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“Are you alright, Yuuri? You’re not eating.”
Yuuri blinks out of his daze and looks at Viktor, who’s looking back at him over steaming bowls with concern in his eyes. He smiles minutely and tries to straighten up from his hunched position. “Yes, I’m fine. My stomach hurts a little, that’s all.”
It’s a lie. His stomach hurts a lot, and he truthfully hasn’t felt very well all day, but it probably isn’t anything serious. It’s nothing worth troubling Viktor over, he’s certain.
Viktor frowns. “Do you think it’s something you ate?”
“Maybe,” Yuuri admits, then plasters on as bright a smile as he can manage. “I’m sure it’ll go away soon.”
Viktor still looks a bit concerned, but he nods and turns back to his soup. “If you’re sure. You’ll tell me if it gets worse, right?”
Warmth floods Yuuri’s gut at the genuine worry his coach is displaying for his wellbeing. “Right.”
…
Yuuri comes to a halt in the middle of his free skate routine, letting himself slide over to the barrier to have something to lean on. He’d gone through warmups, stretches, and a run-through of his short program before he’d been forced to acknowledge that his stomachache was indeed getting worse. It had been easy enough to ignore at the beginning, but now…
Now he wants to throw up.
“Yuuri?” Viktor is jogging over to him, urgency in his steps, silver hair flapping in front of his face. And then he’s in front of Yuuri, bending over to be at his eye level and placing a gloved hand on Yuuri’s wrist. “Are you okay? What’s wrong? Is it your stomach?”
Yuuri breathes in and out harshly, the cold air sharp against his burning throat. His fingers have the barrier in a white-knuckled grip, but he forces them to ease up. “I’m…I’m okay.” He’s certainly not okay, so he isn’t entirely sure why the words tumble out of his mouth, but he doesn’t want to worry Viktor when he doesn’t even know if this is anything serious. If it turns out to be gas, he’ll die of embarrassment. Maybe he’ll feel better if he can vomit. “I’m just going to go to the restroom.”
Viktor’s blue eyes gleam with worry under a furrowed brow. “Do you want me to go with you?”
“No!” he answers far too quickly, and then feels his face ignite. “I mean…no, I’ll be fine. I’ll just be a minute.”
His coach says nothing more as he skates awkwardly to the rink’s entrance and leaves for the bathroom.
…
He’s dying. That has to be it.
As soon as he got to the toilet, the contents of his stomach had evacuated themselves violently. He retched until he was dry-heaving, and then his strength had left him.
Now he’s curled up on the tile floor, hugging his abdomen and shaking uncontrollably while tears spill from his eyes.
He’s never felt this kind of pain before. He has to be dying—he’s freezing and sweating and it feels like he’s being stabbed. At least he’s sure it isn’t gas.
He needs to get Viktor. He needs help, but he can’t get up. Every time he moves, the pain overwhelms him and takes his breath away. He can hardly breathe, let alone pick himself up off the floor and walk out. His phone is in his bag by the lockers and he can’t call for help.
Terror ignites every nerve, every cell, every fiber of his being. Is he really going to die here and now, on the grimy floor of a restroom in a foreign skating rink with Viktor right outside? A new wave of pain rips through his abdomen and he whines thinly through clenched teeth. Christ, what is happening to him?
He gives up trying to call out, trying to crawl his way out of the stall. It hurts too badly. He can’t do anything but lie there and hope someone finds him soon.
…
He must have slipped into a doze, or lost consciousness or something, because the next thing he’s aware of is strong but gentle hands shaking him and a smooth voice calling his name.
“Yuuri! Yuuri! Please, wake up! Open your eyes!”
It’s the sheer and utter panic corrupting the silky tone he loves so much that gets him to wake up and open his eyes. Viktor is leaning over him, his own bright blue eyes huge and gleaming. “V—V’tor…” Speaking is painful. Drawing breath is painful. Seeing such naked, unbridled fear in the face of the man he loves is terribly, terribly painful.
“Yuuri!” Viktor breathes with so much emotion that Yuuri can’t tell if relief is present or not. “Yuuri, talk to me. What’s wrong? What’s the matter?”
“My stomach,” Yuuri gasps. “P-please…please help me.”
The wild terror in Viktor’s expression is scaring him, but he watches it harden into something firm and determined as his coach pulls his cell phone from his pocket. He places a hand on Yuuri’s arm and makes a visible effort to look like he’s not so horribly shaken by all of this. “I’m going to call an ambulance. You’re going to be just fine, don’t worry.”
Yuuri doesn’t even have the presence of mind to question him. He just wants to be put out of this agony.
…
Rapid-fire Russian is being spoken over his head. He’s cradled against Viktor’s broad chest, nose buried in his scarf. He smell his cologne very well like this, and it’s calming. He likes this smell. A pale hand, free of its glove, combs through his hair over and over, unwavering and never stopping. Whenever he whimpers from the excruciating pain, Viktor’s voice is there, soft and comforting and telling him everything will be okay.
Yuuri believes him. He’s never felt this safe.
…
When he comes to, he’s staring at a stark white ceiling and there’s a warm hand intertwined with his own. His head is fuzzy and dull, but he knows exactly whose it is. His gaze travels from the ceiling down to the bed where he can see himself lying under a thin blanket, body clothed in a hospital gown, to his arm which has an IV attached to it, and finally to his hand enclosed in his coach’s. He gives a tiny squeeze.
A head of messy silver hair lifts off the mattress immediately and a pair of familiar blue eyes blink at him, dazed and sleepy. It only takes a second before they snap into clarity, and then he’s being encircled by Viktor’s arms.
“Yuuri!” He runs a hand over the back of Yuuri’s head and nuzzles his nose into his neck. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
“What happened?” His body feels thick, in a numb kind of way. There’s a muffled pain throbbing in his torso, but for now it stays distant and repressed.
“They had to remove your appendix,” Viktor says, refusing to let go. “My god, you scared me to death. Don’t ever do that to me again.”
Yuuri lifts weak arms and wraps them loosely around Viktor’s back. “I’m sorry, Viktor.”
He presses his cheek to the top of Yuuri’s head. “It’s alright now. You’re alright. You’re safe.” He squeezes him gently one more time before exhaling a long breath and finally letting go. He seats himself in the chair beside the bed again and pulls it closer. “You’ll have to stay in the hospital a bit longer to make sure no complications arise from the surgery, but you’ll be back in the rink soon enough.”
Yuuri nods groggily. He doesn’t want to think what missing such a large chunk of practice time will mean for his career, but he’ll worry about it later. Right now he doesn’t think he can keep his eyes open much longer. “M’tired, Viktor.”
Viktor smiles softly and smoothes a hand over Yuuri’s forehead. “Go to sleep, then. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
Yuuri nods again, and closes his eyes with a contented sigh when Viktor’s lips press against his brow. He falls asleep to the feeling of a thumb gliding across his knuckles.