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“Yuuri, c’mon,” Phichit cocks his head, watching as Yuuri trudges across the campus green with his hands tucked into his armpits. “I’d like to get there sometime before midnight.”
“I j-just don’t understand why I c-couldn’t bring a coat.” Yuuri gripes through chattering teeth. October in Detroit is reasonably mild, but 50 degrees feels closer to 40 when wandering around outside in nothing but a fake gold bikini.
“Who brings a coat to a house party?” Phichit takes Yuuri’s hand and starts pulling him towards the row. “Anyway, it’d be a total crime to let you cover that beautiful body.”
Yuuri shivers in a way that has nothing to do with the cold. He tries not to think about the vision of himself in their dorm’s full-length mirror: his exposed stomach—soft from a university diet of energy drinks, Hot Pockets, and weekend concoctions of peanut butter and canned pasta, his plentiful love handles, and the small scrap of burgundy fabric that doesn’t come close to covering the full expanse of his butt. Looking like that, all bulbous and round, he can’t help but feel he’d be a better fit for Jabba the Hutt than Princess Leia.
“Hey,” Phichit warns, squeezing Yuuri’s hand, “don’t you think about my best friend that way.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I know you.”
“But—”
“Your butt is amazing and I’m basically jealous.” Phichit pets his cheek, careful not to smear his eye makeup. “I mean I’d totally tap that if not for the fact that I’m Luke and that’d be kinda incestual.”
Yuuri blushes and shakes his head at the sky. The stars are just barely visible through the city’s light pollution: pale and sparkling on a backdrop of hazy purple. “You’re awful.”
“You love me,” Phichit says with a confidence that Yuuri envies.
“I do,” Yuuri concedes with a sigh. It’s the truth, anyway.
“Great.” Phichit smiles, throwing an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders. “Now let’s go get so smashed we forget who we are.”
“Phichit,” Yuuri’s tone is heavy with unspoken warnings about the next morning’s 8 am class. He already knows they won’t be attending, but it feels important to at least try and maintain the facade of being the responsible adult in their friendship.
“Kidding.” Phichit waves him off. Yuuri has a strong feeling he isn’t, but he also has the (disjointed, not at all vivid) memory of Phichit restraining him in a bathtub three weekends ago to prevent Yuuri from streaking across campus and/or vomiting Franzia all over his bed, so, he makes a silent resolution to be the one to reign it in tonight and lets the matter drop.
By the time they reach the frat house, the front lawn is comprised of more parts red solo cup and wasted freshman than Kentucky bluegrass. A girl in what appears to be a sexy Frida Kahlo costume grabs Yuuri by the ankle when he steps over her on his way to the front door. “What happened to your hair?” She slurs, rubbing at her drawn on unibrow.
Yuuri pats at his head, looking to Phichit for reassurance.
“It’s fine,” Phichit placates, encouraging Yuuri forward. “They must’ve made the punch extra strong this year.”
“Yooo!” A red-faced Jesus raises the hand not currently occupied by a bottle of Barefoot Sweet Red for a high five when Yuuri squeezes past a group of grinding Crayola crayons in the entranceway. “Twin Leias!”
“Uh?” Yuuri meets his hand hesitantly. “No, he’s—” Yuuri glances at Phichit—“Luke?”
“Yeah, man! ‘I am yo’ fah-tha,’” the guy recites in what might pass for a decent Darth Vader impression if Darth was raised in Southern California and sloshed off cheap wine and jungle juice. Valley girl Darth-Jesus raises his hand to Phichit for a much firmer, more enthusiastic high five.
Yuuri watches with knit brows as Darth-Jesus leaves to work his way towards the epicenter of the party, dark wine sloshing down the front of his robes as he expertly weaves around the sweaty deathtrap otherwise known as drunk and dancing college students. He doesn’t have time to work out whether or not “twin” is some kind of obscure American slang before Phichit is grabbing him by the elbow and pulling him in Jesus’ wake.
“C’mon,” Phichit yells. His voice is barely audible over Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller,’ pulsing through the overcrowded house at ear-splitting decibels.
Yuuri tries to stay close to Phichit’s side, but the current of swaying bodies is too strong to resist, and in a blur of movement that he couldn’t recount even if placed under police interrogation, Yuuri finds himself outside flanking a bonfire, a PBR in one hand and a solo cup of some questionable Halloween themed mixed drink in the other.
He takes a generous gulp of both: it’s the only way he can survive the pulsing music and swarming drunken crowds without Phichit nearby for moral support.
