Dance of the Red Death

By: Strange and Intoxicating -rsa-

Pairings: Viktor/Yuri; mentions of Viktor/OCs

NOTES: AIDS was considered the leading cause of death for figure skaters in the beginning of the epidemic from 1981-1994, before ARVs (anti-retrovirals) and the ART (anti-retroviral therapy) became available. It was one of the first sports that implemented AIDS education to its participants. Unfortunately, it did not reach many skaters in the beginning years. Many talented young men wasted away due to their illnesses. (And yes, there are sources, all of which you can find on the AO3 version of this story. I source everything.)

Fortunately, we now live in a world where more opportunities are available, along with treatments. This story is based in 2016, with current treatment of people living with HIV/AIDS in some parts of society that is still as backward as it was in 1981.

A full list of resources will be available in the endnotes on my AO3. It will be included in each chapter and will no doubt continue to grow as the story continues.

If you are under the age of 18, please follow the guidelines and do not read explicitly marked material.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

It was snowing that day; Viktor could remember the sound of the flakes splashing against the glass, ever the reminder of the passage of time. He listened to it like one would listen to a metronome. He wanted the sound to sync with his heart or his breaths, but it was difficult to make his heart stop trying to jump into his throat or for his breath to calm.

Family.

Fidelity.

Faith.

Those words... the doctor continued to repeated them on a loop, so many times that the words lost their meaning. It was difficult to understand their meaning after the fortieth time they were repeated, and so Viktor found himself simply nodding along to words he could not comprehend.

Family.

His family was gone, his mother having died when he was he was a child, his father followed not long after. Viktor assumed it was the heartbreak; never had he seen two people so in love.

He could remember the mornings in St. Petersburg, windows thrown open and a soft humming that seemed to carry through their small home. She would make blinis or syrniki on Saturday, when they were able to splurge just a little with some sweet fruit that would paint his fingers in shades of pink and blue. His mama would laugh and smile and touch his nose with a flour-covered finger and remind him to wash his hands.

Sometimes she would lean down and let their noses touch. Viktor remembered the kiss of her lashes against his cheek and the warm breath of sugar and jam. Then his papa would pick him up and twirl him in his big, strong arms, and mama would laugh until he did the same with her. He could remember the warmth of their hands and their skin and the sound of their heartbeats.

Viktor also remembered her cold hand and how still her chest was as he and his father washed her body and laid her in a white gown they made with cheap linen from the local shop. He bled across the white when the pin slipped, and watched as each drip mixed with his father's tears. His small hands could not hold the needle, slick with red.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

His papa never recovered, and Viktor hadn't, either. He hadn't even lasted the forty days of mourning, and Viktor remembered scrubbing his father's body clean until his fingers bled.

His coach, Yakov, was the closest thing to family, now... and Yakov would never accept this. He was an abomination, a shame upon the man.

Fidelity.

Viktor could have snorted. He loved the human form, the feeling of a lover pressed against him. The flush of skin as they pulled him taunt. The way a body would become slick with sweat and fluid. The way fingers would prod his insides and stretch him open. The feeling of a woman's breast against his cheek as he pushed inside. The harsh staccato of skin hitting skin. The heat that would build as Viktor came inside them, or they inside him.

Faith.

God was dead.

It was only a cough.

Viktor looked at the doctor who was impatiently tapping his pen against the clipboard and stared at the pen moving up and down. Up and down, bouncing in a way that should have been erotic. It once was a move Viktor had loved so dearly, riding a man until he came across their chests, loving the feeling of the pulses between his legs and the feeling of fluid filling him. It was warm and sweet and a filling of a void.

Viktor held back the urge to vomit.

"Are you a drug addict?"

Viktor shook his head. No, he never did more than drink liquor on his off time. Even then, he tried to avoid the smoke that seemed to cascade out of any bar. It was bad for his lungs and he wanted to be in perfect health for the competitions.

He wanted his swan song to be the PyeongChang 2018 Olympics, and then... then who knew.

"Are you a homosexual?"

Viktor shook his head. He knew better, by now. Admittance meant death.

"Then you were infected by a girlfriend."

Viktor looked at the doctor. "I guess."

If Viktor could have curled in upon himself and hidden, he would have.

"You guess?"

Viktor watched the pen stop its movement of up and down as the doctor wrote something down on his clipboard.

"I... I have had many lovers in many countries. Many women... I don't know all their names." Viktor looked down at his hands, watching his fingers contort into unknown shapes. It hurt when he bent his fingers back, far enough for the knuckle to crack, but it was a jolt that reminded him to look up at the doctor.

The doctor's stone face stared back. "You have HIV, which seems to have progressed into a case of AIDS. We have yet to check your T-Cell count, but you are presenting with symptoms of Pneumocystis Pneumonia which is an indicator. We will begin testing immediately to see how far along your disease is. I am Doctor Kamkin, and I will be your doctor until you die."

Not stone, no.

Ice.

It was like ice.

Not the cold comfort if the ice below his skates, the chill that the arena left in his bones when he finished his practice, when he had another ice medal pressed against his breast bone.

This was the ice of his mother's hand.

