smashcon | Terror On Ice - Short Story 2017

Title: Terror on Ice
Rating: PG
Prompt: "Terror made me cruel" - Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights
Fandom/Series: Yuri On Ice
Word Count: 1912
Disclaimer: I do not, in any way, profit from the story and all creative rights to the characters belong to their original creator(s).
Summary: Terror was intrinsic to a skater; it was there from the first step onto the ice to the practice of a well known routine, the first competition to the last. “Yes, terror was intrinsic to a skater. But to Yuri Plisetsky more so than most.”

Note: This fic contains a few Russian words (mainly terms of endearment) for a translation see the end of the story.

. . .

Terror. It was as intrinsic to a skater as pain to a ballerina, or water to a swimmer.

It was standing in front of the crowd, primped and primed as they eagerly waited to watch you fly… Watch you fall.
It was the moment before the jump; that split second decision, ‘Can I really do this?’
It was the feeling of freedom, flying through the air. The knowledge that you’ve over rotated, under rotated, that your positioning was all wrong - and, that gravity is calling.

Terror was feeling the ice, solid and unforgiving under your skates, under the palms of your hands, under your prone body. It compounded every win, every loss. Every medal and every bruise.

Yes, terror was intrinsic to a skater. But to Yuri Plisetsky more so than most.

. . .

“No more tears you stupid boy.”
“But otets…”
“Men don’t cry Yuri.”
. . .

Yuri’s first real memory of terror was when he met his dedushka.

Nikolai Plisetsky was a broad man, tall when compared to any child and overwhelmingly strange. With his two-toned hair and blue-green eyes he looked nothing like Yuri’s mamochka or otets. Scruffy, unkempt clothes, reddened eyes and a semi-permanent scowl only augmented his differences.

“Yuri, this man is your grandfather. He will be looking after you from now on.”

The young boy shook, not with excitement, nor with fear but with something much deeper, something much stronger. He knew not to cry, not any more, not ever again. Not when his father’s last words became a reprimand. He knew not to run either, not when that would only get him in much more trouble. He knew all this.

So, little Yuri. Small, pale, shaking, little Yuri. He did the only other thing he knew how - he yelled. He screamed, he shouted, he raged. Anything and everything to hide the mounting terror.

He tore into his newly found grandfather, scorning those battered clothes, that tattered soul. Purposely seeking out every bruise, every weakness, locking on and attacking.

Terror makes everyone cruel. But the terror of a child, when children are already so cruel to begin with? Terror made him brutal.

. . .

The first step onto the ice, out onto that vast sea of crystalline white with its unbroken purity. That first time puts different emotions into the hearts of many. Awe, wonder, shock, happiness… And perhaps a little bit of fear.

For Yuri, that little bit of fear was anything but small. It was a writhing ball of terror. No, Yuri was not afraid of falling, of floundering or even of failing. Yuri was not afraid of any of those little, inconsequential things that so many children feared.

At that point Yuri was afraid of only one thing. Of leaving his dedushka. Of his dedushka leaving him. Packing up and wiping his hands of Yuri, of that little boy who expressed far more in yells, sullen silences and little grins than in wide-eyed smiles.

“Go on Yurochka, I’m here.”

With that reassurance, keeping his gaze locked on his dedushka the whole time, Yuri took that first step. And it was wonderful. Even with the uncertainty, those little wobbles and slides, skating was amazing. It was freedom, it was mesmerizing. Little Yuri got lost in it.

He looked up, away from the charming patterns in the ice, to find his dedushka missing. Standing on a sea of white, surrounded by a crush of bodies he was lost, hopelessly, endlessly.

He spun around, pushing and shoving past shocked onlookers, seeking and searching. But still he found nothing. Then he fell. Disoriented and shaken he lay on the ice, cold seeping into him.

“Are you okay kotenok?”

Yuri looked up to find his vision encompassed by a worried face and spools of grey hair.

“Come on rebonok, let’s get you off this rink.”

A kind smile lit up the stranger's face as the ice cleared in front of them like the parting of the red sea.

“Well?”

Now Yuri could see it! That little gate leading to freedom, to his dedushka.

“Stay away from me! I don’t need your help!”

He pushed the stranger aside roughly, gliding quickly to the exit and running into dedushki waiting arms.

. . .

Competitions always come with a hint of uncertainty, that worry that you may fall and lose your place. Fall and not be able to get back up. Yuri’s first competition was a little different than most.

The competition, if it could even be called that, was between him and an older girl called Mila. They were showing off childish routines to trener Yakov, something completely typical of the pair.

What was atypical, however, was the presence of Yuri’s dedushka. While he normally worked long hours to support the expensive profession, Nikolai had taken leave to spend some time with Yuri. This meant watching Yuri skate. Watching his pseudo competition.

While spectators would usually motivate Yuri to smash the competition, this one in particular held far more significance. With dedushka Yuri had far more to prove. He had to show Nikolai that all the money he had spent was worth it. That Yuri’s passion was worth it. He had to!