“So you’re the culprit,” an accented voice (Russian, Yuuri thinks) sounds near his ear. Yuuri only nearly avoids dribbling witch’s brew down his fake gold bikini top from the shock.
“S-sorry,” Yuuri mumbles, wiping his wrist across his wet mouth. He glances up—distantly wishing Phichit hadn’t slicked his hair to the side so he still had his long bangs to hide behind—and is met with the sight of easily the most handsome man he has ever encountered. He has long silver hair pulled into a braid, hooded blue eyes, the most sweetly charming smile, and Yuuri is so, so gay.
He’s also royally screwed because this living model of human perfection is also dressed as slave era Princess Leia.
“I was wondering why everyone kept asking me about my sister,” the man smiles and oh no his dimples.
Yuuri shakes his head a little to clear it, finally taking in the details of the other man’s costume. It’s obviously custom made: the materials look closer to metal and silk than vinyl and polyester. The way he fills it out is different, too: with a tall, slender physique and lean muscle instead of Yuuri’s own soft, pliant flesh.
If Yuuri didn’t feel bad about his looks already, being cast into comparison with a person who is more god than human really isn’t a great self-esteem booster. He realizes immediately that it’s time for him to leave, retire to his dorm, and possibly stay there for the rest of the semester. He turns to do just that when Superior Leia grabs him by the elbow.
“Hey, don’t leave,” he says with a hint of a whine. Yuuri wonders what kind of alcohol is in this lethal Halloween concoction that he’s already delusional enough to imagine this dazzling man would be upset at the thought of him leaving.
“Sorry I’m—” Yuuri knits his eyebrows together, searching his stimulus-addled brain for an excuse—“suddenly feeling a little underdressed.”
“You look great,” is the Greek god of a guy’s easy reply. Yuuri has to chug back the rest of the contents of his solo cup to deal with that. “Viktor, by the way.”
Yuuri winces from the throat annihilating after burn of cheap liquor. “Sorry, what?”
Their introductions are interrupted when a cheering mob of vampires and sheet ghosts plow through the yard hoisting a mattress surfing Jesus over their heads. A particularly wasted pizza slice almost nails Superior Leia in the back of the head with a bottle of Everclear and Yuuri acts on instinct—grabbing his handsome new acquaintance by the wrist and pulling him protectively to his chest. Somewhere past the haze of encroaching drunkenness, Yuuri feels pretty damn proud of himself for that.
“My name,” the beautiful boy says, his breath smells like beer and the nearby bonfire reflects like rippling moons in the silver liquid pools of his eyes. “It’s Viktor.”
“O-oh,” Yuuri takes him by the forearms and helps him straighten back up. He’s not sure if the warmth trailing up his neck is from the fire pit or the beginnings of lust stirring in his lower belly. “I’m um...I’m Yuuri.”
“Yuuri—” Yuuri can’t help but think that his name on Viktor’s tongue is the most mesmerizing sound he’s ever experienced, like cresting waves breaking across the shores of his hometown but warmer and even more familiar. “You have strong arms.”
“I work out.” Yuuri squeezes the words from his tight lungs. It’s a stupid thing to say, probably, but Viktor just nods at him eagerly—eyes wide, cheeks flushed, and...actually a little sweaty.
They’re only a few steps from the fire, but the late October night is teetering just on the wrong side of chilly, and even with the minor buzz he’s got going, Yuuri is only just managing not to shiver in his vinyl bikini. Yuuri doesn’t want to embarrass Viktor if it’s a medical condition or something—anyway, if anyone could pull off hyperhidrosis with style, it’d be him—but the way sweat is beading at his temples and dripping down the sides of his face is a little disconcerting.
“Are you okay?” Yuuri begins to ask, just as Viktor stumbles forward with a yelp and starts tearing at his bottoms.
Yuuri grabs at Viktor’s hips to keep him from falling and immediately feels the intense heat radiating off his costume. ‘Right ,’ Yuuri’s unhelpful mind supplies as he uses his skirt as a barrier to shield his hands while he rips off Viktor’s bikini, ‘metal plus fire equals burning buns .’
“Oh my god,” Yuuri pants when he’s finally freed Viktor from his scorching metal prison. Viktor lays sprawled butt ass naked on the yard—the skin around his chest and hips a blistering bright red—and Yuuri pats him down frantically, searching his skin for blisters. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine, I—“ Viktor winces when he sits up. “I think I need a drink.”
