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Their train car is nearly empty. Except for a young salaryman sitting toward the front, it’s just the two of them and Makkachin, who has curled up in her crate to sleep off the sedatives they gave her for the flight. Clearly, not many people need to travel from Fukuoka to Hasetsu on a random Wednesday in the beginning of April. After a day spent in crowded airports and crammed plane seats, Viktor counts this as a blessing.
Outside the train, the setting sun is a pool of gold on the horizon. As it melts slowly into the ocean, it radiates reds and oranges into the sky above. If not for the glass pane in front of him, Viktor would feel like he could reach out and touch it—as if there weren’t miles and miles of ocean stretched out before him, as if a sunset could ever be touched. The light does touch him, though, along with Yuuri and Makkachin and the tired young man sitting five rows up. It fills the train car with a warm, fleeting glow.
Viktor considers waking Yuuri up so he can see, but then thinks better of it. Yuuri looks very comfortable with his head pillowed on Viktor’s shoulder. Besides, this kind of beauty is not hard to come by in Hasetsu. Tomorrow they can go to the beach to watch the sun set, and it will be just as breathtaking as this.
If there were such a thing as the World Championship of Sleeping, Yuuri would take home gold. He looks just as comfortable sleeping upright against Viktor as he ever does in their bed, which Viktor will envy for the rest of his life. Still, it’s not so bad to be awake when Yuuri is so close. Viktor has spent many a plane, train, and taxi ride looking down at precisely this view of Yuuri’s forehead while rubbing circles on the back of his hand.
The warmth of Yuuri pressed against his is like a balm to his aching muscles that have been working on overdrive for the past few weeks. Only four days ago, he pushed his body to its limit and won bronze at Worlds—now, it’s time to rest. He’s trading in an ice rink for an onsen, and he can feel the hot water cradling him already.
His heart thrums in anticipation. It has been months since he saw Hasetsu, and he never really got to say goodbye. His decision to skate the second half of the season had been so foolishly last-minute (Yakov’s words, not his) that Viktor had to fly directly from Barcelona back to Russia to start training for Nationals. Yuuri had come back to Hasetsu alone, packed up their things, and left with Makkachin for St. Petersburg.
But Viktor thought about Hasetsu. He thought about Hasetsu a lot. Some of this was by necessity, though a necessity of his own design: the free skate that he choreographed and debuted at Europeans had been about the seaside town. More specifically, it was about last summer, the rosy warmth that envelopes Viktor’s heart when he revisits that time in his memory. The humid air, the breeze off the ocean, the chill of the artificial ice at Yuuri’s childhood rink; the burn in his legs as he biked up the hill on the way to that rink every morning, the sound of Yuuri panting behind him, the rippling of Yuuri’s muscles beneath Viktor’s hand as he corrects his student’s free leg. When he skated his free program, Viktor thought of afternoon trips to the konbini for food to take to the beach, his arms weighed down by bags of Japanese snacks that Yuuri recommended he try—matcha Kit-Kats and prepackaged dorayaki and every flavor of mochi ice cream they offered. Yuuri and Viktor would arrive at the beach and spread out the blanket, then Viktor would let Yuuri break his meal plan because food is always better when it’s shared. They would eat and laugh and chase Makkachin when she took off after a seagull.
(When Viktor thinks of seagulls now, he doesn’t think of St. Petersburg. The squawking of kamome always brings him back to that summer, matcha Kit-Kats, and water fights underneath the public beach showers.)
That summer, more than anything, is a feeling. It’s the yukata clinging to Viktor’s leg on a sticky afternoon, the fan blowing hot air in his face and Yuuri lounging at its side. It’s the space between them charged with electricity like the air during a summer thunderstorm. It’s that first, sweet touch of Yuuri’s lips against his, hesitating, exhaling, melting. It’s warmth and yearning and the excitement of everything new and unknown stretched out before them. Viktor had skated a program to this feeling, made love to Yuuri with this feeling, comforted himself on a cold Piter night when he wasn’t sure he was good enough with this feeling.
And now, for the first time, he is going back to the place he formed these memories. Outside the window, the sun has set and the sky turned navy blue, the same shade as Yuuri’s free skate costume. Viktor threads his fingers through Yuuri’s and lays his head down on top of his—gently, not letting his full weight settle, for fear of waking him.
They will arrive soon. For now, Viktor rests.
🌸
“Okaeri!”
Hiroko greets them at the door, grinning from ear to ear. Instantly, Viktor catches a whiff of crackling oil and cooking meat. He straightens, suddenly feeling very awake and very hungry.
