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Yuri Plisetsky hated time travel. The nausea, headaches, chills. All of it sucked. But, Yakov needed this. Lilia needed this. And Yuri was the only one with a close enough tie to both of them for the magic to work. Well, okay, Victor could have done it, too, but he was almost fifty. Far too old for this shit. Hell, Yuri was only thirty-five and he was too old for this shit.
Too bad it had to be done. Because Yakov had deserved happiness, Lilia deserved better than the last ten years of regret and despair she’d lived with after Yakov passed away. And Yuri loved them. He wanted to help. He would help.
One shot. No one got to travel more than once. They might move through various times on whatever quest they’d undertaken, but once that succeeded or failed, they were done. Katsudon never talked about what happened if you tried a second time. He didn’t need to; the haunted look in his eyes the one time they—Victor and him—had asked had said it all.
And Yuuri had used his one shot already. Another thing they didn’t talk about—the whys and whos. There was no need. Yuri remembered, even if Victor didn’t. Remembered a young boy, no more than thirteen, with familiar eyes and trembling hands, that stole Makka that rainy day in a city Yuri hadn’t visited yet. What chasing him had saved Victor, or maybe Yuri, from that day, Yuri didn’t know.
But then, that had been the point, hadn’t it? God, Katsudon had been so young then. And Yura, almost seventy years in the past, was still just as thirty-five as he’d been when he did the ritual. He’d ask someday, maybe once they finally met that little Yuuri in their proper time line.
Or maybe not. Because Yura remembered something that hadn’t happened yet. And he was pretty sure that meant something. Probably not anything good.
###
He’d chosen his starting point carefully. Lilia and Yakov broke up for the final time (one of three, Yura had discovered from Victor when planning this escapade) in 2008.
The first divorce had happened in 1962, and been forced by Lilia’s parents. And probably Yakov hadn’t fought too hard after discovering the woman he’d married thinking she was nineteen, just a year younger than himself, was, in fact, only sixteen and living away from home while studying at the Vaganova. So, yeah, the marriage had been illegal, and probably divorce was the wrong word for how it got dissolved, but it was the one both Yakov and Lilia used.
They remarried three days after Lilia turned nineteen. Exactly one year after she showed up at Yakov’s door soaking wet from walking to his place from the train station while it poured outside. To hear the story told (and Yura had, repeatedly, from three different people), there weren’t even words spoken when he opened his door to see her there. She just nodded, walked in like she owned the place, and never left again.
At least not until 1995 when one ten year-old Victor Nikiforov moved in, and almost ten months later, Lilia moved out. Yura knew Victor blamed himself for that break-up. And he also knew Vitya was the only one that did. Lilia had told Yura the full truth after Yakov’s funereal.
Victor had been the child Yakov always wanted. Bright, talented, driven, silly. He’d come into their home like a whirlwind and stirred up all the choices Yakov and Lilia had made more by default than decision. They’d talked about building a family together, but never actually gotten around to it. Lilia loved ballet; Yakov loved skating. They’d focused on their careers until injury took Yakov off the ice and time took Lilia from the stage. And then, together in an empty house with only each other, they realized they’d waited too long to attend to that part of their lives.
They tried anyway. It resulted in two miscarriages, a lot of recriminations, and eventually a detente where they both choose to ignore the issue entirely, where they both redirected all their emotions back into their work. And away from each other.
No, Vitya did not cause the issues. He just made them impossible to ignore. So, Lilia ran away.
Yakov ran right after her, chased her for four years. He finally caught her again the same month Victor, seventeen and the new Junior World Champion, got his own place. Everyone pretended these two things were unrelated.
Technically, Yura was pretty sure they hadn’t actually divorced that time either. Just been separated for a long time. He knew for a fact neither had dated anyone else. Not then. Not ever.
No one ever told Yura what went wrong in 2008, but he had a suspicion the fact that was the year he started with Yakov had something to do with it. No, he hadn’t lived with them, not then, but he’d been around. A lot. And the same age as Victor had been when it went sideways previously. You know, the time they never actually sat down and fucking dealt with and all.
Well, this time Yura didn’t intend to give them a choice. Just as soon as he figured out how the hell to get involved in their lives.
###
God, but ten year-old Yuri was an asshole. How the fuck had anyone ever put up with his skinny, sullen ass back then?
Yura, currently working at the ice rink as an assistant trainer under the assumed name Vika Katsuki, had regrets. Almost all of them revolved around trying to deal with his own younger self, though the younger Victor, just at the beginning of his Senior division domination, and giddy with his own reputation didn’t help.
But, no one expected Victor to get off his fucking phone and practice, so Yura got to ignore him. (Well, mostly. Yura missed his husbands desperately, and Vitya looked fucking good at any age.)
