Made Of Stardust - Short Story 2017

[smash_fic]

Title: Made of Stardust
Prompt choice: A man learns to skate by staggering about and making a fool of himself. Indeed, he progresses in all things by resolutely making a fool of himself. 
- George Bernard Shaw, Advice to a Young Critic
Rating: PG
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: The stars was where Victor and his flame belonged 
Word Count: 1530

Made of Stardust

i. birthright

You were born from something once beautiful that soured long ago. You, who was meant to be celebrated, was born into a world that did not love you as much as you loved it. But you did not care, did you?

You lived when the world condemned you to die. The kiss of death so close, but you refused and with your small lungs, you screamed. You screamed into the night, demanding your chance to show your worth. And maybe lady luck had kissed you instead of death and fate decided to change his plans for you- as a young woman passed by and became your savior from the winter king.

 

ii. ignition

You are six years old when you go onto the ice and fall in love. The bruises that cover your legs like nebulae from falling don’t hurt you. They make you feel alive. And suddenly something burns inside you and warmth fills you to the core. And you so desperately want to keep feeling that warmth. You tell your mother this (she isn’t your real mother, the kids in school say she isn’t, but she is kind and holds your hands when things get too scary, so you believe, she comes damn close to one), and she laughs and hugs you tight.

 

iii. exploration

Yakov is a surly old man. His face is constantly pulled into a grimace, as if he is constantly smelling something tragic, but you like him, don’t you? He reminds you of a proud beast, with his back straight, shoulders squared, and even though he is old, and not all that tall, he commands respect from the moment he walks in. He looks at you with eyes that remind you steel and immediately begins to bark orders. He is like the beast in those fairytales your mother used to tell you; aggressive, angry, loud. But you don’t mind, because once the day is over Yakov pulls you aside, and pats your head, (pats your head like a father would to his son) and say ‘good job, Vitya’ and suddenly your muscles don’t hurt all that badly anymore.

 

Yakov shows you how to dance on the ice, how to jump high, higher than any other, to carve yourself into the ice. ‘You will be remembered Vitya. The world will call your name and you will be loved’ he says.

He keeps the flames in Victor’s heart burning bright.

 

iv. victorious

You taste victory for the first time when you are twelve. And lady luck holds your hand as you turn thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. The crowd screams your name as you twirl and dance, like a ballerina, like an angel, like a soldier, like whoever you wish to become once you go onto the ice. And you give yourself to them, bare your heart open, leaving it for the taking.

 

You make yourself home amongst the stars, and you keep coaxing the flame inside you to burn. To take more of you, to feed your hunger for more.

 

v. liquor

You are sixteen and celebrating when you are given a taste of alcohol. It burns your throat and warms your body until you become numb. You laugh and laugh and no one can stop you. You drink more and more and more and more until the party dies down and an arm leads you out of the bar and back to the hotel. Everything's a mess. All too much and all too little but you don’t care. You feel light, free, freer than you are on ice. You never want to it to stop.

 

You wake up to the feeling of bile crawling your throat and you dash to the bathroom, only barely making it to the toilet before you wretch up everything you ate and drunk last night. It takes you minutes, hours who know how long? To stagger back to bed and lay down. You don’t know what time it is and you don’t care. All you can see is the glint of the medal hanging from bedpost and feel the slow thrum of the sandman calling you back to sleep.

 

((You soon realize the burning liquid that you drink is like a magic potion, it makes you see stars and creates the warmth you so desperately need. The more it burns and claws down your throat, the happier you become. You don’t care for anything if you can drink just a little more))

 

 

 

vi. sunflowers

You are twenty and jaded when you meet a boy whose hair reminds you of sunflower fields. He is crass, rude and downright awful at times but you cannot help but find it endearing. He burns, the flames that you lost, burn so brightly in him that even you can see it. And a part of you so desperately hopes that he, Yuri Plisetsky, the Russian tiger, can keep the flame alive. (You know he can, because he is not you, he is young and angry, scarred and determined. He will keep what you lost.)

 

vii. nothing

Your twenties are lined with gold medals and empty shot glasses. You drink as much as you win. You buy a dog to keep you company. Makkachin is a good dog. But even a dog can’t fill the silence when the nights go for too long. Yakov no longer yells at you, he only sighs as he helps you home into your apartment and in the mornings when there is time, he brushes your long hair and gently braids it in place. Neither of you say anything about what happens when you are not sober, but his silence says it all.

 

viii. hair

You are twenty-three when you cut off your hair. Your fans, of course, cry and wail but you don’t care. ‘Good riddance’ is all you can think. You are tired. The taste of victory is nothing more than a shadow of its former glory. All you can taste is the bitter embers of your lost flame. The bruises on your skin are no longer carries like battle scars, they run deeper than the skin. Your bones ache and all you want to do is stop. But you cannot. Because what is there of you, if you are not a skater?

 

You.

Who are you?

Who is Victor Nikiforov?

You can’t answer.

That is okay. You don’t mind.

You take another shot from the glass.

 

ix. stars

You dance with a boy after another victory. He is obviously drunk, more drunk than you. He asks you to coach him. You laugh and agree. He smiles at you, a wide, drunken smile. But it is sweet and adoring and your blacken heart, for the first time in years, begins to stir.

 

 

x. Yuuri

You watch him skate. He glides across the ice with grace akin to a swan. He carries the longing and love that you bear all throughout his dance. His dance us your calling. You do the unthinkable. It is selfish. It is unfair. But you are tired of playing nice and for once you want to live.

xi. eros

Yuuri is not what you expected him to be. But his eyes shine like candle light and the flame inside him is bright. It is not overwhelmingly burning like Yuri Plisetsky’s, but is warm and inviting. He is hesitant around you, like a skittish kitten. Like someone bitten too many times to fully trust anyone. But you don’t mind. He colors your world and breathes life into your lungs. At night when you lay beside him, there is a small warmth that spreads through you.

xii. embers

There are days where Yuuri is stuck in his head. And there are days where you are too. Where your fingers twitch for a shot of burning liquid but you cannot, because it is not just you now. It is Yuuri too. So you shut your thoughts for the day and call for Yuuri. He lit the flame inside you. And now you must try to keep his alive.

xiii. fire

It is when you see Yuuri skate at the Grand Prix do you realize how you miss the ice. It calls for you and there is a part of you that aches and longs to be back on it. But there is Yuuri. You realise you cannot have both the ice and Yuuri.

xiv. calling

It is not fair, how Yuuri calls the shots. You beg for him to think twice but even your tears don’t affect him. Yuuri is warm as he is stubborn. And you laugh to yourself as you take down another shot.

xv. tigers

You know you have wronged Yuri Plisetsky. Your selfishness hurt him more than not. He speaks to you through clenched teeth but when you tell him what Yuuri is doing he looks at you lost. His flame flickers before it becomes overwhelming. You hug him tightly like you did once before.

xvi. Rings

The ocean is beautiful, the waves gently lapping at the shoreline. You sit quietly with Yuuri beside you. You don’t anything. He doesn’t either. You don’t have to. The rings on your fingers say it all.

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