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His heartbeat echoes in his ears as Yuuri knocks at the plain black metal door. It’s probably stupid, he knows. He can see perfectly a small doorbell which would be more helpful. The thing is, he doesn’t really want the door to be opened.
His knocking resounds deep in the apartment, and after a long moment of dead silence, Yuuri hears faint shuffling. It gets closer, the door clicks, then opens, and Yuuri’s heart sinks.
The man in the doorway freezes, his eyes widen in shock.
“What?” he says, and Yuuri has no choice but to smile weakly and say,
“Hi.”
Here he is — he’s come to Saint Petersburg five days early without telling anyone except his family; without even telling Victor, who was so eager to meet him off the plane. So, now he’s standing in front of him, bag in hand and backpack on shoulders, sweating because of the winter coat he’s wearing. Or maybe because of something else. The stupid decision he made, for example.
The moment the idea appeared in his head, he was afraid Victor would be mad at him, and he really couldn’t blame him. But his head has always been a dark place, full of shadows and self-doubts, and yesterday morning was the worst morning in his entire life. He bid Victor goodnight, then went for a run, and as he jogged along the gray, still ocean, his thoughts hit him like a train. He had spent almost two months without Victor, and every time they talked over the phone or Skype, he felt more and more miserable. And lonely. Very, very lonely.
He didn’t want to be lonely anymore. He didn’t want to feel awful at the sight of his fiancé while Skyping. So he, trying not to think about what he was doing, threw the most necessary things in his bag, bought the first available plane ticket to Russia, asked Mari to ship everything else over, and after a long flight he’s ended up in front of Victor’s door at 5 AM.
“Yuuri?” Victor says as if he can’t believe his eyes. “What—what’s happened?”
Yuuri only stares at Victor’s crumpled t-shirt. What could he say?
“Nothing. I just—I know it’s dumb, I should have warned you, but—I missed you too much, I think?” He sucks in a breath and quietly adds, “I’m sorry.”
And he is. It’s too early in the morning. Victor was clearly sleeping or something, and he didn't expect to see Yuuri for another a week, and it’s really stupid to show up at his door so suddenly, without even a call, without anything, without—
“Yuuri!” rasps Victor, and the next thing Yuuri know, he’s tackled with a bone-crushing hug. Victor smells like coffee and cinnamon, and he’s warm – that kind of warm when you’ve just got out of bed and haven’t started the day yet. Yuuri sinks into it, closes his eyes and inhales deeply. Victor laughs. The most beautiful sound.
“I missed you so much,” Yuuri says again, feeling long fingers combing his hair. His heart pounds so fast, so hard, and for the first time in two months he’s happy – for now, at least. So happy his heart’s going to burst.
“Why haven’t you said anything?” Victor asks quietly. His voice is peaceful, calm… loving. Yuuri can feel his fears melt under the heatwave of Victor’s touch and his warm breath that tickles Yuuri’s ear.
“Because it’s stupid.” His voice is small, and Victor leans back—but only to cup Yuuri’s cheek with his palm. His thumb gently sweeps over Yuuri’s cheekbone and then boops his nose.
“No, it’s not,” he says with a smile and steps away. Yuuri is half-tempted to hug him again, but they’re still standing in the hallway, which is probably not the best place for affection. But when Yuuri steps inside the apartment, when the door shuts behind him, when Victor leans casually against the wall—it hits him.
He is in Victor’s apartment. Victor’s home .
Victor rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Sorry for the mess, I wasn't expecting any guests.”
But Yuuri doesn’t care about the mess right now. Because he’s in Victor’s apartment, and it’s full of the yellowish light of many bulbs hanging from the ceiling. It’s big and airy and so undeniably lived-in: Victor’s jacket lying in a shapeless heap on the chair, a pile of books and magazines standing next to the dark-gray couch with a thin indigo blanket thrown over it.
He fell asleep reading again , Yuuri thinks fondly as he sees a pair of glasses on the small coffee table.
With trembling hands, he sheds his winter jacket and goes into the living room combined with kitchen. Now he can see dirty dishes, lying haphazardly in the sink and all over the table; there are some mugs, half-filled with something that looks like black tea, a pan on the stove with fried chicken, and—Yuuri’s breath hitches—several photos of Yuuri, pinned to the fridge with magnets.
He just stands there as Victor throws the blanket from the couch over himself and yawns.
Yuuri yawns too.
“You should sleep,” Victor says and smiles like nothing happened. Like Yuuri hasn’t shown up at his door in the early morning, like everything is absolutely fine and—
It’s Victor’s cold hands under Yuuri’s sweater that make his train of thoughts stop abruptly. He’s suddenly so close, and the look in his blue eyes is so warm, Yuuri can’t breathe.
