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♡ Yuuri ♡
I will be late. Please eat without me!
Viktor frowns. He and Yuuri always meet up for lunch, after Viktor’s ice time with Yakov and before their practice together. It’s one of the many delightful parts of living together in St. Petersburg, and Viktor is reluctant to miss a single day.
Okay. Don’t be late for practice! He texts back, followed by three kissyface emoji in a row.
It’s not like Viktor will be eating alone, his many rinkmates are nearby, familiar as anything and easy to talk with. Just not as delightful as the company of one Katsuki Yuuri.
Yuuri hasn’t ever been late to afternoon practice in St. Petersburg, due in part that it is later in the day than it was it Hasetsu. Also because he’s sweet and lovely and grateful that Viktor is coaching and competing for his sake. So when Yuuri is half an hour late, he’s concerned. When Yuuri doesn’t answer his phone, even more so. It isn’t a long walk between their apartment and the rink. Viktor’s close to heading out to retrieve him, coat on, tying his scarf when Yuuri appears, flushed and very apologetic.
VIktor’s on him immediately.
“Yuuuuri, did you get lost?”
“I’m sorry for making you wait!” Even Yuuri’s little half-bow is adorable. Viktor melts, shrugging out of his coat.
“You can make it up to me.” Viktor says, pitching his voice low.
Practice begins as normal. It’s difficult managing the responsibilities of being both competitor and coach, but it’s worth it. Viktor hasn’t been this inspired in years and years.
Yuuri’s especially tense and stiff today, missing enough jumps that Viktor switches practice around to focus on other elements instead. Yuuri is sensitive to emotional headwinds, and it seems like this is one of those times. Perhaps it is because he was late; not that Yuuri always needs a concrete reason to feel troubled.
When Yakov comes up and scolds him, he’s surprised.
“I thought you knew better than this, Vitya.” Yakov often says some variation on that theme. “Practicing when he’s that sick will only make it harder to recover.”
“Sick?” Viktor puts a finger to his lip and looks closer at his Yuuri.
Yakov flicks his ear. “Idiot! You are not cut out to be a coach.”
Viktor does not get sick, he’s lucky like that. Illnesses happen to other people, for the most part. Once every few years he’s gotten a minor cold, but nothing serious. A brief inconvenience.
He skates up to Yuuri, who pauses neatly and turns his face up to Viktor, awaiting feedback. He’s a little pale, dark circles underneath his eyes, but Yuuri has always had trouble sleeping.
“Yuuri,” his voice is a little wounded. “You’re sick.”
“Just a little!” Yuuri waves his hands, dismissive.
“We’ve done enough for today,” Viktor says. “Let’s go back home.”
“We’ve barely been practicing an hour! Viktor, I’m fine, honestly.”
Viktor loops his hand around Yuuri’s upper arm, tugging him towards the exit. “Coach’s orders. And tell me when you’re sick.”
Yuuri lets himself be dragged off the ice without more protest, and that, more than anything, convinces Viktor it’s the right thing to do.
What do sick people need? Soup?
When they get to the changing room, Viktor remembers about fevers. “Yuuri, come here.”
Yuuri is halfway between workout clothes and everyday wear, in a charcoal sweater and briefs. He lifts an eyebrow and steps closer. As soon as he’s in range, Viktor leans down and presses their foreheads together. He tsks as he feels Yuuri’s heat.
“You have a fever.”
“You’re just cold from the rink,” Yuuri says, pulling away and reaching for his slacks. “It’s not that bad.”
Still, on the way out Viktor makes sure Yuuri is tightly bundled up and tucked in close to his side. Cutting practice for one day isn’t a big deal. Yuuri has come back from bigger absences. Obviously, so has Viktor.
This is nice, Viktor thinks, back at their apartment, snuggled up on the couch with Yuuri and Makkachin. They watch recordings of Yuuri’s latest program on Viktor’s phone, discussing spots that need improvement. It’s so comfortable; when they switch to a few recordings of Viktor’s latest program and Yuuri offers halting critique, Viktor can’t help but kiss his still-flushed cheek.
Viktor orders delivery for them both–Soup! Because you’re sick!–and congratulates himself on the whole caretaking thing. He’s better at this then helping with anxiety or tears.
Yuuri is still asleep the next morning when Viktor leaves for practice, but that is standard. He’s a pretty sight, curled up fist-under-chin in the dawn light, and it’s hard to tear himself away. He limits himself to one lingering kiss on the curve of Yuuri’s cheekbone.
“How’s Katsuki doing?” Yakov asks, midway through practice. He’s looking to the side, playing it off nonchalant, but Viktor knows Yuuri has wormed a soft spot into the Russian’s heart. Yuuri listens, actually listens to Yakov when he speaks, polite and attentive, and that has won his coach over completely.
“He’s fine,” Viktor says, waving a hand reassuringly. “He slept.”
“Make sure he doesn’t have a fever before letting him back on the ice.” His voice is gruff.
“Yes, yes.” Viktor pats his coach on the arm. “He’ll be here this afternoon.”
“What’s wrong with Katsudon?” Yuri skates up, slouching his shoulders and looking to the side in a way he’d never try if Lilia were around.
Yuuri had explained what a tsundere was, after Mari had made a few jokes about their little blond Russian. Tsundere, Viktor thinks. “You’re worried!” He says out loud. “He’s just a little sick! I’ll let him know how much you care.”
Yuri scowls and skates off.
Yuuri isn’t there for lunch, though. No texts, no calls. Yuri, who eats lunch with them more often than not, tries to get ahold of him as well, but nothing. Viktor’s halfway into his his coat when Yuri yells, biting, “Hurry up, old man!”
They both jog over to Viktor’s apartment building as fast as the still-icy streets allow.
The apartment door takes too long to open, they key feels too big, the lock too small; the apartment is quiet and still.
Yuuri’s still curled up in bed when they arrive, Makkachin tucked close in the pile of blankets. The poodle lets out a little whuf at the sight of Viktor and Yuri in the doorway, but doesn’t get up from her warm spot.