Yuuri rips the burgundy drape from the front of his own costume and spreads it across Viktor’s lap. He’s too distracted with worry to notice the way Viktor’s eyes bulge at the action. “You need more than alcohol,” Yuuri argues, but he hands Viktor his half empty beer, anyway.
Viktor chugs the drink down gratefully. “It’s really not that—” bad, he means to say, but the words are lost in his throat when Yuuri presses one arm against his back, slides the other under his knees, and hoists him up into a bridal carry. He really isn’t so incapacitated as to be unable to walk, but there’s no way in hell he’s revealing that information and risking compromising his current position: pressed against the maddeningly soft skin of this mysterious, alluring boy.
Yuuri carries him around the frat house— expertly dodging stumbling Batmans and grinding black cats in his search for a first aid kit. He knows from experience how easy it is to get burned on a Hot Pocket’s evil molten cheese, so he finds it a minor betrayal that he can’t even locate something as simple as Vaseline to soothe Viktor’s inflamed skin. Is he supposed to believe these guys are living off actual decent forms of sustenance? Yuuri makes a mental note to never return to this accursed house.
Twenty minutes of frantic searching and four rounds of shots later finds Yuuri depositing Viktor on the front steps, defeated. “I wish I had driven here,” he frets. He doesn’t even have his license, but it’s the thought that counts. “Oh!” He shouts suddenly, taking Viktor by the wrist. “We can go to my dorm! It’s only a few blocks from here.”
Viktor opens his mouth to argue but shuts it quickly—realizing the implications. Who is he to turn down Yuuri’s mission to heal him? Especially when said mission involves them alone in a dorm room together. “Okay,” he agrees quickly, “but I can walk this time.”
Yuuri plops down on the stair next to him and spreads a palm against the bare flesh of Viktor’s back. He imagines what it would be like to rest his face there, instead—to scrape his teeth along the knobby notches of his spine. He’s maybe a little drunk. “You sure?”
Viktor is reasonably sure he can walk, but at this point, he’s not sure he can do so while simultaneously concealing the...situation...that is happening beneath the makeshift underpants fashioned from Yuuri’s thin loincloth. “Probably?” He answers. “But I need a drink for the road.” Killing his arousal with liquor isn’t a great plan, but it’s the best one his already alcohol-addled mind can come up with.
Yuuri sets off to fetch him one. He’s gone for a good thirty minutes—long enough for Viktor to start to think he’s been abandoned or maybe forgotten—before Yuuri stumbles back out of the front door with cheeks significantly redder than when he left and a grayish brown something draped over his shoulder.
“I won this for you,” Yuuri’s voice is slurred around the edges, but his posture is steady when he hands over what Viktor now realizes is an adult-sized poodle kigurumi.
Viktor stares at the costume for a beat before brightening with a smile and sliding his legs into it. “I love poodles! How did you know?”
“Really?” Yuuri inhales sharply, eyes shining. “I have a toy poodle at home!”
Viktor feels his heart skip a beat. He’s finding it hard to come to terms with just how adorable this boy is. “I have a poodle, too! A standard named Makkachin.”
They start down the road together, laughing and exchanging stories about their pets, their knuckles occasionally grazing and Viktor’s singed butt all but forgotten. It’s still cold but Yuuri feels warmer now—basking in the glow of this chance meeting and the blazing heat of every brief contact with Viktor’s soft skin.
He’s lost in his own thoughts, wondering if it’s early enough in the semester to add a Russian language course to his schedule, when a police car rolls up beside them—the blue and red lights flashing through the dark.
“Evening...boys,” the officer seems unsure of his assessment as he exits his vehicle. He saunters across the cracking asphalt, eyes scanning them from head to toe with obvious disgust. “You do know it’s against the law to have an open container in a public space.” He gestures at the beer can in Viktor’s hand. Viktor slips his free hand into Yuuri’s and neither of them replies. The officer sighs and raises an eyebrow. “I’m gonna need to see some ID.”
Yuuri’s anxiety surges and he instantly sobers. This was not how the night was supposed to go. He was supposed to walk Viktor to his dorm— enjoying more stories about Makkachin ruining Viktor’s parents’ stilted work dinners by chasing a squirrel through the dining room, across the table, and up a curtain—and then treat his skin and maybe make out with him a little? That was how Yuuri wanted to spend his second Halloween in America, not bailing Viktor out of jail because he was stupid enough to grab him a beer for the road.
