Chapter Text
When Viktor walks out of the onsen the next morning, Yuuri’s sitting on a rock near the sukkah with a mug of something caffeinated and a pleased look on his face. Makkachin, absent when Viktor woke up, is still nowhere to be found. He sits on the porch, sliding on his tennis shoes, before he strolls over to Yuuri.
There’s a mischievous glint in Yuuri’s eye, his smile just a bit more eager than Viktor’s used to. He raises his eyebrow before Yuuri pointedly looks at the finished sukkah. Viktor goes to look it over, carefully examining it for any missing branches or structural problems, before he notices what’s next to it.
Makkachin is curled up, asleep, in a tiny sukkah no more than three feet high. Its construction mimics that of the larger one, and children’s drawings line the wall. On closer inspection, Viktor notes that they’re all of Makkachin, curled up in a tiny house or eating fruits and vegetables, and his heart warms. If the Nishigori triplets had made art, it means they’d been asked to. He feels Yuuri come up next to him, and he smiles.
“The pictures say ‘Makkachin’s……sekkah’ and umm, ‘sekkot congratulations’.” Yuuri laughs, softly. “They wanted it to be festive. Loop wanted to make garlands until I reminded her Makka would probably eat the fake fruit.”
“You did this for me?” Viktor asks, somewhat awed and definitely almost giddy.
“Technically I did it for Makka,” Yuuri replies with a wry grin. “He helped, so I guess that, uh, ‘fulfills the mitzvah’ for him? I don’t know how all this works.”
“He helped?”
“Moral support.”
~*~
Yuuri spends the afternoon in the kitchen with Viktor at his side, deftly putting together recipes Viktor found that sounded good, and helping Hiroko and Toshiya with whatever tasks they need done in the meantime. It takes a while, but the dishes for the celebration later that night slowly come together, and by the time evening rolls around there’s a veritable feast in front of them. With Mari’s help, they carry it all out to the table set up in the larger sukkah, covering the food with netting to keep bugs off.
The onsen closes early that night, guests petering out on their own, and the Nishigori family arrives with snacks and their three boisterous children for Makkachin to play with. The yard fills with laughter and joy as the adults finish laying out dishes and cutlery. Viktor brings out some bread he’d made the night before, beautifully braided loaves of challah that stand proud in the center of the table before they’re demolished. Yuuri remembers him making it, sleeves rolled up and hair pulled back with a hairband. He pictures Viktor’s strong arms punching and kneading the dough, deft hands braiding six strands with practiced ease. It’s not an unattractive memory.
The Hebrew-covered box reappears before sunset, Viktor (now wearing a kippah) carrying it to the sukkah carefully. Whatever Yuuri expects to see when the package is opened, however, certainly isn’t some sort of plant with a handle and a giant lemon.
And he certainly doesn’t expect to see Viktor clasp both in hand, walk some distance, and start shaking them while muttering Hebrew under his breath. He does this six times, facing each cardinal direction, and then looking down, and finally looking up. When he’s done, he walks back over, cheeks flushed and eyes shining.
Yuuri raises his eyebrows. “So. Giant lemon?”
“It’s an etrog.” Viktor holds up the plant-thing. “This is a lulav.”
“Why, though?”
Viktor shrugs. “Tradition?” He smiles as if there’s some sort of inside joke connected to the word.
Yuuri just shrugs in response.
Dinner is eaten in a flurry of laughter and good-natured ribbing. After the main meal is done, fresh fruit is cut up and passed around, quickly staining fingers as everyone enjoys the dessert. When the last of the plates are cleared, and the sticky fruit juice cleaned from the table, the Nishigori family take their leave. The Katsuki parents finish preparations for the morning as Mari folds the last of the linens, bidding them goodnight as they go to bed.
Yuuri and Viktor spend a while in the hot springs, sitting in companionable silence, before Viktor shifts in the water. He looks over at Yuuri, face contemplative. Yuuri blushes, re-wetting his towel, but after a few minutes he stares back, meeting Viktor’s eyes.
“Is something bothering you?”
Viktor flushes. “Not really.”
Yuuri shrugs and leans back against the rocks, letting the steam wash over him.
“Yuuri?” Viktor’s voice is unusually hesitant.
“What is it?”
Viktor takes a deep breath. “Part of sukkot is spending at least one night sleeping in the sukkah, under the stars.”
Ahh. “I can bring a futon out,” Yuuri offers. “We have enough blankets that you shouldn’t be cold. We can even put some down in Makka’s sukkah, if you like.”
Viktor nods, but something in his face looks disappointed.