“Yuuri!” Viktor sits down next to his fiancé and presses his palm to Yuuri’s forehead, flinching when he feels how hot it's grown. Much worse than yesterday.
“Where’s your thermometer?” Yuri’s leaning against the doorframe, trying to play it casual, but his voice is tense.
“I don’t have one,” Viktor admits. Yuuri’s blinking himself awake, eyes a little dazed, and Viktor lets his hand slide down to cup his cheek.
“You’re useless!” Yuri scolds. “Where’s your medicine, then?”
Viktor blinks. “I have pain pills in the cupboard.”
“You didn’t check his temperature and you didn’t give him any meds? How do you even manage to keep your mutt alive?” Yuri stalks off, thump thump thump down the hallway. “I’m going shopping! You will be paying me back for this!”
“Viktor!” Yuuri says, and his voice sounds so exhausted. “Why are you back so early? … with Yurio?”
“It’s lunchtime, Yuuri.” Viktor says. I’ve never done this before! he thinks. He's ashamed that he’s a little charmed at the chance.
Yuuri’s expression slips quickly into distress. “Oh no, I’m so sorry!” He pulls away and tries to untangle himself from blankets, fiancé, and dog, but Viktor pushes him back against the pillows.
“Nope. You’re not leaving this bed.” That type of phrasing is usually innuendo. Not today.
“Viktor, I can’t miss practice two days in a row.” Yuuri does a complicated wiggle, trying to get to the other side of their bed, but he’s blocked by so many blankets. Winters in Russia are cold and Viktor may have overstocked in an attempt to keep Yuuri warm and cozy.
“Your coach says,” because Yakov had said, “you shouldn’t get near the ice until your fever is gone. It’ll only make you miss more time.”
“Viktor-” His protest is cut off by Viktor’s finger on his lips, which are a little chapped. Viktor makes a mental note to put some gloss on them soon.
“Yuuri,” Viktor says, drawing out the vowels in his name. And then, because he just can’t help it, moves his finger and kisses the chapped lips. Yuuri’s cheeks are red with fever, and he always looks so cute with a blush.
At this, Yuuri shoves him away. “Viktor. You’ll get sick.”
“It’d be worth it,” Viktor says, sparkling. “But don’t worry, I never get sick.”
Yuuri sighs. “Of course you don’t.”
Yuri returns about half an hour later, interrupting Viktor’s attempt at hug therapy. Makkachin nearly bowls him over at the door, awake now and energetic. She missed her mid-morning walk with Yuuri.
Viktor blinks as the blond shoves a receipt under his nose. “You’re useless, so I got everything.”
“Thank you, Yurio,” Viktor says, taking the paper and the two plastic bags of supplies. They’re both overflowing.
Yuri walks over and grabs Makkachin’s leash, trying to hide how thoughtful and kind he’s being with a teenage slouch. “I’ll take the mutt on a walk for you. You owe me choreography for life.”
Makkachin excitedly licks Yuri’s hand.
“Have a good walk!” Viktor says, because Yuri is embarrassed enough. His pride couldn’t take another heartfelt thank you.
Viktor takes the bags into the bedroom, where Yuuri is squinting at his phone, sans-glasses, wan and miserable.
Thermometer, thermometer… looks like Yuri bought the most expensive model, in a nice case with an impressive array of technical specs. Viktor approves, reading the instructions as he pulls out the device.
“Tilt your head, love.” Viktor presses the digital thermometer into Yuuri’s ear, and while waiting for results pushes Yuuri’s bangs out of his face. His hair is soft and smells like Viktor’s shampoo, so he keeps running his fingers gently through the short strands.
38.4 the device announces with a beep. Viktor checks the box for guidance and a little of the tension leaves his shoulders when he sees it isn’t too high.
Yuuri looks up at him, eyebrow raised, so Viktor kisses his brow. “No practice today.”
The light-up numbers on the thermometer blink accusingly. Yuuri frowns at them, then moves his attention to the overstuffed pharmacy bags. “Yurio bought all this?”
“He likes you,” Viktor says, fond.
“I can’t read any of these.” Yuuri has two small boxes of medicine in his hand, a few of many in the bag itself. His Russian is getting better, but that doesn’t extend to medical terminology. He can say hello, how are you? That was a nice jump; not read antipyretic, take two with water.
Viktor roots through the bag and pulls out one for pain and fever. Yuri bought a little of everything; it’s like he went down the aisles grabbing the most-expensive version of each medication. Viktor is thankful his apartment will be well-stocked from now on, should his fiancé need more caretaking (!!!!). “Lucky you have me, then. Is it just the fever? Anything else?”
“I’m just tired,” Yuuri says, and he does sound exhausted. Viktor maintains eye contact until Yuuri adds, reluctant, “It’s like I overtrained. I’m sore everywhere.”
Viktor wraps him up in a hug. He can’t help it. Yuuri wiggles his way out after a bit, forcing his fiancé to reluctantly let go. Yuuri digs in the bags, searching, while Viktor gets a glass of water and pulls out the pills (Super Cold Plus! Reduce Pain and Fever for Easy Sleep}.
The pills are white and fairly small. Yuuri swallows them easily, then lets Viktor cajole him into finishing the entire glass of water. He leans back against the pillows and pulls out a little flat pouch he’d retrieved from their new pharmacy stash. It’s a white face mask, which he hurriedly tucks behind each ear. The white cotton covers most of his face. He wears them often when traveling for competitions, but. “Yuuri, what are you doing?”
“I won’t get you sick.” He leans back against the pillows and closes his eyes.
“Yuuuuuuri.”
“You should wash your hands,” Yuuri insists, firm.
Viktor’s frowning and washing his hands in the kitchen sink when Yuri and Makkachin return, having lost that battle. Turns out he’s weak to Yuuri’s pretty eyes staring at him over a facemask. No one is surprised.
