Work Text:
Yuuri is lonely. Not for any particular reason, as he prides himself in his ability at portraying an exterior of relative okayness. He has friends and family he loves, and he certainly isn’t by any means alone.
He’s just lonely. It doesn’t matter how many people he surrounds himself with. Yuuri’s found that loneliness isn’t just a fact or a feeling, but a state of being.
Yuuri is also very smart. At least, his multiple STEM degrees would make one assume so. He understands numbers better than he understands anything else; maybe that’s why, when he was young, he was determined to go to space. Because in order to get to space you had to understand numbers.
But how could he have known that when he was five? Maybe he just liked space suits. Terribly unflattering, but nonetheless cool.
So Yuuri’s perpetual loneliness, understanding of numbers, and overall smartness led him to space. Cool. Space is cool. Who would turn down going to space? The first time he saw the curvature of the earth through an ISS window, he cried. Not many people can say they’ve been brought to tears by the sight of the planet in front of them. He’d certainly brag about it if he could.
But he doesn’t. Because he’s lonely. Which is fine.
Right now, however, he isn’t stressed about mundane problems like that. Right now, he’s in the middle of a one-man space walk inspecting one of the ISS’s solar arrays. Phichit, back at the station, is a chattering presence in his ear.
This is familiar. Repetitive. Normal. At least, until Yuuri hears someone behind him clear their throat.
He spins around with a jolt, his suit’s tether twisting along with him. Yuuri’s heard someone clear their throat, the kind someone does when snidely announcing their own presence. He couldn’t have. That’s impossible.
But he did. And what’s even more surprising is the scene behind him, where he finds a man floating in mid-space; untethered and unsuited, he’s instead decked out in an outfit a historically inaccurate Renaissance fair-goer would wear.
“What the fuck,” Yuuri says, because, well, what the fuck.
“An earthling!” the floating man exclaims. Through the golden film of his visor, Yuuri can see how blue the man’s eyes are, how his skin — the same bright blue to match his eyes — is flecked with what Yuuri can only childishly describe as stardust. He notes with growing horror that the man isn’t wearing anything that could protect him from the unforgiving environment.
He also notes that, in an ethereal way, the man is incredibly handsome.
But never mind that — the man talked. And Yuuri, despite the bulk of his helmet and the laws of physics, heard him. “Uh, Phichit?” Yuuri asks. “Am I being punked?”
“Punked?” Phichit says through Yuuri’s helmet radio. “Yuuri, you’re alone in space. It took millions of dollars to get you here. One small mishap could kill you. Why would you think you’re being punked?”
Unperturbed, the floating man says, “Hello, earthling! I’m Victor Nikiforov.”
“Uh,” Yuuri repeats, wondering if his suit has malfunctioned, leading him down the bumpy path to carbon dioxide poisoning. But because his mother raised a gentleman, he introduces himself and asks, as politely as possible, what Victor is doing breaking all known laws of science.
“Glad you asked,” Victor says.
And that’s how Yuuri learns of the existence of aliens. Planet-enslaving, power-hungry aliens who’ve come to invade Earth. Great. That’s new.
“But I swear to you,” Victor promises after his spiel, “my people are the kindest rulers you’ll ever come across. We believe in labor standards enforcement. Child labor’s a no-no. As long as everything you produce is given to us and you know who’s in charge, we won’t have any trouble.”
“And does your...people…” Yuuri struggles to say, “have a name?”
Victor, having clearly been anticipating this question, says, “The name of our kind is not pronounceable in your tongue, but after much discussion we’ve decided that when we become your supreme overlords, we would like for earthlings to call us...the Russians.”
“I’m fucking hallucinating,” Yuuri says.
Alarmed, Phichit demands, “Who the hell are you talking to?”
In a moment of white-hot panic, Yuuri mutes him without any regard to protocol, because he doesn’t want his friend to see him go through an apparent mental breakdown.
“Well?” Victor asks. “What do you say? I suggest you decide quickly, as my army eagerly waits for your reply.”
Might as well go along with this hallucinatory episode until it ends. “What? Of course not! You can’t — enslave an entire planet!”
Legitimate confusion wrinkles Victor’s rather large forehead. “Why not?”
“Because you just can’t do that? What the fuck?” If Yuuri wasn’t in an environment mostly unaffected by gravity he’d be pacing the floor. “And besides, Earth is the worst planet to invade. Trust me, I live there.”
“I don’t understand,” Victor the planet-enslaving alien confesses. Somehow, his pointed ears droop like a dejected puppy.
Put off by the display, Yuuri goes on to spend an inordinate amount of time explaining why invading Earth is a bad idea. It’s the most he’s talked in weeks. Remarkably, Victor nods along at every word, and Yuuri is strangely touched at the sentiment.
“And we’re so lazy,” Yuuri stresses at the two hour mark. “And mean. We spend most of our time coming up with complicated yet efficient ways of killing each other, instead of anything actually productive.”
“That sounds like innovation to me,” Victor says.
“You need to get your priorities straight,” Yuuri tells him.
It continues like this, and Yuuri finds himself enjoying this unusual predicament far more than he should. For all his idiosyncrasies and inhumanness, Victor is entertaining to talk to, with his genuine curiosity and eagerness to talk to someone he assumes has an all-encompassing knowledge of the planet he’s considering taking over.
Ah, that. Yuuri had nearly forgotten about that. If only Victor weren’t so charming, with his bright eyes and light hair that reminds Yuuri of the rays of sun refracting on the ocean he would visit when he was young.
