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It’s a Sunday morning in the Katsuki-Nikiforov apartment. Yuuri’s relaxing on the sofa in the living room, Viktor spread out across the length with his head in Yuuri’s lap and Makkachin sprawled out on Viktor’s legs. The television is on, playing some forgotten news program, and there’s empty coffee mugs and half-eaten pastries from the local bakery on the end table.
Viktor reaches his hand up to play with the little strands of hair falling onto Yuuri’s face.
“I like your hair long like this.” He tugs, pulling Yuuri down for a gentle kiss. “If you grow it out a little longer, I can braid it for you.”
“You know how to braid hair?”
“Of course, I used to braid my hair all the time when I wore it long. And who do you think did my hair for competitions back then? Yakov?”
Yuuri laughs. “No, I guess not, it just didn’t occur to me.” He hums, running his hand over Viktor’s head. “Why’d you cut your hair?”
“Hm? Oh, I thought it was getting a little long, I stopped by the hairdresser’s on my way home yesterday.”
“No, silly, not why did you get a trim, I meant why’d you- you know, why did you cut your hair so short when you were younger? I’ve always wondered.” Yuuri says.
“I don’t really know,” Viktor muses. “Impulse, mostly. I probably read some magazine article somewhere about short hair being a new trend. But I got the idea in my head, and I just wondered, what if I cut it all off? And it’s not like anyone was going to try and stop me. People were surprised, though. You should have seen Yakov’s face when he realized I’d actually gone and done it.”
“I can imagine,” Yuuri says. “You’re a very surprising man, Viktor Nikiforov.”
Viktor grins and pulls Yuuri down for another kiss.
They pull apart, Viktor’s hand still in Yuuri’s hair. He’s looking at Yuuri contemplatively.
“Can I comb your hair?”
“What?”
“Can I comb your hair, Yuuri? Please?”
“Oh! Um, sure.”
“Great!” Viktor cheers. “I’ll be right back, I’ll go get a comb!”
He heaves himself up from the couch, tipping Makkachin onto the floor, and dashes to the bathroom. Makkachin huffs indignantly and plops his chin down on Yuuri’s knee. Yuuri scratches behind his ears.
“Your dad is silly sometimes, Makka.”
Makkachin snuffles and sticks his wet nose in Yuuri’s face.
There’s a series of noises from the bathroom that sound suspiciously like someone just spilled a box full of toiletries all over the floor.
“You ok?” Yuuri calls.
Something heavy tips over.
“Viktor?” He doesn’t answer. Yuuri stands up, about to go check on him, when Viktor emerges from the bathroom.
“It’s fine, Yuuri!” He crosses the room, plops down on the couch. “Mostly fine,” he pouts, seeing the skeptical look on Yuuri’s face. “Sit down, sit down, I want to comb your hair!” He tugs Yuuri’s arm and Yuuri sits, tucking his feet up on the couch, his back to Viktor.
Viktor kisses the top of Yuuri’s head. He pulls the comb gently through Yuuri’s hair, smoothing over the more unruly bits with light touches, playing his fingers through the shorter strands around Yuuri’s temples.
“Your hair is so soft and shiny, Yuuri, I love it!” He rubs his cheek against Yuuri’s hair.
Yuuri ducks his head, laughing. “Viktor! What’s the point of combing it if you’re just going to mess it all up again!”
“Mess up your hair? I would never!” Viktor gasps. “The very nerve, Yuuri, saying such things to me.”
He cranes his neck around to kiss Yuuri’s cheek. Yuuri’s giggle is so sweet Viktor can’t help but bend his head down further to trail kisses down Yuuri’s neck.
“Ah, Viktor! That tickles!” Yuuri laughs.
“What? This tickles?” He skims his hands up Yuuri’s ribs. “Or this?” He squeezes Yuuri’s sides.
“Ah!” Yuuri squeals, laughing. “Viktor, don’t-!”
“What was that? I can’t really hear what it is you’re saying, Yuuri, you’ll have to speak up a bit,” Viktor says as he tickles Yuuri’s stomach.
“Viktor!”
Yuuri throws himself backwards, knocking Viktor onto his back. He flips over and attacks Viktor’s armpits, laughing as Viktor yelps and tries to squirm away into the couch.
“No, no, Yuuri, don’t, Yuuri, not my knees! Not my knees!”
Viktor shrieks, flailing, and they fall off the couch.
They land with their legs tangled together, Yuuri lying on top of Viktor. They’re both breathing heavily and Viktor’s cheeks are flushed a delicate pink. Yuuri can only imagine how much he’s blushing right now, how ridiculous he must look with his face bright red and his hair a mess, but Viktor’s looking up at Yuuri like he’s never seen anything more beautiful. Yuuri feels himself blush deeper.
“Solnyshko moye,” Viktor murmurs.
It feels like the most natural thing in the world for Yuuri to lean down and kiss Viktor’s chin, his nose, his lips.
Viktor giggles, Yuuri pulls back. He tugs on Viktor’s shoulder. “Here, sit up.”
Viktor does so, crossing his legs, and Yuuri scoots up to kneel behind him. Yuuri reaches for the comb, abandoned on the couch, and moves his hands to Viktor’s head.
His hair is unbelievably silky, falling through Yuuri’s fingers like water. Yuuri combs it back, similar to how he wears his own hair during competitions.
“I like your hair back,” he says. “You should wear it like this sometimes. We could be matching.”
“It makes my forehead look too big,” Viktor pouts. “You know my hairline’s receding.”
“Oh, but I love your big forehead, it’s more room for me to kiss.” Yuuri pushes Viktor’s hair out of the way and presses warm kisses to his soft skin.
“Yuuri, so romantic.” Viktor beams at him. “Wait- so you do think it’s too big?”
Yuuri rolls his eyes. “Hush, you know what I mean.”
Viktor turns in his arms and looks up at him. “I don’t think I do. Explain it to me?” He teases.
So Yuuri does.