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More than anything, it’s the way Yuuri scoffs that persuades Viktor to give it a try.
From a practical standpoint, Yuuri is both shorter than Viktor and more slight, even with his post-retirement softness. Pinning him down would be a pointless demonstration of the obvious, the casual aggression of a bully. Asking who would win a fight between them is more for the pleasure of imagining the tussle than the outcome, but then Yuuri’s eyes slip sideways at him over his box of lo-mein, chest lifting with a silent huff of laughter.
If that’s not an invitation, Viktor doesn’t know what is.
He sets his own takeout aside, and when Yuuri notices he hurriedly slurps up the knot of noodles on the end of his chopsticks and follows suit. They eye each other, and then the coffee table, and then each other, before clearing a space in front of the couch and confining Makka to the kitchen.
Viktor grins, a tingle of excitement slithering up his spine, and then they collide over the soft pile of the living room rug.
It comes as something of a shock when Viktor finds himself staring up at the ceiling approximately three seconds later, breath knocked out of him and head rattling in spite of the rug. Yuuri’s face appears in his line of sight, head tilted as he brings a snow pea to his lips and bites it in half with a tiny crunch.
Viktor’s brows knit. Yuuri pats his cheek and retreats, smiling pleasantly.
*
Sneaking up on him doesn’t work. Several attempts later, Viktor begins to understand what his eyes never quite catch: the way Yuuri somehow twists before Viktor can grab him, changing the shape Viktor expects to trap in his arms into something else entirely. Yuuri melts out of his hands only to immediately turn around and drop Viktor like a sack of bricks again.
And again.
And again.
He’s not mad about it — contrary to what’s been said about him, Viktor’s ego doesn’t bruise. He has precious little left to prove, and Yuuri knows that better than anyone else. But now it’s a puzzle, and he finds himself seeing opportunities in little moments: Yuuri staring off into space while he’s stretching, Yuuri playing on his phone with his leg sticking straight up in the air for no particular reason, Yuuri crouching down to tie his trainers.
Viktor even makes a memorable attempt one morning just as Yuuri blinks his eyes open, stretching invitingly. He gets an armful of blankets for his trouble and spends the rest of the day weathering Yuuri’s glare, which is perhaps deserved, as it had been an underhanded dirty trick and also forced Yuuri to wake up more abruptly than usual, greeting the floor head-first.
Viktor apologizes on his knees later, which Yuuri accepts with his usual grace and two hands knotted deliciously in Viktor’s hair.
He figures if Yuuri really is bothered by all of the impromptu wrestling he’ll say as much. And Viktor won’t pretend Yuuri putting him firmly in his place isn’t hot, no matter how earnestly he is trying to discover a way to pin Yuuri down.
*
“What are you doing?” Yuuri’s tone is bemused, one socked foot pushing at Viktor’s chest even as his knee blocks a side approach. Viktor slumps back into the couch, giving up on his halfhearted lunge.
“You’re never surprised. I can’t surprise you,” he says, frowning.
“Were you trying to?” Yuuri asks, because he is cutthroat. Smiling, he parts his legs and wraps them around Viktor’s waist, dragging him closer in spite of his efforts to sulk. “Do you want to hold me down?”
“No,” Viktor says. “Yes.” He reconsiders. “But I want to win, and you’re slippery. It’s because you grew up near a ninja castle,” he accuses.
“It’s because I grew up with an older sister,” Yuuri says drily.
“Mari?” Viktor doesn’t mean to sound skeptical, especially because Mari’s default setting is an amused confidence so mild she could probably end him without breaking a sweat. But she also doesn’t seem the type for childhood squabbling.
“I used to come home from school crying a lot,” Yuuri admits, crushing Viktor a bit with his thighs when Viktor coos. “She would take care of it. I guess she wanted to do other things besides chasing my bullies after awhile, so she taught me like she taught herself.”
“Wow,” Viktor says, a strange little fantasy springing into his mind of Mari taking him aside as a boy, her cool half smile promising mischief.
Yuuri’s eyes focus, coming back from the middle distance of memory, and his gaze lids.
“Hold me down, Vitya,” he says.
*
“Want some more?” Viktor offers his spoon, but Yuuri shakes his head, thumbing away a small smear of yogurt at the corner of his mouth. His eyes are still sleepy, even though he’s made the circuit from bed, to bathroom, to kitchen, and back to bed again, shuffling into place between Viktor’s legs.
Viktor hides his smile in the bottom of his cup, scooping up the last bit of yogurt and setting it aside. Yuuri grumbles in Japanese, struggling to cross his legs with Viktor’s thighs in the way, one hand supporting his drooping head and the other bunched in Viktor’s shirt.
Brimming with something shivery like laughter but sweet as heartache, Viktor puts his hands on Yuuri’s knees, rubbing soothing circles over his thighs.
Lazy Sundays have crept up on Viktor, growing in appeal without his notice. There are few pleasures more indulgent than gently telling Yuuri to get back in bed. Even if half the time it means joining him, sacrificing some bit of productivity to poky elbows in his belly or a dark head tucked under his chin. Today could go either way, as far as Viktor is concerned.
“We have to go to Yura’s,” Yuuri protests, presumably in response to the lullabye Viktor is humming absently. “We promised.”
“That’s true,” Viktor says. He crosses his ankles behind Yuuri’s butt, encircling him. Yuuri glares weak censure from beneath the chaos of his bed hair.
“What happened to the Coach Nikiforov I once knew?” he asks, eyes narrowing further when Viktor laughs.
“He is enjoying a well-deserved retirement,” Viktor says airily. “With his adoring husband and adoring dog, content with his many achievements, and medals, and also his endorsements!”
Yuuri sputters, lunging for a pillow to biff him over the head. Viktor catches him around the waist and pulls him into a bear hug that’s more restraint than embrace.
“You see my dear,” Viktor continues both loudly and blithely over the noise of Yuuri’s breathless struggling and laughter, “in Russia we know it is best to go out on top, and I won you, so if you think about it, it is your fault if we miss Yurio’s party.” He takes a breath, preparing to drown out further protest, and notices that Yuuri has gone quite still in his arms. “—Yuuri?”
Yuuri sits back abruptly, fiddling with his glasses. Viktor touches his cheek, hesitant, but when Yuuri looks up he doesn’t seem upset. His face is pink, and he takes Viktor’s hand between his own, pressing it flat to his chest.
Viktor doesn’t follow until Yuuri falls back on the bed, Viktor’s hand still trapped over his heart.
It’s been a while since Viktor has tried to pin Yuuri down, having given it up as a lost cause. A slow grin spreads over his mouth as he watches Yuuri squirm in embarrassed pleasure, pantomiming his defeat. Viktor lets his weight settle on his hand as he leans forward, claiming his victory in a storm of kisses.
*
They make it to Yuri’s party, albeit several hours late.