINDOR BEHAVIOR?? “reckless, hardheaded, and impulsive” is so insanely gryffindor and the opposite of slytherin

i feel like in fandom’s desire to add more depth to slytherin – which, admittedly, is certainly needed – slytherin has been watered down to “anyone who wants to be good at stuff” which is just so massively wrong and simplistic. i understand we want more good characters from that house, and that’s fine, but there are other characters out there who really fit it infinitely better. slytherin prides itself on its cunning. not that they can’t do dumb shit, because of course they do, but there tends to be more thought, more planning, and yes, a lot more self-serving behavior.

HOLY COW THIS GOT LONG SO

the sorting hat read slytherin in harry because it was reading voldemort’s soul. but harry is such a quintessential gryffindor. there’s the idea of choice, for one: harry is presented with multiple moments before and during his sorting where someone says to him, “i can help you be great.” and harry despises that. he doesn’t care about being great. he’s “just harry.” he stands up for his friends.

that doesn’t mean that harry doesn’t care about beating others. at eleven years old he decides to take on a rule-breaking midnight duel to beat malfoy. at eleven years old he and his eleven-year-old friends believe they’re the ones who can and should stop an evil wizard breaking into a castle. at thirteen harry says to an adult “there’s no need to call me sir, professor.” harry does not like losing in quidditch – hell, look at oliver wood!!

quintessential gryffindor harry breaks into the ministry of magic without thinking things through. he gets lectured very often for being reckless. he’s insanely impulsive, he breaks hogwarts rules all the freaking time. harry james potter is proud. he’s impulsive and stubborn and he will barge into things for the people he loves. look at hermione!! she’s surface ravenclaw, sure, but she’s proud and stubborn and tenacious as hell, and there’s a gryffindor girl.

so all those things you listed for yuuri – reckless, hardheaded, impulsive – super in line with gryffindor. (yuuri’s also kind and easily embarrassed and self-conscious and he can be all of these things at once)

he slams his face into a wall and says it’s the most fun he’s ever had.

 what matters a lot is motivation and choice, and i think people forget that yuuri doesn’t just want to win, his big theme is love, and it’s love for what he does. it takes him nine episodes to admit that he’s always wanted to win: he just couldn’t ever bring himself to say it, for lack of confidence or for whatever reason. yuuri’s driven by love, whether it’s his feeling of a lack of it, or his impulsiveness for it. he loves figure skating. and maybe this is some projection on my part from when i was still a competing athlete, but you don’t get to a place of success if you don’t want to do well.

everyone in that field wants to be successful, but there are different motivations for it. think about how it would feel to be truly in love with what you do, but you feel that no matter how hard you work, how much feeling you put into it, you never feel that you’re going to get there. it’s unbelievably discouraging. it’s heartbreaking. of course yuuri felt like he ought to retire after that grand prix final. that feeling is devastating.

and then you find your love for it again, your passion, and for the first time you start to say aloud, maybe i can do this. maybe people are behind me. i want this. i’m good enough, and i have earned this. this is my life, and i’m going to prove that.

yuuri’s too stubborn to downgrade his jumps in ep5 because he wants to prove he can do it, that he’s good enough. there’s pride and stubbornness. he’s taking no account into whether or not he’s going to flub all his jumps and win: he’s just thinking, no, i’m going to do it. there’s no planning or consideration, he just goes. and he does this out of love. he wants his last skate to have the same difficulty as victor’s. he knows it has to be better than perfect to have  chance of winning, but he wants to raise the difficulty to prove that victor teaching him wasn’t a waste of time. it’s his homage to victor. it’s not a desperate last-ditch effort to win gold. hell he tries to sacrifice a career he loves bc he thinks he’s holding someone else back. that’s selfless as hell.

in ep7 he changes his toe loop to a flip because he wants to see victor’s face. he’s never landed it in competition. he’s thinking about victor, he’s thinking about them, he’s thinking, i want to do this for him, i want to make him proud, i want to see his face. he changes it in the middle of skating a program knowing he’s never landed it. he’s not thinking about winning or losing. he’s thinking about love. “victor’s face when i started to cry was priceless” i’ve seen referred to as a slytherin line, but like… it was priceless? this is a man yuuri has in his own words seen as a god for all his life and victor fucks up, then knows he fucks up, then feels bad for fucking up, then doesn’t know how to save it but still wants to save it, and yuuri is seeing a human side of him. it’s a moment of equalization.

