justrae2010:

Victor knew something was wrong the moment his phone rang.

His phone never rang.

It was seven in the morning. Victor still had the covers pulled over his head in bed, enjoying the lie in from his recent retirement and taking the time to snuggle for an extra few hours in bed with Makkachin. His phone only rang for three reasons.

One – Makkachin.

Victor glanced down at the dog, still sound asleep. It clearly wasn’t that.

Two – Hasetsu. But Yuuri’s parents wouldn’t call in the middle of their working day, they normally waited until evening time for them, just as Yuuri was coming home from practise…

Three – Yuuri. And Yuuri was at practise with Yakov. He shouldn’t be free to be ringing Victor at this time in the morning.

Victor groaned and fumbled blindly at the bedside table, refusing to leave his blanket haven. He nearly gave up. It couldn’t be that important anyway. Probably his publicist just calling about another interview he’d turn down anyway…

His fingers bumped the buzzing phone, dragging it down lazily to the bed. He was still yawning when he answered. “Privet?”

“Victor?”

Victor’s eyes blinked open in surprise – Yuuri. What was Yuuri doing calling him during practice? Yakov would have his hide for that…

“Yuuri?” Victor frowned. “Is everything okay? You sound-”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Yuuri said back in a stiff tone, that really was not fine. “Victor, you need to come to the hospital.”

Victor bolted upright in bed, waking Makkachin with a yelp. “What?”

He was wide awake now.

Down the phone, Yuuri huffed anxiously. “It’s Yakov,” he stammered. “We were just leaving the rink – h-he was going to make me do a lap because I was late – and we were just walking down the steps, when he-”

Yuuri stopped, voice cutting off with a hitch.

Victor blinked wide eyed at nothing, feeling his heartbeat pound in his chest. “What?” he gasped. A heart attack? A stroke? Oh God, please say he wasn’t dead -“Yuuri, what happened?”

On the other end of the line, Yuuri whimpered. “He fell.”

---

Victor was a mess by the time he turned up at the hospital. His jeans sat twisted over his hips, his hair uncombed, his sweater on backwards… he didn’t care. He didn’t care at all.

Yuuri had fed him updates as he’d driven ridiculously fast through the Russian winter roads, speeding like a maniac. He couldn’t help it. Yakov had fallen. He’d slipped on the ice, hurtled down them like a bullet. Then came the shoulder pain. And the back pain. Then the hip pain. One thing after another, while Yuuri had frantically called an ambulance and the stubborn old man had fought with the paramedics, insisting he was fine.

It had been clear after the first x-ray scan though that he was definitely not fine.

Victor’s hand was shaking as he barged into Yakov’s room.

The first thing he saw was Yakov – in a wheelchair.

His heart ached.

The old man’s arm was in a sling, stable and padded, holding his shoulder still as best it could. Victor could see the angry purple of bruises peeking out from under his shirt collar, nasty and vicious against the coach’s pale skin. He suddenly looked a lot more frail than Victor ever remembered him to be.

Yuuri was chewing on his thumbnail in the corner of the room, eyes wet and strained. Guilt. Victor recognised that look. Yurui must feel awful. Yakov was only outside because he’d been late after all. If they’d been inside, practising, none of this would have happened.

A hairline fracture, the doctor’s had said.

One that rippled through Yakov’s shoulder – not enough to seriously crack the bone but enough to hurt like hell every time he moved. His back still hurt. More tests had been scheduled. Yakov had been offered some strong painkillers in the meantime to help. He’d turned them all down.

The thought made Victor unexpectedly angry, hands balling into fists at his sides.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he breathed, looking Yakov square in his stiff, steely eyes. “You know how dangerous the steps are this time of year.”

Yakov swallowed slowly. “Victor-”

“Why didn’t you use the handrail?” Victor just cut off, jaw taut. “They’re there for a reason, Yakov.”

“Victor-”

“You’re not a young man anymore, Yakov,” Victor said in his sternest voice – the one he saved for when he caught Makka’s eyes going for the steam buns. “You need to be more careful. Do you understand how lucky you were this time? I don’t want you hurting yourself.”

Yakov’s eyes just narrowed.

He was biting back words. Victor could see it in his eyes – that was fine, Yakov could be mad at him all he wanted, as long as he took care of himself!

“Hand me that stick.”

Victor’s eyes followed Yakov’s jerk of the head to the end of the bed, a long wooden walking stick leaned against it, just a fraction out of Yakov’s reach. Victor’s heart balked – Yakov needed a walking stick? Yakov, the most stubborn, independent man he knew, now reliant on a stick to walk…

He handed it over with a heavy heart.

Yakov stood slowly, weight leaned heavily on the stick as he straightened up with the tiniest of groans that he would deny if anyone ever mentioned it. He looked Victor square in the eye, lifting the stick ever so slightly like he was going to step forward…

The stick never met the ground.

“Ow!”

Victor yelped as it thwacked him in the thigh, strike hard and sharp.

… and not alone.

“Don’t -” thwack!“-talk -” thwack! “-down-” thwack! “-to me-” thwack! “-boy!” thwack! “Who the hell-” thwack! “-do you think-” thwack! “-you’re talking to?!”

“Ow! Yakov, stop-”

Thwack!

“Yuuri!” Yakov snapped once Victor was a cowering mess on the floor, stick hitting the floor with a slap.

Yuuri jerked up straight like a gun had gone off. “Y-yes?”

“I believe I’m owed a lap.”

“Y-Yes, sir!”