“It’s been an absolute joy to talk to you, Yuuri,” Victor says. Underneath them the earth lethargically spins on, bright blips of civilization blinking at their feet. “This truly has been the most pleasant conversation I’ve had in years. But I’m still confused. Wouldn’t a species like yours be glad to accept our offer of guidance?”
Yuuri’s internal clock tells him that it’s been at least five hours since this near-nonsensical interaction has begun. He asks, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, first off,” Victor starts, “I struggle to comprehend how you get anything done without that long tentacle getting in the way.”
Yuuri blinks. “Excuse me.”
“I guess it’s bearable now,” Victor continues. “But on Earth, where gravity is in affect? It must be such a pain, flopping around everywhere.”
“Oh my god,” Yuuri says.
“Don’t even get me started on that huge, rectangular growth on your back,” Victor interrupts, voice dripping with sympathy. “Also, question? How does your species sufficiently operate when the entire front half of your head is a pupil?”
“Victor,” Yuuri starts, choked, before bending over and letting laughter bubble out of him, the type of laughter he hadn’t realized he had stopped doing. He feels tears form at the corners of his eyes, not aware that Victor watches him with bemused affection.
“You have a beautiful laugh,” he comments. “At least earthlings have that going for them, considering the rest of your physicality is quite bottom of the barrel.”
“Victor, no,” he gasps, sucking in a breath. But before he could begin, a beeping begins to blare into his ear, and his mouth closes with a click.
“What’s wrong?” Victor asks, alarmed at the sudden change of demeanor.
Tendrils of panic begin to crawl up Yuuri’s neck. He says, “I need to get back inside. Running out of oxygen.”
“Is that a problem?”
“I need it to live,” he answers, beginning the descent back to the entrance. He hopes his superiors understand why he wasn’t able to finish his mission; preventing an alien invasion outweighs the structural integrity of a solar array, at least to him.
Victor floats there for a moment, contemplative, before following him. “I know much less about you than I thought,” he ponders.
Unable to help himself, Yuuri grins.
The process of getting back into the ISS goes smoothly given the circumstance. Victor isn’t affected by the recompression process, and merely blinks in surprise when Phichit greets them as they step out the airlock.
“Yuuri? What the hell?” is the first thing that comes out of Phichit’s mouth. He unabashedly stares at Victor, who stares just as quizzically back.
“It’s a long story,” Yuuri explains.
“I sure damn hope it is,” Phichit replies.
Internally, Yuuri sighs in relief that Phichit can also see Victor, confirming that what Yuuri is experiencing isn’t space-madness.
Externally, Victor’s eyes darts back and forth between the two astronauts, his mouth opening in slack-jaw confusion.
“Yuuri,” he says as concern pulls the corners of his lips into a frown, “please explain to me why your friend looks like that.”
“Genetics, luck, and an amazing bone structure,” is Phichit’s curt answer.
“Where’s his tentacle?” Victor clarifies. “His pupil-head? He looks like a Russian without neon skin.”
Yuuri sighs and begins unfastening his helmet. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” he starts, and finally, finally, takes off his helmet to take a breath of cold, ventilated air.
Victor steps back in alarm at the sight of, in his perspective, Yuuri beheading himself with terrifying ease. “Yuuri, what are you doing — oh.”
Yuuri wedges his helmet under his armpit. “Yeah.”
Understanding dawns on Phichit face. “Did he think — ?”
“Yeah,” Yuuri says, decidedly done for the day.
“Hm.” To Yuuri’s surprise, Victor tucks some hair behind his ear and begins to turn an even brighter shade of blue, his already shimmering skin intensifying enough that Yuuri squints against it. He lets out a (shaky?) breath. “You, uh — hm.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Yuuri informs him, ”but humans aren’t actually deformed cyclopes with stomach tentacles.”
“I see.” Victor coughs and then, warm enough to melt the coldest winter, smiles. It hits Yuuri like a brick. “I admit I was wrong, but this? You? A disappointment? Far from it.”
He stares at Yuuri and his newly-revealed face like he has found something unexpectedly wonderful. Yuuri doesn’t know what to do.
He decides to deflect. “Enough to change your mind about the whole enslaving earth thing?”
Phichit, who’s been clenching his fists and chanting “Yes” the entire exchange, freezes. “What.”
“Don’t ask,” Yuuri says.
“Actually,” Victor interjects, still dazed and eye-squintingly bright, “after careful consideration, I’ve concluded that invading Earth would not benefit the Russians after all. I’ll report to my fleet immediately.”
“A wise choice,” Yuuri tells him. But instead of the relief he knows he should be feeling, a sting of disappointment pricks his neck and begins to flow through his bloodstream.
Not because he wants an alien apocalypse. But because Victor would be leaving.
Somehow, in the deep solitude of space, Yuuri has found himself feeling the least alone in years. He wants to chase the feeling, to keep it.
“However,” Victor adds. He tilts his head, shy. “Earth does sound rather interesting. Perhaps I could visit?”
Phichit, seizing the opportunity, suggests, “Won’t be much of a visit if you don’t have someone to show you around.”
“Exactly,” Victor agrees. He offers Yuuri a hand with his palm facing up to the ceiling, the stars, the heavens. “Yuuri, I was going to ask —”
Yuuri doesn’t let him finish. He blurts out, “Do you have dogs on your planet?”
Victor pauses. Says, “Dogs?” and Yuuri, for once, doesn’t know what will come next — nor does he care to.
“Oh, Victor,” he says with a growing grin, taking the plunge and reaching for Victor’s hand, “you are in for a ride.”