Chapter Text
Victor has flower pots by the windowsill. Blooming, brightly coloured anachronisms, sitting on the edge of Victor’s modern, monochrome apartment. Bright reds and soft pinks; the petals drop and curl, elegantly jarring against the straight lines and the gleaming glass.
Yuuri loves them.
He also has no idea why they’re there. As far as he can tell, he’s the only one watering them. When he asks about it, Victor laughs and says,
“Of course you’re the only one watering them! If I watered them too they’d be over-watered and then they’d die!”
“So why aren’t you watering your own flowers?”
Victor looks like a puppy when he’s confused – head tilt and soft whine and all.
“Because you started watering them? I figured you liked doing it.”
So Victor has flowers by his windowsill, and Yuuri waters them. When Yuuri asks what kind they are Victor just flaps a hand.
“I don’t know how to say in English,” he explains, and looks utterly disinterested in finding out.
It’s possible, Yuuri muses, that Victor doesn’t know what they are in Russian either. He probably just has them because they’re pretty. They are flowers, they’re pretty and Yuuri waters them. Victor probably couldn’t care less about any more detail than that. The thought makes Yuuri laugh. It’s so Victor.
Life in St Petersburg takes some getting used to. It’s easy to move – he’s good at packing clothes and keepsakes, he’s done it before, after all. It’s harder to treat Victor’s apartment and rink like home. He misses the onsen, and it’s not like he hates Victor’s bookshelves and crockery but it’s not what he would have chosen, and nothing is familiar. Yet.
That’s what Victor says. ‘Nothing is familiar yet’. His unrelenting optimism is in turns adorable and frustrating, but Yuuri doesn’t say anything. He knows that Victor is trying, trying really, really hard to make everything good for Yuuri. Victor bought chopsticks and found a good specialty store for when Yuuri just wants to cook – and eat – something he recognizes. Victor has set up the second room for Yuuri, even though he spends most nights with Victor, in case
“You ever need some you-time,” Victor had explained, looking suddenly shy. He’d decorated the room with the same colours as Yuuri’s old bedroom in Hasetsu. He’d hung a massive painting in the centre of the wall, the first thing you see when you open the door. It’s the Hasetsu jetty, with the ocean and the sky in different brilliant blues.
When Yuuri had first arrived, Victor had pointed out different things – a set of matryoshka dolls on the bookshelf, handed down from Victor’s grandmother, the new sheets on the bed, a chew toy from Makkachin (“She’s letting you borrow it!”).
“Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue – why Victor! Are you proposing to me?” Yuuri had joked, and then kicked himself – so lame – but Victor had laughed himself silly.
Yuuri worries about getting lost. He’s got an awful sense of direction to start with, and he can’t read any of the street signs here. But Victor has set up his phone and saved a bunch of locations into Google Maps, and he’s added all of the numbers of their rinkmates. He helps test Yuuri on some Russian phrases every evening. Most of the figure skaters speak good English, Yakov too.
“No-one ever silences their phone at the rink – so even if they’re skating, someone will hear it and pick it up,” Victor reassures him, and then winks, “Not that I plan on letting you out of my sight often, my dear, but sometimes needs must, I suppose.”
So, yes, it’s hard, but as he explains to a worried Yuuko, it’s the easiest it could possibly be. Victor loves him and is doing his best to make him comfortable. Even when Yuuri’s demands are less than logical (“The cups should just be above the plates in the kitchen – can we, can we just swap where they are? So the cups are on the top shelf, and the plates are below them?”), Victor will smile and acquiesce. Because Victor loves him.
They make new routines. Yuuri had been worried that Victor had a life here that he wanted to get back to, and Yuuri was going to have fit in. Like an additional puzzle piece stuck on the side, or maybe Yuuri wouldn’t fit at all – maybe he’s the wrong shape at the wrong time. But he shouldn’t have worried. He should never worry when it comes to Victor. If Victor had routines, he’s certainly not tied to them. The apartment is from ‘before’, as Victor calls it, but he doesn’t seem to care about anything in it. The only vestiges of his old life that he seems to want to hold on to are grooming Makkachin each evening, and walking her at exactly 4pm every day. That’s hardly difficult to fit in with.
And everything else is up for discussion. What does Yuuri want to eat? (A silly question, what one wants to eat and what one is allowed to eat are never the same thing.) Does he want to change any of the furniture? (Yuuri couldn’t care less.) Does Yuuri want Victor as a coach in the morning and a competitor in the afternoon, or vice versa? Does he want to gym together, or alone? When do they go food shopping?
