Chapter Text
When Yuuri moved across the world, he honestly expected more from the United States. He could deal with speaking English, extremely tall people, and the chaos of living abroad. That was to be expected.
But Detroit is Yuuri’s personal hell.
Michigan is quite possibly the worst place that Yuuri’s ever lived in. He’s been nearly hit by bicycles twice, rained on, tripped by icy sidewalks and mildly frost-bitten, all in the same week. He must have done something terrible to deserve this.
The sun shines down on the city, not a cloud in the sky. It’s days like these that Yuuri always underestimates the cold. And when he guesses wrong, he’s usually very wrong.
And that’s why he finds himself huddled under five blankets in his dorm, blasting the space heater and nursing his numb fingers.
“Weather.com said it was 15 degrees outside! How was I supposed to know they meant degrees Fahrenheit ?” He whines to Phichit, his roommate.
Phichit rolls his eyes. “ Duh , this is America. Land of the free, home of the dumb measurement systems.” Yuuri groans. “You went outside, right?” Phichit asks. “Why didn’t you put on something warmer when you noticed the cold?”
“I thought it would, you know, get warmer outside?”
Phichit laughs. “Yuuri, you’re so naive. Michigan never gets warmer.”
“I know that now .”
Crossing the room, Phichit plants himself next to Yuuri on his bed and pats him on the back (or head? It’s all a big bundle of blankets). “Aww, look, you learned your lesson, and that’s what matters.” He pauses for a moment. “Maybe you should check the local weather before you go out every morning. That’s better than Weather.com, anyway.”
“How is that better?”
“I dunno, maybe because Channel 3 doesn’t say things like ‘Deadly Typhoon in Omaha Brutally Destroys Several Cornfields ’ or ‘Earthquake in Milwaukee Causes Massive Damage’ or something stupid and sensationalized?”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is that maybe you should check more, uh, reputable sources. Or at least get actual reporting instead of clickbait that tricks you into wearing a sweatshirt in sub-zero temperatures.”
“That’s rich. The journalism grad telling me to trust local media.”
Phichit shrugs. “Better than Weather.com, I’d say. Come on, I’ll show you the website. They’ve got their own livestream and everything.”
He parts the blankets over Yuuri’s head and grabs his laptop. Sitting down cross-legged next to him, Phichit types away on the keyboard and pulls up the local news station’s website. With a few
more clicks, he shoves the computer into Yuuri’s lap. “There. See? You’ll be better prepared now.”
Yuuri glances at Phichit skeptically, clicking on the “Weather” tab and scrolling down to an embedded video of the morning forecast. “Have you ever watched the local news?”
“Sometimes, but only the news programs. I kinda like their reporting, so I figure their weather shouldn’t be that bad. I wanna see how Americans do weather programs, too.”
Yuuri hits the play button, and the video begins to buffer.
Tinny, dramatically-uplifting news station music opens the program, with the deep-voiced narrator introducing the weather program. “Now live from across Greater Detroit, your weather authority!” Red, white and blue ribbons transition the announcement to the live footage, revealing a satellite map of the area. Immediately, the meteorologist strolls onto the screen and flashes a friendly smile at the camera. Yuuri draws in a breath sharply.
“Holy shit, he’s hot,” he blurts. Phichit bursts out laughing next to him.
The lines of the weatherman’s navy blue suit follow the curves of his body perfectly, the lapels and pale blue tie crisp and orderly. Not a hair on his head is out of place, and it’s jarring how silvery it is compared to his youthful face.
“Good morning, I’m Victor Nikiforov, here with your daily forecast. It’s shaping up to be a chilly day of yet another volatile week, let’s take a look at our satellite radar. Hamburg at 14, Ann Arbor at 16, Essex at 10— ”
His slightly-accented voice (oh God, even his voice sounds like an angel’s) worms its way into Yuuri’s head, and he wonders what his regular voice sounds like, what it’d sound like in the—
“You’re thirsty for the weatherman, aren’t you?” Phichit waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I don’t suppose I deserve a thank you?”
“Thanks, Phichit,” Yuuri says absently, still focusing on the way Victor’s collar hits at his Adam’s apple and the shininess of his hair. “Yep, the thirst is real.”
Phichit claps Yuuri on the shoulder. “Good luck, my boy,” he jokes. “Let me know when the wedding is. I’d better be the best man.” Somehow, Yuuri no longer feels bothered by the random weather patterns of Detroit. All the more reason to check the weather forecast, anyway.
Maybe living abroad isn’t so bad after all.
“God bless America,” Yuuri breathes.