Archive of Our Own

Sometimes Viktor is still surprised not to wake up alone.  Mornings when he's pulled out of sleep with a string wrapped tight around his heart.  All he can see is the ceiling.  Makkachin's fur is soft against his side.  Before, this would be it.  The bed, the ceiling, and Makkachin.  And Viktor. 

Now, on mornings like this, he is half surprised to hear soft snores coming from his other side.  Another weight on his arm. 

Now, Yuuri is next to him, and the string around his heart loosens. 

It took a while before Yuuri was completely comfortable with sharing a bed.  He'd grown more receptive of affection, but it wasn't until after Barcelona that he finally (finally) agreed to share a bed.  They moved to Viktor's two-bedroom apartment in St. Petersburg.  The bed in the second room was bare bones.  A frame, a mattress, and a pillow.  He'd hoped that would be a good excuse for them to share his room.  Oops, this mattress isn't good for your back.  And I don't have sheets.  My bed is big, we can both sleep in it! 

It hadn't worked, and Viktor should have predicted so. 

But it was only a week later that Yuuri cleared his throat one night after they'd both finished brushing their teeth. 

That was one thing that never failed to thrill Viktor.  Standing in the bathroom in his pajama pants with the cutest boy on the planet.  Viktor is no stranger to sexual intimacy.  But he's laid in bed naked with strangers before, and that can't even touch the closeness he feels when he's standing here simply doing life stuff with Yuuri.  The two of them could stand in the bathroom brushing their teeth side by side forever and Viktor would probably lack for nothing. 

He tries not to stare.  At the elastic headband holding Yuuri's bangs back while he washes his face.  At the way his toothbrush pokes at the inside of his cheek.  At the water glistening on his lips after he rinses his mouth.  Viktor tries not to stare, and fails.  Every single thing about Katsuki Yuuri is fascinating. 

So they're brushing their teeth and Yuuri finishes and clears his throat and his cheeks are pink and his eyes are glistening and Viktor's heart rate momentarily picks up. 

"Viktor," Yuuri says.  "Would it be okay if I slept in your bed... with you.  Tonight?" 

He doesn't have to ask twice. 

And that's how they first started sharing a bed.  That first night it was tentative.  Yuuri carefully sat down on Viktor's soft sheets. 

"Are you sure it doesn't matter which side I sleep on?" he asked. 

"I'm sure."  Really, no matter where Yuuri slept, Viktor would end up wrapped around him anyway. 

So Yuuri lowered himself to the left side of the bed and pulled the covers up to his chin.  Makkachin curled up at the foot of the bed, as if he knew that tonight was just for Viktor and Yuuri. 

Viktor shut off the overhead light and crawled into bed.  Without hesitation, he snuggled right up to Yuuri.  Arms around his soft waist, nose touching his cheek.  For a moment, Yuuri froze.  Viktor had expected this.  So he just waited.  Didn't tighten his arms.  Didn't move.  And eventually, Yuuri relaxed into his hold. 

And, geez, if that wasn't the best feeling in the entire universe.  Yuuri warm and pliant against him.  Squishy and perfect. 

He tilted his head until he could speak right in Yuuri's ear.  "Thank you, Yuuri." 

That was the first time they slept in the same bed together. 

Now, they share a bed nearly every night.  Viktor has always been a fan of sleeping.  But something about holding Yuuri and having that sweet warmth pressed all against him makes his sleep that much more restful. 

And then there are the mornings like this one, where he wakes up with the string around his heart and he remembers he is not alone.  Mornings where he turns to bury his face in Yuuri's back.  Kiss him through his T-shirt.  Breathe him in.  These days, he usually smells like plain soap and Viktor's bedsheets.  But there's always an underlying note to it that is purely Yuuri.  He can't quite describe it, but it's sweet sweet sweet.  It's a scent Viktor wishes could live inside his lungs forever. 

In his sleep, Yuuri burrows backward, further into Viktor's hold. 

Sometimes Viktor wonders if he'll ever get used to this rush of emotion. 

But mostly, he really hopes he doesn't. 