Makkachin trots over and presses her cold nose affectionately against Viktor’s side. He laughs and kneels down to pet her curls with freshly-washed, still-slightly-damp hands. “Are you cold, darling? Did you have a good walk with little Yura?”
Yuri’s still in the entrance, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, feigning indifference. “I have to go meet Lilia. Try not to kill Katsudon.”
Viktor gets up and hugs Yuri too, squishing the teen’s face into his shoulder and ruffling his blond hair. “Thank you, Yuri.”
“Gross,” Yuri says, pulling away quickly and opening the apartment door. He’s tiling his face away but he can’t quite conceal the blush, being much too fair-skinned.
“You’re the best!” He calls out, before the door slams shut. Tsundere, he thinks again, warm.
The medicine must be fast-acting, because Yuuri is fully asleep when Viktor gets back. He doesn’t stir when Viktor gets under the covers beside him and only lets out a soft hum as Viktor slips an arm underneath him and positions his head on his shoulder. Viktor’s arm will surely go numb. It is for a worthy cause.
The next day, he is cornered separately by Mila, Georgi, Yakov, Yuri, and even Lilia; all with varying levels of concealed concern. One one hand, Victor is glad that the Russian skate team gives Yuuri the regard he deserves. On the other, he's a little offended in their lack of faith. Makkachin is in excellent health for her age, Victor has made sure she has regular check-ups, doggie supplements, careful grooming, and professionally manicured paws. Sometimes he can't be home with her, but it's paramount she be happy and healthy. She even has her own doggy trust fund, set up for her care.
So it rankles a bit when Yakov implies he isn't doing well enough caring for his Yuuri.
“What have you been feeding him, Vitya? I don’t trust your cooking.” VIktor is especially annoyed because he knows Yakov eats out at roughly the same rate he does, after burning water more than once. Also because Viktor has been ordering expensive take-out soups and encouraging Yuuri to eat them, without much success.
“Make him this, with honey and lemon,” Yakov says, gruffly handing over a box of tea. His coach is a softie, underneath.
“Thank you,” Viktor says.
He stops on the way home to buy lemons and a fresh jar of organic, single-source honey from a specialty shop. The plan is tea. He should have thought about tea earlier, honestly.
The trouble with this illness, Yuuri thinks, is that it is relentless. His fever drops with the medicine a little and then creeps back up every time. He’s so tired, with an ache settled deep in his bones that never fully abates. Other than that, not a sniffle or a cough. If it was a cold, he’d know what to do, but he doesn’t have a roadmap for how to recover from this. What's worse, every day waiting is another day away from the ice.
Appetite completely gone, Yuuri lays in bed with Makkachin and dozes. He doesn’t even have the energy to scroll through his phone.
He wakes with the sun low in the sky and a splitting headache, somehow sicker than he’s felt the entire time. He must’ve missed a dose of medicine while napping. Yuuri knows that he should take more of the strange Russian pills, but he can’t gather his fuzzy thoughts enough follow through, staring instead at folds in the blankets. They had seemed like too many at the time, but Yuuri’s much more appreciative of them now, since it’s so cold. His teeth are chattering, and it would be so much more awful without blankets.
“Yuuri!” Viktor’s voice sounds out from the hallway, cheery.
“V-viktor,” Yuuri says, softer than he intended because he’s shaking.
Viktor has a bag from the crazy-expensive grocery tucked in one arm when he appears in the doorway, still in his coat and scarf. “Yuuri, I brought tea!” His smile falls when he takes in Yuuri’s miserable expression, and he kneels down next to the bed, groceries forgotten.
Viktor’s hands are usually warm but Yuuri flinches away when they touch his face. So cold. “Did you take your medicine, love?”
Yuuri presses his face back into the pillows. “No,” he says, muffled.
Perhaps the heat is out and that’s why Viktor’s hand is shaking as he presses the digital thermometer to his ear. It makes a different, angrier beep after a few seconds. The loud sound makes Yuuri’s headache pulse in pain, so he scrunches his eyes shut.
“All right, that’s it,” Viktor says, decisive. He reaches into the blankets and extracts Yuuri, who doesn't have enough strength left in him to resist.
Viktor may be cool, but the air is colder. “Viktor,” he says, without a follow-up, shivering harder. Cool lips press against his forehead in response, soft.
Viktor sets him on top of the blankets, then begins quickly folding them around him. It’s a complex maneuver that, in the end, reminds Yuuri of being wrapped in a giant burrito. It's so tight in the comforter that he can barely move his arms. Viktor tucks a beanie on his head and then he’s being lifted up, blanket and all, and carried to the door.
“W-what’re you doing?” Even through the fever this is an alarming turn of events.
“We’re going to the doctor, right now.”
The response sends a pulse of anxiety down his spine. “I’m fine!”
Viktor just hums and tightens his grip in response. “You will be, darling.”
He’d be more embarrassed if he was more aware his surroundings, but for a time everything passes in a blur. Viktor must have called a driver, because soon they’re in the back of a car and his fiancé is whispering sweet, soft nonsense into his ear, stopping only long enough to press tiny kisses to his nose, his eyelid, his cheek. Viktor Nikiforov, Yuuri thinks with a little shiver of joy amidst the pain. I love him.
The blanket burrito plan has many drawbacks that are immediately apparent when they arrive at the private clinic and sit down in the waiting room. Yuuri’s still in his pajamas underneath. When Viktor takes in the sight of his still-shaking fiancé’s bruised, bare feet on the cold tile floor he audibly swears. Then he gets up to fix the problem.
“Hi,” Viktor says to the receptionist with his widest smile, approaching the front desk. “Do you have any slippers?”
The receptionist has to blink a few times, from a combination of that smile and the no doubt slightly-crazed look in Viktor’s eyes. He looks around his desk: computer, folders, papers. “This is a doctor’s office?” His voice tilts up at the end.
“Yes, yes.” Viktor says, still smiling. Determined. “Do you have any socks?”
“We…” A few of the other people in the waiting room are watching with interest, and the receptionist clears his throat. There are a few pairs of hospital socks in the supply closet, a mistaken delivery from a few months back. “Yes. We do.”