They develop new habits. Victor wakes him up with soft kisses every morning, the kettle already boiling. Yuuri always whines for five more minutes. Victor always lets him. Yuuri pretends not to know that Victor just starts waking him up five minutes earlier. Yuuri refuses to get up until he’s counted at least ten kisses to his back. Victor makes breakfast, but they cook dinner together. Yuuri loads the dishwasher each night, and Victor empties it. They sing to Britney Spears and other 90s pop music when they clean. Yuuri always challenges Victor to a race when they take Makkachin to the park, and the loser has to give the other a foot massage. (Yuuri wins most of the time, but it doesn’t really matter – Victor massages his feet whether he wins or loses.)
Of course, they skate and train and dance and lift weights and go on runs and count their calories and sweat and fall and jump and spin. But for the first time, for both of them, Yuuri’s pretty sure, there’s a life outside of that. It’s wonderful. It’s surprisingly comfortable, living with Victor.
“You’re an enabler,” Georgi accuses when Victor has gone to the bathroom. They’re out for dinner – all of Yakov’s skaters. Yuri rolls his eyes.
“No fucking shit,” He mutters under his breath, before yelping. Mila looks smug.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Yuuri hedges. Now everyone is rolling their eyes.
“Yakov spent years trying to train Victor out of his dramatics. And then you arrive and ramp it right back up again!”
Yuri is glaring at him. Yuuri shrugs. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t love it. He’s not ashamed, and he certainly has no regrets. He doesn’t suffer through Victor’s clinginess, no matter what anyone thinks; he doesn’t love him despite it. He loves him because of it.
And really, how can Georgi of all people comment on dramatics?
“What are we talking about?” Victor reappears. As soon as he’s seated, Yuuri’s hand is back on his thigh. He ignores the pointed look from Mila.
“Your undying love for Katsudon,” Yuri says. Victor visibly brightens.
“Why did you say that?” Georgi hisses.
Yuuri can’t quite tell if they’re being malicious, or if this is within the teasing bounds of friendship. Victor is unbothered, and regales them with a poetic retelling of Yuuri’s spins from today (“We know, Vitya! We were all there!”). Yuuri’s sure he’s not the only one tuning out when Victor starts his third round of compliments and adorations about Yuuri.
“Actually, Katsudon. I was reading something online about you today,” Yuri interrupts. His causal tone is almost enough to make Yuuri nervous. Mila cackles. Now he’s definitely nervous, “Did you know that you’re a gay idol?”
Yuuri startles. That is not a collection of words he ever expected to hear from Yuri.
“What?”
“On tumblr, and twitter and stuff. Your fans. Wait let me pull it up,” Yuri starts scrolling through his phone. Maybe idol means something different than what he’s thinking of.
“They’re saying I’m a – a gay idol?” Yuuri can’t help sounding incredulous. That’s ridiculous. He’s just Yuuri. He’s just Yuuri.
“Yeah, you’re like ‘gay goals’.” Yuuri stares. Yuri stares right back, right eyebrow raised, somehow managing to keep a straight face. Mila leans over and laughs so hard that she snorts,
“Have you really had a crush on Victor since you were eight years old, Yuuri?” Oh God. Yuuri can feel the heat burning down his cheeks and neck. He must be -
“You’re bright red!” Mila laughs.
“You had a crush on me? That’s embarrassing.” Victor repeats, sounding incredulous. Yuuri frowns, turning to him.
“We’re engaged.”
“Dumbass. The line is ‘We’re married’.”
“But we’re not?”
“Are you? Unaware of the meme?” Yuuri buries his face in his hands.
“I don’t even know what’s going on right now.”
Their laughter doesn’t feel mean. Not when Mila is also teasing Yuri (“How did you even find that interview?”), and Victor is holding his hand. It’s nice, to have friends, to have fun. Yuuri can’t help smiling.
Yuuri gets silver at Four Continents. He’s disappointed. JJ pulled out all the stops and really, deserved the gold this time much more than he deserved his bronze at the Grand Prix Final. Yuuri’s parents are proud of him, and Victor is proud of him, and it’s ridiculous to be disappointed by a silver medal. But he is. So there.
“Yuuri,” Victor murmurs, holding him close that night, “You did really well. There was nothing wrong with your performance. JJ’s routine just has more points in it. We can fix that next season, if you’d like – give you a stronger, harder routine.” Yuuri shakes his head against Victor’s chest.
“I want a stronger routine now. There’s still Worlds.”
“Sweetheart,”
“Please, Victor.”
“Let me think about it, okay? But Yuuri, you did really well. You skated beautifully.”
But Yuuri is already asleep.
He throws himself into training. It’s reassuring to fall back into the old routine. He wakes up, he trains, he eats, he bruises, he sleeps. But everything is slightly different: breaks with Yuri, music he doesn’t understand playing through the speakers, different colours at the rink. It’s weird to be in the middle of an old life and a new one, but comfortable.