***

Viktor was 21 when he chopped off his hair.  He'd stewed on it a long time, but no one – including him – thought he'd actually go through with it.  The hair was his signature.  If someone mentioned Viktor Nikiforov, they'd say "Oh yes, the one with the beautiful long hair" before they'd even mention his skating.  Overseas he got more of the same.  After winning his first Olympic gold at age 18, his interview with American media began with, "First, I have to ask about your hair routine." 

He liked his long hair.  He'd been growing it for as long as he could remember.  He liked the androgynous look it gave him.  He liked when people pulled it during sex (except for that one time that he prefers to forget). 

But the month before his 22nd birthday, he'd boarded his flight from Ontario after Skate Canada to find a rather large lock of his hair had been cut away.  He hadn't even felt it as he'd weaved his way through his fans to get to the security line. 

This wasn't the first time someone had stolen his hair.  It happened more frequently over the years than Viktor would have admitted.  He wasn't sure what was worse – losing these large pieces, or having strands tugged right out of his scalp as he passed by.  They were both painful in their own way. 

So Viktor arrived home to St. Petersburg and suddenly it was unbearable to him.  That something that had been important to him was now important to other people, and he didn't know how to make it his own again. 

Except for one thing. 

So he sat in his bathtub with a pair of scissors and snipped at the falls of silver until it just brushed his ears.  It looked horrible.  He cried into Makkachin's fur.  Cried himself to sleep, and he couldn't figure out if he was crying because he missed it or because he'd finally claimed it for himself again. 

The next day Yakov took him to the barber to get it fixed.  And when he took to the ice in Tokyo for the GPF, the collective gasp made him a little bit smug. 

He is thinking of this as he stands in Yuuri's old room.  The posters and magazine cutouts of Viktor still cover the walls of Yuuri's bedroom.  Yuuri stammers through an explanation, still unaware that Viktor already saw it all the first time he came to Hasetsu.  Mrs. Katsuki was not shy about sharing information about her son. 

Viktor stares a little too long at the photos of him with his long hair.  Would it be worth it, he wonders?  To grow it out again?  It really did look nice.  For a moment, he fantasizes about Yuuri playing with his long hair.  Brushing it, running his fingers through it, braiding it... wrapping the ponytail around his wrist to tug his head back so he could kiss him deeper. 

It might be worth it. 

"So," Viktor says.  "Shall I put up more posters of you in St. Petersburg?  I think it's only fair." 

"N-no!" Yuuri protests immediately.  "I couldn't stare at myself that much." 

Viktor shrugs.  "Guess the only solution is for you to stay with me forever.  That way I can just look at your cute face in person whenever I want." 

Yuuri turns such a brilliant shade of red that Viktor has no choice but to kiss him on the cheek.  Twice.  And then once on the lips, for good measure. 

He'd tried to convince Yuuri to take a real vacation.  Go sightseeing or something like they hardly got to do during the season.  But Yuuri was missing home too much – something Viktor wasn't sure he understood until he realized that Yuuri is his home, and he knows how it feels to miss Yuuri – and Viktor conceded. 

The Katsukis hold a big celebration the first night to welcome the two of them back and congratulate them on winning gold and silver at Worlds.  (If there was anyone Viktor would be all too happy to lose to, it would be Yuuri.  It didn't sting even a little bit to come in second to him.) 

He'd almost forgotten.  How being surrounded by Yuuri's family and friends makes him feel full to the brim.  Instead of a string around his heart, he's got a sunburst inside his chest.  The kind of incomprehensible happiness that hurts a little bit, it's so good.  He's so used to feeling empty, empty, empty.  Trying to force himself to feel things.  Chasing the next thrill.  But with the Katuskis and the Nishigoris and Minako and everyone, Viktor doesn't have to try. 

By the end of the night, he's so pleased he agreed to come to Hasetsu for their break. 

Viktor goes to bed first.  He's jetlagged from the flight and full from the food and can barely keep his eyes open.  So Yuuri escorts him to the room he stayed in last year.  Helps him get into his pajama pants.  Viktor is almost too tired to appreciate the feeling of Yuuri undressing him.  Almost.  He manages to give Yuuri's butt a little pat and leave a little kiss on the strip of skin revealed as Yuuri's shirt rides up.  The squeaky gasp he gets as reward is perfect. 

Some time later, as Viktor is in some sort of twilight realm between sleep and awake, another body slides into the bed behind him. 