“Wonderful! My lovely fiancé,” Viktor gestures grandly back at Yuuri, whose grasp of Russian is unfortunately good enough to understand most of this, “is sadly barefoot! Could you possibly go and get a pair for him?”
Yuuri tries to hide further under the blanket. Most of the waiting room is watching as Viktor hands the receptionist a wad of cash, shameless.
Socks in hand, Viktor returns, kneeling down to put them on Yuuri’s feet, gently sliding them over his heels and up to the pretty curve of his ankles. It takes a lot of willpower not to kiss them, too, but he doesn’t want to make Yuuri’s anxious expression become even more pinched.
In a finishing touch, Viktor wraps his own coat around Yuuri and tucks the thick, king-size blanket over both their laps instead. There are little curly poodle hairs on the blanket, he notices, patting the folds out.
At least the people in the waiting room get to enjoy a show. Yuuri is both embarrassed and weirdly, deliriously charmed by Viktor that he forgets for a little while how awful he feels physically, leaning on his fiancé’s solid shoulder and closing his eyes.
Viktor pulls out his phone to update Yuri on the situation, only to see a text from Phichit.
Phichit
Viktor, Yuuri’s hasn’t answered my texts all day. What’s going on?
Yuuri has a fever, Viktor types back. We are at the clinic now. Will keep you updated!
He then takes a picture of Yuuri dozing on his shoulder and sends that too.
Phichit
Oh no! Take good care of him. Let me know what the doctor says.
Viktor then texts Yuri, whose read receipt comes up scarily fast.
Yura (=^･ω･^=)
I'll take the mutt on a walk for you again.
Thank you, Yura! You’re the best! Viktor writes back, followed by five sparkling heart emojis and three dog emojis.
Yura (=^･ω･^=)
Learn how to take better care of Katsudon, idiot. YOU OWE ME CHOREOGRAPHY FOR LIFE.
It isn’t long until they’re lead back to a room by a nurse. It must be a busy day in the clinic, because the hair in her bun sticks up in a mess of curly flyaways and the dark circles under her eyes rival those of Yuuri.
She takes Yuuri’s vitals, silent and bored. Viktor takes heart in the fact that she doesn’t look concerned at the results.
“How long?” She says in Russian to Yuuri, who blinks back at her, dazed enough now that the language has left him.
“She wants to know how long you’ve had the fever, Yuuri.” Viktor translates into English, watching how wobbly Yuuri looks on the exam table and thinking about getting up to steady him.
“About three days fever,” Yuuri says in halting Russian, and Viktor’s heart swells in in pride. Soon they’ll both be trilingual!
The nurse does not look impressed, lifting up the back of Yuuri’s blue pajama shirt and listening to his lungs with a stethoscope.Yuuri shivers at the cool metal touch but obediently takes a few slow, deep breaths.
“Has he been coughing?” The nurse asks, turning to Viktor.
“No coughing,” Viktor replies in Russian, then switches to English for Yuuri’s sake. “You haven’t been coughing, have you, love?”
“No, no coughing,” Yuuri says, shooting Viktor a guilty look. “Just sore and tired. And my chest feels... heavy.”
The nurse is nodding before Viktor can translate, typing something into her computer. Seems she understood the English just fine, but is reluctant to speak it.
“Bronchitis,” She says, curt, after printing out a sheet of paper and handing it to Viktor. Viktor would love to translate, but he isn’t familiar with the illness in Russian or English. “I’m writing you a prescription now. Give him the antibiotics once a day with food until the pills run out and the steroid once a day for three days.”
“Steroids?” Viktor says, frowning. “We’re athletes. He can’t-”
The nurse waves her hands, brushing off his concerns. “Medicine is medicine. We will fill out the necessary paperwork. Or would you like this to turn into pneumonia?”
Pneumonia, that one Viktor does know. He winces, then translates for Yuuri’s benefit. Yuuri frowns.
“I’m his coach,” Viktor says in English, “I’ll fill out the paperwork. Just get him what he needs.”
“All right,” the nurse replies. “He is not to exert himself for at least a week. Keep his fever down. Don’t let him breathe in cold, dry air. “ She hands Viktor a few more sheets of paper with diagnosis notes.
“Thank you,” Yuuri says, politely, in his accented Russian. He looks so tired and so small. Viktor gets up and slips an arm around his shoulder, helpless. He loves taking care of Yuuri but he’d much, much prefer to never see Yuuri’s face tight with pain and stress ever again.
The doctor said to keep him away from the cold and that he shouldn’t exert himself. Yuuri’s life revolves around exerting himself on the ice, which is a problem for later.
The immediate problem is getting clearance from the ISU for the steroids. There is quite a lot of paperwork involved, which needs to be signed, scanned, emailed, approved. Across time zones. In Russian for the hospital and English for the ISU.
Viktor can’t stop thinking about Yuuri in the waiting room while the paperwork is being sorted out. Yuuri’s still in his pajamas, the blue ones with the poodles. No shoes. He’s read the doctor’s 1-page print out on bronchitis three times, picturing the illness curling through Yuuri’s lungs, thinking about the weight of would you like this to turn into pneumonia? His grandmother passed away from that, years ago. Not that they were close.
He texts Yuri. He texts Phichit. He texts Chris and Mila and Georgi. He even texts Yuuri a long string of emotes, ♡＼(￣▽￣)／♡ I LOVE YOU, even though Yuuri’s phone is at home. With his shoes and glasses. ♡＼(￣▽￣)／♡ FEEL BETTER SOON.
When the clearance finally comes, Viktor straight-up hugs the harried receptionist who’s been helping scan/email/annotate. Medical approval granted.
There’s an attached pharmacy in the lobby of the building, Viktor descends upon it and emerges victorious with two little white bags of pills and permission to get his Yuuri home.
The waiting room is nice but definitely not welcoming. No one comes there for fun. An entirely different set of people are sitting in it, hours having passed since their arrival. Yuuri is in a corner chair, head on the wall, still wrapped in Viktor’s coat. Viktor can see the color high on his cheeks from a distance. Poor, sad, sweet little thing.
