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The off-season was great.
A gentle early summer breeze passed through the opened window from the nearby sea, carrying with it the scent of Victor’s second home: Hasetsu, Kyushu. It was early; the sun was casting a peach glow into the room before its full rise, tinting hazy pastel shadows through the soft bed linens that were draped over him and over his Sleeping Beauty. Yuuri’s deep, even breathing was the nearest sound, and Makkachin’s huffs and sleepy ruffs from his plush dog bed on the floor added another subtle layer to the more distant sounds of Yuuri’s family preparing for another day of innkeeping.
The tinkling of the wind-chime which hung from the eaves created an atmosphere of calm inside his shared bedroom, the irregular ding of the clapper hitting the small glass bowl surrounding it was a sound he had come to associate with summer in Hasetsu, and, the fuurin, literally “wind bell”, as he had learned that they were called, were also said to ward off evil spirits. Victor did not consider himself to be a religious person, but he had to admit that the sound of the fuurin made him think of safety, calm, and comfort. The sound also brought with it the knowing that he wasn’t alone in life anymore, and that his life wasn’t without love anymore either. Maybe there was something to that “evil spirit” thing; certainly he felt that no evil would ever dare to intrude upon Yu-Topia Katsuki, that onsen and inn that was so full of life, love, and family. Yuuri’s family had accepted him with such openness into their son’s life; they welcomed him within their old and cozy walls as part of them and not as another good-looking foreigner who happened to be a guest.
Of course, when he first arrived, he had certainly been a guest, but it didn’t take long before he found himself watching Toshiya-san and Hiroko-san in the kitchen as they danced around each other in practiced organized chaos to prepare the glorious recipes that he was sure were what God ate, and he was thrilled when they started to ask him to reach things from high shelves, or to retrieve groceries from their van, and even to wash a dish or ten when he was up early and waiting for Yuuri to drag himself out of bed to greet the day.
He found that it brought joy to the dreaded dishes chore he normally despised when left to his own devices at home; he even withstood their amused looks when he insisted on wearing rubber gloves to protect his hands from chapping. Mari thought it particularly appropriate to purchase a set just for him from the 100 yen shop down the road, complete with a vile pink color that could burn retinas and which was printed with ridiculous yellow daisies and some sort of bubble mascot with arms and legs and a wink and a smile. He wore them proudly, appreciating the humor in it, and understanding that Mari was the type who practiced a “we hurt the ones we love the most” approach to teasing. He loved that kind of thing after all; he had the same approach to his skating family, loving surprises that could sometimes be interpreted as lighthearted jabbing or pranks, his long-suffering coach Yakov the most frequent recipient of same.
Victor had long understood the concept of a “chosen family” quite well, but now, from within the sweet envelope of his lover’s kin, he had come to realize how important it was that someone else’s family had chosen to accept him . The flip-side of the coin was not something he really considered before coming to Hasetsu; he always did the choosing, and no one chose him for just being Victor before.
Until Yuuri said those very words to him on a cloudy day at the beach when Victor was only trying to meet him where he was.
Yuuri didn’t know it neither then, nor even now, Victor supposed, but that was the moment Victor decided that he would lay down his life for Yuuri just for saying those words. It probably wasn’t healthy to have thoughts like that, but the payoff was so sweet; he was with Yuuri, living with him, loving him, and that was all that mattered.
Those L words had so much more meaning in this version of the “now”.
He heard the sounds of a futon being aired, accompanied by Mari’s off-key singing to some idol band she liked that had a member who bore a striking resemblance to Yuri Plisetsky, or, maybe it was the other way around? He didn’t know for sure, but it was great because he was able to add “Takao-kun” as another annoying nickname for the talented young Russian to pair along with “Yurio”.
