Archive of Our Own ^beta

Best read when listening to this. Based off of this headcannon.

   Sometimes, Viktor hears Yuuri sing. The first time was a subtle sound, nearly masked by the low rumble of the television as a daytime talk show played, the Russian words slowly forgotten as the silver-haired skater lowered the volume in order to determine the origin of the odd lyrical tone that didn’t quite blend with the program.

   His  fiancé had been the room over, folding laundry. (They’d come to a compromise on chores when Yuuri had first moved in.) Viktor knew that there were times the Japanese man needed space, even if that space was a confined one, surrounded on all sides with overbearing walls and the chill of linoleum tile cool against bare skin when Yuuri took his place on the floor.

   “It’s calming,” he’d once told Viktor, some small smile that barely met his eyes betraying his emotions when Viktor had caught him at it one day. The repetitive motion must have helped to ground Yuuri at times. Viktor hadn’t complained.

   This had been new, though.

   Viktor had crept as silently as he could, thanking good Fortune that Makkachin had lay silently on the dog’s plump cushion settled in the corner of the living room so that Yuuri wouldn’t catch the five- time Grand Prix gold medalist Nikiforov slinking around his own apartment. A glint of gold as his hand had settled over the door frame, soon to be followed by startling cerulean orbs peering at his soon- to- be- husband. He’d only leaned over far enough that he could make out the shape settled in its usual spot for the tedious activity.

   Yuuri never sat with his back to the door, but pressed up against one of the side walls so he could glance outside the far window or in the opposite direction, out the doorway of the washroom, to his heart’s content. He had been cross- legged, blue- rimmed glasses perched firmly on the bridge of his nose as the tiny mountains of folded clothing began to take form around him. It was so obscenely domestic that Viktor nearly clutched at his chest in an attempt to calm his rapidly beating heart.

   Above the din, Yuuri’s honey- smooth vocals. Plush, pink lips formed around words Viktor had little understanding of, but whose meaning reverberated in the melancholy mood and nostalgia they had induced. Viktor had swallowed hard and allowed himself to be mesmerized by Yuuri’s oblivious form a little longer before the clacking of claws against hardwood panels alerted him to Makkachin’s awakening, and he’d tip-toed back to the couch only to cause a racket when grabbing onto the dog’s leash and collar and proclaiming that it was walk time.

   Yuuri hadn’t joined them that day.

   As the cold of St. Petersburg truly settled in, so did Yuuri into the apartment he was soon to call home. It was troublesome at first, growing accustomed to the new climate, not to mention the attainment of new mannerisms the skater had forced unto himself in order to fit in properly. He hadn’t simply walked into the rink (Viktor’s rink, along with the rest of the Russian skating team’s) and expected to be accepted as easily as he had been. Plus, he didn’t want Viktor to feel the need to coddle him for the first few weeks in the unfamiliar place- although, in hindsight, he probably should have expected it. Viktor wasn’t the type to let the people he cared about hang out to dry, even if tagging along with Yuuri to every grocery store in the general proximity of their building might have been a little excessive.

   (“Yuu~ri,” the skating legend had sing- songed, a pout gracing his breathtaking features as Yuuri had, for the thousandth time, promised Viktor he would be fine on the short trek to grab some fresh vegetables. “You wouldn’t have me abandon you in your time of need?! I’m your coach, aren’t I? I should be supervising you!”

  And Yuuri, knowing better at this point, had simply sighed and let it be because, honestly, the company was welcome. He was slowly learning that he didn’t have to do the small things on his own.)

   The longer the Japanese man spent navigating himself around the city, the more comfortable he became. And the harder a familiar feeling of longing pressed against his heart.

   He’d felt it worst in Detroit, when his decision to train under Celestino separated him from his family for five long years, with the scattered visits between school vacations, competitions and training being the only thing keeping him from losing himself. There were times then that not even the comfortable companionship he had with Phichit had been able to aid him, and Yuuri had given in for short periods of time. In those moments, his mother’s voice rang in his head, tenderly luring him into a warm sense of security with a familiar melody.