“You’re settling it well at the rink,” Victor tells him, one evening. He sounds proud. Yuuri nods from the floor. He’s stretching.
“Yep.”
“Yuri’s not distracting you too much?” Yuuri would laugh but he’s sort of crushing his diaphragm in this pose.
“Yuri hardly talks to me!”
“I didn’t say he was distracting you by talking to you. He’s intense.” And the ridiculousness of Victor calling someone intense is too much for Yuuri to handle. He flops onto his back and laughs.
“Oh really? Somehow in the middle of him kicking down doors and yelling at everyone I’d forgotten.” Victor huffs and rolls his eyes. Yuuri blows him a kiss.
Things are okay. Everything is okay. It’s a month to Worlds and he still doesn’t think he can beat JJ, and he definitely can’t be Yuri because Yuri is amazing and 15 and so much more talented than Yuuri is or ever was or ever can be. But everything is okay because Victor believes in him and Yuuri is training really hard and he’s going to be fine.
He’s going to be fine. He’s going to be fine.
“Yuuri, again? You haven’t been landing this jump all day.”
“Not helpful, Victor,” Yuuri growls with gritted teeth. Victor’s eyes widen, and he waves his arms. Maybe he’s trying to calm Yuuri down. Mostly he looks like a disgruntled bird. The image makes Yuuri laugh. Victor looks so confused, which makes Yuuri laugh more.
“We should take a break for the day,” Victor hazards. Yuuri groans, but he knows Victor’s right. There’s no point in beating a dead horse; if he keeps trying to do this jump he’ll end up a dead horse. Victor looks confused. It made more sense in his head.
“I’ll make us some lunch. You must be hungry,” Victor says, as they walk through the door. He sits Yuuri down on the couch. It’s late. The walk home had taken longer than usual. Victor had taken them through the park, to look at the flowers beginning to bloom. That reminds him.
“Victor?”
“Yes?” He calls from the kitchen, voice amongst the clanking of plates. Victor always cooks with more dishes than he needs. He’s probably never not had a dishwasher, Yuuri reasons.
“Your flowers. They’re azaleas and irises.”
“Oh? How did you figure that out?”
“Mari figured it out, actually. She’s got a book or something.”
“Thank her for me. Here, eat up.” Yuuri has no idea what Victor’s feeding him – some kind of soup? But it looks delicious.
“Thank you. They’re special,” He explains through mouthfuls. It tastes delicious too, “Your flowers. They bloom multiple times in the year.” Victor nods, “That’s unusual.”
“Is it? I love it!” Victor looks delighted.
“This is so good, Victor. What am I eating?” And Victor launches into a detailed description of the recipe, with a lot of hand-waving substituting for words that he doesn’t know how to translate. It’s adorable, even if it’s utterly unhelpful.
He forgot to water the flowers, he realizes. He’s been forgetting to water the flowers for the past few days, he’s been so focused on his training. And now they’re drooping, the flowers wilting.
They’re probably going to be fine, he tells himself. Victor managed to keep them alive for nearly a month before Yuuri arrived, they’ve got to be hardy. They’re going to be fine, even if he messed up.
But it’s too late.
He’s not going to be fine. He can’t breathe.
He runs. He runs but he can’t breathe; it’s a miracle he manages to move at all. He locks the door, collapses.
Falls to the floor.
He’s so pathetic. He’s 24 and he’s hiding in a bathroom again.
It’s always like this. Something inside of him breaks and he runs and hides, tail between his legs like a guilty, feral animal.
There’s a pounding in his head and in his veins; his fingertips are racing at a mile a minute and his thoughts are getting clammy. His chest aches. It’s his heart. It’s his lungs. They’re going to burst – he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.
“Yuuri?” Someone’s calling him from another room. It must be Victor. Yuuri wants to call out for him – wants his help. He needs his help.
But his throat is closed up. It’s been stitched up, clogged up, closed up. He hasn’t got a throat anymore – his fingers close around nothing – there’s nothing. He can’t breathe. His fingers are wet. He’s crying? He needs Victor.
“Yuuri?”
‘Help me’, he tries to say. He scrambles on the floor. His hands are shaking. He is shaking, rocking, flopping on the floor. He must look like a beached whale: fat, blubber, blubbering mess.
Can Victor hear him? He hopes, desperate hope that tastes like iron in his throat, that Victor can hear him.
“Yuuri!”
Victor’s a phantom in front of him: blurred, hair whisping under the bathroom light. Yuuri chokes on his thanks. Yuuri is just choking.
