Title: Tie the Knot, Despite Everything
Author: Lainx
Rating: /
Warnings: Metaphor for homophobia
Summary: In this world, soulmates are a rare occurrence.
They say that it is unfair, they say that it is unnatural. For some, the solution is easy – just pretend
you don’t have a soulmate, you’ll be fine!
…
They obviously don’t know how painful this is. 

Link to AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9675017

As soon as Victor had been able to dream, he
had seen them. Three beautiful ribbons, woven together, softly moving as if
rustled by an invisible wind. One was yellow; it shone the brightest and was
the widest. Another was silver, and was nicely balanced by the larger brown
ribbon completing a frayed rope. Sometimes, the rope would randomly appear in
his day musings as well, carefully glowing and twisting on itself.

When he asked his parents about it, they had solemnly
told him, voices wavering, that somewhere, a bride was already waiting for him.
In another words, that he was one of the rare people on Earth to have a
soulmate. And immediately after, that he should never, never speak of it again.
 

As a child, Victor did not give much thought
about the term “bride”. Girls were other children just like him, playmates at
best. When he started skating, he started applying the label “light skaters” to
them as well.

But as the time passed, and that he started to
envision his future after pointed questions from overly curious journalists, he
thought again of the lonesome rope still haunting him. Instead of considering
it an expected element of his dreams, as he had for years, he tried to decipher
its meaning. From the information he read online, your soulmate (or soulmates,
it appeared) would also be seeing the same rope during the night, and only when
you met would the ribbons be fixed.

Before, it had been nearly impossible for
someone to find his soulmate before their deaths. Ropes would stay frayed, and
hearts would stay empty, despite the partner you would finally chose to love –
if you were able to choose one at all. Truthfully, it was as much a curse as a
blessing.

The Internet revolution changed these lonely
destinies, though, and matches were more frequent. Soulmates became an object
of jealousy, the rarity of the phenomenon fueling the resentment. Organizations
appeared, protesting the logical value of the process – how could such a
relationship, in which nothing made sense, even exist? What presided to the
pairing of two beings previously unknown to each other?

Others thought soulmates were purely and simply
lying about the visions of their ropes. They considered them as psychologically
sick and unstable. They would try to “beat some sense into them”.    

Hence why, despite their best interests, people
with soulmates waiting for them rarely publicized it. Sometimes, people would get
aggressed if they decided to announce it – the world was a bitter, bitter place.

So Victor was concerned. He was concerned
because, even though he spent hours on obscure soulmate identifying websites
each week, his rope’s appearance and colors were never matched. He was also concerned
because his parents seemed sure a bride
was destined to love him, and while he liked girls well enough and could even
be intimate with them if he wished to, he could not picture himself ever marrying
one. He was concerned because destiny seemed to have given him a harsh choice
between solitude and dread.

So he prayed. He prayed that his soulmate would
be a boy, and that they would meet in a secure place; and he did not care if
they were a skater or not, or if they lived at the other side of the world, or
even if they could not love him romantically. He just wanted them to reunite,
and to be wealthy and courageous enough to protect each other.

The thought of his soulmate became somewhat
obsessing. He would stay up at night, thinking about his broken rope, his face tense
as he gulped back the urge to cry. He yearned for a face he had never seen, he
longed for a hand he had never touched. During the days, he would find himself
glancing to his left, as if to meet the eyes of his companion.

It came to the point he choreographed a whole
routine to express his pain. “Stammi Vicino, Non te Andare” was a desperate
plea for his soulmate to come to him. Twenty years were a long time to go
without your other half.

It happened the night after his fifth medal
awarding. He prepared to leave the venue with his coach and young Yuri
Plisetsky, when a timid-looking person stared right through him as he asked if they
wished to take a picture with him – the intensity with which he had been ogled
at had made him think the person was a fan of his.

However, instead of a picture and a smile, he
got a warm punch in the stomach which brought him to his knees, while the
stranger’s eyes widened and their hand flied to his chest. Fear and despair
flashed on their face, while they stumbled backwards and frantically glanced
around.

But strangely, Victor did not care if media saw
that. So what if people learned he had a soulmate? He would be happy barricading
himself in his basement as long as his partner would be willing to stay with
him.

It was incredible how much his heart had
expanded in a timeless second. A moment before, he was Victor Nikiforov, Russia’s
pride and hero; but now he was nameless, his whole being changed allegiance.

So when the stranger scurried away, sadness
etched on their features, Victor felt like dying. His soulmate obviously knew
him – and they looked repulsed by the very idea of having him as a soulmate.

Why? What had he done, what could justify the
stranger’s disgust toward him?

He was ever-so grateful to Yakov, who took the
matter in his own hands in a matter of seconds. No, Victor is okay. It must be
fatigue. Haha, yes, even legendary skaters got low on sugar if you keep them away
from food for too long. He would bring him to his room; let him rest before the
banquet. Yes, he would be available to answer questions the next day, thank you
so much for your comprehension.