These ‘competitions’ with Mila were usually just short 30-second routines, made up that morning, practiced and refined for the next few hours then performed in front Yakov and the other skaters for critic.

At this point their win count was about even. As, while Mila was older, her experience lay in powerful jumps whereas Yuri focused on step-sequences and spins.

Today, however, was different. Yakov decided to put both of them out of their comfort zones, giving them a week to learn the same one minute routine to actual music, with a combination of expert step sequences, spins and a spattering of jumps.

Mila’s showing had been lyrical. She had taken that extra week to work on the performance elements that normally eluded her, and with already practiced jumps she had the advantage.

Yuri would not let that defeat him. He embraced the fear, the worry, and the terror. He wanted to be unique, to make a mark. But in practice Yuri had gone in the opposite direction, taking that extra week to practise those perfect jumps made his performance cold and mechanical, lacking his normal emotive state. Yuri had lost. And he knew it.

He practically ran off the ice, foregoing skate guards to tear across the room. He ignored his dedushka. He had knownthis wouldn’t end well.

In the end it was Mila who found him, curled up in a tiny ball as if to minimise the target. He wasn’t crying, just sitting there, silent and cold.

“Come on Yura, it wasn’t that bad. Your ded loved seeing you jump like that!”

A fire bubbled in the young boy as terror became rage.

“Of course you would think my performance was good! It’s practically what you do week-after-week and look where that’s gotten you. You haven’t even reached the podium yet, doomed to be forever fourth-place. You should just give up already!”

Yuri did not apologise.
Mila did not speak to him for a month.

. . .

When one attempted to fly, they always had to fall and in skating, the fall was everything. From the first attempted jump to the 50th perfect one, jumping always came with an innate terror.

Skaters would be judged on what position they jumped in, ‘Was that leg in the right angle? The arm?’ Skaters would be judged on what happened in the air, ‘How tight was that spin? What about the height?’ Skaters would be judged on their arrival back to the ground, ‘Did they stumble or fall? Did they get back up again?’

Yuri had been jumping, falling for years and was used to this judgment. But this jump, this one jump in particular had always eluded him in competition. It was the cause of great conflict between him and Yakov.

“Yuri! At your age you cannot be jumping like that! Your knees will be ruined before you’re out of your teens!”
“Che, Yakov. Those quads give me an advantage over the competition.”
“ Yuri! Don’t you dare!”

While he performed a great deal of triples, Yuri’s quads were his true pride. A pride that Yakov would not let him show! The quadruple salchow was ready, Yuri just knew it! So against his coach’s gentle advice, Yuri kept the quad.

He spun, paused and leaped. That split second weightless, when gravity lost its hold was what he lived for in these jumps. And then he fell, the terror consuming him. But what a fall. For the first time in competition he had landed a perfect salchow. Take that Yakov!

“You dumb brat!”
“It worked didn’t it, old geezer!”

. . .

The transition from Junior to Senior division is always awkward, no matter the sport. But in skating especially, this transition means more rules, more ‘must includes’, more competition and more worry.

Skaters plan their transition into Seniors for years, many competing in a number of Senior competitions while they compete in the Junior Grand Prix as a back up until they make the final leap.

Yuri disregarded this. He ignored Yakov’s careful months of planning to bulldoze his was into the Senior circuit. He was bored of domination over the Junior Circuit and with his two-time consecutive wins over the Junior World’s and Grand Prix Final he felt he was readily qualified.

This lack of planning meant taking on all the stress of joining the Senior circuit all at once, his Senior debut and first Senior Grand Prix competition. All at once. It was terrifying.

. . .

In the led up to the Grand Prix Final, Yuri was even more snappish than usual, lashing out to his rink mates, his coaches and on one memorable occasion, his dedushka.

“Yura, you need to take it easy, you’re still growing and need days to rest.”
“I’m fine dedushka. I need to practice my jumps.”

The stare was penetrating

“What would you know about hard work anyways?”
“Yurochka …”
“I’m sorry dedushka.”

. . .

Yuri’s free skate was appallingly amazing. It grotesquely caught the gaze of everyone present and trapped them. It was horrifying. It was stunning.

Standing at the top of the podium Yuri knew it was worth it, all the pain, and all the terror. It was worth it to see that proud smile on his dedushki face.

For the first time in years, Yuri cried.

. . .

Some call Yuri Plisetsky a ‘beautiful monster’, others a friend or rival. Yakov calls him a constant pain and Mila, a little brother. Nikolai Plisetsky calls him ‘son’. All of these people have one thing in common. They think him to be terrifying.

Yuri Plisetsky lived a life of terror. It shaped him and changed him. It made him cruel and callous and loud and rude. It made him forsake wide-eyed grins and laughter for smirks and cruel remarks. It made those little grins of him all the more wondrous.

Yes, Yuri Plisetsky lived a life of terror. And he loved every moment of it.

. . .

Translations:
Ded - Grandfather
Dedushka – Grandpa
Dedushki – Grandpa’s
Mamochka – Mummy
Kotenok - Kitten
Otets – Father
Rebonok - Child
Trener – Trainer/coach

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