for some reason people think yuuri is spiteful and i have NO idea where the hell that came from. yuuri??? SPITEFUL???? boy is full of so much love. he’s not spiteful. he’s close friends with a man who used to bully him when they were kids. he’s consistently kind towards yurio, who literally kicks him around and insults him and calls him garbage. he’s never once spiteful.

yuuri cares about besting himself. not besting other people.

yurio, on the other hand? “i won anyway, so who cares about my step sequences.” his program changes? “i have to change it or i have no chance of winning, i’m running this by my coach first.” his motivations? “i already have a world-class coach back home, but i’m going to tell a green and untested coach to leave someone else probably just to spite them both, because i can.” his exhibition program? “i already won gold but i’m pissed off that someone else is getting attention for five minutes”

his decisions are calculated. they’re all with the goal of what he gets out of it. he’s a dumb kid too, and he’ll do stupid and impulsive things, but like full offense yuuri isn’t the slytherin here ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

anyway long story short impulsivity and the bursting over of feelings and stubbornness is so very gryffindor especially when with yuuri? it’s often always done out of feelings of love.

[kingfisherunion]

This world is cold and madness

Chapter 4: from the hell

Read on Ao3

Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)

Relationships:

Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov

Katsuki Yuuri & Victor Nikiforov

Characters:

Katsuki Yuuri

Victor Nikiforov

Yuri Plisetsky

Otabek Altin

Otabek Altin's Sister

Nishigori Yuuko

Yakov Feltsman

Additional Tags:

Car Accidents

Character Death

Married Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov

Anxious Katsuki Yuuri

Angst

Fluff and Angst

Angst and Hurt/Comfort

Grief/Mourning

Established Relationship

Anxiety

Anxiety Attacks

Death

Hurt Yuri Plisetsky

Character's Name Spelled as Viktor

Comforting Katsuki Yuuri

Comforting Victor Nikiforov

Victor's last season

Supportive Katsuki Yuuri

stage husband yuuri

moody viktor

Fights

Swearing

Yuri Plisetsky Swears

Post-Canon

DJ Otabek Altin

Motorcycles

it seems like Viktor is insensitive

but he really does care he's just not great with feelings

Language: English

Yuri tossed down his phone and got up to wash out his bowl. A picture of the crash peered up from the screen.

“Yuri,” Viktor began, but the young skater interrupted him.

“How much do you two know?” He asked.

“Yurio, come have some coffee,” Viktor said calmly. “Yuuri has a cup ready for you.”

“I don’t want that pig’s shit coffee,” snapped Yuri. He hadn’t yet emerged from the pile of blankets underneath which he was camouflaged.

Yuuri chuckled, in spite of himself. He was nothing if not used to the Russian Tiger’s bites. In fact, they were familiar enough to be comforting.

“That’s fine, Yurio,” he said warmly. “Is there something else you’d like?” He slid the fourth cup to Viktor, who downed it in two gulps.

“I want you to get back on a plane and finish your damn honeymoon and let me be alone!”

“Yuratchka,” Yakov soothed throatily, “they are here only for you.”

“No,” Yuuri said with a reserved smile. “He’s right. It must be pretty bothersome waking up to a room full of people in your own home. We’ve been insensitive. Yuri, please call us as soon as you need anything. In any case, we’ll be back to bring you lunch and dinner.”

“Shit, Katsudon, why are you being weird?” The young skater finally sat up and stretched his back, rubbing his eyes. Yuuri was not prepared for the state of his face. His fair complexion was splotchy and pink, his eyes swollen and red. His hair was uncombed. He was practically unrecognizable from his on-ice counterpart. Yuuri approached him without hesitation, swallowing down the lump that was forming in this throat.

“If you’re hungry before then, will you tell us?” He sat and drew Yuri into a tight hug. “Please?”

Yuri, to everyone’s surprise, was entirely accepting of his friend’s embrace. He leaned into it, hanging heavily in Yuuri’s arms.

There was a long moment of quiet stillness. The only sound was the boy’s slow, calculated breaths. He was trying to keep steady, trying to stay calm. Yuuri tried to clear his mind, to be relentless in his compassion. He squeezed tighter.

The tears came suddenly, as if he’d been punched, and shook his lanky body in steady waves. He bounced back and forth between quivering, gasping inhale and sagging, hissing exhale. He wept quietly and bitterly. It forced its way out of him like vomit.

