Nervous pacing, that was all he was good for right now.

One foot in front of the other he wandered the hall, until he reached a curve, then he pivoted and started again.

It wasn't safe to look down, there were stains. It also wasn't safe for him to stop because then the angst caught him. So, he continued to pace, eyes high and focused on the ceiling, until his head was so full of images, of words, and things, that he couldn't stand it.

Blood loss. Concussion. Bruised. Broken. Sick.

It had happened quickly, like a slap to the face, brutal, efficient, and painful.

Within seconds of pushing him out of the way, the medical team had scooped Yuri off the ice at a near sprint, the faces of all personnel present rattled. And he had tried to stand up and follow, tried to listen to the medical jargon they spoke. But with every step, every word they spat out, he felt himself crumbling.

He'd thought if Yuri woke up, that if he knew who he was, he would be okay, that he could recover. But they were speaking as if he was still life or death.

"O2 low. Mask him."

Viktor stopped a moment his eyes looking at the medical room, and the nausea from before rolled through him.

The handle was stained crimson.

"He's heading into hypovolemic shock. BP falling. Hang the saline."

Saline?

"Staunch the laceration. Do we have more gauze around here?"

"Here."

Shadows of hands filled the hall, a soft whimper resounded, and Viktor couldn't stop his teeth from grinding, his jaw from tightening, or his hand from shoving his silver bangs back for the millionth time in search of substance.

"Any worse on that heart rate and I'm pushing epi."

Epi? Was his heart giving out?

Viktor's knees weakened.

"Vitya."

At the sound of that familiar nickname Viktor morphed into pure rage, his anger bubbling beneath his skin like lava in the earth. He'd already cried, his eyes were a testament to that; and now, by himself out here, thinking through everything and knowing that it had been a Russian skater that tripped Yuri, a Russian skater that had gotten away with a single bruise from the accident, made him ready to kill. Yakov had never opposed using underhanded methods to get his way. He was sly, ruthless, and one of the best coaches alive. He'd even made it clear he disapproved of Yuri, disapproved of Viktor's choices so far. So the idea that he had set this up, wasn't too farfetched. And if Viktor ever found out he did…well. Yakov wouldn't know what hit him.

Especially if..

He couldn't even finish his thought. All that mattered was that if Yakov had any sense left in his old man brain, he would turn and leave. He would catch the hint from his barely restrained fists, tight shoulders, and silence.

"Vitya, turn around and look at me."