I am bad at this, he thinks, ashamed at how excited he had been to take care of Yuuri this way.
Getting home feels like it takes hours, although in reality it’s about 20 minutes. Makkachin greets them at the door, tucking in close to their sides as Viktor gets Yuuri set up on the couch, then jumping up beside Yuuri and putting her head in his lap. I have to text Yura thanks for watching her. She looks freshly brushed.
Pills are the absolute first thing, the pills that took so long to get. They’re in little orange bottles with childproof caps, which are unfairly hard to open.
“Viktor,” Yuuri says, placing his hand over where he’s struggling with the lid. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”
“Yuuri-” He begins.
“Thank you,” Yuuri says, gently prying the pill bottle out of his hand and removing the top. “How many?”
“One,” Viktor says, feeling lighter, tracing little affectionate circles across Yuuri’s knee with his now-empty hand. “With a glass of water. Or would you like tea? Yakov gave me some earlier, for you. He likes you very much.”
“Water’s fine.” Yuuri’s cheeks are still flushed, cherry-red with fever. His hand holding the pill trembles. “Don’t worry.”
Is this how Yuuri feels, throat tight; how he worries? Is that why he recognises it so easily in Viktor’s eyes?
“You’re supposed to eat something, too,” Viktor says, rising and heading into the kitchen. “With the antibiotics. What would you like?”
Yuuri doesn't have an answer, just blinks at Victor, exhausted.
He brings Yuuri a mug of water, figuring that would be easier to hold on to than a glass, then sits next to him as he drinks it, sip by sip. The difficult-to-acquire steroid and one fever reducer are swallowed.
Their cupboards are pretty bare, still. Neither of them are fantastic cooks. They do have a rice cooker that Yuuri brought from Japan, sleek and white on Viktor’s otherwise empty countertops. He mechanically fills it with two cups of rice, rinses the grains, then fills water up to the line. Presses cook. Did Yuuri eat anything today? He barely ate yesterday.
Rice should be easy for him, bland and warm. Victor brews the tea and generously stirs in honey, squeezes in half a lemon and then spends time picking out the seeds. By the time it's all ready, the rice is done.
Yuuri’s dozing on the couch, but he slits his eyes open at Viktor’s approach. A little bowl of rice and a giant, steaming mug of tea; perhaps Victor should have ordered something to be delivered. What he's made is so humble.
Yuuri smiles for him. “What about you?”
When was the last time I ate? Victor wonders, feeling blank.
He makes sure Yuuri takes the antibiotics, then gets himself the rest of the rice and a cup of tea, thick with honey.
They eat quietly, side by side, thigh to thigh. Yuuri doesn't make it quite halfway through the small bowl of rice, but he does finish the tea. He rests against Viktor’s shoulder when he's done, breath slow and even, pretty eyelashes unfairly beautiful in the low, evening light.
Bronchitis is in the lungs, but although Yuuri’s breaths are heavy, he isn’t coughing like he needs to be to get better. The steroids are meant to give him strength.
It’s been an exhausting day. Viktor has always been more of a morning person than a night owl, and it’s well after midnight now.
Yuuri stays asleep, limp and pale as Viktor carries him back to their bed. It is not reassuring.
Viktor’s alarm begins at 5:00am, and he rushes to silence the classical piano ringtone, hushing Yuuri and kissing his sweet little nose. He’ll have to call Yakov. There’s so much heat radiating from Yuuri again, the medicine having worn off sometime in the night. The dark circles under his eyes are somehow even more pronounced.
“Viktor,” Yuuri starts, voice rough, but can’t finish because he starts coughing.
Coughing is good, Viktor reminds himself, as he rubs Yuuri’s shuddering back. His face is scrunched up in pain.
“Shhhh,” Viktor says. “Sorry for waking you, love.” He reaches for his phone again to text Yakov, who will surely understand that some things are more important than skating, namely his love and life. Yakov had helped him extensively yesterday with all the paperwork, so he understands the situation already.
Yuuri curls weak fingers around his wrist. “I’m okay. Don’t worry. Don’t,” he shifts with effort to look Viktor in the eye. “You need to skate.”
“Yuuri,” Viktor says, “you’re much more important than-”
“You’re important,” Yuuri’s voice is stronger, his brown eyes determined and so unfairly pretty. “You’re important.”
“Yuuri, love-” Viktor begins again, brushing Yuuri’s hair out of his eyes with his free hand, but Yuuri is adamant.
“I’m okay,” he insists, and Viktor is utterly weak to the flushed cheeks and tears, actual tears. “I can’t drag you down, I can’t-” He starts into another shuddering coughing fit, still gripping Viktor’s wrist.
Viktor wishes he knew what to do to fix this. “Yuuri. Darling. It’s fine, okay? Shhhh.”
Yuuri presses his wet face into Viktor’s neck and Viktor can’t deny him anything, anything.
“I’ll go to practice for a little bit, alright? It’s okay.” Viktor holds him as tight as he can, petting his hair, his neck, his back. He can go to the rink for just a little while, to reassure Yuuri. “I just need you to take some more medicine for me, first, and drink some water. Can you do that?”
Yuuri relaxes, exhausted, and Viktor can feel him nod against his neck. “Yes,” he says, breathy, “Thank you.”
Poor Makkachin needs a walk and her breakfast, too. And Victor really does need to make up for time lost with serious practice, even if he feels his career itself is less important than Yuuri's smile.
An hour on the rink, tops. Viktor gets to the rink quickly and is out on the ice doing sincere warm-ups when Yakov walks in with his morning mug of strong and bitter tea. Georgi’s stretching at the rinkside, scheduled for a somewhat concurrent practice today.
“What are you doing, Vitya?”
Georgi shoots Viktor a sympathetic look, but he knows well enough not to get between Yakov and whatever’s making his voice take that tone.
