Does my love still work?

-

He plays with the strands that have frayed from the ends of the cushions on the couch, rolling them between the pads of his thumb and forefinger.

It is quiet in the apartment. Still, silent, serene.

To Yuuri, however, it's roaring in his ears. Ringing, buzzing, yelling everything there could possibly exist in this very timeframe of the world. It is intolerable.

But he bears it.

It is quiet in the apartment. Screaming, shrieking, screeching.

He continues to toy with the spun threads that are beginning to unravel into thinner, fragile strands - much like his own heart. He knows very well that anxiety has broken him, shredded him into pieces that can only be glued back together - and there would still be cracks. Flaws that stand out, puffing their ugliness in pride, because their purpose is, of course, to show the world how weak and brittle Katsuki Yuuri is.

Katsuki Yuuri is feeble.

Katsuki Yuuri is unsatisfactory.

Katsuki Yuuri is not enough.

Even if he lays his heart out on the ice, even if he skates to show the world how much emotion there is contained in one, little body, even if he smiles and tells the press and everyone else that he is perfect, it is so blatantly obvious that he is a broken vase. Everyone is able to see that.

Unable to hold its contents. Unable to keep its walls from cracking and shattering into a one hundred thousand million pieces. Unable to withstand anything that forces its way at him.

He is like a glass vase, he notes to himself.

Yuri Plisetsky is a fine example of a vase made of rubber. Tough, strong, resilient, able to deflect the hits and blows aimed at him. Not a common one, but useful, and no one is able to pry into him to get a good look at his contents. His emotions.

Viktor Nikiforov - the one he loves with all his flawed, cracked heart - is a great example of a finely polished wooden vase. Shiny, beautiful, glaring in the spotlight. He may crack under certain pressures, yes, but wood is a sturdy, loyal thing - it does not give away any hint of feelings.

Katsuki Yuuri is a fine example of a glass vase. A plain one, one with cracks that have been so meticulously glued together by those who treasure him - but what use is repairing him when it has been proven that he is useless?

Everyone can take a good, hard look at his emotions, his contents. Everyone can take a little hammer and cast it at his body and watch it crack, break, spill its delicate contents.

He is transparent. Everyone can see the ugly cracks embedded in his skin, and everyone can see that he is imperfect. Not enough. Never will be.

He lets the strands of the cushion fall back to the couch and stands up.

To the ice it is.

Is it?

He glances at the clock. Eight twenty two, it reads, ticking and clicking in the deafening silence.

Viktor wouldn't be home that soon - he's got some sponsorship meetings to attend. Won't be home till ten, he had said, cupping Yuuri's cheeks and kissing him, slowly, languid in the cold corridor.

To the ice it is.

It is.

He pads across the apartment, careful not to bustle into something on his way to the door and waken the sleeping poodle in the bedroom. The coat raises an eyebrow at him as he slips it on. Really, it whispers in quiet rustles across his earlobes, you're going out now?

"Why not?" Yuuri mutters back. He must be going delusional, speaking to a piece of clothing on his way out to the rink.

Well, at least it pushes away the last of his doubts on going out.

Cars rumble by, their headlights providing a strange sort of comfort - like it lights up the tunnel in his doubts. The occasional passerby brushes past him, barely lifting their heads to acknowledge each other. Snow crunches under his feet.

He fits the spare key into the lock and jiggles the rusty door open, not bothering to watch the door slam shut as he grabs his skates from the lockers and puts them on in a hurry, before switching on the lights and stepping into the cold.

The ice offers life into him. A fresh breath, a moment of cold after months and years of tasting the heat on the tongue. It's something much like water after swallowing a mint. Rejuvenating, refreshing.

He feels great on the ice.

It is the only distraction to the constant roaring in his mind. Skating allows him to shed those horrifying screams onto the benches and move his body freely. Let his heart be free of burden.

Yet, when he falls to the slick ice after an attempt at a quad, he doesn't get up. Instead, he lies on his side, tracing his gloved finger across the scratches carved into the ice. This ice needs resurfacing, he thinks to himself.