Victor grabs his hand. It burns. His hand is so cold; it’s grounding. Yuuri concentrates on the frostbite spreading to each finger, one by one. He counts. Victor is counting. Too slow. Yuuri slows down, and trips. And panics. And tries again. Victor taps on his wrist. Taps in time with the counting, with the beat. It’s a quiet drumbeat, unassuming. It’s perfect. Victor’s perfect.
And the white noise fades. The pounding, rushing, frantic panic fades. Yuuri can breathe again. Slows down. Breathes. Counts. Victor’s hand gets warm. The taps become a comforting caress. Victor’s hands are soft.
“That’s right, sweetheart. You did well. So well. Keep breathing slowly, yeah?” Victor’s saying. His voice is a deep, dry rumble. Feels like a blanket draped over Yuuri’s shoulders, soft and warm, keeps him safe, “You did so well. Calling out for my help, I’m so proud of you. I love you.”
Victor’s come a long way, Yuuri realizes. He’s trying so hard.
And Yuuri immediately bursts into tears. He doesn’t deserve this man, who tries so hard to help him, who loves him even when he’s difficult.
Victor kisses the top of his head, and doesn’t complain when Yuuri nearly breaks his fingers squeezing his hand so tight.
“Why do you have them?” Yuuri asks eventually, voice croaking and nose blocked. At least he’d stopped crying. Victor tilts his head, eyebrows furrowed, “The flowers. Why do you even have them?”
“You were crying – over – my flowers?” Victor says slowly.
“No!” Yuuri shouts, then repeats, more calmly, “No. I just…I’ve just been wondering about them since I got here. Why do you have them? They don’t match the rest of the place.”
“Oh,” Victor’s silent for a while, and then he gives a helpless shrug. His cheeks are pink, Yuuri notices, distracted, “I saw them one day as I was walking home. And I liked them. So I bought them. They’re pretty.” Yuuri doesn’t know what he was expecting, maybe something more dramatic? Victor’s explanation is so banal. It makes so much sense. Victor shrugs again, like he knows what Yuuri’s thinking. He probably does. “It’s not a very exciting story.”
“No,” Yuuri agrees.
They sit in silence for a little while longer, before Victor gets them off the floor and into bed. He gets Yuuri comfortable, leaning up against the pillows, wrapped up in the blankets. Then goes and brings them both mugs of tea.
“We should talk about it,” Victor says, voice quiet, as Yuuri stares down at his mug.
“I don’t want to,” He murmurs. Victor coughs, “But I guess I should.”
“Tell me what you’re feeling,” Victor prompts. His voice is hesitant, wavering. He’s worried about setting me off again, Yuuri thinks.
“Warm,” Yuuri manages a smile, and Victor smiles back. He looks frazzled; he always does after one of Yuuri’s anxiety attacks. It must be scary, to see someone drown in air, “I’ve just, been feeling weird, recently.”
“Stressed - for Worlds?” Victor suggests. Yuuri shakes his head and shrugs.
“No. I mean, yes? I’m stressed and anxious about that. But also, just – weird. I don’t know,” He trails off at Victor’s confused expression, “I don’t know,” He repeats, softly.
He feels soft, and squishy, and tender inside. Vulnerable. And disjointed – like, his hands are too big. Or someone has stretched and re-sized him. He gets like this sometimes. It usually goes away after a while. Or maybe it’s just the tapering.
“I know what we need to do,” Victor says, smile hidden in his voice.
“Cuddles?” Yuuri asks. And Victor dives right in. Spills tea all over the sheets, but doesn’t seem to care at all.
Yuuri wins gold at Worlds. It’s a blur. He remembers being disappointed with his scores for each component – and then elated at his placing. It feels like half a victory. He didn’t skate as well as he could have. But he won gold. Later, he’ll blame the exhaustion and the elation for what he does on the podium, but he knows that he’s just naturally that stupid.
They call out their names, and the cameras flash, and Yuuri waits what seemed like an appropriate amount of time (in retrospect he will think, there is no appropriate amount of time), and calls out for Victor. Victor stumbles out on to the ice looking confused. Yuuri holds out his hand and beckons for Victor to come closer.
“Victor?” Yuuri gets down on one knee, still holding Victor’s hand, and asks, “Will you marry me?”
Victor gasps. Yuri gags. Otabek claps. The crowd cheers.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” And he pulls Yuuri up for a kiss.
“Fucking hell. You two deserve each other,” Yuri growls at them when they finally separate.
“Congratulations,” Otabek says.
“This only worked because Victor’s an ice-skating God. No-one else would’ve been allowed onto the ice,” Yuri continues, outraged.
“Yurio – you think I’m an ice-skating God?” Victor teases. Yuri’s expression crumples further into rage.
“Fucking damnit.”
“You took me by surprise,” Victor says, much later, after the dinner and the drinks and the staggered walk back to the hotel room, and the sex that followed.