"You will no longer be indulging yourself in sex. If you infect another person, you will go to jail. Do you understand Article 122?"

Jail? Viktor sucked in a breath through his teeth and had to pull his hand in, raking his fingers shakily through his hair. "No," he whispered, his voice worse than his hands.

The doctor tapped his pen on the clipboard twice before pursing his lips. "Article 122 of Russian Federation's criminal code states that you are held liable for any transmission or exposure of HIV to another individual. You will need to sign this," the doctor pulled out a piece of paper and held it in front of Viktor, his fingertips at the furthest corner it could touch. "This is an affirmative declaration stating your understanding of your disease and the legal ramifications should you expose or transmit your disease to another."

Viktor didn't want to take the paper, didn't want to put his fingerprints to reality, to admit that his very blood, his body, his own passion was his downfall. He could hear his heartbeat and he wanted to rip it from his chest and hold it out to the good doctor. Would this sacrifice be enough to return to him to before? Could he have the last hour replaced with white static?

Could he go back to the moment before he walked into the doctor's office?

It was only a cough.

"Mr. Nikiforov, failure to follow these rules will land you a term of up to eight years in jail. Your physician contacted me as I have more experience with your disease than most within Russia-"

"I won't sign it." Viktor stood shakily and looked around the small office. He turned and turned, feeling the panic clawing at his throat. Where had he put his coat? Where was it?

The doctor did not stand, only put the paper on the small table next to him. "Mr. Nikiforov, that is not up for discussion. I have an obligation to the State, and you have admitted to sexual deviancy with a magnitude of women. You must attempt to establish contact with any partner you exposed in Russia, they must be tested immediately-"

But the blood, the sickening blood was in his head and Viktor could hear it like the drum of war, and he needed... he needed...

He needed air.

"Just-just stop." Viktor held up his hand, the hand full of little crescents dug into flesh where he had gripped himself tightly to stop the screams. "I need some air. Just... just give me that much."

The doctor nodded his head to the window. "Open it, then." He impassively glanced at the door. "I cannot legally allow you out of my office without a full diagnosis and declaration. Take your time."

Viktor reached for the window and spun open the latch so hard it hit the metal and dented it. He threw the window up and shoved his head outside, taking in deep gulping breaths as he felt the vomit burning up his throat. He was thankful the office was on the first floor and the snow had decided to grace itself with a near-end of season fall. It would cover his shame in no time.

He allowed himself to empty the contents of his stomach against the pure white snow, feeling like a monster was fighting its way up from his stomach. It wanted control, and Viktor wanted to give it away. He wanted to forget, to let the snow whipping against his cheeks to take him away.

He stood there, propped against the window until he was sure his tears had frozen and he could no longer stare down at the bile below him. Hands shaking, face slack, breath caught between his lungs, Viktor was done. He was done.

This was it.

This was how it ended.

He went numb.

The doctor continued on, handing him prescription after prescription, with words for drugs he couldn't pronounce. Something for his pneumonia. Several somethings for the taint in his blood, the monster hiding in every cell. Something for the symptoms caused by the others. Something for the diarrhea that hadn't ended in weeks, but he considered to be nothing but a case of extended food poisoning. Something even for the shaking, though Viktor couldn't be sure if it was a true symptom or not.

Nothing was prescribed for his shame.

Nor for his fear.

Viktor stared down at the little pieces of paper in its haphazard pile next to him, and the affidavit. Its ink was not a perfect black, but worn with time and edges. How many had the good doctor received from the Russian government? And how many had he handed out like the death sentence it was?

"Doctor Kamkin... how long?"

"Do you live?"

Viktor shook his head. "How long have I been sick?"

"Your last test was well over two years ago. You participated in the Sochi Olympics?"

Flashes of bodies, like a vision of heaven and hell and limbo. So many had been interested, and so many had been interesting. After his performance, all Viktor could remember was flesh and the smell of fresh snow and alcohol.

"Yes."

The doctor sighed. "Then you are not the first, nor the last."

Viktor could not understand the words, and he shook his head as if to clear the fuzz from between his ears. "What do you mean?"

The doctor slapped his hand against the document. "The Sochi Olympics brought more than gold, silver, and bronze. It brought more death to this country." He looked like he wanted to say more, but the good doctor held back.

"Sign the paper. Go home. Figure out your plans for the future."

Viktor looked again at the paper, at his punishment, and he wiped his hands on his pants until it burned. "How long?"

"We'll see how the medicine works."

"Can I skate?"

The doctor did not answer him for a moment, and Viktor rubbed his hand harder against his pants.

"We'll see how the medicine works."

So, with a flourish, Viktor signed his fate.

After, as he sat in his empty home with only Makkachin to keep him company, fighting against the never-ending shakes, Viktor allowed himself to weep. He wept for his mother, he wept for his father, he wept for his lovers, and deep down, he wept for the little boy with flour on his nose, wishing for butterfly kisses of eyelashes instead of the cold kiss of death.

He moved through the first days like the living dead. At first, the very idea of putting his skates on made the blood rush to his head and he couldn't handle so much as looking them. It could have been the medicine, it could have been the disease, it could have been his own failure.

