Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8898658.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Yuri!!!_on_Ice_(Anime)
  Character:
      Victor_Nikiforov
  Additional Tags:
      Angst, child_molestation, dead_mother_-_Freeform, Terrible_Father, save
      victor, Yakov_is_the_best, Original_Character_-_Freeform, but_a_terrible
      one, Victor_is_10-13, not_extremely_explicit_but_rated_just_in_case
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-12-18 Words: 3536
****** Dried Up ******
by Ludwigsgirl97
Summary
     Victor's mother dies, and his father kicks him out. His first coach,
     Dominik, teaches him what "love" is. Yakov saves him with actual
     affection
     Or
     Victor is non-explicitly raped by his first coach, and explains why
     he loves Yakov so much
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Victor was five years old when he first touched the ice. There wasn’t room for
anything fancy, and he still waddled when he walked, so it wasn’t like he was
doing quads or anything, but he felt so at home as soon as the sound of blades
over ice hit his young ears. There was nothing special about him at all. His
father was a middle level businessmen. They made a living. His mother was too
sick to work, her body slowly killing itself as the cells ceased to be familiar
to each other. Breast cancer, he would learn later. But it was normal to him.
She’d been dying as long as he’d been alive.
He would go to the rink as much as he could after that. He grew to know the
manager,Dominik, over the next three years. He learned to skate better too,
learning how to jump and land without injury, and now to spin. Already he was
graceful. The man called him a genius, and agreed to let Victor come by after
closing to learn how to really skate. Victor’s father didn’t care much. His
mother was too sick to say if she did or not.
When Victor was eight, his mother died. Well, her heart stopped beating at
least. She’d lay in bed for months before that, every test they could think of
being done. They chopped bits of her off like they were whittling a statue,
trying to quell the beast that tore her apart like a Siberian tiger. He was
sitting with her, barely noticing the ever present beep until it was gone. They
were replaced with an angry whine, and even as a child he knew what that meant.
Doctors came in, but there was nothing she could do.
The next day, Victor went to the rink. His father called him a machine. His
father called him a lot of things lately, but this time it hurt. He loved his
mother, he did. She told him stories and did everything she could, including
work she probably wasn’t supposed to like lifting heavy things, and she smiled
all the time. Even when she passed away, there was a smile on her face. But he
loved the ice too, and it was warmer there it seemed than the hospital room or
his too-empty house and the bed she used to tuck him into and the stove where
she made him dinner, and the TV the watched together and the tub where she
bathed him and his first rubber ducky still sat. So he ignored his father and
went to the ice rink. Dominik could just tell when something was wrong
sometimes. When Victor’s mother was hospitalized, he hadn’t needed to tell
Dominik, for instance. Or even the first time he saw a run over dog. But now,
Dominik didn’t seem to be able to tell anything. Victor thought maybe he was a
robot. She’s dead. He knew it, but he couldn’t say it. He just tied up his
skates--the last birthday gift he’d get from his mother as it turned out--and
slid out onto the ice.
Viktor didn’t cry. He had a theory that he used up all his tears when he was
young, because he had been rather stubborn. His father said he cried far too
much. His mother said he cried exactly enough. His mother was dead now. She
couldn’t tell anyone what she thinks. But he did sweat. He always worked hard
when he was skating, but now it was like he was angry at the ice. It was cold,
just like his mother. He would have nightmares later of the ice melting under
him, and swallowing him whole, drowning it what realistically was maybe an inch
and a half tops of liquid but that was the trouble with dreams--they didn’t
have to be possible.
He jumped and spun and sped about, until Dominik figured it out. He let Victor
skate though, not stopping. Not saying anything. Just watching until Victor
threw all the strength he had left into one jump, feeling his little body go
around four times before falling, panting and almost-crying. He sobbed, but
there were no tears. He was dried up, already drenched with nothing left to
give. He clutched his chest when it got tight, and, making his way slowly
across the ice to Victor, so, more gently, did Dominik. He clutched Victor to
his chest and rubbed his back until Victor fell asleep. Apparently Dominik even
took him home that night, put him to bed and tucked him in. It wasn’t like his
mother used to--not even close. Dominik did it with warm hands.
 