Ten year-old Yura looked like a feral cat who’d pissed off his groomer. Seriously. Who the hell had thought that hair worked on him? Nikolai had done the job himself with kitchen shears and a mixing bowl and it fucking showed.
Not the point. “Yuri!” His voice cracked as he shouted. He’d been losing it since he spent all of the last three days also yelling. Yura had never, ever understood Yakov better than in this moment. “What the hell do you think you are doing? I said NO TRIPLE AXELS. Can you speak fucking Russian? Do we need to use those cue cards like kindergartners trying to learn the alphabet?”
“If yelling worked,” Lilia said, a smile in her voice if not on her face, “Yakov would still have all his hair. You won’t make him a prima like that.”
Yura turned and stared at the woman. She’d never come to his practices, not that he remembered. Not until Yakov called her to train him for his senior debut. Why was she here now? “Lilia?”
She blinked. “I do not recall us being introduced, much less allowing such familiarity. I am Madame Baranovskya. Do you understand, Mr...Katsuki? You don’t look Japanese.”
“I’m Russian. My husband is Japanese. Not that it’s any of your business. And by the way, Madame Baranovskaya, what the fuck are you doing here? Aren’t you teaching at the Vaganova or running the Russian Ballet Company or something?”
“It’s the Bolshoi, which you know. You would not have been hired did you not have a proper understanding of the techniques we do here, and ballet is at the center of that.”
“Skating is the center of it, but—YURI PLISETSKY, you do another triple axel and I am pulling you off the ice for the rest of the fucking week!--you know that because we’re at a skating rink. I know why I’m here—I need to keep this little shit from killing himself before he can become an Olympic champion—but why are you here?”
“I wanted to see the boy.” Something dark and hollow echoed in her voice, but she shook her head and the veil of melancholy on her features melted away to her typical iron stare. “And you, Mr. Katsuki, should watch your language. There is nothing beautiful in such crassness.”
Yura snorted. He’d known Lilia for over twenty years, and he knew better than anyone she could curse him under the table, though only when she’d had more than three glasses of vodka. Otherwise, she preferred more surgical verbal evisceration.”’Kay. Well, you’ve seen him. He’s a disobedient brat.”
Lilia nodded as she looked him up and down. “Something that clearly has not changed. At least you are no longer dressed like something out of an American sitcom.”
“What?” Yura turned and stared at the woman. “I—what?”
“I know who you are, Yuratchka. Or more accurately, I suppose, what you are.”
Oh no. No. Nope. Nuh uh. That shouldn’t be possible. Yuuri said if the ritual worked then no one remembered anything changed, not even the traveler. There was no way Lilia could comprehend, believe, know. None. “How?”
Lilia’s smiled sliced her face, sharp and devoid of anything like humor. “That is simple. You, Yuri Plisetsky, fucked up. Or, I suppose, from your point of view, you will fuck up when you slide earlier into the time line. The real question, dear boy, is how are we going to fix it?”
Yura blinked, mind blank. Now that, that was a damn good question.
##
They sat in the worst of the two sitting rooms of Lilia’s—well, currently Lilia’s and Yakov’s--house. The better one had windows that looked out over a small pond. It was decorated in soft greens and golds. Too fancy, but warm in it’s antique store kitch kind of way. This one was all dark wood and maroon fabrics. No windows, just towering bookshelves and a fireplace suited for a room twice the size of this one. Yura hated this room, and from the little twinkle in Lilia’s eyes, she knew it.
He noted that as he dropped onto the too low couch with it’s scratchy brocade and insufficient padding. That left the comfortable chair for Lilia. Yura might be spiraling, but he wasn’t a barbarian. The primas always got the best seats. Katusdon made sure both he and Victor knew that in their bones.
Minako and Lilia put the fear of forgetting it in their souls.
“So,” he sighed as the wood of the couch seat dug into his tailbone, “I’m guessing we’ve met before then?”
“How astute.” Lilia took her own chair with fluid grace. “Yes, some...fifteen years ago, I believe. You showed up at my door, screamed that you were a time traveler and could Yakov and I, and this is a quote, “just get your shit together for five fucking minutes so I can go home to my husbands and not have to deal with your stupidity for one second longer,” and then dropped a photo album at my feet and left.”
“And from that you somehow decided I was a time traveler? That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?” Also, a really reckless thing for Yuri to have done. How the fuck long had he been stuck in the past at that point to be that desperate?
“Considering I’d done a bit of traveling myself, not really.” She took a long sip of tea, politely letting Yuri stop choking on his own tongue, before she reached over to a box on the side table Yuri hadn’t noticed. From it she removed a familiar book.
“Why the hell do you have my grandfather’s family pictures?” Yura took the book from her on reflex. He’d avoided looking at this particular album for his entire life. It contained the only photos of his mother, a woman that walked out of his life when he was five, and never looked back. It broke Grandpa’s heart and Yuri had never forgiven her for that.