“Your ID,” the cop repeats, holding his hand out expectantly.
“N-no English,” Yuuri breaks the silence, his accent exaggerated for effect. “Sorry.”
“Look, kid—”
Yuuri shakes his head, his shoulders trembling. “Please don’t take him, he’s too beautiful for jail,” he rambles in Japanese. Viktor looks at him with shocked, wide eyes, but Yuuri’s tongue is loose from adrenaline and alcohol and he’s way too scared to stop. “I’ve never met someone I liked this much in my entire life and look at him he’s so beautiful and I think he might actually like me, too, which is just so rare honestly and I’m begging you please don’t ruin this.”
“Stop, stop. Okay.” The cop holds up a hand in surrender. “Enough Chinese. I won’t write you up this time. It’s a holiday so I’m feeling generous. But this—” he tips Viktor’s beer forward, spilling the contents over the sidewalk—“is not allowed in public places. Next time you won’t get off so easy.”
Viktor and Yuuri nod vigorously and the officer scoffs and folds his arms over his chest. “Now get home before you scare some poor kid. You’re lucky I don’t write you up for public indecency.” He stares pointedly at Yuuri this time.
“Y-yes,” Yuuri stammers. It occurs to him that he just avoided being arrested by lying to a police officer while wearing a Princess Leia slave costume. He likes to think his sister would be proud, even if at the moment he is mildly horrified with himself.
The cop finally turns and walks off, muttering something about “damn foreign exchange students who can’t even speak American” and Viktor grabs Yuuri by the wrist and starts pulling him down the sidewalk. He’s going in the wrong direction, but Yuuri appreciates his desire to beat a hasty retreat.
“Yuuri,” Viktor breathes when the cop is fully out of sight, his flashing lights disappearing around the corner. Viktor releases Yuuri’s wrist to grab him by shoulders, instead. “Just how many times do you intend to save me tonight?”
“As many times as you need,” Yuuri says because, despite the earlier scare, he is still quite intoxicated.
Viktor presses his lips together with a little squeak. His eyes glisten in the streetlights and it’s hard to tell in the yellow light, but Yuuri’s pretty sure there’s a dark blush spreading from his ears across his high cheekbones. Viktor’s surprise eventually softens into a smile and he leans towards Yuuri, his mouth inches from Yuuri’s ear. “You said I was beautiful.”
“You—” Yuuri teeters back a little despite his wish to stay this close to Viktor forever—growing even drunker off the smell of sweat and something earthy. “You understood that?”
Viktor shakes his head. His hair is becoming unbraided and long strands fall across his face. “Not all of it,” he says, his fingers find the side of Yuuri’s neck, his thumb brushing the back of his ear. “But enough.”
Yuuri grips a hand into the front of Viktor’s poodle costume and pulls their lips together. Their teeth clack and Viktor makes a little sound of surprise in the back of his throat, but then he’s grabbing onto Yuuri’s hips— his nails searching for purchase in the soft skin there— and Yuuri’s biting at Viktor’s bottom lip and dipping his tongue into the hot recesses of his mouth.
“You’re amazing,” Viktor pants when they part. Yuuri doesn’t bother questioning what he means. He feels pretty amazing. “You know—” Viktor rests his forehead against Yuuri’s—“we don’t celebrate Halloween in Russia.”
Yuuri wonders how Viktor expects him to be able to hold any trivia in his head when he’s so dizzy with desire. “You don’t?”
Viktor hums. “So I’m probably like—” he kisses Yuuri again, softer this time, chaster—“25 years overdue for a treat?”
“You—” The words melt like chocolate on Yuuri’s tongue.
“Yeah, so—” Viktor pulls away, straightening his costume. “How would you feel about going trick or treating?”
Yuuri’s face twitches a little but he somehow manages to pull himself together to keep from showing outright disappointment. “Oh. Uh. S-sure.”
Viktor laughs loudly and pulls Yuuri to his chest, nuzzling the side of his face with his nose. “Oh Yuuri, my Yuuri,” he breathes, so giddy with delight over this utterly adorable boy. “That was my trick, you’ll give me my treat, right?”
And Yuuri does, his tie hanging tellingly from the doorknob (a blue striped thing that Viktor scrunches his nose at), well into the night until he wakes the following morning: Viktor’s body sprawled over his, a tight fit on the dorm’s twin bed.
He’s not hungover and he has a good two hours before his morning class, but somehow he thinks he’ll miss it, anyway.