“Skating,” Viktor says, the automatic smile stretching wide on his face and not reaching his eyes in the slightest. “Yuuri asked me to.”
Yuuri hugged Yakov, at the Rostelecom cup. Yuuri has very earnest hugs; it’s why Viktor had suggested he do so, and now he can see that his coach is still won over from it. Viktor understands, he is too. “Fine,” he says, voice gravelly. “Let’s get to it.”
Georgi skates on his own for that first hour, so Viktor and Yakov can focus. They run through his newest SP a few times, discuss technique and composition; there isn’t a wasted moment. They wrap up quickly, in unspoken agreement that there are places Viktor needs to be.
“I was going to drop this off for you,” Yakov says, as Viktor is doing cool-down stretches, slow and thorough even though his chest feels tight with a need to be home. “But I guess you can carry it with you. I left instructions, since you’re useless.”
He sets down a lumpy canvas bag at Viktor’s side, then turns his attention to Georgi. “Georgi! Get over here.”
Viktor feels warm again, going into a deep stretch. “Thank you! I’ll give him your regards!”
Yakov waves single-handed, but doesn’t look back.
It’s barely ten by the time he reaches home, shucking off his designer coat and shoes and leaving them in an expensive pile by the door.
Yuuri’s not in the living room. Viktor stops to scratch Makkachin behind the ears from her blanket pile on the couch, then sets the bag from Yakov on the counter.
He’s not in the bedroom either, something difficult to determine. Viktor gently pats the lumps of blankets on the bed; empty air, no Yuuri.
“Yuuuuuri?” His apartment is spacious, but there are only so many places for him to be.
There’s muffled coughing from the bathroom, and Viktor follows the sound to the locked bathroom door. “Yuuri?”
“I’ll be out,” Yuuri starts, and Viktor has to strain against the door to hear his soft voice. “I’ll be out soon.”
“All right,” Viktor says, sitting down in the hallway to wait, back to the gray wall. He pulls out his phone, which he has been completely neglecting all day, and tries to clear out his notifications. Yuuri has a few more coughing fits while he’s waiting, and Viktor winces in sympathy with each one. He’s nearly done replying to texts when he realizes how long Yuuri is taking.
He gets up and tries the locked doorknob again. “Are you okay, love?”
“I-I,” Yuuri says, and Viktor has to press his ear against the door to hear it. There’s a few long beats of silence, then, “I don’t think so.”
His heart clenches in his chest, sharp, sudden. “Can you,” his mouth is dry, “can you open the door for me, darling?”
There’s a space of tense moments before the lock clicks and the door opens, just a crack. Viktor opens it the rest of the way, and sees Yuuri, wrapped in a blanket and shaking, fine tremors head to toe. His arms spread wide automatically, and Yuuri pushes himself into Viktor's embrace immediately.
“What’s wrong?” Viktor says, against his hair. He shifts to press their foreheads together but Yuuri doesn’t feel feverish this time. “Does it hurt? Should we call someone-”
“I just,” Yuuri fists his fingers into Viktor’s shirt. “I just. Can’t stop s-shaking.”
“We can go to the doctor again-”
”No.” Yuuri clings somehow tighter. “It’s okay. I f-feel better. Really.”
Tense, shaking, breathing fast. Please don’t cry, Viktor thinks, lost.
The printouts from the doctor; they had mentioned something about this… he’d read them over enough times that he should have them memorized, really. Viktor pets Yuuri’s back and goes over the side effects he can remember. Headache, trouble sleeping, confusion… you’re supposed to take it with water, did Yuuri drink this morning? Yes, he had.
Viktor remembers the little footnote on the sheet about anxiety. This drug can make you feel anxious. Yuuri is already anxious. Oh.
“It’s okay,” Viktor says, relieved himself that there’s an explanation. “It’s just the medicine, you’re fine, Yuuri, love. One of the side effects is anxiety.”
“O-oh,” Yuuri says, and he pulls one of his hands away from Viktor to watch it shake, expression a little detached.
“Would you like to go back to our bed?” Viktor catches Yuuri’s hand and kisses his knuckles, soft. His pulse is beating fast underneath Viktor’s fingers on his wrist.
“Yes, please,” Yuuri says, pressing his face back into Viktor’s shoulder.
They get back to the bedroom, and watch a few online videos on Viktor’s laptop, World’s Most Precious Poodle Compilation and Dogs In Sunglasses On Skateboards.
It’s nice, taking care of someone; it’s nice, being cared for. Yuuri brings him all these new feelings and they’re precious, all of them, even the hard ones; Viktor feels alive.
“You should get some sleep,” Viktor says, stopping the video before it autoplays Cutest Dog Halloween Costumes (Volume 14). Yuuri has just finished a massive coughing fit, tissue pressed to his frowning mouth.
“Yeah,” Yuuri nods, stiff. Even all the dog videos haven’t relaxed him, still so tense.
“Anything I can get you? Some more tea? You can take more medicine soon.” The tea seems to be a hit.
“Thanks. I’m okay.” Yuuri’s biting his lower lip, worrying it between his teeth. His second dose of the steroids is next, actually; the thing that seems to give Yuuri the most trouble.
Viktor gets up off the bed and stretches, stiff from laying down so long. He needs a shower, having skipped it at the rink. “All right. I’ll be back in a little while.” He gently drops a kiss on Yuuri’s forehead, pleased that the fever hasn’t come back even though the medicine has worn off.
He’s in the shower, ready to step into the spray, when the bright sound of his text tone gives him an idea. Phichit. Phichit will know what to do for Yuuri. They lived together for years. The Thai skater is younger, but from the times Viktor has seen the two of them together the care between them is obvious.
What time is it in Thailand? Four hours difference. It should be okay.
Hello~ Yuuri is feeling much better! Viktor types, then considers carefully. It’s best to lead with the good news. He presses send.
Phichit
That’s great! Thanks for letting me know.
‘Yuuri can’t stop shaking’ He wants to type, but doesn’t. ‘What do I do? What would you do?’