Yuuri. 

A warm arm comes around Viktor's waist.  Soft against the bare skin of Viktor's torso.  Yuuri swings one leg over his and presses his face to his back.  The quiet breaths tickle Viktor a little, but he doesn't move.  And eventually the heartbeat against his back and the warm air sliding between his shoulder blades lulls him back to sleep. 

***

A few days later, Viktor is lounging on the beach with the Nishigoris, Yuuri, and Makkachin (the triplets are obsessed with the dog, and he's enjoying the attention) when gets the urge to text Yuri Plitsetsky. 

The last time he'd spoken to the kid was just after the medal ceremony at Worlds, where Yuri had spat out some threats about beating the both of them next time.  Which was another way of congratulating them. 

Enjoy your visit with your grandpa, he texts. 

It's nine a.m. in Moscow, and knowing how Yuri spends his off-season, Viktor knows he's not awake yet.  That makes it more pleasant. 

It's hard not to see himself in Yuri.  Being sixteen and already at the top of his game.  Lonely and driven.  Unable to see the bigger picture of skating.  Taking life so seriously.  Viktor was certainly friendlier at that age, but all the same. 

Half of the time he worries about Yuri.  And half of the time he's trying to convince himself that Yuri is not an incarnation of his younger self, brought into his life only to whisper all those insecurities in his ear.  Because that part makes it easy to resent Yuri.  The last thing a young skater needs is to be hated by a skater nearly twice his age just because he has self-esteem issues. 

So instead, Viktor helps him.  That help was rejected time and again upon his move back to St. Petersburg ("You're Katsudon's coach, not mine, old man!") until it neared the end of the season and Yuri, in his roundabout way, requested that Viktor choreograph another short program for him for the next season. 

Yuri's reply comes in the evening as they're packing up to head back home. 

I will when I'm in Moscow. 

Viktor waits until he's in the car and has given Yuuri a surprise kiss (a kiss that lasts longer than any of their previous ones have, and it makes his skin tingle) to respond. 

Where are you now?  Still in St. Petersburg? 

Y: No. Almaty 

"What are you grinning about?" Yuuri asks, peering over at him. 

Viktor waves his phone.  "Yurio has a friend." 

Yuuri's eyebrows shoot up.  "Otabek Altin?" 

"The hero of Kazakhstan himself."  He frowns.  "At least, I hope so.  What else would Yurio be doing in Almaty?" 

"Good for him."  Yuuri smiles gently.  "Everyone needs at least one person who believes in them." 

Sometimes emotions get too much for Viktor.  Sometimes – most of the time, if he's honest – he can't articulate what he feels correctly.  Not even in Russian. 

There is one language, however, that always works for him. 

So he reaches over and strokes his fingers down Yuuri's cheek.  The blush is expected, but Yuuri leans into his touch all the same. 

"Don't distract the driver," Yuuri murmurs. 

He responds to Yuri. 

Well then. Enjoy your visit with your Kazakh. 

Y: HE IS NOT "MINE" OH MY GOD 

V: Your friend, yes? 

Y: well. Yes. 

V: :) 

Y: Fuck off and go back to making out with your boyfriend or something 

It doesn't properly hit Viktor until their last week in Hasetsu that he and Yuuri have never actually "made out," as Yuri so eloquently suggested.  Kissed, yes.  Snuggled, shared a bed, changed clothes in front of each other.  Viktor doesn't even think his tongue has touched Yuuri's, and if that's not a tragedy, then he doesn't know what is. 

He thinks about this overnight.  Tangled up with Yuuri.  Tilting his hips away so Yuuri doesn't wake up and wonder why Viktor is half-hard against him. 

It's curious, he thinks.  The most beautiful man in the world is all his, and he'd be perfectly happy going no further than snuggling in bed with him for the rest of their lives. 

In the morning, Viktor has barely slept a wink.  Yuuri has slept like the dead. 

Yuuri hates morning breath, but Viktor kisses him all the same the moment his eyes open, because puffy-lipped, first-thing-in-the-morning Yuuri with his mussed hair is the most stunning sight he's ever seen in his life. 

They bike down to the beach with Makkachin.  Viktor sits with his legs outstretched, leaning back on his hands.  Yuuri is bundled into his side, head tucked just along Viktor's jaw. 