Or maybe he's an ice vase.

Useless, brittle, exposed. 

Too much work to maintain. 

A burden.

He wonders if Viktor thinks of him that way. A man he's merely infatuated with, a man who'll make him see that his love is not founded, a man who's unworthy of his time.

He's also sure that if Viktor were to hear those thoughts, he would shush him with a kiss, telling him over and over and over that those worries are unfounded.

It doesn't stop him from thinking, though.

The ice under him has started to melt and seep into his training clothes, so he gets up to skate back to the sides. Nine fifty, he reads off the screen of his phone and nearly chokes on air. He tears out of the rink, practically yanking his feet off as he tears his skates away and shoves them into the locker - so much for polishing them just a night ago, he thinks sourly to himself - and rushes out into the streets after slamming the light switch and door shut.

He knows he's too late when he catches sight of the crack of light from under the door.

Viktor isn't in the living room, but he knows full well that he's waiting for him in the bedroom when he enters and smells fresh steam and shampoo in the air.

He's right.

"Yuuri," he hears whispered from Viktor's side of the bed. The Russian tilts his head over his shoulder, eyes catching the street lights from below. They're gorgeous, Yuuri notes for what must be the millionth time.

"What's wrong?"

Yuuri barks out a laugh. "Nothing," he tells Viktor, smiling as he sits on the bed. It's soft. "Why would you think something's wrong?"

"Your smile is too forced."

He sighs and lets his shoulders he never knew were tense droop. So does his lips.

"And you were out skating, weren't you? Your shirt is drenched."

Well. He should really devise a plan to avoid Viktor's knowing eye next time.

"Nothing's wrong, really," he whispers and wriggles towards Viktor. "It's just- I..."

He can't really say what's bothering him, either. He can't tell him he's unsuited for Viktor. He can't tell him he's flawed and that he's unworthy of Viktor's love. He can't tell him his love doesn't work and it would never be enough.

Or maybe he can. Maybe he did.

Viktor's eyes visibly mists and he reaches over to cradle Yuuri's hand in his.

"Yuuri," he says. It trips off his tongue as though it were nothing but pure gold, like it was a word too precious, too royal for him to speak. It makes Yuuri feel just a bit more guilty than he'd already been. "Yuuri, dear, no, I love you for who you are, and that includes those little things you call flaws."

Viktor raises his hand to his lips and brushes them against the cold metal wrapped firmly around Yuuri's finger.

"Everyone has flaws, and no one can be perfect. But if you think you're unworthy of love - that, perhaps, your family doesn't deserve to love you for your flaws, then think again. Why do they love you in the first place?"

"Because it's unconditional love, familial love, Viktor, and you're not- not related by blood," he counters. Viktor sighs into his hand, and Yuuri wishes that he could hold that very warmth in his palm forever.

"I may not be related by blood, but my love for you is unconditional."

Yuuri stiffens, and before he can register what's happening tears are already spilling over onto his cheeks, dripping onto his clothes, and subsequently Viktor's when he's pulled into a hug.

"Now, listen to my heartbeat."

He does.

He tunes his breathing to the individual beats, his chest rising and falling in a regular, smooth pattern - save for the occasional sob and hiccup. He imagines Viktor's heart pulsing in its ribcage, powered by tiny electrical currents and cells that work hard to sustain his life, and soon, he feels his own heartbeat slowing to match Viktor's.

It's mysterious, but so are many things in life. He sighs into Viktor's skin.

"I'll love you always, Yuuri. If you ever feel that you're out of sync, I'll always be there to bring you back, to stabilise yourself. Like how my heartbeat does for yours. My feelings for you will never end."

Yuuri laughs - a genuine one, and Viktor relaxes against him.

"How are you so sure about it?"

"I promise you. You'll see."

He's right.

His love would never cease.

So would Yuuri's.

-

My love works. Even if it's from a flawed heart, a cracked, brittle one, it is still a love that someone appreciates and reciprocates.

My love works.