Dissociative fugue is a real mental condition, and I have done my best to research it and portray it accurately here.

Content warnings (skip if you don't want vague spoilers): This story portrays mental health issues, including dissociation, depression, amnesia and a flashback to past trauma. There are violent deaths for a couple of un-named minor characters in the story's past. A major character from canon temporarily goes by a different name.

June 5th, St. Petersburg

"Hello, police? This is Yakov Feltsman. I would like to file a missing person report..."

June 5th, Hasetsu

The world wasn't supposed to look like a cardboard pop-up book, right?

People swarmed past him, their movements looking robotic yet ghostly at the same time. They were making noises, but he only heard a dull ringing. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, but the haze remained. He felt his body moving forward—at least, he thought it was his body; it was hard to tell.

His body was going somewhere. Somewhere not-here. He watched passively as his arm pushed open the door, not resisting, because the door would surely lead to somewhere, and that's where he was going. He blinked again and he was outside in the sunlight, and there was no door.

Aha. This must have been Not-Here. Not-Here also looked like cardboard pop-ups, so this was not his destination. There was a man a few paces away, or maybe he was inches away, or several hundred meters. The man was saying things to a woman, but the only sound was that ringing noise. Why was he ringing?

The body giggled. What a silly man, didn't he know people aren't supposed to ring?

A blink. The sky had changed. It was red now, and still hazy. Why did people always say the sky was blue? It was clearly red.

A man was talking to him now, and there was that woman with him. Were these the same people as before? Were they even people? People aren't supposed to ring.

"Are you people?" It took him a second to realize his body had said it.

The man tilted his head, frowning. The woman looked worried and put her hand on the man's arm. Maybe it was a hard question for them.

"I said, are you okay?" the man asked.

"That's a sentence! People make sentences." He grinned back at the man. It was nice of the man to stop ringing at him. "Thank you."

The man and woman looked at each other, and kept frowning. The woman said something unintelligible. The man looked at him again.

"Do you need help? Can I take you to a doctor?"

"I need to..." Wait. What did he need? "Go. I'm going somewhere?"

"Where are you going?" the man asked, his soft brown eyes full of concern.

"Going to sleep."

There was a hand on his back now, and the man was standing beside him, pushing him gently forward. The woman was on the man's other side. The world was looking stranger now, the cardboard replaced by blurs and shadows, and the sky was dimming. The man was murmuring something now in his ear.

"It's gonna be okay, you're gonna be okay. Please hang on just a little longer, we'll get you to a bed and then you can rest. Please be okay..."

He smiled at the man, still letting himself be pushed forward. His hand came up and stroked the man's cheek.

"Sentences," he declared.

"Um. Yes. Sentences. Er, do you have any favorite sentences?" the man babbled, cheeks red.

The body stopped, suddenly realizing something vitally important. He turned fully towards his companion and cupped his face in his hands.

"You're the sky!"

"W-what?" the man squeaked.

"Sunset," he explained patiently, tapping his thumbs on the man's flushed cheeks. "Night," he ruffled the man's hair, "and stars," he concluded, pointing at the man's eyes.

The woman giggled. Oh, right, she was there too.

They were in a room. When had they found a room? Oh well. It was fine. The sky-man was pulling a blanket over him. The world didn't look so fake and wrong anymore. He was feeling tired now. Going to sleep. Right. That's where he had been going.

"Hopefully you're just really drunk and you'll be back to normal tomorrow," said the sky-man. "Good night, stranger."

"Good night."

June 6th, Hasetsu

Yuuri was trying very hard not to stare at the sleeping foreigner he'd picked up off the street last night. He was failing.

At first, he and Yuuko hadn't paid the man any attention, since he was just standing in place and looking around like most tourists did when they realized there was nothing to do in Hasetsu. But when their work at the ice rink had ended a few hours later, and they walked outside, the man was still there, looking lost. Yuuri had decided to take pity on him and help him find his way back to one of the local inns.