Victor didn’t get along with his father. After the funeral, when Victor didn’t
cry, his father called him the “ice king”. It was what his mother used to call
him too, but she only did it when he learned something new, but that wasn’t
when his father said it. Even when Victor won his first competition He didn’t
like it when his father said it. In spite, he started letting his hair grow
out, braiding it back in a crown on his head.
He didn’t like anything his father said. He told him so when he was nearly ten.
Victor told his father that he was colder than anyone in their family, and his
mother was worm shit. Victor’s father hit him. Not a tap, or a smack. He
punched Victor with all his strength and told him to get out. He wasn’t even
allowed to grab his coat, and he was too scared to argue with that. He ran to
the only place he could think of--Dominik. When Dominik let him in, he wasn’t
crying. He wasn’t even bleeding from his busted lip any more. The blood was all
dried up, swollen itchy and parched.
 
Dominik lived alone until Victor moved in with him. He had a two bedroom house,
and there were toys there, but there weren’t any kids. Victor wondered if maybe
he had lost someone too. He remembered another boy that was around for the
first year or so he went to the rink, but was never introduced. The boy was
always around Dominik though. It had to be his son. Victor suddenly felt bad,
but he was just a kid. What else could he do?
Dominik took care of Victor. They went to the rink together every day, and
Victor got to skate before he cleaned up. He got to skate around, helping
newcomers, from five year olds to grown ups who towered over him. The women
found him less intimidating apparently. As a teacher, he supposed the young boy
was less likely to mean anything by the accidental brush of a rear or a breast
than the middle aged man who had no one at home. When Victor was eleven, he
found himself happy. His bed was warm. Someone tucked him in and made him food
and even bought him a new rubber ducky for his birthday. Dominik didn’t even
mind re-teaching him skating nearly from scratch when Victor grew a foot
seemingly overnight. He didn’t mind that Victor’s grades weren’t the best, or
that he didn’t like to clean and cook. They would just sit every night and
watch the TV with the fire on. Dominik’s hands weren’t cold. He wasn’t an ice
king, or a robot.
 
A man named Yakov showed up when Victor was twelve. He said that he’d heard of
Victor, saw his wins, and thought he could make him something better than just
a local competitor. He was a coach for the national team. Most of the time,
national teams in russia didn’t really give a choice--if you were scouted you
went--but Yakov was different. He said he didn’t want brats trying to run away,
or looking after kids who didn’t want it. He said that they didn’t have
inspiration, and that without inspiration, an artist was dead.
Victor thought that Yakov was too much like his father. He was stoic, even
grumpy. He didn’t have warm hands, and Victor was sure that Yakov wouldn’t tuck
him in. He said that he’d think about it, but he saw the frown on Dominik’s
face. He didn’t understand what Yakov could do that Dominik couldn’t. He had a
rink, and he did just fine in competitions. Instead of TV that night, Victor
said that he would win the grand prix someday with Dominik as his coach.
Dominik said that he didn’t like the idea of Victor leaving anyway. That was
the first time Dominik told Victor he loved him. When Yakov was sent away, he
did so calling Victor a fool, shaking his head and storming out. Victor felt
nice when he got to send someone away for once.
 
It was two weeks later he learned why there was a room for children in
Dominik’s room. Spurred by the confession of love, he called Dominik Dad at
dinner, his cheeks burning, waiting to see how it went over. Dominik just
smiled, and ruffled his hair. Victor went to bed that night, a little surprised
when there was a kiss on his lips instead of his forehead. He wondered if this
was what fathers were supposed to do, and if his was just slacking off on the
job before. The next night, the kiss was less hesitant. The next day, when he
came home from school, he kissed Dominik on the lips instead of his cheek,
deciding that this felt nicer. Warmer.
That night, Dominik told Victor that he was almost a man, and that he would let
him have a drink for the first time. Victor was excited at the idea of being a
grown up, as most kids are, and eagerly took the wine. It tasted terrible, but
it made him feel so warm inside after it burned down his throat, like soup he
didn’t blow on first. He found himself a few minutes later, feeling giggly. An
hour later, he was stumbling, and laughing at everything Dominik said, finding
everything hilarious.
He was in too good a mood to think about anything when Dominik kissed him
again. It wasn’t a peck this time, though. It was soft, but lingering, a finger
sliding up Victor’s neck and holding his chin up. Dominik asked Victor if he
knew what else adults did, and Victor, flushed from wine and embarrassment,
answering simply “taxes?”
Dominik chuckled, and said that he would show him something else, but he would
have to share Dominik’s bed for a while. Victor argued that sharing beds is
what babies did, but he said that was only for parents and big brothers.
Dominik told Victor that he wasn’t either of those things. That Dominik loved
him differently, and always had. Victor hadn’t had anyone tell him he loved him
since his mother couldn’t speak any more, and while he felt something was
wrong, he wasn’t thinking clearly enough to decide what. Besides. It was
Dominik. If he was going to hurt Victor he’d have done it by now.
 