“Maybe wasn’t my best idea,” Yuuri replies. He can begin to feel the shame encroaching, seeping in. He can’t believe he did that. What the hell was he thinking? It was totally inappropriate.
“It was an excellent idea,” Victor refutes, emphatically, “But why did you want to propose a second time? I’m not complaining!”
“You said we’d get married when I won gold.”
“Huh?” Yuuri repeats himself slowly, and sits up to look at Victor. Victor looks completely confused.
“At dinner before the GP Final?”
“Did I really? That doesn’t sound like me.”
“Are you being serious right now?”
“Yes! I must have been joking.”
“It didn’t sound like a joke,” Yuuri mutters, aware that he sounds petulant. Victor laughs, and then says, voice soft,
“Did you really think I wasn’t going to marry you unless you had a gold medal? Yuuri, that’s ridiculous.”
“That’s what you said!” Yuuri tries to defend himself. Victor carries on, ignoring Yuuri’s interruption.
“Yuuri, I love you. I want to marry you. I love you when you’re skating and when you’re sleeping and when you’re complaining about me not doing the dishes. I love you all the time. Why could you ever think that I would only marry you if you had a gold medal?”
Yuuri is not crying.
Yuuri is a liar.
“We’re getting married,” he manages to get out, hiccupping. Victor grins, and kisses his nose.
“Yeah. We’re getting married.”
It’s sad, to pack away the costumes at the end of the season. In earlier seasons, Yuuri would do one last run of his routines at the rink, before heading home to pack them away. Yuuri’s parents used to leave him alone in his bedroom to do it. He’d sit alone, quietly, holding the costumes, and usually cry. It’s a pathetic tradition.
Yuuri vastly prefers Victor’s approach. Victor comes back from walking Makkachin and finds Yuuri holding the costume, staring blankly at it.
“Now, that just won’t do!” He exclaims, and pulls off Yuuri’s sweater.
“Victor!” Yuuri tries to bat away Victor’s hands, insistent on removing his clothing, but he’s unsuccessful.
“Model it for me!” Victor demands. Yuuri’s jaw drops. “You always looked so stunning in it but I never got to see you in it off the ice. You didn’t let me come to the fitting.”
So Yuuri puts it on and prances, lets Victor take photos. It’s ridiculous. Victor is ridiculous. They get into a tickle fight when Yuuri tries to steal Victor’s phone, after he hints at putting some of the photos on Instagram. Yuuri wins, of course. He might be more ticklish, but Victor has no stamina.
“Hey Victor?” He asks, when they’ve collapsed on the couch. Victor is wheezing, “You said the costume was designed to suggest masculine and feminine elements?”
“Yeah! Because my hair was long - we were playing with androgyny. Well, I say ‘we’. More like, Yakov let me.”
“It was your idea?” Yuuri presses. He doesn’t know why he’s so interested. Maybe because he just doesn’t know – he’s never talked to Victor about this before.
“Yeah. There was this one sports reporter that kept calling me a disgrace because I wouldn’t cut my hair. It made me really angry.”
“So you skated as a literal fairy?”
“Yep!” Victor pops the ‘p’.
“That’s,” Yuuri hesitates. No, he doesn’t have to hesitate, he decides. The man wants to marry him, “Really petty.” Victor howls with laughter.
“I suppose it is. Worth it though. Won several gold medals with it. Also it amused Yakov.”
“It’s hard to imagine Yakov laughing.”
“Oh, he doesn’t laugh,” Victor corrects, “But sometimes he’ll breathe particularly hard through his nose if he finds something funny. You feel like a champion if you can get him to do that.” Now that, Yuuri can imagine, “When I was a kid I got him to do that all the time. I used to impersonations of the other skaters before competitions.”
“What?”
“Yeah,” Victor shrugs, “I think he let me do it so I didn’t freak out about the crowds.”
“Did he ever do it with Yuri?”
“I think he probably tried. I bet Yura was all ‘Yakov I don’t have time for this fucking shit. I’m better than anyone who has ever skated ever – don’t waste my time with this crap.’” And Victor pulls a scowling face and changes his voice, just a little – to more of a growl than his usual lilt. Yuuri laughs, shocked.
“That’s pretty good!” Victor preens, and Yuuri shoves him off the couch. Victor cycles through impressions of Georgi, of JJ, of Minami until Yuuri’s muscles are on fire from laughing too much. His impression of Chris is a little too accurate – it sends Yuuri into stitches.
Still, for all the fun and games that evening, he can’t sleep that night. Victor is snoring. He can’t stop thinking about what Victor said about the costume. He designed it as a ‘fuck you’ to someone who had old-fashioned ideas of what men could look like. Yuuri wore it and felt first like a scorned woman, and then like a seductress. Thinking about it makes Yuuri’s gut clench, but he’s not sure why.