He did not want to dwell on who had infected him-there were too many people, too many opportunities. When was he infected? How many bodies would he leave broken and tainted behind him?

How many people had he condemned to death?

Viktor tried to ignore the screaming in his head. It was too late, he was too late.

If Sochi were the beginning of this nightmare, as the doctor assumed, then Viktor could think of... wet mouths and hungry cocks and exploring hands reaching out and grabbing him, pulling him into the darkness. He couldn't even touch himself without feeling repulsed, like his skin was already dissected and diseased, falling from his muscle and bones. Just at the Olympics itself there were dozens, parties that went on forever fueled with music and the heady scent of sex that lingered across the village.

In his mind he could see the bowls and bowls of condoms left unused, bottles of tequila rushing through their veins.

How many?

How many?

Yakov showed up at his apartment some time between day ten and day fifteen, though he could not be sure of exactly when. The doctor told him the pneumonia should have kept him in the hospital, but the very last thing he wanted was the press to find out and to start digging. So, Viktor holed up on his own, drinking the dregs of soup from the bottom of the can, wishing for his mother to wake him with Solyanka and a kiss to the forehead instead of the maid who stopped by twice a day to bring him more soup and to walk Makkachin.

His coach stood at his front door, hitting his fist against the wood until the skater crawled across the floor and to the door, fumbling with the locks. Poor Makkachin rubbed his nose against Viktor's face, and that was enough to get him to at least wobble to his feet.

"You ungrateful little shit! Open this fucking door or I will break it down!"

Viktor rubbed at his face when cold nose rested just before and hit his hand against the doorknob enough to let it crack open. Yakov was able to do the rest, hitting the door with enough force to smash the handle right into Viktor's extended hand.

He knew it was bleeding before he saw the red droplets and his coach standing in front of him with fury written across his face like a mask.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Red death.

Viktor let his hand drop to his side, ignoring the stinging pain from where the metal slashed through his skin. He could not look down, he could not look at the red against the white of his throw carpet.

"I'm sick. Please go."

Yakov saw something, and Viktor wondered if he looked as dead as he felt. The anger drained from his face, and it was the same man who took his hand as a small child, bleeding from scrubbing off his skin after wrapping his dead father in linen... he was all by himself.

He was always by himself.

"Viktor. How sick? Is it... is it cancer?" Yakov was dressed in his suit, ridiculous hat and blue scarf pulled tight against his throat, and Viktor could almost pretend like the last ten days or fifteen days, or however long he hid inside his apartment with the lights off and the curtains drawn, never happened. He could just let out a lazy smile and tell his coach the same thing he repeated like a mantra as he lay curled up on the floor in his bathroom coughing blood-tinged green phlegm from his lungs.

It was only a cough.

Viktor looked at Yakov's nose, the way it reminded him of a bird. It was one of his jokes as a small boy, and Yakov never once commented against it, even though he was old enough to know better now.

"Dedushka..." Viktor felt the vestiges of tears prickling at the back of his eyes and he wanted to wipe his face, but doing so would show his open, bloody hand to Yakov. Instead, he turned from the door and trekked across the apartment and toward the kitchen, hitting the light with the palm of his other hand.

He looked at the dozen pill bottles lined up across the counter and thought of knocking them over. Yet, he knew that he could only hide this for so long. Yakov was the only thing of his family, he couldn't hide it from him.

"It isn't cancer. You can kill cancer." Viktor palmed the faucet and set the water on its hottest setting, resting his hand under the stream. He wanted to hiss as the steaming water scalded his bleeding gash, but he bit it back.

Yakov followed him into the kitchen, and he saw from the corner of his eye how Makkachin climbed back onto the blue couch where they stayed, unmoving, for the last two weeks. He was still a young thing, only three years old. What would happen to Makkachin when he died?

"Make sure that Yuri gets him."

"What are you talking about, Viktor?"

Viktor turned to look at his coach through the steam. He could see the man struggling to read the labels on the pill bottles. He still could not quite decipher the names in their entirety, instead going by the color coding. Each pill had their purpose, and each pill made it more like a slow form of suicide.

Efavirenz. Tenofovir. Disoproxil Fumarate. Emtricitabine.

"I need you to make sure that Yuri takes care of Makkachin. He doesn't like flying, but if you give him the blue toy he can handle it fine. He prefers soft food to dry food, and will only take a bath if you get in with him. Do you think Yuri will be able to do that? Sure, Yuri can be wild and unpredictable, but he is young and he won't make the same mistakes I have."

Yes, Yuri would never make the same mistakes. Watching his idol rot would be enough to scare the boy into never making the same decisions.

"I thought I was immortal. I'm not."

Viktor leaned up and turned the hot water off and stared down at his hand, red from the heat.

"Viktor, what is it?"

He wanted to laugh, but his body wracked with coughs. "It's just a cough... It's only a cough."

"Bullshit, Viktor. You've been up here hiding for two whole weeks. You're talking of death, you're even talking about giving away Makkachin. There isn't a thing on this planet you love more than that dog and skating. You haven't been to the rink in fourteen days and you have the ISU Championships in Tokyo in a month. So? What is it?" Viktor turned to look at the older man who was staring at a pill bottle in his raised hand. "You don't get to lie to me. Not about this."