   The lullaby reminded him of simple times. It brought back the images of him tucked into his blankets as a child, his mother a constant presence at his side with her jovial smile. Even then, he didn’t enjoy being touched, but the songs did more for him than an embrace ever could, wrapping around him soothingly without the suffocating heat of hug. Yuuri allowed the lyrics to flow through him and outward to fill the space of his cluttered room in Detroit. His voice wasn’t his mother’s, but it would suffice for the moments when they were apart and he had to ease himself.

   Yuuri was extremely happy where he was. The happiest he can ever remember being, in fact, but that didn’t put an end to his wandering thoughts. He reminisced, exchanging in his head the cold, snow covered pavement of St. Petersburg for the pleasantly warm strolls around Hasetsu. It was really beautiful in Spring, when everything was in bloom and the murmur and gurgle of the hot springs could pull him into a short and easy sleep. It was different here, though, and no amount of skating was help for the emotions that coursed through him. In a way, it sometimes felt like a betrayal to Viktor, the man he loved with all of his heart, who had taught him how to be strong in so many ways. Viktor, who had given up his career for Yuuri without a thought, giving a second chance to a man who believed the world he loved was rid of him. Yuuri would forever be grateful for that, so why couldn’t he convince this small part of his heart to move with him? It seemed it would always belong to a home he left behind.

   Viktor hears it again, Yuuri unabashedly humming the tune as he tries to find his other skate guard.

   “It’s part of my good pair!” He’d protested when Viktor tried to hustle him along for practice. The determination in the other man’s chocolate brown eyes almost sent the Russian cooing; would have if Yuuri had not insisted that Viktor help him hunt for the object.

   (In truth, the case of the missing guard could be easily solved if one of them just went through Yuuri’s bag again. Preferably not in a panicked frenzy.)

   Viktor froze in place once the humming began. He was holding onto a couch cushion, and must have looked the picture of ridiculousness considering the shocked look on his face. Yuuri didn’t hum. Yuuri barely sang -which, by the way, how does someone NOT sing in the shower? It was one of Viktor’s favourite things to do in there- but he seemed to be in such a state that he’d barely noticed what he was doing. The Russian man didn’t say a word. Not until a fluffy brown head rose from where it had been nosing through a dark coloured bag, proudly poised with the stick-like object in mouth before dropping it in front of The Shorter Human.

   “Makka!” Yuuri had exclaimed, dropping onto his knees to throw his arms around the poodle happily. “Good dog!” And while it was a sight for Viktor to see, he couldn’t help but be saddened by the loss of the song.

   Thus was the fire of Viktor’s determination truly set. Swishing silver locks and penetrating icy eyes often times did little to break through the solid wall that was Katsuki Yuuri’s resolve, and Viktor had learned to let Yuuri open up to him rather than to spend countless hours attempting to pry a response from the other man. There were miraculous times when Yuuri would give into the interrogation, slipping enough that Viktor was sure that this was the entrance to the next layer of his fiancé , and he grabbed onto those moments with ferocity. He was sure that the mystery of haunting song was somewhere buried deep within Yuuri, but that hadn’t stopped Viktor before.

   The skater’s persistence wasn’t in vain, but the answer to his unspoken question came much sooner than he expected.

   Yuuri was flicking through the photos in his phone, which was nearly pressed to his face while his glasses rested on the beside table. The chill of night set in a few hours earlier, and Viktor’s heavy, sleep- induced breathing came evenly from the other side of the bed. Yuuri lingered slightly longer on the pictures he had saved from home. There was Mari, a candid shot of her standing with her hand poised to lift a cigarette to her mouth, laughing at something their father had said while they relaxed outside in the dead heat of summer. Yuuko, Takeshi, and the triplets; Yuuri had kept what was most likely the only shot of them all together in relative peace with smiles on their faces. His grip on the phone was getting tighter the farther he went, and as he finally settled on one of Vicchan, a Good Boy with a paw raised while his mother held up her own hand, Yuuri found he could hardly contain himself.