He didn’t consider forgiveness necessary for breaking his own. He hadn’t ever known her well enough to get attached in the first place. He’d stuck to that story for thirty years. No reason to change it now.
“You gave it to me. Open it, Yura.”
Years of conditioning had him following the order without thought. He flipped to a random page somewhere in the middle, eyes drawn down to three photos arranged under crinkled plastic. Nikolai’s smiling face looked back at him from one, the sight making Yuri’s heart ache. Grandpa was still kicking in his current time, but seeing him so much younger reminded Yuri painfully how much he’d aged. The feelings distracted him for a moment, long enough for his eyes to slide to the other photos. Photos of Yuri himself as a baby resting in the arms of a woman that could only be--
His breath caught. “Lilia.” He looked up and stared. She had green eyes. She’s always had green eyes. He’d just never thought...”Lilia, why does my mother look like you?”
Lilia sighed. “Because she is. Or she was, will be.” She inhaled deeply, let the air out slowly. “I was born in 1978. My name was Yulia Plisetsky, and I desperately wanted to be a ballerina.”
Yuri felt the tug in his navel just before the pain hit, and he slid backwards in time, Lilia’s voice echoing in his ears.
##
The bar was smoky and dark and cold. So, probably somewhere in Russia. Somewhen in Russia, though Yuri didn’t have a fucking clue what date that might be. Reeling still from both the unexpected jump and the even more unexpected revelations, he dropped onto the first bar stool he saw. He was still holding the photo album.
Sitting right next to him was one Yakov Feltsman. Alive, younger than Yuri had ever seen him and with surprisingly full hair even though he looked to be in his late forties or early fifties. Huh. Maybe the hair loss really was Victor’s fault.
Yura opened his mouth, ready to say something, though he had no fucking clue what, when the door to the bar opened and in walked Lilia. She looked sad, her long hair twisted in a braid that fell just past her waist, eyes red-rimmed, make-up streaked. So, completely unlike Lilia at all, really.
Oh, and she had to be all of twenty fucking years old, so not Lilia at all. Yulia. Yuri’s mother, Yulia. Yeah, that wasn’t processing any time soon.
With a quiet snarl, Yuri stood, ready to give the woman a piece of his mind, but Yakov beat him to it. The older man stood, eyes bright as he stumbled, drunken gait uneven, towards the woman. “Lilia! You’re here!”
What a fucking train wreck. Yuri heaved himself up, weary down to his toes with all the bullshit, and took two steps over to the table. Just in time to see the woman, Lilia, Yulia, whatever her fucking name right now, grab the drunken Yakov by the shirt and kiss him.
Huh? The world turned to static, sound gone, colors swirling, Yuri’s brain on full reboot. By the time he recovered the pair were gone and Lilia—the one from the rink, the old but not dirt old one—had slid onto the stool Yuri had vacated. “I didn’t realize it was me, you know. Not until you showed up with your photo album. Yakov never told me the details. Just that he’d had a drunken fling while we were separated. That there was a child he was supporting. It hurt. That someone else had given him this thing I couldn’t, but I managed the pain because it was an idea, not a child. Not real. Not until you came to the rink and I couldn’t ignore it anymore.”
“That’s why you divorced? Because Yakov had a kid with someone else? But then why didn’t you get back together after? You took me in and trained me. You could have taken Yakov back, too. Wait—that was you. You and Yakov—you’re...” His voice trailed off, the sheer implausibility of it all making him numb.
“We are your parents, yes. But, I didn’t know that until now. And she doesn’t know that then.” Lilia pursed her lips. “I...train you? Later? Are we...close?”
“I fucking lived with you for four years. You’re basically like my second mother. Except apparently you’re my actual mother, and how the fuck do you not know this. That’s you. It happened to you. You should….not remember it because if time travel works...fuck.”
“I agree with the sentiment, though this is most definitely not a case of time travel working. I don’t remember living this night because I’m not the one that lived it. I went back in time the first time when I was sixteen. I’d been--”
“The first time? You only get one. If you try again it...well, I don’t know what happens, but it’s bad.”
“Agreed. It was. Now, will you listen and let me explain or are you going to continue to constantly interrupt?”
Yura growled, but shut his mouth. He’d get all his questions out after.
Lilia nodded once, sharply and continued. “I was fourteen. I wanted to dance, but we didn’t have the money. An old man came to me, said he knew a way to help, but I had to trust him. He was Japanese, had kind eyes, and I was a desperate, stupid kid. I listened and I ended up back in 1960.
“Katsuki was waiting. He took me in, taught me to dance. I never did understand why he looked so sad. But I have some suspicions now.”
