Chapter Text
7-year-old Viktor did not like being forgotten.
The nanny would always read him stories in his bedroom and walk with him outside and she always held him every time he cried after his parents had left. Leaving meant they'd be gone for another week or a month, or two months. That meant he'd be forgotten for a week or however many months. No amount of nannies could make him feel any better about that.
While his parents were off in maybe Dubai or Moscow (somewhere like that), shaking hands with possible clients and seeing old friends that had stayed young, Viktor waited for them in their home in the Poconos, nervously counting down days on the calendar. Checking the mailbox for a postcard. Asking the nanny to go through the voicemail on the home phone to see if they'd missed a call from them. A routine that carried on for five more years.
17-year-old Viktor was very much the same as he was ten years ago, in the sense that he did not like being forgotten.
There's something about a high school party, the type you'd see on TV full of malicious girls and moronic boys, that makes being memorable the thing to die for, he thought.
With so much noise splintering his skin and thoughts and settling in his bones, it's impossible to stand still. There's feverish music traveling through the air, talking and shouting mixing in, cars bustling past outside every few minutes, a fire crackling and popping a few feet away. He has a view of everything from the backyard-the congested house, the street, lit only by the falling sun, the people dancing around the bonfire, the only two people who showed up to the party already hammered, screaming and climbing the one tree on the property. It's inspirational, probably, somehow, the way they keep climbing. At least they're trying.
Viktor can feel his foot attempting to fidget along with the music, the surface of the bottle in his hand growing warm as he jokes with a group of teammates. They lost their game today; by one point. It didn't stop JJ from throwing another after-game party-"to celebrate good sportsmanship," he said. No one's complaining; the parties are always fun, no matter how badly the game went. Viktor likes to think of himself as a good decent soccer player. He's quick on his feet, makes his goals every time, and always has an optimistic attitude before a game. Maybe it's just that he's better on the ice, using blades to move rather than cleats. But the nearest ice rink isn't fifteen minutes away anymore, like it was before they moved, when he was younger and had a nanny that never forgot how much he loved the ice. Now he's older, which means his parents can take on even more "business trips" without paying someone to look after him.
He's forgotten, by now, to cross off days and look out for new mail or phone calls on the days they're gone. It's easier than it used to be. He can almost completely forget that they've completely forgotten about him when they're gone.
Now there's a Santigold song playing and the voices of the house have suddenly died down enough to just barely hear the lyrics blasting. There's a whooping noise from a few people inside. Mostly everyone outside has turned to the glass sliding doors, trying to catch a glimpse at what could've enraptured such a huge audience. Dozens of teenagers from the game have crowded around something. When the people around him begin to move to the doors, he ambles after them, slipping through the doors and into the crowd.
A boy is perched on the island in the kitchen, glinting with sweat under the dim lighting, chest rising visibly and evenly. He's throwing around a predatory smile at everyone gathered before him, eyes calm and dark, swallowing the view. The front of his shirt is stuck to his torso, plastering to his lines and curves. His pants are undone, fly popped. The boy's eyes stutter in Viktor's general direction; his own heart drops in his stomach for a moment, thinking his gaze is for him, until he shouts out, "Chris! Where've you been?" And Viktor knows who that voice belongs to, relishes in the way it sounds-both sober and not.
Chris Giacometti, lurking behind Viktor, just grins and pushes his way up to the island. When Yuuri Katsuki pulls Chris up next to him and stands, gliding along the music instead of moving with it, they start to dance.
Chris' hands run themselves down his partner's hips; in return, his partner begins to peel off his own shirt. He drops it behind him, rotating his hips and gaining catcalls from the crowd. They spend the rest of the song dancing there, on the island, wearing drunken grins and progressively less clothing than they began with. The shadows of Yuuri's slim torso captivate him, rendering him dumb. He almost feels guilty, watching him circle Chris in their impromptu dance; Yuuri's using his liquid confidence in a way he'll surely regret tomorrow.