“You made katsudon?” Yuuri asks his mother in Japanese, his eyes bright. Viktor mentally pats himself on the back for understanding, even if it was only from context. He plans to spend as much of this summer learning Yuuri’s native language as possible.
“Hai, hai,” Hiroko laughs. She points to Viktor and Yuuri. “World champions!”
“Yuuri is the champion, not me!”
Yuuri rolls his eyes. “Yes, because your five-year winning streak means nothing now that I’ve dethroned you.” Then he turns back to his mother and pulls his gold medal from his pocket. He presents it to her with a phrase Viktor does not understand.
Hiroko seems to refuse the offering. Yuuri translates for Viktor a moment later. “She wants me to keep it and put it up next to yours.” A pointed look. “In your medal case.”
Viktor snorts. “Ah, yes. My medal case.”
Viktor keeps his medals in a drawer in his closet, but Hiroko keeps Yuuri’s medals on display for all their guests to see. Just to the right of where they stand now is the famous poster of Yuuri reaching for the sky amid a backdrop of cherry blossoms. Viktor brings a finger to his lips in thought.
“You know, I might consider buying a medal case, if I can put ours in there together.”
Makkachin, who has finally woken up from the sedatives, whines and paws at the door of her crate. Viktor kneels down to let her out and she immediately runs to Hiroko, jumping on her in excitement. Viktor is about to tell her to stop, but Yuuri’s mother just laughs and scratches behind her ears. When Mari appears in the doorway, Makkachin tears off running toward her, flopping down on the ground for Mari to rub her belly. Mari cooes something sweet to her in Japanese and Viktor’s chest aches.
“Come, eat!” Hiroko gestures in crisp, accented English. “Katsudon for champion.”
Viktor and Yuuri each eat two bowls, moaning over their favorite dish. It tastes just like Viktor remembers, just as rich and decadent as it does in his dreams. He’d once made fun of Yuuri for calling this his eros, but having sampled both Yuuri’s eros and this dish, he thinks he sees the parallels.
Hiroko asks Yuuri something that Viktor doesn’t quite understand. He catches the word tomorrow, and an unfamiliar word that sounds like hanami.
“What is hanami?”
“It’s a tradition, for viewing sakura. The cherry blossoms. They’re in full bloom right now, which is why the onsen is so busy, and why Otousan couldn’t come pick us up at the airport.”
“Tomorrow, you and Yuuri go,” Hiroko says.
“Are you sure?” Yuuri asks. “You are so busy, I thought we could help around the onsen—”
“No. Sakura do not wait. You, Vikutoru, tomorrow, hanami.”
Yuuri turns to Viktor with a smile. “What do you think?”
“I want to see the cherry blossoms, Yuuri!”
“Perfect. Tomorrow, then.”
Viktor and Yuuri help take their empty dishes to the kitchen before lugging their suitcases upstairs to the room that has become Viktor’s. The bed in here is larger than Yuuri’s childhood bedroom, which will remain unoccupied for the foreseeable future. They do not bother unpacking. They barely even take the time to change before collapsing into bed, their limbs tangled up in one another.
🌸
They make the trek to Hasetsu Castle just after dawn, though it feels like afternoon to their jetlagged minds. They follow the same route they used to take every morning to the rink at about this time, walking leisurely instead of running. Viktor notices so many new details as he looks around at the town, and he finds himself wondering if it had changed since he was gone or if he simply hadn’t noticed it before.
As they cross the bridge, Viktor asks, “What did it feel like when you came back?” He tears his eyes away from the fishing boat on the river to look at Yuuri and finds his fiancé already looking up at him.
“After graduation?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know if I can describe it in words,” Yuuri admits, casting his eyes downstream. An old car rumbles by, slow enough that the driver can roll down the window and greet them. Ohayou, they call back in unison. Makkachin barks happily before running ahead after a pigeon.
“Five years is a long time,” Viktor agrees. Longer than Viktor’s four months, most certainly.
“It felt like a lifetime. But after a few days it was like I never left at all.”
“Really? Was anything different?”
Yuuri shrugs. “Little things. You know, paint colors, new street signs, restaurants that went out of business. And, well. Vicchan.”
Viktor’s heart clenches, the way it always does when Yuuri talks about his dog. “Ah.”
“But honestly, now that I think about it… it didn’t feel that different at all.”
After the bridge, they pass the ice rink and start heading uphill. Soon, they turn off the street and onto a set of stone stairs that wind up from the base of the hill where Hasetsu Castle sits. Viktor’s legs ache, remembering the six quads he landed in competition last weekend.
“God, I’m sore,” Yuuri groans.
“Oh good, I thought it was just me. But since the young one also hurts…”
Yuuri snorts. “You’re barely older than me.”
“I’m practically Yakov’s age.”