Victor didn’t remember anything after that, until morning. He woke up with a
strange taste in his mouth, and his hair had something crunchy in it. Then he
realized he wasn’t in his room, and even that his pajamas were gone. Dominik
was next to him in his boxers, though his limp dick was poking out. He didn’t
remember last night, but even someone who had only been a man for a day could
figure out what happened. He knew what sex was. He knew what it smelled like
from his first explorations alone at night, and something told him that what
was uncomfortably matted in his hair and on his forehead wasn’t his own.
He got up, feeling gross and hoping a shower would help. The water was turned
as hot as he could make it, the spray washing away the residue, but not helping
him feel any cleaner. He felt like crying, but the water dripping down his face
would have to do. Victor couldn’t cry. Even covered in water, he was all dried
up.
 
That morning, he said nothing to Dominik, but Dominik hardly hid what they’d
done. He walked around in only pants, where he’d never so much as seen his
caretaker in pajamas before now, much less without a shirt. Pats on the back
and other fatherly affections became kisses, and slow touches to his back, or
his shoulders. They became a hand resting on his thigh as they ate breakfast.
He couldn’t say no--if Dominik got angry with him there was nowhere else to go.
Not to mention, he wasn’t sure that he didn’t enjoy last night. He couldn’t
remember, and was coming to the conclusion that this was what unnerved him.
Dominik asked if he liked what they did last night. Victor told him that he
didn’t know, but that he had a headache and felt sick. Dominik told him that
was just the hangover and gave him some water and aspirin. Dominik told him
that they would try again tonight, but that he’d seemed to like it. Victor
trusted Dominik--it was just the hangover that had him feeling bad. He loved
Dominik, even if he couldn’t be his father now.
 
Victor did try again that night. The taste of Dominik inside his mouth wasn’t
enjoyable, and his jaw was aching in only a few minutes. Dominik seemed so much
bigger than Victor, and he could barely fit the swollen dick inside his mouth.
But when Dominik did the same to him, and his sweat mixed with the come that
Dominik said looked so good on Victor’s face, dripping into his hair and the
sheets, he enjoyed that a lot. He understood that it was worth the ache in his
jaw, and that Dominik liked it as much as a he did. A “blow job” it was called,
and some part of him had heard that at school. Victor didn’t think it made much
sense to call it that. There wasn’t any blowing involved. But he didn’t
question that as he slept in Dominik’s bed, wondering if he still had a
hangover with the tightness in his chest. Maybe this was just what it was like
to be a man.
Dominik said he couldn’t tell his classmates, or anyone else. Because they
thought Victor was still a child, and they would be angry with Dominik for
treating him like a grown up too early.
 
It wasn’t a few days before Dominik said that there was more they could do
together. That it wasn’t just Victor’s mouth that Dominik could put himself
inside. Victor knew what sex was, but he was also very aware that he didn’t
have a pussy, or anything else big enough to fit Dominik. Dominik told him that
it was okay, because they loved each other and they would be able to stretch
out Victor’s ass. Victor didn’t believe him, but was assured that it would be
possible. He said that it could hurt a little but, but that it would get easier
over time. He said that the same thing happened to girls, it was just easier
with them because they got slick themselves and men have to do it with oil.
When Dominik said it would hurt, he was right. Even after what seemed like ages
with the odd feeling of two and three fingers in his ass, when Dominik put his
dick in Victor he was left crying. Dominik shushed him, promising that it would
feel good once Victor got used to it. Victor never did feel good that night,
but it started to hurt a little less, and he supposed that was good. He didn’t
move when Dominik finished, and hardly felt like getting off himself. He just
lay there while Dominik wiped him off, whimpering until he fell asleep.
The next morning, He could barely walk, but Dominik said he loved him, and made
him a giant stack of flapjacks with real maple syrup. He got to skip school,
and spent the time staring at his ceiling, wondering why this felt so wrong. He
wondered if it was because he’d thought of Dominik like a father. That had to
be it. Dominik wasn’t his father--Dominik took care of him, and that’s not what
fathers did.
 