However, the man hadn't been responsive the first few times Yuuri had spoken to him. When he did respond, it was in slow, monotone non-sequiturs, and his gaze had been distant. Yuuri was reminded of how he sometimes shut down in the middle of his anxiety attacks, and his heart went out to the man. Most likely, the man was just coming down from some sort of drug high, but even if he was...Well, everybody deserved a safe place to sleep, right? So Yuuri and Yuuko guided him to Yu-Topia, his family's onsen, where his family gave the stranger a guest room to recuperate in.

It was definitely not because Yuuri found him attractive, as Yuuko had kept teasing him after the man had held Yuuri's face and compared it to celestial bodies.

In the clear morning light, Yuuri saw that the man was younger than Yuuri had initially assumed, due to the stranger's silvery hair. And now Yuuri was watching him sleep, mentally kicking himself for doing so. He took a deep breath, prepared himself, and spoke in English to wake the man up.

"Hey, um, it's breakfast time. Do you want to get up and eat with us?"

After a few seconds, the man stirred, and blinked blearily up at Yuuri. He began to say something, then cleared his throat.

"Sorry, could you repeat that?"

"It's breakfast time in the inn right now. You're welcome to join us. I mean, um," Yuuri looked away, feeling like he was messing this up already. "I brought you here last night. You seemed kind of...out of it. No charge, just wanted to make sure you were safe."

The man's face broke into a smile, and Yuuri felt his heart speed up.

"That's so kind of you. Thank you so much. And yes, I would love to join you."

Yuuri led the man to the dining room, where the Katsuki family laid out breakfast every morning for the few guests who rose early enough to enjoy it. The silver-haired man was clearly more alert today, looking everywhere with an almost childlike enthusiasm, making eye contact and smiling at the random people they walked past. He seemed too cheerful for a hangover.

When they had both sat down with Yuuri's family and were about to eat, that's when everything went to hell.

"So, Yuuri," Mari half-smiled, "It's not like you to bring home handsome strangers..."

She was speaking in English. Of course she was. Because what were big sisters for, if not mortifying their little brothers?

"Yuuri, then?" the man grinned at him. "Nice to meet you! Or meet you again, really. I'm afraid I don't remember yesterday very well."

"Th-that's okay," Yuuri blushed, looking away. "That's Mari Katsuki, my sister, and they are Toshiya and Hiroko Katsuki, my parents. My parents don't know as much English as Mari and I do, but we can translate."

The man beamed, and waved at everyone. "Thank you for letting me stay with you!"

Mari shrugged. "Hospitality's just our way. And your name?"

"Oh, I don't know," the man said, still smiling.

"What?" Mari blinked.

"I don't know what my name is."

He seemed completely unconcerned by this statement, and was more focused on trying to use his chopsticks. Yuuri and Mari gawked at him.

Yuuri asked, "Uh, how much do you remember? Do you know where you are?"

The stranger paused, and tapped his chin, thinking for a few seconds. "I remember waking up here. And this is...Japan, I think? The signs look Japanese."

Yuuri tensed up, the worry from last night creeping back in. "What do you remember from before today?"

"Not a thing!" the man shrugged, smiling again.

"Do you have any ID? Any wallet or phone that could help identify you?"

The man set down his chopsticks and patted his pockets. "Nope!"

Oh dear. Yuuri could feel his muscles seizing up with anxiety—not for his sake, this time, but for the foreigner who'd been stranded with no memories and no one to help him.

"Well, we could go to the police, see if anyone's looking for you," Mari offered. "Or your country's embassy, if you can remember what country you're from."

The silver-haired man frowned. "I'm not sure where I'm from, but I'd really prefer not to get the police involved...Not unless I really have to."

"Oh?" Mari raised an eyebrow. "Why, are you some kind of criminal?"

"Mari!" Yuuri cried. "You can't just ask someone that!"

The man looked thoughtful. "I don't know. I don't remember doing any crimes, but then I can't remember anything else either. I just know I felt really uncomfortable when the police were mentioned. Sorry, I know how weird that sounds."

"Well, at least let us get you checked out by a doctor, alright?" Mari huffed. "In case you hit your head or something."