"Yakov... I can't. This isn't something we can fix. This is something I cannot undo."

Viktor grabbed the towel on the kitchen counter and wrapped it around his hand, though he imagined the wound would clot on its own soon enough. He looked around the kitchen briefly before seeing the bottle of bleach, and with quick sprays covered the entirety of his sink, taking care to thoroughly drown the catch.

He pushed past Yakov and back into the living room. Getting onto his knees, Viktor sat himself on his heels in front of the door, spraying the metal with bleach. With precise motions he used the cloth wrapped around his hand to wipe away any possible trace of blood he could have left on the handle, spraying again and again until the bleach bled down and began to burn at his skin.

"Viktor, I have taken care of you for twenty years. You are like my own son. Just tell me what it-"

"I have AIDS."

Viktor continued to scrub at the droplets of blood that littered the floor.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

His breath was caught in his lungs, and this was not Viktor Nikiforov, this was a pale imitation, a piss poor, cheap sham.

"Did that answer your question, Yakov? Was that what you wanted to hear?" Viktor felt his voice raising until Makkachin was whining and pawing at the wood floor. "Did I fail you here, too?"

Viktor closed his eyes and waited for the Yakov to smack him against the back of his head, to scream, to throw something at him, to call him a useless fuck like he had a thousand times before.

Silence.

The silence was worse.

"I do not want to be in white. Don't let them put me in white."

"Vitya..." Viktor felt the hand against his shoulder, and he fell backwards, toppling over and against Yakov.

This happened before, too. The priest anointing his father's head in oil, the cloth Viktor buried his nose into smelling of decaying meat, the incense cloying. Yakov pulled him back then, too.

He felt the arms wrap around him and Viktor wanted to fight it, because he was stronger than this. He needed to get his affairs in order. He needed to pull himself up off the ground. He needed his skates.

"Vitya, Vitya," the old man croaked and Viktor laid his head against his coach's shoulder. "You did not fail me. You have never failed me. It is I who failed you."

Viktor let himself lay there, not knowing the passage of time. His face was warm but his tear ducts had given up days ago, so he could only sit with his cough and hyperventilate and feel the twinge of a tear or two escape from the corners of his lids.

He listened to Yakov's heartbeat, so strong for a man of seventy.

Viktor would never live to see seventy.

He would be lucky if he made it to thirty.

By the time he was able to get to his feet, the bleach-covered towel wrapped around his hand was dry, and the skin below was irritated and leaking. Viktor tried to wrap the cut with the towel again, but Yakov smacked his good hand away.

"Stupid boy," he grunted as he stretched out his shoulders and took off his hat, throwing it on the couch. "Sit, sit. I'll go get the bandages from the bathroom."

Viktor tried to protest, but the man growled. "I said sit your ass down on the couch. Making me repeat myself, you pain in the ass. Go, now."

So, he did as he was told. He waged war against Yakov a thousand times as a little boy, had caused so much trouble and heartache; the least he could do was obey now that it was too late.

Makkachin jumped into the couch next to him and yipped. Poor Makkachin, with such an irresponsible human. Viktor reached out with his good hand and ran it through the soft fur.

The light above flickered on and Viktor blinked twice, then three times to regain his sight. There was a little black shadow in his left eye for a moment, like a gnat. Yet as soon as Viktor noticed it, it was gone. He could see Yakov and an army of bandages, creams, and bottles marching towards him with grim determination, mouth drawn in a straight line.

"We're going to America," Yakov commented as he pushed a pillow off the footrest and squatted down next to Viktor. He piled the toiletries in the edge of the couch and put out his hand, the same way he had when Viktor was a little boy.

"But, there's blood."

Yakov shook his hand harder. "Vitya, I am a seventy year old man. I lived through the Soviet-Afghan War. I watched bombs rip off limbs and heads. I helped box up what was left to send back to the Motherland." Viktor felt his stomach churn. "Your blood brings me no fear."

Viktor nodded and placed his hand in the gnarled palm in front of him. Yakov's hands stood as testament of a hard life lived; the bones were protruding under a sliver of skin and blue veins. The longer he stared the more it reminded him of a tree, long lived and forever prospering, sending out its roots, allowing the birds to carry away its seeds and fruit to spread further and wider.

"Your mama and papa would be proud of you."

Viktor wanted to comment, but it was rare that Yakov spoke so candidly of his parents. In fact, Viktor could only remember one conversation, on a spring day where the flowers blossomed too early and died off before they had a chance to show their full glory. He could barely remember the words, but he remembered the flowers.

"They were my best, before you. Your mama wanted you more than she wanted skating, and your papa wanted nothing but her. She was the reason he wanted to skate in the first place. Foolish Vladimir. Always chasing Katya like a lovesick schoolboy." Yakov's voice was soft like the fresh snow. "But your papa was like you. He had too much love, loved too many people... loved too many men."

Viktor tried to pull his hand away, but Yakov tightened his grip around his wrist.

"Vitya, no. I know, I have always known. I knew for certain since you were fifteen and found you after your Junior Championship with your head between Dmitri Sokolov's legs."