"I never thought I'd feel this way with someone," Yuuri mumbles. 

Viktor plays with the soft hair at the back of Yuuri's neck.  "Feel what way?" 

After a moment, Yuuri pulls back just enough to lift his head. 

"I don't know," he breathes.  "I can't really explain it." 

This time, Yuuri kisses first.  Soft, soft, soft grazes of his lips.  Viktor waits patiently, eager to let Yuuri lead this one. 

The kisses get longer.  He leaves them at the corners of Viktor's mouth.  Tugs at his bottom lip.  And then he's prying Viktor's mouth open.  Gently, as only Yuuri can do.  His sweet breath, his sweet mouth, his hand sliding into Viktor's hair, his fingernails scratching his scalp. 

Yuuri tugs him closer with a sigh. 

Experimentally, because he can't help himself, Viktor licks at Yuuri's top lip.  Yuuri shivers but doesn't pull away.  And then they're kissing deeply, and Yuuri's soft tongue against his is exactly the type of heaven Viktor predicted it would be. 

He leaves open-mouthed kisses along Yuuri's jaw, all the way down to his neck. 

"Viktor," Yuuri gasps into the morning air, pulling him closer. 

It's not that early in the morning.  People could walk by and see them at any moment.  Viktor doesn't care. 

There's more kissing and tongues and fingers in hair and gasps and hesitant touches beneath shirts, and then they slowly stop. 

Yuuri's face is flushed and his lips are swollen.  He looks well-kissed.  Viktor is proud, especially when he realizes he probably looks the same. 

"We made out," he says giddily. 

"U-um."  Yuuri blinks.  "Yes, I guess so." 

Viktor grins.  "We've never done that before.  I liked it." 

Yuuri buries his face in Viktor's chest.  "I liked it, too," comes out muffled. 

That night, they get into bed and make out again before going to sleep. 

***

Nobody would ever accuse Viktor Nikiforov of not being sentimental.  He takes Yuuri out to celebrate the one-year anniversary of him coming to Hasetsu to become his coach.  And when they're back in St. Petersburg, he FaceTimes Yuri in honor of the one-year anniversary of the Onsen on Ice event.  (Yuri is in Moscow now, with his grandpa, and so his yelling and cursing are toned down.) 

Viktor and Yuuri ask how Almaty was.  Yuri goes on and on about Otabek.  How cool he is, how good his taste in music is, how funny his family is, etc. 

"Sounds like you really enjoy Otabek," Viktor sing-songs, unable to help himself. 

Yuri quietly threatens him, and then quickly hangs up to go help his grandpa make pirozhki. 

Time passes, and soon they're almost ready to start training again.  Viktor gets Yuuri started on an intense workout regime to get back to his competition weight (he is still the coach, even if he's in love).  He choreographs short programs for himself, Yuri, and Yuuri.  Yakov insists he slow down so he can have time for himself.  So Viktor lets Lilia choreograph his FS.  But Yakov can only hold him back so much, and Viktor and Yuuri choreograph Yuuri's FS together. 

Training is hard.  It's much more rigorous practicing at a rink filled with other skaters and coaches than it was training at Ice Castle Hasetsu in privacy.  The pressure is up.  Everyone feels the need to give input.  Ever since Viktor came out of retirement, Yakov has teetered the line between punishing Viktor for leaving before and pushing him even harder to make up for lost time. 

Yuuri and Viktor return home in the evenings barely having enough energy to eat a proper dinner.  They throw something together and get ready for bed. 

More often than not, they fall asleep kissing, too tired to pull apart but not tired enough to not kiss. 

***

Viktor was twelve when his parents realized he was serious about the skating thing and sent him – alone – to St. Petersburg to train.  He was too young to have his own phone, so his communication with them was sporadic.  And then it was rare, and then it was virtually non-existent aside from him sending money home when he could. 

And then, when he was 24, the day after Worlds he saw an email from his mother. 

Daddy is dead.  I'm moving to Moscow with Auntie Galina. 

The email was dated March 15 – the day of the men's free skate.  He was immediately relieved he had shut off all his notifications during the competition and didn't see this before his skate.  He would have bombed it.  But then immediately after that, he felt guilty for even feeling relieved about that.  His father had died and he was worried about skating. 