Yuuri is, without a doubt, an incredible dancer. Viktor is torn between saving this moment digitally or just locking it away in his memory, because that'll somehow make it more special, even though it isn't. He isn't used to seeing so much of the boy's body being shown off-there's no baggy hoodie to cover up the contour of his hips or the dips of his collarbones. His jeans are tighter than the ones he wears to school everyday-not that any pair of pants could keep his wondrous legs a secret (nothing can hide such amazing thighs like those). Viktor can't help but take advantage of such a sight, seeing more than he ever could imagine while staring at the back of Yuuri's head during physics class. His own in-class fantasies could never live up to the real thing. It's so much more.
His relaxed and confident countenance is unwavering; Viktor stares at his teeth for a few seconds, wishing they were biting his skin instead. He watches Chris receive a bottle from someone in the crowd. He watches him bring it up to his lips, taking a swig. He watches Yuuri eye the bobbing of his Adam's apple, before tilting his head back, mouth open and tongue out. And he watches Chris lick his own lips and pour the drink into Yuuri's mouth. Viktor's never felt quite so uneasy and jealous over someone getting waterfall-ed before.
He takes some of his own drink, hoping that maybe it'll calm his nerves. There've never been so many things in his mind all at once before; Yuuri dancing on him like that, the way his fingers would contrast against Yuuri's dark hair, how damp his skin must feel, how his fingers might float over the soft arches of his body.
Yuuri's running his fingers through his hair now, laughing and tongue licking dripped beer from his lips. Chris stumbles, foot catching on the edge of the counter-top before he steadies himself, and suddenly Viktor remembers where he is.
He burns the image of Yuuri under a dim kitchen light, half naked and laughing and dancing, into his mind. It isn't hard-Yuuri Katsuki has always been quite memorable to him. He disliked forgetting as much as being forgotten.
It feels amazing to go after what you want.
The party only improves once the stars are finally out. Everything is dark, save for the neon lights strung across the walls. Even with them, Viktor feels himself getting lost in the vibrations rumbling through the floor and into his chest. Every inch of the room is clustered; he feels blind even with the lights. Even so, it makes him feel warm; he feels good. Everyone is aware of everyone else around them, yet unaware at the same time. People rope him into quick dances, moving their way across the floor after a few minutes, speaking animatedly to him just because he's there to listen. 90% of the people here are lightweights. He almost feels...mature to be one of the few here who can handle their alcohol. (He's also only had maybe a few sips of his beer, mostly because he'd rather be coherent while catching glimpses of a specific someone roaming around.)
At a certain point during the night, he finds Chris idling in the corner of the living room, surveying the scene with a red cup in his hand. Chris' eyes find Viktor and watch him approach, grinning at him.
"That was quite a show earlier," he yells over the music.
A corner of Chris' mouth turns upwards, eyes flitting closed for a second. "I had been hoping to make an impression tonight on the party-goers, but it seems Katsuki managed to show me up," he responds. "Not that I'm complaining. A drunk Yuuri is a devious Yuuri, correct?" He thinks about Yuuri during class, quiet and respectful, compares it to the one that gets dragged to parties by his friends and ends up drinking his shyness away, and then nods.
"Correct."
His eyes are trained away from Viktor, focusing on something past his shoulder. He turns his head to follow his gaze, when an arm is slung around his shoulder. He briefly entertains the thought that there is a disembodied arm around my shoulders, this party has leveled up and then meets the owner of the not-disembodied arm. Eyes so dark they look like they've collapsed in on themselves and cheeks flushed blue under the bright string lights.
"Chris! Hi, Chris," Yuuri shouts, reaching up with his other hand to run it through Viktor's hair. "Hi, Viktor!"
He stands still, praying he'll never grow used to the feeling of Yuuri touching him so that it'll always feel this surreal. He's rendered dumb, staring at the single stray eyelash on Yuuri's cheek, imagining himself wiping it away and placing a kiss in its place. It makes something in his chest tighten, and he wonders if he's always been this much of a hopeless romantic.
"Yuuri, Viktor and I were just talking about our wonderful dance earlier," Chris says, punctuating his sentence with a wink. "Why don't you drag him out to the dance floor and allow him to experience it firsthand?"
With wide eyes and a laugh, he clutches Viktor's wrist and pulls him into the middle of the movement.