When Viktor stopped pulling his hand away, Yakov relaxed and continued to gently wipe at the irritated flesh. "Thought you hid it from me? I've been wiping the snot from your nose since you were still in diapers." But his words were not laced with vitriol, and Viktor closed his eyes to block the light.

"Tell me more."

"About your mama and your papa, vnuk?" Yakov stopped for a moment, but now he could feel a soft bandage making its way around his hand, clasping it in tightness and warmth. "Not much to say. The miracle drugs only came later after they were gone. You were cleared and the doctor tested you every time we went. You were lucky, he said. Your father must have gotten sick after you were born."

Yakov pat his hand when he was done wrapping it, and Viktor blinked his eyes open.

"I didn't tell you, I didn't want you to worry. I thought you would be careful... I should have told you. " Yakov took a breath in from his nose and exhaled from his mouth. "Now, get your things. We're going to America."

It was the second time the man said it, but it still did not make sense. "But you hate America?" he questioned as his coached pulled out his cell phone and began to furiously dial in a number. "You call them a bunch of-"

Yakov's hand smacked against his head and Viktor yelped, though he was careful not to hit the older man with his newly bandaged hand.

"Their doctors are better and I trust them with this more. The Motherland is... you know how they can be. We fly tonight, I'll get tickets now. Your English is better than mine, but I have someone who owes me favors. You'll do the talking."

"Dedushka... thank you."

Yakov nodded his head stiffly. "You haven't called me that since you were a boy."

Viktor held his hand to his chest and pat Makkachin one last time. "I should say it more often."

His coach snorted. "Don't. It makes me feel old."

Viktor smiled, for the first time in weeks, and it felt like a little sliver of himself returned.

The first time he put on his skates was in New York. Viktor sat on the bench near the rink, staring at the dozens of people going round and round in circles, in a never-ending loop. His skates were shitty rentals, something he couldn't remember having ever done in the entirety of his life. If Yakov knew, he was sure that his coach would have keeled over, dead. He could imagine that Yakov would scream about foot fungus or busted laces that would lead to broken ankles.

But he needed this, he needed to skate.

The doctors in New York were different. It wasn't the ice of a Russian winter, it was the soft curl of the beginning of spring.

She was kind.

Doctor Marks worried more for the pneumonia, assigning another course of antibiotics. The phlegm was a good sign, she said as she handed him a box of tissues. "It means that your body is beginning to break it up. You should be able to breathe regularly in another week or so... Viktor, it means you can fight this."

She was an optimist.

Viktor pulled his ankle to rest on his knee and ran his fingernail against the skate, smiling slightly at every bump and chip. They weren't great, but they would do.

He would survive with them, for now.

Viktor took care when pulling down his skate, checking the other blade with the same care he would with his John Wilsons. This one was a little more worn, but it was his left foot; he knew he could make sure to put less pressure on that skate.

It wasn't as though he would be doing any jumps or moves. He just needed to glide across the ice, to feel like himself for just a little while.

Viktor received a few glances, but chose not to give it any more attention than necessary. If anyone caught some pictures of the famous Viktor Nikiforov in New York in February, it wouldn't matter. He was there on what could be seen, technically, as a courtesy to Yakov's friend who owed him a few favors. The Sky Rink was the most popular indoor rink in New York; a fair number of blossoming skaters used it as their home rink. It wouldn't be unheard of for someone like Viktor to stop by to do a little practice, or to the paranoid eye, try to scout for fresh meat.

Viktor couldn't muster the energy to even pretend like he was paying attention to the others. All he cared about was that he could join in on their infinite loop.

His hand shook as he gripped the side of the rink and pulled himself up. He put his skate to the ice and with muscles he hadn't used in weeks, pushed off.

His first love was the ice. It was his cradle and would be his grave.

"You can continue to skate, there is no reason you couldn't, as long as you take your medicines... but I would recommend taking this season off." Doctor Marks looked to Viktor, who stopped translating into Russian at that point. She reached over from her desk and pressed a few pamphlets in front of him and Yakov. "Your pneumonia did some damage to your lungs, and they need time to heal. If you rush, it could permanently lead to irreversible damage... and, unfortunately, transplants on HIV+ patients is still in its infancy. It is better to rest."

Rest.

Viktor didn't know the meaning of rest.

"Doctor Kamkin said it was advanced..."

Doctor Marks steepled her fingers in front of her, and leaned back against her chair. The office was warmer than the last, with little flashes of color throughout the room, but underneath was the antiseptic smell Viktor knew as distinctively doctor. "Your doctor is correct. It is quite advanced, but with the current drugs on market and a regimen of strict diet and moderate exercise..."

Viktor shook his head. "No. He... there was talk about not knowing how long..." he didn't want to say it out loud, to admit it to the doctor.

"Viktor, you have yet to respond to the current cocktail, but you haven't been on the medication for a full month yet. We need to give this time; your body is not only fighting the infection in your lungs, but it is fighting the virus, too. You need to rest, take care of your body, and allow the drugs to do their job. Has your stomach been acting up since arriving?"