Victor couldn’t always converse fluently with Mari in English, and could talk with her even less in Japanese without Yuuri to translate, but he had come to adore Yuuri’s elder sister who had that dry sense of sarcastic humor, and who had sort of a tough and edgy appearance in her day-to-day look that directly opposed what he knew was a very big and very protective heart inside. He knew that Mari worked very hard to support the family business; it was a trait of both the Katsuki children: hard work, diligence, and support of family. He knew without being told that Yuuri also contributed financially, as much as he could, probably sending his family money from his endorsement deal with Mizuno, and likely, some of his prize money from his successful season was spent there too. Victor knew that when Mizuno sent Yuuri a revised offer of compensation after Worlds that the hint of a smile and the slight widening of those brown eyes meant that he would be able to send more. A silver at the Grand Prix Final and then another silver at the 4Cs, culminating with gold at Worlds; that demands a higher price after all, and Yuuri deserved every yen he got and more. And if Yuuri wouldn’t put himself out there, then a little surreptitious nudge from Victor to his own agent to keep a lookout for a good deal for the Japanese skater wouldn’t hurt either. So when his agent learned that a sports drink company in Japan wanted to have athletes in their print ads, Victor made sure that Yuuri was aware of it, and also made sure that they could spend part of their summer in Japan so that he could visit with family and then head to Tokyo for a few days to earn a little off-season money.
Victor turned on his side to watch his lover sleep, the gold ring he wore visible as his hand rested upon the pillow with his head and its mussed up bed hair; he was gorgeous in this picture of deep, sleep-induced serenity, with not a hint of the anxiety which loved to get in the way of things that should come easily. Victor had been doing some reading on it, and even his mention of that caused to occur the very thing he was trying to learn how to better deal with: Yuuri had dissolved into a full blown panic on the bathroom floor that seemed to last forever until he finally exhausted himself and trudged off to a fitful slumber.
Victor exhaled and felt his lips curl into a fond smile as he pushed some of Yuuri’s errant hair away from his eyes while he slept. It wasn’t easy sometimes, dealing with the anxiety; but Victor was trying, and he knew Yuuri was trying too. Victor had come to realize that there were such things as “good days” and “bad days”, and, though he was loathe to admit it because it brought out pangs of immature jealousy over their close friendship even now, Yuuri’s friend Phichit from Thailand had given him some tips on how to handle him: what worked and what didn’t, when to touch and when to find a remote corner of the room and wait him out.
But never leave him.
Victor supposed that was the Thai skater’s version of a shovel talk, one that he certainly didn’t think he would ever need. Yuuri was amazing; to come this far and to be this successful in such a highly competitive sport, all the while pushing through the challenges and stress that came along with the anxiety. He was so strong. Maybe someday he would actually believe that.
Victor would make sure he had a lifetime to make that happen.
Time. A lifetime. The ebb and flow, the passage of it and the waiting for it. The “now” and the “since”.
Since he had met Yuuri, falling in love with that drunken hot mess in Sochi in one night, Victor spent the ensuing off season in Japan, coaching him. It was a well-told story now among fans of skating: the highly decorated Russian champion dropping everything to coach a skater from another country who had a disastrous season. When he had arrived in Japan, things did not go entirely as he had expected based on his last meeting with the man at the Sochi banquet. For a while, Victor was confused, still lonely, and wondering why they didn’t pick up where they left off that night right away, and wondering in the early days if he had made a very grave mistake indeed.
But all of that worry went away as things developed between them more organically than he could have ever imagined possible, culminating in the exchange of rings and an exhibition skate that was their declaration to themselves, and, by circumstances, the world, he supposed. The ice dance they performed was a far cry from the sloppy, drunk, and very unfinished makeout session in Yuuri’s hotel room in Sochi. Victor had assumed the night of the Sochi Banquet was the actual start of their relationship until he arrived in Hasetsu and Yuuri skittered away from him at every turn, or just flat out gave him more “no’s” than he’d ever heard from anyone he’d previously given a blow job.
Time. Well spent, because, now, what he had was so much more, and was so much worth the wait.
And that thought was also terrifying , because, now that he had it, Victor knew he couldn’t live without.
As the months together with Yuuri went on, Victor thought more and more about God, His plan, His influence on things as small as a blade of grass to things as large as the frailty and fallacy of man: he’d never spent much time thinking about anything but himself prior to falling in love with Yuuri Katsuki. How to be a better skater. How to surprise the audience. How to have the best hair. The best skin. The perfect athletic physique. What endorsements he could secure to fund his admittedly lavish lifestyle. Skating. Money. Winning Gold and accepting nothing less.
It was all so superficial, on the surface: a shield of perfection surrounding a heart made of glass that no one should ever see, that no one should ever know about.