“I know you aren’t, because you still have your hair.”
“Yuuri!”
“Come on, Vitya. We’re almost there.”
They stop climbing at the foot of the castle-slash-ninja-house, turning off onto the overlook and heading for the bench that Viktor has come to think of as theirs. He understands immediately why Yuuri chose to take him here for hanami —not only is their bench shaded by sakura trees in full bloom, but it looks out over the entirety of the city that is dotted with swatches of cottony pink. From this high up, he can trace the path of the river they crossed to get here as it passes through Hasetsu on its way to rejoin the ocean.
They sit together on the bench and take out the bento Hiroko had packed for them last night. She had thought they would go in the afternoon, so the food she prepared was more lunch than breakfast, but with their internal clocks still set to St. Petersburg, neither of them mind. Viktor might have missed Hiroko’s bento just as much as he did her katsudon, though he didn’t realize that until this moment. The care she puts into preparing a balanced meal in a little box just for him… That thought alone makes him just as happy as the food.
Today she has packed them onigiri, pickled carrot and daikon, and fresh strawberries.
“Your mother is wonderful,” Viktor says around a mouthful of rice, because it needs to be said.
“She really is.”
“It’s so nice to be back.”
Yuuri snorts. “It’s nice not to have to worry about frostbite every time we go outside.”
“Mm, yes, this is much better. Practically tropical.”
“You didn’t get to see the sakura in full bloom last year, did you?”
“No,” Viktor admits. “This is my first time.”
Hasetsu looks almost like it did when Viktor arrived near the end of last April—before the summer, before talks on the beach and that tentative understanding started blooming between them, back when Viktor still thought Yuuri had called him here to pick up where they left off when Yuuri was half-naked and humping his legs and saying be my coach, Viktor!
(Viktor and Yuuri can laugh at that misunderstanding now. In hindsight, it is pretty funny.)
When Viktor arrived last year, he brought a freak snowstorm with him. The frost had killed most of what was left of the blossoms, though a few stubborn ones had held on. Soon they were all displaced by budding green leaves. He has never seen the city like this, has never sat on this bench with a rosy canopy above him. When he looks up, all he sees is pink, that gentle, deeply pleasing shade that soothes away every worry.
This far above the rest of the city, there’s a constant breeze coming off of the ocean. It rustles the branches above them and makes the little petals fall like snow. Makkachin chases them as they flutter through the air. Some land on the ground, a few in their food, one on Yuuri’s head. The pink stands out in beautiful contrast against his jet-black hair, and when the sun peeks through the branches it draws out reddish undertones that complement the sakura perfectly.
A petal gets stuck between Yuuri’s eyelashes and the inside of his glasses. It won’t budge, no matter how much he blinks. Viktor pulls the frames from Yuuri’s face, picks the petal from his long eyelashes (he doesn’t even need mascara, it’s not fair), and presses a quick kiss to Yuuri’s nose.
Yuuri laughs. “Give me back my glasses!”
Viktor takes great care in setting the glasses back on his face for him. “There.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.”
Makkachin tires of chasing the falling petals and curls up on the ground by the bench to rest.
Yuuri asks, “Are you going to eat your last strawberry?”
“No, you can have it.”
Yuuri hums as he eats the strawberry. Viktor watches him savor it.
“Do you remember the first time we came here?”
Viktor grins. “Of course. I accused you of having a crush on Minako. And then you refused to tell me about your past lovers.”
“I was too embarrassed. I didn’t want to hear about yours, either.”
“If only you’d known then what you know now, Yuuri,” Viktor teases.
“What, that I’d had a more active sex life than figure skating’s most eligible bachelor?”
Viktor tries his best to look very solemn. “I am married to the ice, Yuuri.”
A smug look crosses Yuuri’s face. He elbows Viktor very softly. “And me too, soon.”
Suddenly, Viktor is struck. It’s that feeling, as strong as he ever felt it last summer, that yearning, that pining, that slow-burning need he had spent the past four months trying to channel into his skating. A desperate, newborn kind of love fills him up from the inside until he feels like his ribs might crack.
Viktor had spent all of those summer days keenly aware that he was living something special. He took pictures of everything—every meal, every sunset, every dog he encountered—and willed himself to hold onto the memories that pictures could never hope to capture. He remembers sitting next to Yuuri during an afternoon thunderstorm in July, so close their shoulders touched. They sat in front of the open door and watched the rain gather into puddles outside. The day was hot and sticky but the mist on his face felt like heaven, and Yuuri opened up about Vicchan for the first time. He loved to play in puddles, Yuuri said.
Viktor knew, even as he was living them, that those moments were golden. And so he hung onto them, committed them carefully to memory, to make sure he would always have that summer.