Viktor hadn't called his father "Daddy" in over a decade. 

He scrambled through his files to find his parents' home number and then called his mother, hoping that this was still their number after all this time. 

She answered on the third ring. 

"Mom," he said, and the word sounded foreign on his tongue. 

"Vitya," she said, and that sounded as strange as he had felt calling her "mom." 

"When do you move?  I'll come help." 

He didn't even go home upon landing in St. Petersburg.  During his layover in Frankfurt, he'd bought a flight to Kazan, so he left his skating gear with Yakov and then hopped the plane to his hometown. 

He hadn't been back since he left twelve years ago.  Since then, his time had been split between St. Petersburg and all the cities he visited for competitions.  And sometimes small towns in France when he needed a break from being Viktor Nikiforov on the off-season.  The city hardly felt familiar to him as he exited the airport.  He stared out the window on the way to his parents'… his mother's apartment and nothing looked how he remembered it.  He couldn't be sure if that was because it had changed so much over the years or because his memories of life before training had flown his mind. 

His mother was quiet when she let him in.  They did not hug.  He squeezed her shoulder once, tight but not too tight, and then she took his hand and held it for a few seconds before dropping it. 

He wasn't sure what to say.  If he was supposed to comfort her or not.  After all, they'd both lost his father.  Technically, he should have been in mourning, too.  But his mother had known him better.  Viktor couldn't even remember the last time he'd spoken to his father directly.  He didn't even know how long he'd been dead. 

He had forgotten to ask that. 

Viktor had expected to get right to packing up the apartment, but his mother offered him tea and something to eat first. 

"You've been traveling nonstop for two days," she said in explanation. 

She sat and watched him eat and drink.  It felt oddly maternal.  Lilia often did the same thing, and without his own around, Viktor had found her the best example of a mother. 

He tried not to think too much into his mother's expression as she watched him.  Bad or good, either of them would make him feel guilty.  Which would make him angry, because his parents were the ones who had sent him off first.  Which would make him feel guilty again, because they were still his parents, and he should have made an effort. 

After he finished, he helped pack up.  She had protested – "You should nap." "I napped on the plane." – but he won, and in the end, they spent the next several hours putting things in boxes and cleaning.  It was obvious she had already started.  The extra bedroom – Viktor's old bedroom, he realized with horror – had already been packed and cleaned completely.  There was no bed.  He wondered how long after he left that they'd gotten rid of that. 

His mother made a simple dinner and then Viktor crashed on the couch.  He slept until midday the next day. 

He and his mother worked for two days getting things ready. 

"How are you getting this to Moscow?" he asked her. 

"I've hired a truck," she told him.  "And most of this will go into storage.  Galina has enough at her apartment." 

"And how are you getting there?" 

"I'm flying." 

She was so organized, as if she were moving for pleasure rather than because she was afraid of living alone. 

The last evening, his mother went out to buy something for dinner, and Viktor stayed to pack by himself.  There wasn't much left.  A few things in the living room.  Among them, a stack of magazines.  Some of them skating, some of them mainstream, some of them foreign.  All of them with Viktor on the cover or featured inside. 

They dated all the way back to his first Junior Worlds title. 

He vomited in his mother's toilet. 

When she returned home, she found him sitting on the floor surrounded by them. 

"Vitya," she said. 

"I didn't know." 

He didn't know what he didn't know.  That his parents cared?  That they paid attention to his success?  That they were sentimental, like him, and had kept these things for years and years? 

"You just sent me away."  His throat was raw.  The words came out rough. 

His mother kneeled next to him.  She took his chin in her hand not gently and turned him to face her. 

"We saw it in your eyes, Vitya," she said.  "We knew you'd never love anything more than you loved skating." 

She was wrong, Viktor thinks now as he watches Yuuri skate through his short program with a critical and admiring eye. 

Because this will be Viktor's last figure skating season, and because he has Yuuri now, he doesn't even mind. 

*** 

Viktor and Yuuri fight two nights before they leave for Skate America. 