Victor messages him a link one afternoon: a url, followed by a heinous string of emojis. It wakes Yuuri up from his nap.
“Victor?” Yuuri calls, proud of himself for sounding so reasonable even though Victor woke him up from his nap, “Why are you texting me when we’re in the same apartment?” Naps are best thing about the end of the competitive season. So many naps. Any and all the time.
<< because you’re all the way over there >>
“I am literally in the next room from you. Look you can hear me fine and I’m speaking at a normal volume.”
<< mon chaton <3 just open it >>
It’s stupid that the pet names can still make Yuuri blush, even after more than a year. Victor alternates between languages. Yuuri can only understand the exact word every so often, but the meaning is always perfectly clear from Victor’s tone of voice, or the accompanying heart in messages. It’s sweet. He’s sweet.
He still tries Yuuri’s patience though. The link opens up a fan page dedicated to Yuuri. Specifically, dedicated to Yuuri’s ass. There are pictures of his butt in every single costume, from every single competition. It’s creepy.
<< isn’t it amazing!? >>
<< I need to thank someone >>
<< Maybe I should do a shout out >>
“No you absolutely should not!” Yuuri yells. Victor cackles. And then hits his head on the couch and yells. Now Yuuri’s the one cackling.
“Mean!”
“You deserve it,” Yuuri retorts as he gets up and heads into the living room. Victor’s still holding is head and pouting, “Drama queen,” Yuuri murmurs, and kisses his forehead.
Victors squeaks. It’s such an unusual noise that Yuuri looks down immediately. ‘Are you okay?’ is what he means to say. Instead, what comes out, incredulous, is:
“Are you blushing?!” Victor’s face reddens even more, immediately. A corresponding warmth blooms in Yuuri’s chest. This man, he thinks, sitting down and grabbing Victor’s hand. He fiddles with Victor’s engagement ring as Victor continues to scroll through the website on his laptop, sore head forgotten.
“Yuuri,” Victor says gravely after several minutes of silence. Yuuri is immediately on guard, “This is absolutely my favourite and I demand that you recreate this look at once.” Victor has pulled up an image of Yuuri in his last Junior competition. He’s 17. He’s 17 and the costume is indecent, what the hell was he thinking at the time?
“My love, do you still have this? Can you still fit? Or did you have a late growth spurt? I want to see you in it now because I feel dirty perving on your underage self, but my goodness, darling, this is absolutely amazing,” Victor’s babbling.
“It’d be at my parents’ place somewhere,” Yuuri says, apologetically. Victor brightens,
“So you do still have it? Would they send it?” Yuuri shrugs.
“Probably.” Victor claps, looking like Christmas has come early. Yuuri looks closer at the photos. The costume is tight, and revealing, yes, but on closer inspection, and with a deliberate focus on pushing down the instinctive roll of shame that comes over Yuuri every time he sees a photo of himself, it doesn’t look bad.
“I look…” He trails off.
“Delicious? Delightful? Altogether too tempting for a 17-year-old?” Victor suggests. Yuuri laughs.
“Okay, I was going to say.”
And Yuuri remembers how uncomfortable he felt in that costume – how on display he felt at the time. Terrified that the audience would see all of his flaws. But now, he doesn’t see any at all. He looks healthy, and normal, like any young male athlete. He remembered this costume making him look softer, curvier. And at the time, he was afraid people would dislike that. But now, looking – there are hardly any curves. What was he worried about?
Yuuri forces a smile, and continues:
“Just thinking, I’ve never really liked how I looked. But actually, looking through these photos – I’m not sure why.”
Victor nods enthusiastically.
He thinks I’ve suddenly gained some self-confidence, Yuuri thinks, later that evening. But that’s not it. I always thought I hated how I looked because I was chubby. But I’m not. I wasn’t. I never was in the competitive season.
He looks in the mirror, tries to remember all of the advice therapists have given him over the years about distancing himself from his emotions and trying to think rationally. What is it?
But there’s nothing that might explain his lingering feelings of discomfort. The only unusual thing is that he’s content with how he looks. Is it because I’m keeping up with regular exercise in the off-season for the first time, he wonders. Or have Victor’s continuous compliments finally started to sink in? It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. It’s not a big deal.
He stumbles into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes and yawning. It’s past 11am, a new record. Victor will make fun of him, he’s sure. He’s fully into his off-season routine of late nights and later rises. Whatever. He’s still got another month before he needs to get serious about training again. But for now, he lets Victor go to the rink or the gym on his own each morning. Yuuri’s not the one who spent over a year out of competition. He’s allowed to sleep in.