Viktor’s interrupted from his thoughts by another text tone.
Phichit
How are you holding up?
Ah. Phichit was able to befriend Yuuri, through all his walls, his closest friend. Viktor can see it.
I’m good! It’s fun to take care of Yuuri, he types. Did he get sick much in Detroit?
Phichit
No, only a few times! Nothing major. I made him soup :)
Soup, yes. That had worked out okay.
Yuuri’s on a steroid for his lungs, he sends. One of the side effects is anxiety.
Phichit’s reply is immediate, and Viktor is immensely relieved he doesn’t have to ask. Oh, that sucks!! Don’t worry, you got his. Don’t mention his breathing–it makes him more nervous. I let him pet my hamsters, he liked that. See if he can pet Makkachin maybe? Or you ;)
Phichit knows Makkachin’s name; but, of course he would.
Thank you, Phichit. He means it sincerely.
Phichit
No problem! Text me if you need anything else. Now go take care of your fiancé :P
I will! ☆⌒(≧▽° )
Phichit didn’t really tell him anything he hadn’t figured out already, but it was reassuring to know they agree.
Viktor finishes his shower and returns to the bedroom, opening the door quietly. Yuuri’s still awake, eyes unfocused, chin down.
Viktor’s grip tightens on the pill bottle, knowing that this won't help him rest any easier. It has to be done, though.
“Yuuri.” Victor keeps his voice soft. Yuuri looks up to meet his eyes and smiles, a tiny upturn of his lips. “Pill time!”
Makkachin pads into the room, tail wagging. Oops. He inadvertently used the same sing-song voice usually reserved for dinner time, Makkachin!
Yuuri notices too, smile widening beautifully as he accepts the pills and takes them with water. “You don’t want these, Makkachin. Make Viktor get you some real food.”
Viktor keeps the apartment neat and clean, free of clutter and dust. He’s wealthy enough that he could easily hire a service to come in and take care of things, but. His life in Saint Petersburg has always been skating, skating, skating; no room for much else, no need for much else, until now. So he takes care of it himself.
These well-ingrained habits lead him to pick up the almost-forgotten canvas bag from Yakov and start putting things away. There’s a note on top, in Yakov’s bold, confident writing. After he’s done reading it, he’s filled with such strong, deep affection for his coach that he stops to order him a large floral arrangement and a huge box of his favorite vodka truffles to be delivered that afternoon.
Yakov knows Viktor. So he painstakingly wrote him a list of exactly what to do (with steps!) and included the supplies needed.
Yuri, no doubt, had a hand in this too; living as he does with Yakov and Lilia. Viktor orders him a bouquet of tiger lilies, to be delivered directly to the rink where there will be maximum witnesses.
Viktor lifts the very nice bottle of vodka out of the bag. Yuuri’s medicine said very specifically not to mix with alcohol, but vodka barely counts, right? Just a little? A shot or two, at least. Mixed in with the tea, as Yakov said. Yuuri’s tolerance is incredible, so it’ll be fine.
He prepares the tea and thinks about the pots in his kitchen. Which would be best for boiling potatoes? The bottom of the bag from Yakov was entirely potatoes, wrapped in a sunshine-print towel.
This really isn’t how Yuuri wanted things to go. He’s always been mentally weak, everyone knows that. Especially Viktor, by now, though the man insists otherwise. But the steroids are just adding insult to injury; giving fuel to something already beyond his control.
His chest hurts; it feels like he can’t stop coughing. There would be a small mountain of tissues around him if not for Viktor’s attentive tidying up. With his fever mostly gone and his senses mostly returned, he wishes he had the energy to go out and buy another face mask. Viktor hid away the ones that Yuri brought somewhere.
Chances are Viktor has already caught his illness anyway, that it’s biding its time and will strike Viktor down during a competition, maybe during a jump, so the face mask is a moot point. That’s probably irrational anxiety talking, but Yuuri’s stomach twists in guilt and stress anyway.
His fiancé keeps bringing tea, thick with honey (and very obviously spiked with vodka the first time). Vodka is a bit of a Russian cure-all, Yuuri gathered, and he swallowed down the first mug to please Viktor but put his foot down at the second. His drugs are giving him enough trouble without the addition of alcohol, as comforting as it would be to numb things a bit.
Viktor’s been taking a while in the kitchen, there’s the sound of something bubbling away on the stove. The Makkachin tissue box sits on Yuuri’s lap while the real Makkachin is dozing on the other half of the couch. Yuuri feels himself drifting again, exhausted but too jittery to take the plunge into sleep. The air is dry.
Suddenly Viktor’s in front of him, holding both their hands together. “I have something that’ll make you feel better!”
Viktor tugs him up off the couch, dislodging the blanket and tissue box; Yuuri wobbles, unsteady, then sets off another painful coughing fit that has him miserably pressing his mouth into his shoulder. Once the worst of it is over, Viktor pulls him close, always trying to soothe things away with physical affection. Verbal affection too, whispered softly in his ear, it’s okay, good job, love, you’re okay, you’ll feel better soon.
They walk to the kitchen together, Yuuri tucked close to Viktor’s side. It’s very awkward and very sweet; a shuffle step. The sun has set on another wintry day; their apartment is quiet and filled with muted, indirect light. It makes the sharp, clean lines of Viktor’s interior decorating softer somehow.
On the stove is a bubbling pot with mysterious contents, which Yuuri eyes suspiciously.
“Another gift from Yakov! And Yura too, I’d bet.” Viktor lets go of him long enough to grab a long wooden spoon and stir the large pot filled with boiling water and large, white lumps.
“Potatoes?” Yuuri asks, then has to clear his throat a few times. He is not the slightest bit hungry.
“Yes!” Viktor sounds so enthused. Yuuri will eat a boiled potato for him, as unappetizing as that sounds, and is preparing to thank him for it when Viktor continues, “You’re supposed to breathe in the steam. I’ll get a towel.”
Maybe Yuuri’s fever isn’t gone after all. Is this a Russian thing? Are Yakov and Yurio playing a trick? Potatoes?