That no one should ever be allowed to be close enough to break.
Time, again: the past. Maybe he didn’t want to think about that because of the now of these moments in bed with Yuuri’s sleeping body.
Because, now, someone was that close, and Yuuri had no idea of the power he had, and Victor selfishly hoped that his ignorance of that fact would continue their bliss.
He turned in bed again, and Makkachin opened his eyes lazily with a couple of not-quite-awake flops of tail; this would probably be the last trip for him. He was always such a treasured and doting companion, and Victor knew that it was his own selfishness again to trapse his beloved poodle across the world and back at his age. This round trip would be the last; another barometer of time in Victor’s life was nearing its end, and he wished there was some sort of veterinary breakthrough that could grant immortality to his dog, or that God Himself should step in and touch a finger to Makkachin’s wet little nose. It was a thought shared with Yuuri which didn’t produce a positive response, Victor having let the comment slip out before recalling that the death of his own canine namesake caused Yuuri to crash and burn at the Sochi GPF.
Time was running out for Makkachin, a fact of biology, for if time was extended by spirit, Makkachin would truly have the power to live forever, with or without the help of God.
Maybe he should just learn to keep his sacrilegious musings to himself one of these days.
And yet, those musings persisted, as they had from time to time in various stages of his life. Why God made things live, why they died. Why he was blessed with talent admired by many while simultaneously living those twenty years discomfited by it and longing for something more, and better, and more fulfilling than the gold around his neck that had felt more like a noose than a prize at times.
Everything and everyone aside from God is mortal. At least when it came to Yuuri and to Makkachin, Victor hoped that the Agape, God’s Infinite and Selfless Love, would be granted to them both, eternally, in paradise, or tengoku, or wherever believers went to enjoy eternal life and love.
Victor wasn’t sure if he would go there himself, but as long as it was there for Yuuri and Makkachin, he wouldn’t care if he resided within the Seventh Circle of Hell instead.
Time; how much more did any of them have? The elusive unknown, but the surprises it had the potential to hold!
Victor wanted forever.
The fuurin tolled again, as if reminding him that he should not be thinking of hell when he was enjoying the quiet hum of sound from the onsen in the early morning, and as he started to catch the pleasing aroma of the morning meal on the breeze. Straining a little, Victor could hear the cries of the seagulls, no, black-tailed gulls, as his Yuuri would correct him, and if he really focused he could hear the soft clang of riggings from the fishing boats out to sea working hard in the early morning to bring home their catch.
A simple town, full of hard-working people living their lives in this tiny corner of Earth, an island tucked away to the south and away from the bustle of Tokyo and St. Petersburg, Paris or Boston; idyllic would be the word in English, idillicheskiy, in Russian, a fairly obvious equivalent. When he had asked Yuuri what the word would be for it in Japanese, his lover’s brow had wrinkled in thought as he searched for the equivalent, deciding that “nodokana” was the closest, but he didn’t entirely agree that Hasetsu fit the bill anyway.
To Victor, however, it was home, because it was Yuuri, and Yuuri’s family, Yuuri’s town, Yuuri’s.... history. A place where it felt almost possible for time to stand still.
His own history would not be nodokana , of that, he was sure.
And now, for the future.
Grueling practices that had their feet covered in blisters were a couple of months away for his Yuuri, and would be no more for him.
Victor was officially retired.
Retired .
The word, its very concept, was always like a dark shadow looming over the career of any elite athlete. That sense of darkness on the periphery of an athlete’s thoughts figured especially acutely in their sport where youth, flexibility, and solid knees, feet, and ankles were the elements needed for success. Of course, one also needed a little natural talent and a lot of hard work too. And a healthy supply of foot packs, analgesic creams, and bandages to tape an unsure ankle just in case; the maintenance of the body both inside and out the constant reminder of a short life span in which they had to compete for one of those three podium steps.
Victor had once feared retirement. Once dreaded it.
And now, now that he had Yuuri Katsuki in his life, Victor was not only okay with being retired, he was relishing in it. His time as a competitive skater was over.
My, how things change.
Of course the decision had not been easy; when Yuuri had won his silver medal at the Grand Prix Final with Victor as his coach, Victor had hesitated telling him that he was going to come back right up until the beginning of his free skate. And then Yuuri broke his record.
