Work Text:
While Yuuri’s specialties consisted of three a.m. waffles and post-season katsudons; occasionally, he liked to paint along the curves of Viktor’s dinner plates. As white canvases with no story to tell, say for the ones dished upon them, letting the background tell the story was pivotal to tonight’s dinner. Dipping his brush into a spicy, buttery sauce, Yuuri outlined the swivels and branches of a midsummer night’s eve. The minute squares from the sliced chilis moved along the ebb and flow of the brush, swimming along a buttery vein before they found a place to clog.
The butter, itself, was a bit difficult to control. Liquids moved where they pleased, but they angled around the dinner plates and softened the harsh breaks in between the veins and the white space. A gentle curve of the sauce illustrated the summer blooms that Yuuri often saw through the kitchen window when he cared ot glance out. Though he had never smelled them, Yuuri imagined that the flowers were as spicy as his sauce when he sprinkled a little bit of black pepper over the top.
The strings behind his back swished with every step. Yuuri migrated towards the stove, tightening his apron against his will when he checked on the broth for tonight’s meal. A floating chunk of meat, ensnared around a segmented femur, bobbed up and down with every stir of the ladle. Yuuri lifted his chopsticks from the kitchen counter and picked the meat apart. Softly digging the tip of his utensil between the bone and meat, and he was able to separate the two gently. With that, Yuuri lowered the heat and pressed a lid over the top of his boiled pot.
Somewhere on the floor, waiting for a tasty morsel to rain down from the counter, was Makkachin. Ears perked, tail wagging, as her nose followed Yuuri. She borked, ever-so slightly against the symphony of cuts and boils, and Yuuri carefully washed his hands before rubbing underneath Makkachin’s jaw. The old poodle nuzzled against his touch, poking her nose at Yuuri’s fingers and licking his palm. She could smell the faint trace of chicken and steamed broccoli on Yuuri’s skin, and Makkachin knew that she was going to dine like a Queen tonight.
There was no better story than that, Yuuri figured, when he had to let Makkachin go so that he could plate her meal. Yuuri washed his hands and thought of the story he wanted to tell. From the drawer came a knife, from the cabinets came a friendly plastic plate, and from his workstation came a bed of broccoli laced with delicate chicken breasts on top. Sliced thinly, like a blanket, and clothed under a metal cover. Makkachin followed Yuuri to the dining table, propped onto her hind legs and her nose booped against her plate.
“Not yet, Makkachin. We have to wait for Viktor to come home.”
A smile pressed against Yuuri’s lips when Makkachin steadied herself back onto the floor, and she moved towards the front door of the apartment. Sitting there, as if that would make Viktor come home faster. It was a good idea. Maybe Yuuri could sit next to her and wait. All the cooking finished, preparations accounted for, and now was just the game between the stomach and the clock when Yuuri washed his hands again. Scrubbing soap between his digits, under the curve of his nails, and pushing his glasses up with his knuckles.
Viktor had always come home at a certain time, maybe ten minutes before or after depending on traffic. Today was the latter; but even so, it never failed to quicken Yuuri’s heartbeats when he picked out a knife to clean.
The clarity of his reflection over the blade reminded Yuuri to have faith, but his grip over the handle reminded him that he might have to cut more meat before it was time to eat. If that day were to ever come, Yuuri wasn’t sure of how he’ll explain it to Makkachin. He turned his head back, watching how the poodle wagged her tail for a man that may never come home. But then, the door knob turned and Makkachin borked and ran around in circles when Viktor appeared on the other side of the door. She leapt into his arms, and Viktor danced around with Makkachin against his chest before aches coaxed for Makkachin to settle down.
With his grip loose on a knife’s handle, Yuuri finished cleaning it and motioned for Viktor to come into the kitchen. Viktor waltzed right in, peeling out from his jacket and loosening his tie when he admired Yuuri’s work. Resting his chin upon the curve of Yuuri’s shoulder when Yuuri lifted the lid from a pot and showed Viktor tonight’s dinner.
“Is that a bone?” Viktor’s breath swirled with the steam emitted from the pot, and they fogged Yuuri’s glasses.
“Only the best for my love.” Yuuri ladled a bit of the broth, and Viktor pressed his lips against the rim. A bit spilled, running down Viktor’s jaw and dripping onto Yuuri’s shoulder before they both pulled apart.
Suddenly shy, but they laughed at how quick they were to part and at how slow they came back together again. Yuuri tossed the ladle into the sink and rummaged from the drawers for another one while, at the same time, Viktor wiped his chin with his thumb. Cleaning it off with his tongue so he could taste the broth again before switching the kitchen radio on. The hum of a cello serenaded every step between him and Yuuri until Viktor tenderly asked if they could dance.