Still, it’s weird that Victor hasn’t called out ‘good afternoon’ yet. Yuuri pours a cup of coffee. Is it his new vantage point or the caffeine that lets him notice the top of Victor’s head? Either way, he’s finally located his fiancé.
“Victor?” Yuuri rounds the corner. Victor’s reading on his phone, “What are you reading?” Victor looks up.
“Ah, good afternoon, котенок,” Double points, Yuuri thinks. Teasing and a pet name, “I’m just reading this article Chris sent me, about this ice hockey player who’s come out as transgender.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. The debate is now whether he can move to a men’s team, or if he’ll stay on the women’s team.”
“Why wouldn’t he move?”
“Well, apparently he can’t take any hormones – violates doping rules. And the men’s teams are refusing to acknowledge the gender change without proof of transition, I think.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I don’t know. That’s what the article says.”
“Huh, that’s tough,” Yuuri says.
“Tough to not be able to take hormones, or – ?”
“Well, tough to have to choose between being yourself and doing what you love, I guess. But also coming out, that’s tough – he’s really brave to put himself out there like that. What are the comments like on the article?” Victor scrolls down, and reads through. Yuuri watches his eyes flick back and forth as he skims. Occasionally, Victor will smile, and less often, he’ll wince. Yuuri knows what he’s going to say before he says it,
“Mixed. Many more positive than negative though.”
“It’s just the negative is worse than the positive is good?” Yuuri guesses, and Victor nods.
“It’s trending on twitter,” Victor says.
“Should we say something?” Yuuri asks. Victor looks up at him in surprise.
“You want to? You never do anything with social media!” Yuuri shrugs, feeling self-conscious.
“Well, it’s a good cause, isn’t it?” Victor smiles at him. It makes Yuuri feel something special, to have someone look at him with such warmth. He’ll never get over it, how much Victor loves him.
“Sure thing. Selfie time!”
“Why do we need a selfie?”
“Because. Don’t argue. I’m the social media king. Hand me your phone.”
And Yuuri really can’t argue with that (as much as Phichit thinks he’s the social media king, Victor really does have him beat). So he lets himself get pulled into Victor’s side, and smiles for the camera.
‘Congratulations @hockeyftwlam We wish you all the best as you live your most #authenticlife!’
Victor nods in approval at the caption. It’s Yuuri’s first tweet in more than a year. He then goes through and retweets a bunch of educational links that were also in hashtag. His phone promptly starts blowing up, so he silences it and drops it on the table.
“Why haven’t you turned off your notifications?” Victor asks.
“Because I’ve never needed to,” Yuuri replies shortly, “I’m not the social media king.”
<< Why the hell is Victor calling himself the social media king? >>
<< He’s demanding that we all bow down to him >>
<< I kicked him and now he’s accusing me of treason >>
<< WTF >>
<< I blame you >>
<< Why? >>
<< Because he was always crazy but now he’s crazy and in love >>
<< It’s disgusting>>
<< Sorry Yuri, can’t help you there >>
<< Wait, aren’t kings morally bound to protect their kingdom? >>
<< Probably wtf are you on about Katsudon >>
<< Can you please tell him to DO THE GD DISHES >>
<< PFFFFT >>
<< Hahaha yeah he told me he has servants for that >>
<< Then I told him I was texting you >>
<< Now he’s on his hands and knees begging that I not tell you what he said >>
<< Tell him he’s on the couch >>
<< LOL >>
<< gnricn >>
<< You shouldn’t make him sleep on the couch >>
<< He loves you too much – he’ll die of a broken heart >>
<< Victor, give Yuri back his phone >>
<< But sweetheartttttttt >>
<< I had plans for this evening PLANS >>
<< Oh really? Maybe not then >>
<< You are so weak and you are both nasty >>
<< Sorry Yuri! >>
<< >>
The next time they’re in bed, Yuuri asks for something different. He almost explodes all the veins in his face from how badly he’s blushing. Victor agrees, immediately. But whether that’s because he actually wants it or just because he’s unnerved that Yuuri is stammering and tripping on his own words – Yuuri doesn’t know. For his own mental health, he’s going to assume that Victor isn’t having sex with him out of pity.
Surely pity sex wouldn’t be so good, and tender, and all-encompassing, and overwhelming? Hopefully he’ll never find out.
“You’re not usually so shy,” Victor says afterwards, when they’re sweating and carefully arranged on the bed so that their skin doesn’t touch as they try to cool down. Yuuri mumbles in assent, “What got you so worked up over this? Is it because it’s different?”
Yuuri nods.
“It’s not what we usually do.”
Victor laughs. It’s such a clear sound. Like a songbird. At least, until he snorts.