"Of course. I'd appreciate that."

June 6th, St. Petersburg

"Coach Feltsman, why do you think—"

"Sir, is it true that Mr. Nikiforov was—"

"Have the police found any leads on—"

"Mr. Feltsman!—"

"Shut up! All of you!" Yakov roared at the reporters gathered outside the ice rink. It was horrible enough having a student who'd been like a son to him disappear. He did not need this pack of hyenas gorging themselves on Viktor's misfortune.

"I've said all there is to say. Go home. And stay away from my students!"

He stalked into the building, slamming and locking the door behind him. Mila, Georgi and Yuri were waiting for him. Their faces were downcast. Even Yuri, who covered up every hurt feeling with anger, was quietly sullen instead of his usual fire.

"Any news?" Mila asked, but her face crumpled as soon as she saw Yakov's expression.

He shook his head. "It's out of our hands now. Standing around moping isn't going to help anyone. Go warm up."

After warming up and practicing their jumps and steps, Yakov had the skaters take turns putting on the music they had been considering for next season's routines. They would skate at will, with no particular plan in mind, while the music played. As the skaters visualized the melodies in their minds and determined what emotions they would convey through it, Yakov would watch their motions and draw his choreography ideas for their routines, except for Viktor, who choreographed for himself.

Georgi went first, and skated to the center of the ice, while Yakov, Mila and Yuri stood at the rink wall. Yakov picked up the remote to the sound system, and pressed the "play" button.

A fearsome, shrieking cacophony exploded all around them, and everyone at the rink jumped.

"That is not my song!" Georgi declared. His eyes darted around at the heavy, ominous drumbeats.

Yakov sighed, "It's Viktor's. He wanted to use Stravinsky's Rite of Spring."

It was a difficult piece to adapt. The Rite was full of unpredictable twists, mood swings, and no traditional melody. As a ballet, it required an entire company of dancers to act out its bombastic drums and haunting, primal notes. If any figure skater could do the Rite justice, it was Viktor, but even for him it would be a struggle.

Viktor was missing, possibly dead or kidnapped. Nobody at the rink wanted to listen to a song that sounded like something out of a horror film. The skaters visibly relaxed when Yakov switched to Georgi's song.

Still, they were shaken and distracted for the rest of practice. Yakov couldn't get too angry at them for that. He was struggling to focus, too.

June 7th, Hasetsu

"That doesn't make sense."

That was something Yuuri had hoped to never hear from a doctor.

He had gone into the clinic with the silver-haired man to act as a translator, and was dutifully interpreting between English and Japanese. Three different doctors had examined the man—a general physical, a brain scan, and a blood test—and they hadn't found a single thing wrong with him, except for the memory loss. In fact, he was in fantastic shape, and one of the doctors speculated that he had been a dancer, based on his strong legs, flexibility and grace. After seeing the man shirtless during the physical exam, Yuuri could believe it.

So now Yuuri, the silver-haired man, and the general physician were sitting in the examination room, baffled. Or at least, Yuuri and the doctor were baffled. The man with amnesia seemed perfectly at ease.

"I'm sure I'll be able to work something out," he said, and winked at Yuuri. "And if I had to lose my memories, at least it happened in a beautiful town, and with excellent company."

Yuuri reddened, as he often did around the other man. He turned to the doctor.

"Is there any other possible thing that could make someone lose their memories?"

The doctor paused for a few moments, and then said, "Well...very rarely, it is possible for amnesia to be caused by psychological factors, not physical ones."

"What do you mean?"

"After extreme stress or trauma, the mind may not be able to cope with what happened to it, so it protects itself by locking the memories away. This is usually limited to the traumatic event itself, not forgetting one's entire life history. But the latter is possible."

"Oh...Do we need to do anything? I mean, to help his memories come back?"

The doctor sighed. "Be there for him. Give him time and support. Avoid stressing him out or upsetting him, or trying to push him to get his memories back too quickly, as you might re-trigger the trauma."

...So it was probably a good thing they hadn't gone straight to the police, Yuuri guessed. Most encounters with the police were not happy occasions, and who knew what might have happened to the guy in the past?