Talk about conflicted; it was so amazing to see Yuuri achieve and take his rightful place among the best in the game, but it was the ultimate diss as the former world record holder to have another man take it. Yuuri was fucking great at dissing him, a thought that Victor had more than once since Sochi, that was for sure. And it had happened in both the short and the free, thanks to Yuri Plisetsky, who wasn’t even a man.
Had he been fucking crazy to go back to competing again? Yuuri was several years his junior; barring any serious injury and combined with his very high athletic stamina, Yuuri should have another four or five seasons left in him, if he so desired. And the Ice Tiger was still a boy. A boy that broke his short program record on a program he created and choreographed, a program into which that boy bled and sweated to make winning the Grand Prix Final Gold in his senior debut season a reality.
Crazy to return in the face of that, right? Would he have enough time to seriously contend?
Why the fuck not?
That man Yuuri and that boy Yuri had given him his inspiration back, and seeing the other competitors from the audience had opened his eyes further to the talent among the field. Chris never disappoints, although Victor knew he had been extremely disappointed in himself after his performance in the Final; it was quite the upset that the silver medalist from the prior year did not find himself in the top spot on the podium in Victor’s own absence. It had briefly caused a chasm in their decade long friendship, especially when the Swiss skater learned that Victor had planned to come back to competition. They didn’t speak or text much throughout Victor’s return to Russian Nationals, and the mood was chilly between them at Worlds throughout the competition, and only worsened when the final podium result was Yuuri-Victor-Yuri.
Of course Chris congratulated Yuuri; his argument wasn’t really with him. But all he had said to Victor about getting the silver was: “Hmm. At least this one matches your hair. It’s about time you weren’t so fucking clashy mixing gold and silver like that since forever .”
Yeah, it wasn’t great being at odds with Chris. Time dragged slowly then, in that way. But, thankfully, it didn’t last long; and Victor knew his little birthday gift from Cartier helped smooth it over even more, and so did the fact that Chris had found his own Mystery Man besides.
And that time, not quite one year ago...
Although his focus had been on Yuuri, he saw the entire Grand Prix Series with new eyes when he wasn’t competing. Of course, Yuri Plisetsky delivered. Michele Crispino had developed a singular understated artistry. Emil Nekola was like a fucking grasshopper with the spring in hs quads. He learned that what’s-his-name, the one from Canada, was not the guaranteed winner even with a program stacked with ridiculously high base points, and Seung-gil Lee had the best quad loop and the worst costumes in the business. Leo De Iglesia knew exactly how to choreograph a program to maximize his own abilities, and Guang-Hong Ji had the sophistication of someone well beyond his years, if not the technical ability just yet. Phichit Chulanont was a consummate performer, and had the ability to charm the audience with just his expression. And, seeing a skater who blatantly ignored any balletic influences and skated with strength and passion and precision if not artistry; Otabek Altin had ridiculous potential and it was so refreshing to see that.
Every one of these men inspired him that season.
How could he not return when his heart had been set on fire by the most beautiful skater of them all? His Yuuri?
And now...
“Bictoru….?”
Oh, God, how wonderful it was that his name was the first word of Yuuri’s day! Maybe God was real after all.
“Ohayou, solnyshko,” he replied softly, his voice still rough from sleep and from his silent thoughts, and, yes, there it was: the half-smile and minute eye-roll toward the oddly mixed Japanese-and-Russian greeting.
“What time is it?” came the next question after a flush of cheek in response to Victor’s morning peck on his lover’s lips.
What time was it anyway?
Time.
It seemed to stand still amidst the morning sounds, the summer breeze, the warmth of his lover in bed, the thump of Makkachin as he finally climbed upon the bed after hearing their hushed voices, and the first off-season where, for Victor, there wouldn’t be another season.
The time was now. Hasetsu was now. He was Yuuri’s now, and Yuuri was his.
“Marry me this summer, Yuuri.”
“W-what?” came the choked, startled whisper and the wide-opening of those caramel colored eyes.
Okay. He’s not there yet.
“Or a year from now, or two years, or ten; we do have time, and the time doesn’t matter really. But marry me in summer, Yuuri. I love you.”
The fuurin blessed both their kiss and the whispered “I’ll be there soon, Vitya.”