Fighting with Yuuri is strange.  He doesn't fight like a normal person.  Mostly he sits there in horror until something is said that hurts him deeply, and then he cries.  Sometimes he shouts something back.  Sometimes he passionately whispers his feelings.  Always, it breaks Viktor's heart, even if he's still angry. 

During the fight, Viktor comes close to telling him he's retiring after this season.  He doesn't.  And before they go to bed, he apologizes.  Yuuri says nothing, and turns away from him when the lights go out. 

But at least they still sleep in the same bed.  And in the morning, Viktor is woken with a kiss and a huskily spoken, "I forgive you." 

By the time they land in Chicago, the fight is completely forgotten.  They get Garrett's Popcorn almost immediately after they arrive (Viktor allows Yuuri two pieces because he's not that cruel) and then meet Otabek in Millennium Park.  He greets them confusedly in front of the Art Institute. 

"Hi, Otabek!" Viktor says. 

"Hi."  He clears his throat.  "Why did you..." 

"Because you're friends with Yurio, of course!  And a friend of Yurio's is a friend of ours."  Viktor doesn't add that Yuri's never actually had a friend before to be a friend of Viktor and Yuuri.  Otabek probably knows that already, anyway. 

"He says he hates when you guys call him that." 

"Yes, well." 

Without a word, Otabek slips his phone out, stands in front of Yuuri and Viktor, and snaps a photo before Yuuri has time to pose in a non-awkward way. 

"Sending that to Yurio, are you?" Viktor asks, peering at the photo over Otabek's shoulder. 

"Yes." 

Otabek captions the picture, "hanging out with your weirdo friends," and it's so cute that Viktor can't even bring himself to complain at being called a weirdo. 

"You're good for our little tomcat," Viktor says as they make their way to the Bean. 

"He's good for me, too." 

Yuuri must hear the same thing in Otabek's voice that Viktor does, because he takes hold of Viktor's hand and squeezes.  Everyone needs at least one person who believes in them, he said in Hasetsu.  And Viktor and Yuuri are each other's. 

***

No one could ever accuse Viktor of not being sentimental.  He's in Marseille, and he and Yuuri have woken up early to stand by the sea before they need to head to the rink and be both competitors and coach-student. 

"You know it, don't you, Yuuri?" Viktor murmurs into his ear. 

They're standing along the railing, Viktor boxing Yuuri in from behind, hands tucked into the pockets of Yuuri's fluffy coat. 

"Know what?" Yuuri asks.  It's impossible to tell if he's being coy. 

"It's the anniversary."  He nips at Yuuri's ear and is rewarded with a shiver.  "The anniversary of when we got engaged." 

Yuuri twists in his arms.  His eyes are big and beautiful behind his glasses.  The rising sun glints off his hair and makes some strands look light brown.  He really is the most beautiful thing alive.  Viktor wants to keep him like he's never wanted to keep anything before. 

"Do you really want to marry me, Viktor?" he asks.  That conviction in his voice that Viktor only hears when Yuuri is sure of something. 

"What?" 

"I know that... well, I guess I don't know.  What you meant when you said that about being engaged."  He takes a deep breath.  "I don't know what to call you.  My coach?  My boyfriend?  My fiance?" 

Viktor smiles.  The poor guy.  This is what had been bothering him? 

He slides a finger under Yuuri's chin. 

"Yuuri Katuski," he begins, and then switches to Japanese.  "Katuski Yuuri.  I want to be your fiance.  And then, soon, your husband.  Will you marry me?" 

The waterworks begin before Viktor even finishes.  Tears trickle down Yuuri's grinning face. 

"Yes, Viktor Nikiforov," he says.  "Officially this time.  I will marry you." 

Both of their lips are chapped, but they kiss anyway.  It still feels amazing. 

"I am retiring after this season," Viktor murmurs against his fiance's mouth. 

Yuuri doesn't freeze or freak out like Viktor had feared he would. 

"I know," he says instead. 

Viktor pulls back.  Yuuri is grinning. 

"How will I win four more World titles if I'm competing against you all the time?" 

The sunburst appears in Viktor's chest again. 

***

Subject: Wanted you to know 
Attachment: Yuuri and Me.jpg 

Mama, 

I finally found something I love more than skating. 

This is me with the man I'm going to marry.  Your official invite should be coming soon.  I hope you can come. 

Love, 
Your Vitya