"Mind you, I'm not a specialist, and can't diagnose this for sure. You'd need a psychologist for that. But assuming it is a psychological cause, my advice stands."

Yuuri translated the doctor's opinion to English, pausing frequently to check with the doctor to make sure he didn't leave anything out. The silver-haired man listened carefully, face solemn for once. He nodded in acknowledgment after Yuuri finished, but stayed silent, clearly coming to terms with it all.

Yuuri couldn't blame him for that; he still had trouble processing it himself. The idea of something so awful happening it could force someone to forget it all...that made Yuuri shiver.

He knew he'd have to get his family's permission, but...well, they did run an onsen, right? They were literally in the business of giving people a happy place to relax. They had plenty of empty rooms. Surely they could spare one?

Mari greeted them as they left the clinic. "So, how's your handsome stranger?" she asked, speaking in English to wind Yuuri up.

"Physically? Fine," he replied. "Mentally? Fine, except that he can't remember who he is."

"Any guesses as to why?"

"The doctor wasn't sure, but his best guess is that something traumatic happened to him."

"Damn. That must have been rough," she whistled. "Sorry, Shiro."

"Shiro?" The man raised an eyebrow.

"Well, we can't just keep calling you 'handsome stranger'. Shiro means white. Like your hair."

"Mari," Yuuri groaned, "Isn't it kind of rude to point that out?"

"I like Shiro," said the man.

"See?" Mari smirked.

"Fine, fine," said Yuuri. "Okay, you're Shiro, at least until we learn your real name."

It really took no effort to convince the Katsuki family to let the man—Shiro, now—stay with them until his memories returned, and that he would assist with the onsen to compensate them. Yuuri could practically hear his parents' hearts melting when he told them the doctor's theory. Mari rolled her eyes and muttered about getting back to work, but Yuuri caught the corner of her mouth twitching.

Yuuri's mother had stood up and hugged Shiro and promised to take care of him. He might not have understood the words, but he got the meaning well enough, and he hugged her back tightly.

If Yuuri's heart fluttered at the brilliant smile on Shiro's face, well, nobody needed to know about that.

June 8th, St. Petersburg

To Yakov's chagrin, the disastrous news had leaked out of Russia and spread throughout the global figure skating world. This meant that the story was no longer coming from fellow Russians who knew Viktor Nikiforov. No, the overwhelming majority of people talking now were people who'd never interacted with Viktor, and who had no clue what he was really like. Which meant that the internet was full of their drivel about what they thought had happened.

The more reasonable ones thought it was a kidnapping; Viktor was known to be wealthy, after all. It was plausible, but there had been no ransom note.

Some thought that Viktor had suffered an injury or illness and was too embarrassed to announce it publicly. Yakov scoffed at this: nothing could embarrass Viktor, and he would have told Yakov, at least.

Some people, who were obviously not skaters or coaches, thought he had been murdered by a jealous competitor. The real skaters were quick to shoot this idea down. Viktor was rather distant from other skaters, even from his own rinkmates, but he had always gotten along well when interacting with them. He had rivals but not enemies.

Some conspiracy theorists were even guessing that Viktor had been taken away or killed by a foreign government that was using the world of figure skating as a proxy for political conflict. Yakov didn't think this idea was even worth responding to.

Yuri had his own theory: "That stupid jerk probably just ran off because he was old and couldn't skate anymore!" Which was absurd, because Viktor had smashed his closest rival into second place by a huge margin in the last season. Even at twenty-seven, Viktor was indisputably the greatest figure skater alive. Besides, Viktor wouldn't abandon his dog like that.

The strangest part was that, when Yakov had visited Viktor's apartment to feed Makkachin, Viktor's wallet and passport were gone, but his phone and computer weren't. Viktor never went anywhere without his phone, and there was no sign of a robbery or struggle in the apartment. The police had checked with Viktor's bank and credit card company, but there had been no transactions since before Viktor had disappeared, and therefore no way to track him, assuming he had his wallet in the first place.

It just didn't make sense.