“You should sleep,” he repeats, softly. He is apparently too sleepy to be his usual vibrant and lively self. Yuuri adores him, as always. “We will talk after you wake up.”
“B-but what about you?” Yuuri asks. The cold touches are really distracting, but he can’t complain — he missed them, he missed Victor, his smile, his eyes, his lips that are so close right now, Yuuri could just rise on his tiptoes and kiss him. “I woke you up, I’m sorry, maybe you should sleep too?” He can hear his voice getting lower with want, and Victor must hear it too; his finger touches Yuuri’s bottom lip, and it’s terrifying and exciting, just like that first time at the rink.
But Victor doesn’t kiss him, not on the lips; instead, he presses his mouth to Yuuri’s temple and laughs quietly.
“I’d have to get up in half an hour anyway. Let’s go. I know you are jet-lagged.”
“But—” Yuuri tries, but Victor is having none of that. He grabs Yuuri’s hand, pulls him into the bedroom, turns the lights on—and Yuuri feels like his heart is going to stop completely. Because no photo on the fridge could prepare him for an entire wall of photos of Yuuri and Yuuri and Victor together in Hasetsu; there are so, so many, and they are hanging right in front of the big canopy bed with crumpled white-and-blue sheets and Makkachin, soundly asleep between them.
“Well, I missed you too,” Victor confesses, following Yuuri’s stare.
And Yuuri is suddenly aware of the surreality of all this; maybe he hasn’t flown over to Russia, maybe he’s just sleeping in his old bedroom at the onsen, because this—this just cannot be true.
“Come here,” Victor tugs him gently towards the bed.
“I—I actually—I have no change of clothes, I think?” he chokes out, the ability to connect words into sentences forgotten. And in the next moment he forgets how to even think, because Victor pulls off his sleeping T-shirt and holds it out to Yuuri.
He can’t. He just—he can’t.
They fall onto the bed, already kissing. It’s messy and wonderful, and Yuuri glides his palms along Victor’s chest, and Victor’s hands are everywhere, and it’s so familiar and odd at the same time, and Yuuri can feel his heart pounding—and he feels Victor’s heart pounding against his hand, too.
Makkachin whines, and they finally let go of each other; Victor’s laughter, beautiful and carefree, fills the room, and Yuuri chuckles, too.
“Sorry, Makka,” he says, scratching between the fluffy ears, and the poodle looks at him with suspicious eyes. What are you doing here?, he seems to ask, Are you really my owner’s Yuuri? But then he noses Yuuri’s palm, sniffs it and just crawls onto his lap, curling in a warm ball of fur.
Now Yuuri can’t change his pants, but he gets rid of his sweater—not without the help of Victor’s wandering hands—and changes into his t-shirt. It’s soft and big and smells like Victor, and Yuuri’s probably going to wear it forever.
“Sleep well,” Victor says, pressing his lips to Yuuri’s forehead. “I’m gonna make you some breakfast.”
“Thanks,” Yuuri whispers as he watches Victor turn the lights off and leave the room.
He pulls the white-and-blue comforter over his shoulders and for a moment he just lies there, in the quiet darkness. He doesn’t think he can fall asleep, not with his heart thrumming in his chest, so he just stares at the ceiling.
Everything is still too surreal; it’s like a dream, the best dream ever, but Yuuri knows it isn’t. And this knowledge makes it even more dream-like.
He thinks about Victor as he closes his eyes. They haven’t even talked properly about Yuuri’s sudden arrival, or about their future plans, or about pretty much anything, but right now he can’t bring himself to be afraid of the future.
He is lying in Victor’s bed, he is wearing Victor’s clothes, he is still feeling the remnants of the heated kiss they’ve shared; he is just too happy.
He suddenly finds himself staring at the window, even though he hasn’t noticed when he’s opened his eyes again. Saint Petersburg is gray, rainy and cloudy, and Yuuri could hear the cries of seagulls, could see the pieces of ice sparkling on the surface of the Neva Bay and distant lights, flashing between metal ribs of the Western High-Speed Diameter.
It looks cold. But Yuuri is warm. Probably warmer than he’s ever felt.
The bed is soft. The white light canopy is cascading down from steel dark bed frame, like a wisp of the winter. Makkachin is snoring softly, a steady weight on Yuuri’s feet. And Victor... Victor is singing something behind the door, content and happy, and yawns sometimes, and even sneezes—and it’s too adorable for Yuuri to handle.
He giggles, covering his face with his hands, and bites his lip.
And thinks, that maybe—just maybe—the decision he made wasn’t so stupid after all.