   He flashed a quick look at his future husband before he began, reciting the familiar words softly so as not to wake the sleeping beauty beside him. It was a vain effort, as Viktor stirred only a short while after- not even thirty seconds could have passed.

   “Yuuri?” The heavily accented voice had sounded, and Viktor, head fuzzy with sleep, turned from his position to reach out for the shorter man’s form. “I like that song,” the Russian smiled with eyes still closed. It took Yuuri by surprise, and when he gripped Viktor’s hand with his own, his thumb brushed across the silver-haired man’s knuckles affectionately.
   “I do, too,” Yuuri answered, shifting to lie on his side and face his  fiancé . “It reminds me of home,” he continued sheepishly. Viktor suck a peek at Yuuri with one eye, closing it again quickly and shuffling ever closer so that the two could entwine their legs, bodies pressed flush against one another. Learning how to speak the language of Yuuri was a challenge in and of himself, so Viktor knew there was a weight to the words.
“Then don’t hold it back. Sing as much as you want,” he urged Yuuri, hoping to appease the unease that seemed to constantly dwell within the other man. He felt Yuuri nod, and that was enough.

   Soon, it became routine. They fell into an easy pattern again, with Yuuri’s accented voice and the strange song serving a new purpose. When Viktor heard it, he knew it was best to leave Yuuri be and allow him some time to sort his own emotions. It didn’t mean he couldn’t gather the Japanese skater in his arms immediately after, planting fleeting, chaste kisses to his love’s face until a happy smile lit up his features and the laugh that Viktor held so dear rang through the room.

   And then Yuuri starts having trouble smiling again. His movements in practice had been lacking their usual emotion, and each slide across the ice looked like it pained him more than the last, and Viktor was hurting just watching the scene unfold because he had certainly been there before and this wasn't how Yuuri skated. His limbs seemed disjointed and when Yuuri nearly fell when trying to execute a jump, Viktor called an end to practice. He wanted to get Yuuri away from the prying eyes.

   Unreadable expression on his face, Viktor simply mimed along to Yurio’s questions that attempted to divulge a reason for Yuuri’s sudden discomfort at the sidelines. Were they fighting? Did something happen in Hasetsu? Was Yuuri’s anxiety for the upcoming season beginning to overpower him? Viktor shook his head to all of these, and the blond teenager must have taken the hint, because he’d allowed his silver-haired competitor to leave with only a loud grumble, which wasn’t so bad when it came to Yurio.

   Viktor waited until he and Yuuri were home again. Yuuri still spoke to him, but the guarded look in his eyes was back, and Viktor hated to see it. He still made sure not to rush Yuuri too much, though, allowing him the time to set his things aside just the way he wanted - Viktor did notice the way his fingers kept fumbling with the zipper to his bag; not to mention the thumping of his foot in the car as his leg continuously bounced- before Yuuri eventually found his way to the shower.

   The Russian man played with his phone, letting time tick slowly by before his concerns began to weigh too heavily on him, and he resigned himself to laying on the floor beside the constant bundle of joyful fluff that was his dog. A fond memory of Yuuri and him blow-drying Makka after a bath had a smile spreading across his face. The dog’s fur had been so soft afterwards, but the poor animal had barely been able to see through the fringe that was his poofy self. Twice his size, Viktor and Yuuri had laughed to near tears as their beloved pet trudged through the apartment, looking quite similar to a lumbering bear.

    Makkachin, not oblivious to his owner’s distraught emotions, slams a paw down beside Viktor’s head, resting his furry chin on the ground and letting out a soft whine. The human smiles at his best friend, tenderly scratching the spot just above Makkachin’s nose that Viktor knows he likes best. The dog’s tail thuds against the floor, a sign of its happiness, and the sound of the water running in the washroom ceases.