It’s just a few minutes more before they abandon the hot springs. They get dressed, both in the warm robes of the onsen, before Yuuri grabs bedding out of the storage room. The table and chairs are broken down in short order, easily stashed in the shed out back, and after laying a tarp on the ground, they set up the futon. Everything is in place, but as Yuuri goes to say goodnight, he sees Viktor looking morose.
“Did I do something wrong?” The words are out of Yuuri’s mouth before he has time to think about them.
Viktor looks at him kindly. “No, you haven’t done anything wrong.” He smiles, but it’s not his usual heart-shaped grin so much as it is the plastic cheerfulness of forced geniality.
Yuuri bites his lip. “Well, obviously something’s wrong.” When Viktor raises one of his (perfect) eyebrows, Yuuri barrels on. “You’re doing it…you’re doing the thing. With your face.”
And now Viktor looks confused. Yuuri grumbles a bit in Japanese, trying to find the English to explain what he means.
“You’re giving me that smile you give reporters and people you don’t want to talk to. The fake one. You’ve been here since April, Viktor,” he says earnestly, “that’s five months of seeing you every day. I know what your fake smile looks like.”
Viktor’s face falls.
Yuuri walks over, concerned. “If there’s something you want to ask me, ask me. I told you, I just want you to be you, Viktor. Good and bad.” He watches as Viktor take a deep breath, swallowing and looking down.
“Usually, when we slept in the sukkah it would be my whole family. All of us out there, under the stars, with a few space heaters and lots of blankets.”
Oh.
“You could have just asked, if you wanted me to sleep outside with you,” Yuuri replies cheerfully.
Viktor’s jaw clenches, briefly, before he responds. “Last time I asked if you wanted to sleep with me, you slammed the door in my face, so forgive me if I didn’t want to ask again.”
Yuuri winces. He looks down at his hands, twisting together nervously.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, after a while. “You didn’t deserve that. I overreacted.” When he looks back up, Viktor’s got a smile on his face. Yuuri frowns.
“Was it the posters?”
Oh no.
No.
“Th-the what?!” Yuuri’s face grows heated, the tips of his ears burning with shame.
“Yuuri, I’m down the hall from you, you left your door open when you went to the bathroom.”
This can’t be happening.
“I’ll sign them, if you want!” If Viktor wasn’t smiling before, he certainly is now. Yuuri buries his face in his hands, squatting down until he’s almost sunk into the floor.
“I can’t believe you saw them.”
Viktor laughs. “I found it adorable! I could tell you were a fan from your skating, but that was completely unexpected!”
It’s at this point Yuuri gives up, sprawling out on the hardwood. He pointedly doesn’t look in Viktor’s direction. Viktor’s bare feet come into his line of vision, and he looks the other way.
“Leave me here to die.”
Viktor chuckles, squatting next to him. “How are you going to win gold at the Grand Prix Final if you die in your hallway?”
Yuuri groans. He’ll find a way. He’s forced to sit up when a wet, pink dog tongue assaults his face. He moves up to lean against the wall as Makkachin continues with his onslaught. Finally managing to shove the poodle off himself, he looks up and is met with the sight of Viktor holding his hand out. Blue eyes sparkle above flushed cheeks, and Yuuri’s breath catches in his throat. He reaches out, taking the proffered hand, and uses the leverage to get to his feet.
“Give me five minutes.”
Yuuri’s outside in ten, a thermos in his arms and another blanket over his shoulders. He lays the blanket over the futon, before sitting next to Viktor at the head. “I made us some tea,” he explains, pouring two mugs of the steaming liquid. They drink in silence, Makkachin curled between them. When the thermos is empty, they set it aside and shimmy under the blankets. The stars shine bright overhead, glimmering through the gaps in the roof.
“It’s beautiful,” Yuuri says breathlessly.
“Chag Sameach, Yuuri.”
Yuuri leans up on one elbow. “Hog, what?”
Viktor repeats himself, emphasizing the guttural ‘ch’. “It’s basically ‘Happy Holiday’.”
“Oh,” Yuuri says, rolling onto his back. He pulls the blankets to his chin.
“Chag Sameach, Viktor.”
Yuuri's almost asleep, drifting in a warm haze, when he feels fingertips brush his hair out of his face. Viktor’s voice, murky, makes its way through the haze, but Yuuri drifts into oblivion before he can react to what is said.
“I have your posters, too.”
~*~
Mari finds them the next morning, curled up and facing each other. Their legs are entangled and hands twined together, Makkachin a lump under the blankets in the corner. She leaves them another thermos of tea, smiling as she closes the door quietly behind her.