Yakov came back when Victor was nearly thirteen, snow falling hard outside.
Victor was losing skating competitions more now. It was hard to practice with
sore hips, but Dominik said that they were lovers, and that it’s what Victor
had to do. He said it wasn’t fair for Victor to live in his home like a
housewife if he wouldn’t perform the duties. Victor started cooking, cleaning
and letting Dominik do whatever he wanted to him. Sometimes, if he’d had a good
day, it would start to feel good, but before anything could happen, Dominik was
done, and cared nothing for giving victor a blow job anymore. He told Victor
that housewives who were only after their own pleasure were sluts, and that he
wouldn’t have a slut in his house. Victor was scared of having to be on the
streets. People got hurt out there.
Yakov wanted to know what happened, saying that Victor was supposed to be
competing in the Grand Prix this year. He was supposed to beat the national
team. Victor didn’t say anything, but Dominik said that Victor had been
distracted and hadn’t been practicing. Yakov asked if he could see Victor
skate, and Dominik said that he would, but only to show Yakov that he didn’t
need all the fancy training Yakov offered. Victor didn’t feel that he could
show anyone anything, but he had to listen to Dominik. A good housewife should
listen.
They didn’t even go to the rink. Yakov put a gentle hand on Victor’s shoulder.
“What he’s doing to you is not right.” Yakov said.
Dominik didn’t like that. He thought that Victor was doing everything he needed
to. Victor wasn’t sure what to do. He just promised Dominik that he didn’t
tell--he wasn’t supposed to tell, he knew that, and now Yakov knew and he would
get in trouble if Dominik thought he broke the rules.
“He’s meddling in affairs that are not his own, Victor. What we do together is
none of his business.” Dominik said, scowling. “I’m the only one who cares
about you, he just wants your genius for his team. He wants to take you away
from me.”
“Did he tell you that in Russia, the age of consent is sixteen? That what he’s
doing is rape?” Yakov asked, and Victor felt himself start to shake. Of course
he knew that it was unusual, but Dominik said he was old for his age, that he
was so mature it was okay.
Yakov told him that it wasn’t. Yakov asked if he liked living like this, if he
would come join the national team now. Yakov told him that he could get all the
affection without anyone touching him. Victor thought that sounded nice, but
Dominik didn’t seem very happy about the suggestion. Victor didn’t like making
Dominik unhappy. He whispered that Yakov should leave, that he was perfectly
happy where he was. It was a lie. When Victor was twelve he was used to lying.
 
That night he told Dominik that he didn’t want to have sex. He said he had a
headache--that’s what all the shows and books said that housewives did when
they didn’t want to have sex. Dominik told him that he would be fast. Victor
still said no, starting to shiver a little.
 
When Victor was twelve, Dominik stopped listening.
 
The next morning, Victor was bleeding, but fearfully climbed out of bed and
made breakfast. That was what a housewife did, and he saw what happened when he
didn’t listen and he didn’t want it to happen again. He felt like crying, so he
did. He finally did. Maybe he wasn’t dried out any more, but he broke down and
cried and pulled out the card that Yakov had left the first time he came and he
rang the phone, praying that Yakov would answer and that Dominik wouldn’t wake
up.
He heard Yakov answer, and whispered that he wanted to leave. He asked to be
rescued, and said that he didn’t have anything of his own but that he could
skate well and would do anything Yakov wanted him to--anything but sex. He
didn’t want to have sex any more.
Yakov said that he was on his way.
 
Dominik heard him. Victor was lying on the snow with a broken nose when Yakov
came to get him, and a note on his knocked out chest that said “You can have
him, he never listens any way.”
 
When Victor was twenty-eight, he didn’t know what to do. Who could coach Yuuri
while he went back to Japan. But of course, the solution was the same as every
other problem he hadn’t known how to solve.
“Yakov,” He said, eyes sparkling, “You’re the only coach for me!”
End Notes
     Just wrote this to get some angst out after episode 11, and to give
     Victor the tragic backstory we all know he has. I don't know if I
     want to make this longer or not, maybe with some healing. Let me know
     if you want to see more?
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