Right now?
Yuuri ducked under Viktor’s arms and spun a new ladle through the tonight’s dinner. Dancing sounded nice, but Yuuri wasn’t dressed for the part. Not while in his sweatpants, a t-shirt three sizes too big on his frame, and a loose-ish apron that felt more like a dress with every swish of his steps.
Perhaps, he could join in Viktor’s little game. What were the conditions?
“We can dance to the end of time,” Viktor suggested. A slight bob to his bangs when his smile blossomed over like a flower.
“And miss dinner?” Yuuri took Viktor by the hand, and they were close once again. Perhaps a few breaths away as they stepped back and forth in their little dance, turning to the rhythms that spilled from the kitchen radio and of the singer that caramelized their love like an apple to be plucked.
“And start over again,”
Viktor whispered, pulling the words from the song when he enveloped Yuuri in his arms. A kiss to sew, but Yuuri spun around and captured Viktor in his arms.
With his arms supporting below Viktor’s hips, Yuuri paraded around the kitchen while Viktor buried his face behind his hands. Flush boiled across his cheeks, and Viktor stuttered that Yuuri couldn’t hold him like this forever. That their dinner was going to burn and Makkachin would have to eat on her own. Enough to earn a slight narrow to Yuuri’s eyes when he pressed Viktor’s back against the fridge door. A little
‘oof’
trailed from Viktor’s lips, but it wasn’t as sincere as the gushing performance from earlier.
Come to think of it, the pink flushed across Viktor’s skin subsided and a different tune came through the kitchen radio.
“I thought you wouldn’t mind if dinner had to be made again.” Yuuri pressed his ear against Viktor’s stomach. Too far to hear his heartbeats, but there was a generous rumble. A crook of a smile caught Yuuri before he knew it, and he slowly lowered Viktor back onto the floor. “Were you lying to me earlier?”
“I thought about making dinner with you. I’ll confess to that.” Viktor folded his fingers over, exposing his eyes to Yuuri, and blinked so innocently.
No ulterior motive whatsoever, but the look crumbled Yuuri from the inside-out. How could he not drop his guard when Viktor batted his lashes? The curve of a smirk hidden behind Viktor’s palms when Yuuri took his bait. In a swish that swept Yuuri off of his feet, his thighs brushed against the kitchen counter next to the fridge and Viktor had him trapped. In a fluttering embrace, where Viktor could rest his ear against Yuuri’s heart and hear the rhythm of everything that words couldn’t convey.
These beats, once solitary, quickened in expectation when Viktor tiptoed his fingers up Yuuri’s arm and poked at his lover’s cheek. Yuuri chuckled softly, asking Viktor what he was doing.
They were alone, in this seemingly forgotten corner of the kitchen because Makkachin entertained herself with a squeaky toy in the living room. The squeaks and the bounce of tossed rubber faded into the background when Viktor pulled his head away from Yuuri’s chest. His fingers beckoning Yuuri to lower his head. Yuuri’s glasses slipped and skidded across the tiled floor, just as Viktor pressed a kiss against his forehead. The warmth still lingered, even after Viktor pulled away and cuddled his face against Yuuri’s shoulder. Sort of like a cat, wanting to keep some part of himself attached to Yuuri.
“You might be a nightmare dressed as a daydream,”
Viktor whispered underneath his breath.
The words, rounded over by the small pops and boils from the stove pot. Yuuri almost drew his attention to there before he felt Viktor shift. Yuuri met Viktor’s at the middle and understood what this moment meant. It was still so hard to believe that they were together like this, in Viktor’s mind when he poked Yuuri’s cheek again for reassurance. Yuuri folded his hands around Viktor’s finger, letting his warmth reassure Viktor instead. A crook of a smile began its migration over Viktor’s lips, the entire world reflected in his eyes. Despite Yuuri only seeing himself in there.
“But, even I know when the nightmares end. Sweetheart,”
a kiss rested against Yuuri’s ear and Viktor won their little game. Though not a single word was said, Yuuri heard the very same vows that Viktor had said during their wedding. How he pressed a kiss near Yuuri’s ear, sort of like this, and whispered everything for Yuuri to hear only. Yuuri was his nightmare, his fantasy, his dream, and his reality. All rolled up into one figure, into the one Yuuri that was tender against his touch.
Every second ticked against their breaths when Yuuri loosened his apron. The fabric trickled down from his torso and crumbled against his lap. His arms loosely draped over the back of Viktor’s shoulders, more than ready for another kiss. If Viktor would like one.