“Yuuri,” Victor trails an arm to cup the back of Yuuri’s head, and he shuffles forward, “While I’m more than happy – delighted, over the moon even – with how you usually – ”
Yuuri slams a hand over Victor’s mouth.
“Don’t say it!” Victor licks his hand, and Yuuri pulls off in disgust.
“So shy Yuuri!” He totally just got played, “Why is it you can do such delicious things but can’t talk about them?”
“Not everyone is as shameless as you,” Yuuri pouts.
“True! Regardless, this is something I want you to understand,” And Victor’s using his coach-voice. Yuuri has no choice but to listen – he’s been conditioned, like a dog, to respond, “Just because we usually have one dynamic – one that I love and am very happy with, don’t worry – doesn’t mean we can’t change it up. I am more than happy to pamper you and well, really, more than happy to try anything once. I can be very flexible,” Victor finishes with a leer. Yuuri giggles.
“Not as flexible as me.”
“That is very true.”
Victor is being indulgent. It’s nice. He’s grateful.
And if Yuuri didn’t get what he wanted, it’s his own damn fault for being too chickenshit pathetic to explain properly.
He wakes up the next day and wants to claw his skin off. Spends 40 minutes in the shower and scrubs himself raw. It doesn’t help. He doesn’t say anything. Nothing new there, he thinks bitterly.
Victor has choreographed both his short program and his free skate again this year. His theme for this year is ‘embrace’. It’s cheesy, and every time Yuri is reminded of it he hits Yuuri over the head and sighs really loudly, but Yuuri loves it.
“You should pick a theme for this year,” Victor had suggested to him.
“You,” Yuuri had replied without hesitation. Weren’t they both skating for each other this year?
“That’s…I’m not sure you want to get in front of a room full of reporters, and say that your theme for this year is Victor Nikiforov,” Victor had deadpanned, before snorting.
“Last year I shouted at a room full of reporters that my theme was love. Can’t do worse than that.”
“Yuuri you should embrace it!”
So he does. At least this year he doesn’t shout. And Victor’s choreography is spectacular as usual. The routines are harder than last year’s – more technically challenging. Every time Yuuri complains that it’s beyond him, Victor just replies with “embrace it”.
“You’re taking longer showers,” Victor remarks. Yuuri flinches.
“Ah sorry! Am I driving up your gas bill?” Victor shakes his head.
“It’s fine, Yuuri. Without an onsen to relax in, it’s good for your muscles to have longer, hotter showers. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
Yuuri knows exactly why he’s been taking longer showers, and it’s got nothing to do with getting back into training and stretching sore muscles. He’s gotten into the habit of evaluating his body, trying to figure out why sometimes he wakes up uncomfortable in his own skin, and why other days, everything is fine.
He had a bad week last week. Every morning he woke up feeling like someone has stretched him tight, ironed over his skin. Pinned him back and stitched him tight. He’d run and stretched and had some extremely athletic sex, and nothing had helped. Nothing. Sometimes his body feels like a razor blade, too sharp. On the worst days he just wants to stay in bed, swaddled in the blankets. Pulling on one of Victor’s old, stretched out sweaters helps. They’re too big and hang off his frame. Yuuri loves them. Loves feeling wrapped around in warmth and love.
“Yuuri?” He starts. He was so lost in his thoughts he’d forgotten he was in the middle of talking with Victor.
“Huh? Oh, I’m fine. Just tired, I think.”
He’s not tired. But he is fine? Or he isn’t? He’s not sure of anything anymore. But the more he thinks about it, the worse it gets. He needs to figure it out soon.
It’s weird. He’s spent months obsessing over what’s wrong with him, why he feels weird about his body sometimes. Why he wants Victor to treat him like the women the magazines always suggested he was dating. He’s spent months being uncomfortable, and uncertain. In the end, he figures it out in exactly ten seconds.
He’s scrolling through crap online, messing around, wasting time waiting for Victor to get out of the shower, when he sees it. It’s so sudden. It’s so anticlimactic. Does everyone discover themselves sitting in their underwear, scratching their leg, scrolling through on their phone?
It’s a gaming forum about the hottest soon-to-be-released. It’s just been revealed that there will be a playable gender-fluid character.
Gender-fluid? Yuuri doesn’t know that word, so he looks it up. And then has one of the most emotionally confusing experiences of his life: feeling simultaneously relieved, and idiotic.
Of course, he thinks. Of course. This is it. This is what I’ve been feeling. Why Eros was easier and harder on certain days. Why he wants Victor to treat him differently sometimes. Why he hates his body on some days while on others is perfectly content.
“Yuuri? You can go in now. You okay?” And Yuuri looks up at his fiancé, and smiles.
“Yeah. I’m good.”
He is. He is good. He finally gets it.