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It was bad enough when Yuuri couldn’t land his jumps.
When he had these days when he just kept falling and falling, kept eating ice in front of his idol, in front of Victor, who was now so much more than just his idol.
Those days were painful, frustrating and humiliating.
But they were nothing compared to this day, when he couldn’t even get down one decent spin, not one clean step sequence.
These were supposed to be the things that he was good at—allegedly—and yet he could feel how clumsy his every movement was, how he travelled in his spins, his free leg sloppy, how his turns were too weak, how he couldn’t even keep his damn edges straight.
How was he supposed to make it onto the podium at the Grand Prix Final like this, let alone win gold?
How was he supposed to deliver a final performance worthy of Victor?
How was he supposed to prove that the time Victor spent off the ice wasn’t wasted?
No, Yuuri thought as he pulled out of another dismal spin, almost comically slow, the numbers didn’t lie. He hardly deserved to be in the Final, had made it in only on a technicality. And he was proving now just how undeserved it was, by wasting more of Victor’s precious time with his absolutely abysmal performance in practice.
He was useless.
Every time he pulled out from a spin or slid to a stop after another botched step sequence, he expected to hear Victor snap at him, to finally throw in the towel and declare that Yuuri wasn’t worth his time.
Victor had already forbidden him from running jumps hours ago. It couldn’t be long now before Victor gave up entirely.
Yuuri could already hear the words playing on repeat in his mind.
I can’t work with you. I can’t help you. You are beyond hope. I’m going back to Russia. What did I ever see in you?
Kissing you was a mistake.
Yuuri tried to shut these thoughts down, but they were too loud, too loud, rattling around in his mind like shards of glass in a paper bag, tearing, slicing.
Victor remained perfectly calm in his criticisms—not exactly gentle, Victor never was when it came to coaching, but not any harsher than usual. Just his crisp, analytical commentary on Yuuri’s mistakes, passed along with firm suggestions on how to improve.
None of them were helping Yuuri in any way.
He tried to take them to heart, tried to incorporate them into his moves, but he could barely internalise the words, could barely conceptualise what Victor was trying to tell him. His mind was too full, too full, too full, too crowded with burning fear and helpless frustration.
When Victor called him back to the boards after a particularly clumsy step sequence, Yuuri knew exactly what was coming, before Victor could even open his mouth.
“Maybe we better call it a day, huh?”
The words made hot shame rise up in Yuuri’s throat and bloom behind his eyes as he clenched his fists at his sides.
“I can keep going”, he pressed out between gritted teeth, “I can get it right.”
Victor shook his head.
“That’s alright. You’ve done plenty today. We can do some stretches, maybe some off-ice conditioning later.”
Victor’s voice was gentle but definite. Yuuri didn’t say anything else, but stepping off the ice tasted like defeat.
He could feel Victor’s eyes on him as he handed Yuuri his skate guards and gently held on to his elbow as he put them on.
“What’s on your mind, lyubov moya? Talk to me”, Victor said, and his voice was so soft, a gentle note of worry lilting in its dips, and Yuuri hated himself.
Victor was already so endlessly patient with him, always drawing on this seemingly bottomless well of kindness, and now Yuuri had gone and made him worry, and Victor deserved so much better.
Yuuri took a breath to say something, any kind of reassuring words that he might be able to think of to dispel Victor’s concern, but they stuck in his throat, a hard, hot lump, and before he could even think to turn away, they spilled out over his cheeks as burning, salty tears, choking him.
Feeling the heat of shame rising into his cheeks, he curled in on himself, tucking his head between his shoulders in a vain attempt at hiding his tears from Victor.
"Oh, Yuuri!" Immediately Victor's hands were on his shoulders, warm and firm and Yuuri couldn't quite make himself pull away but he hunched further. He didn't deserve this kindness.
"Yuuri, sweetheart, what's wrong? Did something happen? Are you hurt?"
Yuuri could only shake his head. Even if his chest wasn't choked with hitching sobs, he wouldn't have had the words to explain that nothing had happened, but everything was wrong.
Gasping for breaths that wouldn't come, Yuuri curled his fist into the fabric of his training shirt, pulling away it from his skin like it would do anything to relieve the choking pressure on his chest.
"I'm sorry", was all he could press out between sobs, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"I don't understand, Yuuri", Victor whispered gently, "what are you apologising for?"
Yuuri shook his head again. "I'm sorry. I'm—useless", the word fell out of his mouth with another sob, and then it was like a dam had broken. "I'm so useless, I'm sorry I can't do anything right. I can't do any of the things you're trying to teach me, I'm the worst student ever. You're trying so hard and I'm just wasting your time, I'm the worst—"
"Yuuri, no, please don't—", Victor tried to cut in, but Yuuri barely heard him, couldn't stop his mouth running away with him.
"I'm a loser and I'll always stay a loser, I'm sorry I made you waste half your season on me, you deserve so much better and I know I'm just not good enough, I'm too sloppy and too slow and like a child I can't even keep my edges clean, god, I—"
"Yuuri, stop!", Victor interrupted him again, sharper this time, and Yuuri stopped, but only long enough to draw in a shaky breath before he continued his rant, tears still spilling freely over his cheeks.
"I'm just a burden on you and on my family and you shouldn't be obligated to stay here with me because I'll just ruin everything. Yurio was right, I'm nothing but a useless pig who should have just retired already—"
Yuuri felt himself shifted suddenly as Victor pulled him in, pulled him against his chest, his arms wrapping firmly around Yuuri's shoulders, one hand coming to rest gently at the back of his head.
The kindness of it made something in Yuuri tear open, and his sobs shook him even harder, if such a thing was possible, even as his hand shifted from where it was clutching his own shirt to burying itself in Victor's coat, warm and soft and smelling so familiar.
"And now I'm making you comfort me, even though I should be apologising to you", he bit into Victor's chest, words so muffled he wasn't sure if Victor could even hear them, "When you'd have every right to be angry at me and send me away and never want to see me again."
Victor's arms just tightened around him, and Yuuri thought he could feel them shaking, but Victor kept silent as he went on and on, burning all his self-hatred into the wool of Victor's coat, one thought after the next after the next after the next.
Until finally, finally, his head was starting to feel blessedly empty—and still Victor's hold around him never wavered for a second.