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The week after Worlds leaves Viktor restless. On the streets below his apartment, the snow is melting, mountains of sludge on the sidewalks shrinking by the day. The water will drain into the Neva, then the Gulf, as trees begin to bloom along the shore. He had noticed them budding this morning on his walk with Makkachin.
He’s been laying on the couch since they returned, Makkachin spread out over his hips. He’s not sure he would have left the apartment if not for Makkachin. In fact, during this week without practice, he might not have left his bed. Logically he knows this isn’t Yakov’s fault—the man deserves a vacation at the end of a long season. In theory, so does Viktor.
He’s been home for three days, but his newest World Championship gold medal still sits in the front pocket of his unpacked suitcase. He remembers looking forward to this time in years past, the limbo between one competitive season and the next, when he could finally take the break his body deserved. There is no doubt that Viktor’s body needs rest. He sleeps for fourteen hours the first night home, which he can only partially blame on the jet-lag after returning from Tokyo, but afterwards, he feels anything but rested. His limbs are sluggish and his head clouded with feelings and thoughts he doesn’t have the energy to parse.
Normally, during this time, he plans his programs for the next season. He used to love that part of the process in all of its blank-slate possibility. How would he reinvent himself next year? What would he do to surprise them?
But his well of ideas that once seemed limitless has finally run dry. He already created a program for next year back in January, while riding a sudden wave of inspiration after the Grand Prix Final, but now when the first few notes of On Love: Eros fill his head he cringes away from them.
What a silly idea that had been. Embarrassingly over-eager, to say the least.
Yuuri wasn’t even in Tokyo. Yuuri wasn’t anywhere. Sometimes Viktor wonders if he didn’t dream up that night entirely.
He’s probably going to have to scrap it all and start again if he wants to skate a program that doesn’t cripple him with the worst kind of longing—and the well is once again bone-dry.
On the couch, Viktor pulls out his phone. He needs to be doing something. He needs some sort of distraction. Practice works well by filling his days completely, but without it, his legs ache with the need to be moving, doing, pushing forward, and his mind aches with the inability to do any of that.
His phone is cluttered with notifications for unread texts, ignored calls, and social media interactions that he can’t bring himself to mute. And that’s—that’s a lot of social media notifications, certainly more than normal, even with his recent victory. Curiosity wins him over and he clicks the icon to find he’s been mentioned in literally hundreds of posts.
All of them link to the same video.
He doesn’t know any Japanese, so the video’s title yields no clues for what he’s about to watch. Makkachin’s tail thumps against his legs as he presses play, squinting to make out the interior of an unfamiliar ice rink. There’s someone at center ice dressed in practice clothes—someone with dark hair, who carries himself elegantly even while standing still. Viktor waits for music that never comes, but when the skater starts moving, Viktor recognizes two things instantly:
This is Stammi Vicino.
Yuuri Katsuki is back, and he’s skating Stammi Vicino.
—
Yuuri Katsuki’s stomach is warm against the back of Viktor’s neck.
“Are you comfortable?"
Viktor fidgets on the couch, fitting himself perfectly in the pocket made by Yuuri’s thighs and the back cushions.
“Very,” Viktor replies as he drapes his arms over Yuuri’s folded legs. Makkachin settles on top of Viktor’s feet with a contented sigh.
“What do you want to watch?”
“I don’t care. What do you want to watch?”
Yuuri scoffs. “I’m not the one familiar with Russian daytime television.”
“And you think I am, Yuuri? I’m a former World Champion, I don’t have time for TV!”
Yuuri laughs and twirls his fingers around a lock of Viktor’s hair just above his temple. Viktor shivers when his nails pass over his skin.
“So, do we pick a random soap opera? You’ll have to translate for me.”
“Mmm,” Viktor garbles. Then he blinks, realizing Yuuri asked him a question. “That’s fine. So long as I get to stay right here.”
“We could stay here the whole week,” Yuuri agrees as he clicks on a channel but leaves the volume down. His hand settles on Viktor’s hip, a warm and welcome weight. “It’s too bad that we didn’t have the foresight to train Makkachin to bring us food. Then we really wouldn’t have to get up.”
Makkachin recognizes her name and wiggles on top of Viktor’s feet.
“She’s a smart girl. She can even open doors.”
“Yeah, I remember.” They laugh, thinking about the time back in February when Makkachin, lonely while Viktor was out grocery shopping and desperately seeking attention, had intruded on Yuuri in the bathroom.
“What are we going to do for a whole week?” Viktor wonders.
“Well, it’s supposed to be nice out. It’s even going to be sunny on Wednesday and Thursday.”
“Mmm, we could take Makkachin to the park.”
“And we could go sight-seeing. Remember back in January when you showed me around? Almost everywhere we went, you said ‘it will look better in the spring’. So…”
“Peterhof Palace and Saint Isaac’s Cathedral on Wednesday, then.”
“Perfect.”
“Oh, there’s a little bakery I’ve been wanting to try…”
Yuuri pecks a kiss to Viktor’s scalp. “I love the off-season.”
“Me, too. And I’m going to love it even more once we get to Japan.”
“Why…?”
“Why? Yuuri, katsudon. How could you forget your World Championship gold katsudon?”
Their medals sit side-by-side on the shelf next to the TV, Yuuri’s gold and Viktor’s silver. Everyday, Viktor looks at them and smiles.
“I must have gotten distracted by another incentive I had to get gold,” Yuuri teases. He lays his right hand on top of Viktor’s, their fingers spread across Yuuri’s thigh. He twists Viktor’s ring around his finger.
Viktor shivers, then laughs. “I am very distracting. But from katsudon? I didn’t think it was possible. Although a lot of things that I thought were impossible have been coming true, lately.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
Viktor snuggles closer into Yuuri’s body. “This.”
Yuuri’s hand squeezes lightly against Viktor’s hip. “I know the feeling.”
Viktor lets his eyes drift closed for just one moment. There on the couch, he's been engulfed entirely in Yuuri and Makkachin, the heat of their bodies surrounding Viktor on all sides. Something hard inside him begins to thaw.
When he opens his eyes, they catch on the TV. He grins and tilts his head back to look up at Yuuri. “Oh, this is a ridiculous one,” he tells him.
Yuuri’s eyes sparkle behind his glasses. “I thought you didn’t have time to watch TV?”
“Not lately, but this show has been airing since I was a teenager, and I might have indulged a bit back then.”
Yuuri smirks. “You can fill me in, then. How much do you think has changed since then?”
“Oh, everything, I’m sure.” Viktor presses a kiss to Yuuri’s shoulder, the material of his sweatshirt soft against Viktor’s lips. “Everything.”