Viktor knew better than to lie to his doctor. "I got sick on the plane, but it was a little better." Perhaps it was changing his diet from soup to real food that made his stomach a little stronger. Maybe it was the knowledge that there could be hope, even the slightest of glimmers.

"That's good. I do recommend that we do an examination."

Viktor took in a deep breath of cold, crisp air and felt the rush as he passed by the other skaters. Even on the rental heels, with sloppy posture and broken lungs, he could feel life in his body. The air stung, but it was a sting of familiarity that made his eyes tear up, not the metallic smell of steel meeting ice.

This was his only escape. This was what kept him from falling. His love, his passion-

The same love and passion led him to this route.

And he fell.

His pick must have gotten caught on the ice for his free left leg, because he was tumbling forward and onto the ice, feeling his knees and hands smash into the ice with no protection but the thin gloves and the legs of his pants.

It hurt more than he remembered from when he was a child.

He hadn't wiped out from anything other than a quad in... it... it must have been years.

There was a tightness in his chest, and Viktor coughed into his glove, feeling the slime on his tongue hitting the back of his teeth.

"This may be cold. Take in a deep breath, try to relax your muscles. I know this is uncomfortable, but it will be over soon."

The paper dressing rubbed at his thighs as he spread a little wider, feeling cold jelly at his entrance. He involuntarily squeezed his muscles and Doctor Marks stopped.

"Does it hurt?"

Viktor nodded before realizing the doctor could not see his face, and managed to exhale out a "Yes."

There was nothing warm or passionate about the doctor's fingers; this was as clinical as the smell of her office and the bite of paper to his legs. Every twitch was only exacerbated by the sounds of crinkling.

"I wish there were another way to get this sample, but this is the only way." It was the first time he had ever had a conversation with another person so intimately without the promise of orgasm, and Viktor clenched his jaw as he felt her spread her fingers wide and something else prodded him. "It's a swab; I am going to take a few samples so we don't have to do this again. Take a deep breath, Viktor. It will be over soon."

Over soon. It wouldn't be over soon.

Or, more terrifyingly, it could...

Drip. Drip. Drip.

When the coughing stopped, Viktor reached up and cupped his nose, feeling the warm blood dribbling down into his mouth and across his jaw, leaking into the lip of his sweater. It was like an army of invading ants decided to rush out instead, attacking and biting, hissing and spitting. Oh, god.

It wouldn't stop.

Someone tried to grab his shoulder, but he flung out his bandaged hand to ward them off. He was dangerous. His blood was a biohazard.

He was a ticking time bomb.

"Are you okay?"

"-'m fine," Viktor managed to reply through the mouth of blood. He could see the drops littering the ice and he squabbled back, wanting to push the growing crowd away.

His blood should be black like rot. It would be easy to distinguish the living from the dead, then. His cum could be green like poison.

"Here, let me get you a towel or something." He was handsome, the way Viktor liked them. His hair was russet, feathering his face like a shroud. He had a pensive, worried expression and an open, earnest smile. Green eyes were wide, with a hint of what Viktor remembered from before, when he was still himself. His teeth were like pearls, mouth like Venus flytrap waiting for an unsuspecting victim.

"No."

Viktor watched the easy smile turn to a frown.

"But you're bleeding. Let me go get my coach, we have some ice packs..."

His throat was long. Slender. Beautiful. Graceful. He held himself like he was one with his skates, and even through the blood and the pain, the traitorous part of Viktor wondered what he would look like with his cock down the other man's throat.

"Stop..." Viktor pushed himself up off the ice, keeping his hand over his face. Humiliation boiled his traitorous blood, and this was a mistake. He should never have come.

Oh, irony.

"Take my hand."

The russet-haired man reached out with sinfully long fingers and he could see them, feel them inside of him. He could remember the feeling of fingers pulling back and forth, curling inside of him, bucking to his clamping muscles.

Something was squiggling inside of him.

"What do you mean, 'Parasites?' Like a bug?"

"It's an infection that is very common for men who have sex with men." Doctor Marks was frank in her explanation, as though it were nothing but a gnat in his eyesight. "You probably received it during sexual intercourse or anilingus. It's very easy to treat, though I will have to tell you that the chance of reinfection is incredibly high if you continue with unsafe sexual behavior."

Viktor clamped his legs shut tight and shuddered as he ran his hand over his stomach.

"They aren't visible, Viktor. You can't see it. It's like the stomach flu."

But Viktor could feel something now, running its sluggish pace through his insides. Every last part of his body... he would never escape them.

"I'll prescribe Nitazoxanide for the infection; it should also help explain why your lung x-rays were a little different than typical PCP pneumonia patients." She gave him a warm smile, so different than the look of ice Kamkin drowned him in. Yet, when Doctor Marks reached out to touch his shoulder-

Smack.

"I said no. Let me be." The blood made his words sound distorted and the other man looked offended, but Viktor did not care. He could feel some of his hair mixing with the blood, pulling webs over his cheeks when he ran the back of his glove across his face.

He shakily looked at the growing audience, one or two of the skaters attempting to discretely snap pictures, and he would never hear the end of it. Oh, he could already see the articles writing themselves. He was never one for gossip, and though he tended to veer away from the trashy magazines, Yuri would no doubt throw a fit about it. He drank in the drama like Viktor drank in bodies.