Yura stared. “Yuuri taught you to dance? But, he went back when he was thirteen, not old. And I don’t--”
“Ah, so it is the same Katsuki. I had wondered when I saw your name on the employee schedule.” Lilia sipped delicately at a glass of vodka, a match to the one in front of Yuri. He hadn’t even noticed her ordering them.
“You’re named after him,” she said with a smile. “Did you know that?”
“How the fuck would I have known that? You didn’t even seem to know him the first time you met in my time line.” He downed his own glass, the liquid fire and ice as it went down.
“I probably didn’t recognize him. He was very, very old when I knew him then. I am guessing he is...less so...in your time.”
“Yeah. He’s forty-three now—then--you know what I mean. And he didn’t fucking tell me any of this.”
Lilia put a gentle hand on his shoulder. It was kind, but there was steel in her grasp. It was familiar and oddly soothing. “He probably doesn’t know. It could be it’s not him. Or not that him. Let me finish. It will make more sense.”
Yuri nodded, swallowing back the curses billowing up in his chest.
“I met Yakov, and I loved him immediately. He was beautiful on the ice. Not a dancer, but something else. Powerful, strong. I asked a friend to introduce us. I lied about my age.”
Yura nodded. “Marriage, divorce, I know this bit.”
A wicked smile crossed Lilia’s lips. “Do you really? I wonder what it looked like to someone on the outside. I’d been adopted by then. Katsuki had vanished; I don’t know to where, but a nice enough couple had taken me in. They were furious about the wedding, had it annulled.
“Yakov was even more upset. I’d betrayed his trust. I wanted so badly to make it better. I’d been warned, the same as you, about not traveling twice. I didn’t listen. I waited until I was older so that when I went back it’d be to meet Yakov as my older self.”
She went quiet, eyes haunted. “It didn’t work. I...fractured. I felt myself come untethered, part of me snapped back to my original time line, part back to the time I intended, and the rest snapped like a rubber band to the point I initially found myself in. Katsuki was waiting there, with me. And also off in the shadows. It was that second Katsuki that beckoned me over. He’d fractured too, you see. Parts of him scattered across the time line in the same way.”
Yura stared, eyes wide. “What...what does that mean?”
Lilia shrugged, the motion like a rolling wave, a dance move all its own. “No idea. I know that something awful happens if I meet myself, but I’ve been fortunate not to have that happen. I’m...damaged. My emotions not quite as easy to express. Other versions of me might be worse. Katsuki said he had some perception of the others, but that he didn’t think they were aware of each other beyond a strange existential dread we all get when asked about it. It’s not fun. But the worst is that we remember all the changes. Things as they happened to us, things as they were changed. Too much and it can drive you mad. I have been lucky. My others have not interfered much. I hope it is the same for you and for your Katsuki.”
“For me? But I’ve only traveled once. I’m not like that.”
“You’re a born paradox, Yuri Plisetsky. You will know the things that have never been because you are a thing that should not have been. Because it was not this me that met Yakov here. Which is the answer to how I did not know.”
“Oh.” Yuri sighed. “And now that you do?”
Lilia smiled, bright, open. Unlike anything Yuri had seen from her before. “Now, I know, and you cannot cause me the same pain. Now, I can make better choices, and you, my dear, dear child, you can go home.” She leaned in and kissed Yuri’s forehead. Her lips were dry, but gentle--
And then Yuri jumped again, the nausea heavy as he appeared in his own time, both Victor and Yuuri’s arms coming to catch him. Returning wasn’t the same as moving to other times. He didn’t appear out of nowhere, as if he’d always been there. He slammed back into his body hard enough to make his ears ring.
Vitya looked concerned, eyes wide. “Yura, kotonyok, are you okay?”
When Yura couldn’t respond, he felt Yuuri squeeze his shoulders, cheek pressed into Yuri’s neck. “Vitya,” Yuuri said, voice gentle, “why don’t you get him some water?”
Yuri didn’t see if Victor nodded, but he felt him move away. “You never told us coming back hurts so fucking much, Katsudon.”
Yuuri hummed. “You should have returned from when you left. I don’t know why you didn’t. Are you okay?”
Yura looked up, took in those beautiful, worried, brown eyes, and then continued to look around. They were in a restaurant, a nice one. Embroidered table linens were on all the tables and a banner hung over the largest one. It read “Happy Fifthieth Wedding Anniversary!”
Yakov and Lilia sat together under it, feeding each other cake as they smiled softly at each other. Idly, Yuri wondered exactly how they got to fifty years. Married later the first time? Just ignored the separations? And then he realized it didn’t matter. They were happy, they were together, and Yuri had his own spouses to focus on.
So, he snugged Yuuri closer to him and smiled as he answered. “I went to meet my parents. Turns out it really is the family you find that matters most.”
He knew Yuuri didn’t understand why that set Yura off into giggles, but probably that was for the best. He had better things to do with the time they had together than explain.