His coach half-carried him to his hotel room, while
Yuri Plisetsky sneaked in the direction the stranger has fled in. As he entered
a restroom, loud sobs startled him. Someone was heavily crying in a bathroom
stall, their breath hitching and their nose obviously running.

Revolting.

He took it on himself to startle the
dark-haired person out of his crying, by delicately smashing the bathroom stall
door with his right feet. The stranger opened the door, a wary expression on
their face – as if they were readying themselves to fight.

“What…” they began, stunned.

“What was
that, idiot! You’re Yuuri Katsuki, right? I saw you flubbing your entire
routine earlier. Why did you leave Vitya hanging?”

“Who?” Yuuri muttered, his heart heavy.

Too much. It had felt like too much. First, his
dog died. Second, his binge-eating got him sick before skating. Third, he “flubbed
his entire routine”.

And fourth, his soulmate was apparently his
life-long idol who did not even recognize him, even if they had skated at the
same event. His soulmate had been exposed before cameras because he could stop
himself from gazing at the – in his opinion – most handsome man ever. He had
only met him and already he had put him in danger.

How embarrassing. How stupid of him.

He had to flee. That had been the only option
at that point.

“Vitya. Victor Nikiforov. Whatever!” the
teenager before him fumed. “You know what, Yuuri Katsuki? Tonight, you will
come to the banquet, and make sure he understands you want him! Is that clear?!
I don’t want this idiot doing anything stupid, like crying, or worse, retiring!
Who cares if you guys are soulmates? People just gotta pull that stick out of
their asses, for once!”

The blond boy, Yuri Plisetsky, then stomped
away, an angry scowl on his strangely angelic face. Yuuri stood for a while
longer, emptily staring at the absence of the younger skater, pondering.
Something roared inside him – ever since he had looked in the blue, oh so blue
eyes of his soulmate, he had been fighting against himself to prevent him from
running back and shouting words of love at the man.

He sighed, feeling his resolve giving in. He
could not stay away from him any longer – it already hurt.

Ah, at least Celestino would be pleased to
learn he had decided on going to the banquet, after all.

 

The champagne had been a bad idea. Victor knew
that drinking while you were upset always was a terrible idea – but not even Yakov’s
gruff protests could have stopped him. He deserved it, he thought in a haze,
while gulping his tenth flute of the night. Even his gold medal could not save
the awful day.

When he started to challenge people to dance
with him on imagined rhythms, Yakov forced him to sit, putting a glass of water
in his shaking hands.

“Vitya… that’s enough, don’t make a fool of
yourself, that won’t help. You know what
they…”

“Excuse me… Mr. Feltsman?” a timid but
determined voice interrupted him. “Could I talk to…mmh…Victor?”

Yakov turned on his heels, coming face-to-face
with a dark-haired person wearing a stuffy-looking suit with a horrible tie. His
nostrils flared, and he was opening his mouth to object, when:

“You!” Victor suddenly exclaimed, almost launching
himself to his soulmate. “Why did you leave me?!” he accused, clutching the arms
shaking under his weight.

Then, with a bit of anger in the voice, he
yelled:

“Dance with me! You owe me a fight!”

Yuuri immediately understood his soulmate was
completely inebriated, and he gently took him into his arms, chuckling. Fear inexplicably
seemed to ooze out of him at a steady rate, replaced by bravery and love.

“A fight?” he remarked, grinning. “Of course, I’ll
dance with you.”

They stepped a bit away from the other mingling
skaters, Yuuri keeping the dance tranquil and slow so that even drunk Victor
Nikiforov could follow his steps. Gradually, as they danced together, anger
faded from Victor’s face, replaced with wonder. Their movements grew swifter,
more gracious, as Yuuri eased them into a mock-tango that had Victor laughing as
he impersonated a bull charging at his matador. They both wished the dance
would never end.

But after a while, Yuuri dipped his partner,
both of their expressions radiant, and they giggled together in happiness. Tenderly,
Victor put his hands to Yuuri’s hair, brushing them backwards. His eyes
widened, and he murmured, awed:

“Wow… Katsuki Yuuri… He’s so pretty!”

Yuuri lost it then, letting them topple to the
floor in a tangled mess. He peppered kisses on Victor’s face, only half-shocked
at his boldness, mumbling “Oh God, you are so, so stupid!” in his skin.

Later, Yuuri and Victor would talk about their relationship,
and how to protect themselves from the world. Yuuri would have a fit over banquet’s
pictures and videos of them making out on the floor, while Victor would learn
not to crush his soulmate to death in his arms out of affection.

Later, they would reminisce about this night,
and on how it had been one of the most beautiful moments of their lives.

For now, though, as they huddled in the same
bed, under the same covers, their dreams finally matched. Gorgeous and healthy knotted
threads of colors drew patterns of love behind their eyelids, forcing smiles
out of them even in their sleep.

Love would win. They were sure of it.