His face flushed and he looked at the droplets of blood littering the ice, and he wanted to yell for the others to stay away from the black ooze, yet even then he knew it would be the end f him. He would lose not just his body, but his life.

They could take away his championships. They could take away his endorsements. They could lock him in prison where he would not be given the drugs that both doctors told him were the differences between life and death.

They could also wrap a noose around his neck and drag him through the streets of Moscow.

The crime of his love came with the penalty of death.

So, Viktor slunk out of the rink and into the locker room. After cleaning the blood, throwing the gloves into the trash after double bagging it like the biohazard it was, he yanked off his skates and stared at them. He pulled his laces right out of the boots, two of the studs on the left coming loose. The blade was completely shot, and he could see now that the steel had cracked straight down.

Worthless.

"I'm sorry, that was terribly presumptive of me." The doctor frowned and instead set her hand to her side. "I understand, this is all very difficult to you. But this does not have to be the end. You can still be yourself. Find something to live for, and you'll see."

Optimism was for fools.

The ISU World Figure Skating Championships took its toll on Viktor. He survived the tournament through sheer willpower, playing the face of what he knew the others expected of him. He blew kisses to the fans, posed with the other skaters, didn't cringe away when one of the female reporters asked if a one-on-one interview would be possible as she slid her hand against his thigh. He winked and told her his schedule was a little full, all the while he curled back his toes until they went numb.

He smiled for the cameras and then hid in the bathroom, the medication from Doctor Marks and Kamkin leaving him to hide the bruises across his body and his purple nails.

He wasn't getting enough oxygen.

Doctor Marks told him it was a side effect of the drugs and his shitty lungs. Coupled with the coughing he fought against the entire trip, it was no small wonder that when he arrived home to Makkachin's exuberant bark, his legs fell out from under him and he laid there on his floor. How long he spent staring at the little spots where he had bleached the color straight from the wood he didn't know, but Makkachin laid there with him, curled next to him like a security blanket.

He slept for almost two days, only waking to the alarms set for his medication and to piss. He tried eating a stiff granola bar that must have been the relic from the fall of communism, but it was as hard going down as it was coming back up. Viktor was pretty sure his back molar was also chipped now, which was just what he needed.

They asked him about his future plans, and when he watched the the YouTube video over and over again, he could see the exact moment where his mask cracked.

14:27. It was just a second, just a glimpse, but Viktor spent an hour clicking the little slide to that second. He could see it, in the way his face turned to ice.

Some of his fans had, too.

Pictures of his fall ended up on Instagram and tumblr, where the entire community went over every little mark on his face, every breath, every smile in every interview he had done for two years.

Viktor was sure if he followed the breadcrumbs like his fans, he would be able to nail down the exact day he was infected.

He hoped they wouldn't.

There were a lot of wild speculations; some assumed that the pressure was finally getting to him. He hit what most considered his peak and now were waiting for the announcement of his retirement. Any day now, some of the posters said. Get ready, when he announces it we need to hold ourselves together.

A group of his followers were convinced that he had cancer, and Viktor didn't look at the pictures, there. He could see the ghost in his eyes better than the pictures. He had a never-ending portrait in the mirror.

One girl wrote a rather convincing theory with well over a thousand likes stating Viktor was secretly abducted by aliens and that the new Viktor wearing his skin was planning on using ice skating to conquer the world. He almost considered making a tumblr to give it a like of his own.

Some thought it was a lover. Pictures of him with a medley of women showed up, each one underlined with a question: Is he married? Who did he marry? Who should he marry? Is there a baby? Oooooh, they should name it Alexei or Adelina! No, they should name it Vladimir or Katya as a memorial to Viktor's parents!

The pictures and names went on and on...

(A fair number with men were mixed in, but those were all labeled as speculation. The Russian fans jumped on anyone who brought it up; they believed it too, but knew what a sensationalized media meltdown would occur if there was too much attention paid to it.)

The pictures helped Viktor put names to faces. He wasn't a bad man, or so he thought, but he loved love, or at the impression it gave to him in the moments between the dawn. Most lasted a few weeks, some lasting the time between the sun dipping and rising in the sky.

Each time he saw a face he added their name to his anonymous email address and sent the message: Get tested. He could not look them in the eye and tell them their one night of lust would curse them.

There were only two that lasted longer, and Viktor contacted both on his own.

Imani was his dark goddess. Her skin was ebony silk, her hair a torrent of God's fury, her round thighs a sight that Viktor worshipped on his knees for. She was his muse for his second Grand Prix, the music she wrote moving the audience to tears. It had moved him to tears too, and she had licked them away with a tongue that would have cast even the most loyal of angels out of heaven. Imani was a hurricane that ran through his life with blazes of passion and anger and lust, leaving delicious devastation in its wake.

It was the fuel he needed for his Sochi victory.

She met him for coffee in Tokyo, two days before his performance. Her newest catch was a twenty-something pretty boy with a guitar who thought he would rule the world. Viktor wasn't impressed, but he knew it would only last until Imani got bored and found a new toy.