Viktor comes back with a fluffy, luxurious gray towel. He turns off the burner on the stove and moves the heavy pot to a cool spot, then covers it with the towel and beckons Yuuri closer.
It’s stiflingly hot underneath, reminding Yuuri of the fever he’s so recently broken. Steam clouds over his face, puddling into droplets on his nose and eyelashes and dripping down to return to the pot. It’s uncomfortable, but with each deep breath his lungs feel a little bit better. Viktor stands behind him, rubbing his back in slow little circles. It smells overwhelmingly of potatoes but at least he can discern the scent.
Wet and flushed, Yuuri pulls back after a few minutes. He blinks and feels rivers of water run down to his chin and drip down on his overlarge sweater. His face is face red and blotchy from the heat and Yuuri reaches up to wipe his eyes, only to be stopped by his fiancé’s gentle hand. Most of the towel is soaked from the steam, but Viktor uses the dry edge to pat Yuuri’s face, soft and careful, cheek, forehead, eyelashes. Yuuri’s eyes grow a little blurrier in a way he’d prefer to blame on the steam, his absent glasses, and pure exhaustion, even though it’s not. Viktor treats him so well.
“Feeling better?”
Yuuri nods, not trusting his voice. Each breath is coming easier, the potato steam having done something.
Viktor’s smile is like the sun coming out. He kisses Yuuri’s forehead, each cheek, his nose; Yuuri feels his face heat even redder and blotchier. “Good. Now take off your shirt.”
Yuuri blinks slowly.
Viktor tugs at the hem of his sweater. Yuuri, tired and still slightly damp, lets him pull it over his head. It’s chilly in the apartment, especially without a shirt. Goosebumps bloom almost immediately across his upper arms. “V-Viktor?”
Viktor’s rummaging in the bag from Yakov again. “One minute, love.”
Did Yakov gift them with every single Russian remedy for illness? It sure seems like it, as his fiancé pulls out a mysterious yellow package covered in cyrillic. Viktor opens it, revealing strange, flat rectangles. Which are also very yellow. He holds one up and looks at Yuuri critically over its edge.
“I haven’t used these since I was a kid,” Viktor admits, peeling an outer layer of white paper off one of the patches, then wetting them under the faucet. It’s sort of like a very large tea bag.
“What are they?”
“Ah,” Viktor puts a finger to his lips, considering. “I don’t know the English word. Hot sauce? No.”
Hot sauce!? Yuuri must look alarmed, because Viktor steps closer and puts his warm hand on Yuuri’s shoulder.
“It’s food?” Yuuri asks. The yellow patch looks much more unappetizing than the potatoes.
“No, no. Well, yes, kind of, but you don’t eat it. I’ll show you.” Viktor presses the patch to Yuuri’s chest, smoothing it out with his fingers. It starts off cool and a little damp, but by the time Viktor is pressing a second patch to his back it is tingly and warm. Really warm.
Viktor looks proud. Yuuri shoves his confusion down and smiles. “Thanks.”
“You can put your sweater back on,” Viktor says, handing him the top. “We’ll take it off in half an hour, okay?”
“All right,” Yuuri agrees. Just standing in the kitchen has depleted his last reserves of energy, so he pulls the gray knit over his head and shuffles back to the couch. Viktor sits down next to him and wraps an arm around his shoulder, then takes out his phone.
It’s quiet. The patches on his chest and back aren’t exactly uncomfortable, but the strange heat is a little unsettling. “Did,” Yuuri starts, not sure if he wants to know the answer, “did Coach Yakov and Yurio send over any more things?”
“Yes.” Viktor tilts his head so it’s leaning against Yuuri’s cheek. His hair smells nice, like clean, expensive shampoo. “There’s a few other things. I don’t like to use the iodine though, it stains.”
“Hmmm,” Yuuri agrees, pretending to understand that comment. His eyelids are drooping closed, sleep finally winning over jitters.
“You can rest,” Viktor says, soft. “I’ll let you know when we have to take the patches off, then we can move to the bed.”
“Mmm,” Yuuri agrees, eyes already closed.
He’s a little put out, when he gets back on Instagram a few days later, to see Viktor took a photo of him sleeping on his shoulder, #sleepingbeauty #prettiestkatsudon #blessed. It has 12,534 likes. But that’s later. For now, he’s warm and happy, taken care of and safe, pressed up against the love of his life.
“Viktor, I’m fine, I don’t need three scarves.” This comes out muffled because Yuuri has a very expensive Burberry cashmere scarf wrapped snugly around his neck and a lighter, but still designer and pricey, silk scarf over his nose and mouth.
Viktor stretches out the third scarf so its poodle pattern is more visible. “But you like blue,” he says.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Yuuri says, firm, turning away to grab his skate bag.
It’s been a week. Yuuri’s cough had gotten worse before it got better, but he’s clear now to get back on the ice once he’s done fending off the scarves.
Viktor hasn’t caught it, just like he said. Yuuri’s grateful; this practice time is doubly important for Viktor, returning from his year off.
Yuuri turns back towards Viktor and is pleased to see he has his coat and gloves on too. He’s less pleased to see Viktor holding out earmuffs with a cornered expression.
“I’m wearing a hat,” Yuuri protests, as Viktor puts the earmuffs on him. They’re probably designer. If a company does make designer earmuffs, Viktor is the man to buy them and put them on his fiancé’s head.
Yuuri hurries them both outside, eager to get on the ice again and to take off all the layers. He can barely feel the chilly air, which is the point, but it’s also swelteringly hot.
“I’m so glad you’re feeling better,” Viktor says, again.
“Thank you for always taking care of me.” The phrasing doesn’t quite sound the same in English as it does in Japanese, not strong enough for the way he feels, so Yuuri pulls down a scarf and presses a kiss to Viktor’s cheek as well.
Viktor’s arm is warm around his back, his sweet affection soaking through all the layers of wool. His smile is beautiful as he replies, “Anytime, Yuuri. Anytime.”