   Taking a deep breath, Viktor steels himself for what he’s sure is going to be an eventful night. There were a few times where he had sought solace in the comforting arms of his almost- husband, seeking the soothing embrace in an attempt to drive some of his sadness away. He would gladly do the same for Yuuri; he’d suit himself up in armour and sword fight away any lingering monsters if he could, but the demons of the mind were another matter entirely.

   The pit-pat of Yuuri’s footsteps tells Viktor that he’s headed to the bedroom, presumably to try and hide himself away for a little while. This is when Viktor would usually just let Makka into the room by himself to work the magic that he seemed to have when it came to his Japanese counterpart. Today, though, Viktor wanted to see if he could help in a different way, and while he doesn’t discourage the poodle from trailing behind him with tongue lolling out of its mouth along every soft pant, Viktor does make sure he enters the room first. And he does it slowly, noting the Yuuri hadn’t closed the door, that Yuuri is lying with his face toward the ceiling on his back, gazing out someplace Viktor could not follow. Perching on the edge of the bed closest to his gradually crumbling soulmate, the Russian man smiles in a manner that doesn’t quite reach all of his features. Yuuri looks so small. Viktor’s arms feel too empty.

   “Hold me?” The silver-haired man thinks he hears the breaking man say, and then he’s gladly accepting the invitation that Yuuri extends him, sliding into place beside the boy he will one day marry and turning onto his side so said man could nuzzle his face into the crook of Viktor's neck. Yuuri’s glasses are askew, digging into the flesh of Viktor’s collar. Viktor doesn’t care.

    A silence descends upon the two, broken by the creaking of the bed springs as their dog clambers onto the bed with them to settle at the base of their feet. When the brown poodle curls up into position with his head resting on his two front paws, Viktor looks fondly down at it, making eye contact with the canine who seems to be far more intelligent than it lets on.

   And then Viktor starts to sing.

   The tensing up of the man in his arms does little to stop the lyrics from flowing, because Viktor is sure that he had memorized every word, every syllable, so that he wouldn’t butcher the lullaby that set Yuuri so at ease. Texts between himself, Mari, and mama Katsuki shared secretly and short video calls abruptly ended as soon as Yuuri had come in close quarters would not go wasted so that he could do this for Japan's Ace that had breathed so much life into him.

   With his eyes shutting closed, Viktor nuzzles into Yuuri’s hair, continuing the song in his slightly lilting voice. He’s still singing when Yuuri’s shoulders stop shuddering and he starts leaning into the soothing touch of Viktor’s hand rubbing circles into his back.

   As the last notes die away, Yuuri mumbles something, and Viktor reluctantly loosens his grip to hear what the other skater was trying to say.

   “Thank you,” Yuuri croaks, his voice strained, but he’s trying, and that’s all that Viktor will ever ask of him.

   In response, Viktor presses his lips to Yuuri’s forehead, the only exposed skin that he can reach in their position, but Yuuri understands.

   Somewhere, Makkachin whines, and then  65 pounds of standard- sized poodle flops on top of their legs.

   Yuuri laughs.

“Yu~uri, what is the song about?”

   “Hm?” Is the answering hum, glasses slipping a few centimeters down the bridge of Yuuri’s nose as he casts a glance as the pouting man sitting with a pillow in his lap, knees nearly pressed to his chest. Viktor really could be such a child at times.

   “The song you always sing. What’s it about?”

   “Any reason you want to ask me now when we’re relaxing?”

   “Curious.”

   Yuuri sighs, clicking the button on the top of his phone with his forefinger to power it down before placing it beside him on the couch and chewing on his bottom lip.

   “It’s pretty old. Mostly moms just use it for really young kids, still in a cradle.”

   “Were you ever in a cradle, Yuuri?” Viktor exclaims, and the Japanese man prays that his mother had gotten rid of the digital camera he knew was holding the photos of him as a baby.

   “Maybe?”

   “Any pictures?

   “No.”

   “Lies!”

   Viktor throws his pillow at Yuuri.

   Yuuri has learned to dodge.