They sat in the small cafe, a table the only thing between them, and he raised the curtain.

He didn't say he was sick, but he knew she knew. It was easier to not say the words, because words were confirmation and admitting it to himself was hard enough.

She knew that, too.

"I got tested about three months ago. It was negative. Oh, Viktor." She put her hand out on the table, and Viktor stared at her soft skin in the March light. His own hand inched up and he rested their knuckles against one another.

It was Sochi, then. The good doctor was right.

Mikael was was after Sochi.

It was April before he managed to make the call and have it go through; Mikael's schedule was always busy with day after day of practice, the never-ending photo-ops and advertisements, and the games. The only reason the call went through was because Viktor made sure to do it on a national holiday where there were no games scheduled for at least a week.

"Please don't hang up on me, Mikael."

Viktor stared at his kitchen counter, rocking back and forth in the seat. He had his medicine bottles lined up again, and now he was able to pronounce each one. It was difficult for him to understand their purpose, but it would take time. Doctor Marks continued to supply him with the drugs he needed to take, but it was far less than what he was originally prescribed. Now, instead of taking twelve pills, he only needed to take eight. That, along with the medicine to clear out the parasites (Viktor shook when he thought about it, and he had to push it away, the way it was crawling inside of him, inside of him, through him...) alleviated the worst of the stomach pain and never-ending runs to the bathroom.

It was an improvement.

He was trying.

"I told you not to call me, Viktor." Mikael's voice was smooth with dulcet undertones, and Viktor wanted to melt into his voice and allow the other man to glue the pieces back together. But the tone was too harsh, too angry. It was like breaking glass and shoving the shards through his feet.

"I know, I know, but please listen to me."

Viktor could see the white linen and his sore hands, and his voice was childish and pleading for papa to wake. He could feel his mother's cold hand around his throat, her eyelashes razors against his soft flesh as he ripped at white, unending white.

"Mikael, please. It'll just take a second-"

"Love, who is that?"

Viktor put his hand over the receiver and allowed the air from the punch to his gut escape. It sounded more like Makkachin's whimper than a sound a human could make. He tried to laugh, but what came out was closer to a sob.

"It's one of the guys. Wants to talk about practice tomorrow."

One of the guys... Viktor couldn't kick a football if he tried.

The woman hummed and Viktor tried to think of what she looked like. He saw the wedding pictures in a spread a few years ago, but he blocked out her face from his memory the best he could. Blonde, round face, small nose... he couldn't remember. He didn't care to try, either.

"What do you want-"

"Can you meet me? I know you have a game in Moscow next week. I need to see you."

A snort, then silence. "Viktor," Mikael's voice went low, and Viktor could see his carefree smile in his mind's eye. He liked to remember Mikael that way. "It's over. Lose my number."

"Wait- I don't want to get involved in your family, that isn't what this is-"

But the line went dead.

Viktor swore as he smashed his cell phone down on the table, screaming out a string of fury in Russian. He knocked over a glass of water and didn't care as it spilled over the edge and onto him. He let his elbows rest in the puddle, the cold water sending a shock through his skin.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Makkachin was getting used to sitting with him on the couch, acting as a buffer from the real world. This time it was only three days he shut himself inside, though he made sure to take Makkachin for a short walk every twelve hours on the dot. It was better to focus on someone needing him, that someone was dependent upon him. Makkachin never hung up on him. He didn't cheat on his wife, either. And certainly, Makkachin never promised to stay and abandoned him at the first whisper of tabloid controversy.

It was on the third day his phone blew up with messages, and at first Viktor ignored it. It was probably Yakov, being a pain in the ass again about not showing up to practice again. But then more and more flooded his phone, and he had to wrap his arms tightly around his poodle for strength as he pulled his phone over with one finger against the screen.

Had someone connected the pieces? Who had talked?

How much did they know?

But it wasn't that.

He was color. He was music.

He was life.

It was "Stay Close to Me," the way it was meant to be. This Japanese boy danced with the passion in his bones, like he and the music were one. It was the same desperation that Viktor designed the piece to have... It was hard to look at someone else perform a piece that was meant for Mikael, but he could not look away.

His technique and jumps were... good. His quads were clean, though later when Viktor watched he could see the tension on his free leg during his flip. Once upon a time, he did the same thing. It was the instep, just a little less pressure...

But the first time, that was not what he watched.

The video didn't do well with wide shots, but on occasion there would be a close-up on the his face, and it looked incredibly familiar to him.

Was he a lover?

Viktor shook his head and stared down at the phone, wracking his mind. He was always better with faces than names... A Japanese boy...

The boy from the 2014-2015 Grand Prix in Barcelona.

The one who ignored him.

Viktor remembered him. It was a shock-he never met a skater who outright refused a photo. He could see the way the man looked at him, eyes hungry for something, though he wasn't sure it it were lust or something else, something more mercurial.

But now, seeing the video of this boy, no-this man bleeding himself onto the rink, Viktor understood.

Viktor stared at the video and hit the replay button in the left corner of the screen, watching the video through. He clicked it again. And again. And again.

Find something to live for.

Find something to live for.

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