Yuuri sat, swaying, waiting, breathing. He himself, for whatever reason or another, felt entirely calm, meditative, as if acting as a pillar or a pillow or whatever for the mourning teen allowed him to cast aside his own worries and doubts. He rocked. He squeezed. He tucked golden hair behind bright red ears.

The sputtering and choking began to come in the form of words, Russian, unknown to Yuuri but repeated over and over and over.

“он мертв… он мертв… он мертв… он ушел...”

It was easily forty minutes before Yuri began to approach anything close to calm. He continued to mumble into Yuuri’s chest through sniffles and sobs and snot. Like a vigilant prayer.

Viktor had dismissed Yakov with a kiss on the cheek and started another pot of coffee and water for tea. He had busied himself around the apartment, tidying, lighting candles, making porridge, then stationing himself at the dinette with his music and his notepad.

Yuuri could see, the few times he passed into view, the red in his nose and around his eyes. His empath.

Yuri’s sobs were beginning to lose force. His breathing grew steadier, deeper, more controlled. When he finally picked himself up, his face was bright red, patterned with the stitches of Yuuri’s sweater, raw with tears and snot. Yuuri was ready with the tissues.

“Do, uhh… do you still want us to go?” he asked. “We can. I understand.”

“You don’t understand shit, Katsudon,” Yuri spat. “Don’t try to start now.” He stood and crossed his room to the kitchen, poured himself a coffee.

Viktor shot a chastizing glance across the table as his teammate sat. Yuri sighed.

“No. Sorry. Th-shit-thank you. For that. And, uh, for coming home early.”

Yuuri sat on the edge of the bed, tending to the stain on his shoulder with a wad of tissues. He hoped his smile looked sincere. Everything was beginning to slant again. It had been easier when Yuri was crying, even when he was cruel.

“Honestly, anyone is better than Yakov. Shitty old man just sat and stared.”

Viktor laughed. “I’m so sorry, Yura. I thought you would prefer to have space, but I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“I don’t even think he really knew that - about us.” Yuri sat and poked at a bowl of porridge. “I don’t think he gets it.”

“He’s coached figure skaters since before I was born, котенок,” Viktor chided. “Do you really think he doesn’t see?”

“…He was just here.”

“I sent him home to rest.”

“No,” Yuri said, staring blankly into his bowl. “He was - just last week.”

He seemed to struggle with the thought, opening his mouth as if to speak more than once before biting it back and attempting to eat. His face twisted in mild disgust but he forced down spoonful after spoonful. He was clearly hungry - not so much ravenous as empty, Yuuri thought. He ate slowly, as if each bite were an afterthought, getting up in between to pour more coffee and find his phone.

Food and depression are bitter enemies, Yuuri thought. At his lowest, when there was no love or motivation strong enough to move him from his own bed, when his perception of self was that of a failure, a disappointment, a nusiance, he’d wished he was the type of person who starved his feelings, as opposed to one who ate them. Now, watching Yurio wrestle with the last few bites of a meager breakfast, he realized no one struggle outweighed another. The Russian Fairy, dressed in sweats and an oversized tee-shirt, may as well have been a husk of his former self. His complexion was ashen, eyes bulging, brow permanently furrowed. He was glued to his phone, undoubtedly clicking through news site after news site, trying to gather as much information about Otabek as he could. Viktor looked on with mild concern, glancing silent messages Yuuri’s way every now and then, unsure whether he was supposed to intervene or not.

These periodic reminders that Viktor was, in fact, human were comforting to Yuuri. But, of course, he was only human as well, and so the two watched their young friend struggle in tense silence for what felt like hours.

Twitter was flooded with pictures from the 2014 Grand Prix Finale and the Kazakh's numerous Nationals wins. Yuri’s Angels had cultivated a live-update master page with everything that was known so far. To everyone’s surprise, the Angels - or at least the vast majority - had shown up in overwhelming support of their grieving idol, flooding his social media mentions with condolences and words of comfort and curating videos and photographs in memory of Otabek - and of his loving relationship with Yuri. Their fellow competitors had also begun an online memorial of their fallen friend. His face dominated Yuuri’s feed from the profiles of Pichit, Christophe, Leo, JJ, and Emil. Even Seung-Gil had posted a selfie the two had snapped together during the previous year’s Grand Prix.

Yuri tossed down his phone and got up to wash out his bowl. A picture of the crash peered up from the screen.

“Yuri,” Viktor began, but the young skater interrupted him.

“How much do you two know?” He asked.