Because it was always going to end.
Not just the summer, but Yuuri, Hasetsu, coaching, none of it could last forever. Up until they exchanged rings in Barcelona, and then again for a few horrid hours between the short and free skate when Yuuri tried to “end this”, Viktor had assumed that his time with Yuuri was limited. He was a coach and Yuuri his student and that relationship, though as sacred to him as his bond with Yakov, could not last forever. Viktor’s existence in Yuuri’s life was precarious, conditioned on two skating careers at a crossroads.
It was always going to end. Hasetsu and the Katsukis would be a memory Viktor would look back on, months or years or decades later, and be grateful for the time he had. A bright, beautiful spot in his past he could never return to.
But here he is. And there Yuuri is, sitting in front of him with flower petals in his hair and a golden ring on his finger.
He’s back. He’s here. It doesn’t feel exactly like it did before, but that’s good. It shouldn’t. Those memories will always be precious, a time away from time when they fell in love with each other, fell toward the comfort of each other at a languid, breakneck pace. He will never be able to relive that summer, but he never has to leave it behind, either.
Is it possible to fall in love over and over again? Viktor may be falling for the rest of his life.
Beneath the canopy of cherry blossoms, Viktor looks at Yuuri and takes a mental picture. Not because he thinks this will end, but because he wants to look back on this when he and Yuuri are old and grey and remember that Yuuri had strawberry juice on the corner of his mouth when he smiled up at Viktor.
Yuuri takes Viktor’s right hand in his, his fingers twisting Viktor’s engagement ring around and around his finger. Yuuri developed this habit sometime in February. Viktor’s ring is like a touchstone for him.
“Are you okay?” Yuuri asks.
Viktor doesn’t know how to explain this to him. He doesn’t know if he can. Perhaps he will try later, when they curl up in bed tonight or tomorrow and Viktor has had some time to sort through the emotions that have tangled themselves around his heart.
For now, he says, “We have so much time. Spring has only just started. And then the summer…”
“I’m looking forward to another summer with you.” There’s a little mischievous glint in Yuuri’s eyes. Viktor isn’t sure what to make of it, except that it sends a little thrill down his spine. “Should we do something for our anniversary?”
“Do we have an anniversary?”
“I think we probably have a lot of anniversaries.”
“We’ll have to decide on one, then.” They’ll celebrate it in Hasetsu this year, and perhaps the year after that, and maybe even for the rest of their lives. Yuuri might agree to looking for a house here after they retire. Maybe something by the beach, not too far from Yutopia or Nagahama Ramen or Ice Castle.
When Viktor looks out over the city, he realizes he can name many of the buildings and landmarks. He even knows some of the street names. He wants to stay here. Let Makkachin spend the rest of her life here in the warmth, chasing after seagulls on the beach. He wants to build a home with Yuuri here, raise a child here, even though they haven’t talked about that yet at all. Once he might have curbed this line of thinking before it ran away from him, but he doesn’t have to anymore. In fact, he turns to Yuuri and says:
“Do you want to get married here?”
Yuuri’s eyes go wide. “When?”
“This summer. It will be tight with the planning, but it can be simple, and we could have it at the end of May before it gets too hot. It’s the off season, so maybe Phichit and Chris could come, and Yura too, and I could see about Yakov…” He trails off, realizing Yuuri hasn’t said anything yet. His heart beats frantically in his chest. “Just an idea. I know there’s no rush—”
Yuuri interrupts him with a kiss. Then he pulls back, grins, and says, “Let’s do it.”
Viktor’s brightens. “Really?!”
“Yes! Why wait?”
Viktor kisses Yuuri this time, lurching forward. His lips are strawberry-sweet, still a bit chapped from winter in St. Petersburg, but warm and inviting and melting against Viktor’s. The morning air is a little chilly, the breeze cool on their skin, but their bodies and mouths are hot against each other. Viktor knows how to kiss Yuuri, knows how to be kissed by Yuuri, and for a few long minutes he doesn’t think at all except to revel in how much he loves the man in his arms that is soon to be his husband.
When Makkachin paws up at them, feeling neglected, Viktor reaches out to pet her without pulling away from the kiss. He finds Yuuri’s hand already scratching the top of her head and they both freeze. They break apart to laugh.
“Are you going to do that at the wedding too, Makkachin?” Viktor scolds.
“It would be a cute picture.”
“I would have it framed. No, printed on canvas and hung above our bed.”
“I wouldn’t stop you,” Yuuri promises. His cheeks are the deep color of the center of a cherry blossom. Viktor longs to kiss him more.
Yuuri reaches up and gently picks a sakura petal from Viktor’s hair.