Work Text:
Here’s the thing. Yuuri has had a total of four crushes in his life. Two of those, as it turns out, have been on Victor in different capacities. Dreaming for even a moment that those feelings would be returned was akin to a fish’s wish for flight. He could dream (and fantasize) with every fiber, but Victor wanting him back would never actually happen.
Except when Cup of China ends, it ends with Yuuri cold on a sheet of ice, and the weight of Victor on him, hands in his hair, wondering, well, maybe it could.
Contrary to Phichit’s emoji filled im’s, Yuuri did not immediately climb his coach like the Chrysler tower in King Kong. After the medal was slipped over his neck, both he and Victor were more concerned by how Yuuri could not stop shaking like a leaf as the adrenaline from the day finally left his system. Victor had tucked him into bed, draped his own coat overtop of Yuuri’s covers, and combed Yuuri’s hair with his fingers until he passed out.
Apparently the rest of his coach’s night consisted of being bombarded at a bar by a tag team of Chris and Phichit for details of everything both Victor and Yuuri had failed to mention over the past six months.
As such, five days had passed in Yutopia, Ice Castle, and Hasetsu before Yuuri could even process what had happened - they kissed - and what to do next.
Ask Victor on a date. He could do that.
As it turns out, asking Victor out to dinner is the easiest part of the whole day. They’ve nailed the ‘casual friends who spend too much time together’ relationship, and Victor’s eyes light up anytime someone offers to show him a new part of Japan, so Yuuri expects it to be easy. He agonizes over it anyway, of course, stumbling over the words all day waiting for the most casual time to bring it up.
He ends up word-vomiting during a quiet moment after lunch when Yuuri’s laying on Victors floor with Makkachin while Victor pulls a fresh workout shirt over his head. Outside the weather has turned to freezing rain, but they’re going to take the bus to Minako’s studio.
“So, uh,” casual, casual. Like he just thought of it now and hasn’t been rehearsing this question all day.
“Do you want to go out for dinner tonight? Someplace nice?” He buries his fingers into Makkachins curls. He tries not to breathe too loudly.
“Okay,” says Victor, clearly unaware of Yuuri’s distress. “Where?” He steps out of his muddy sweatpants and pulls on a clean, warmer pair
Yuuri’s words are caught somewhere at the top of his stomach.
Victor looks up when he doesn’t receive an answer. Yuuri isn’t sure what expression his face is making, but Victor takes one look at him and pauses.
“Oh,” he says, and straightens.
It seems like he’s reviewing their conversation from Yuuri’s “So, uh,'' because his face undergoes a transformation where his eyes widen slightly, and it looks like he’s holding back a smile.
Yuuri bites the inside of his cheek and watches Victor from his spot on the floor. The silence stretches.
“Someplace nice?” Victor finally asks.
Yuuri’s mouth is drier than the Egyptian desert at this point, so he nods, unable to voice words. Thank god Makkachin is here to hold on to otherwise he would have slipped through the cracks in the floorboards and fallen into the earth.
They’re still looking at each other, taking in the other’s full body language. Victor’s expression is like nothing Yuuri’s ever seen before: relaxed, holding back a smile through the press of his lips, shy. His eyes are gorgeous when they meet with Yuuri’s.
There’s less than three meters between them, but the pull of their gazes cuts the distance to shreds.
Yuuri’s heart feels like it’s racing in his chest, despite sitting on the ground. He used to tell himself he was imagining the tension between them during quiet moments. It’s palpable now.
Their first date starts and ends in much the same manner. Yuuri stands in front of his open closet in nothing but his boxer briefs, comparing the three button down shirts he owns, incapable of making a decision. He owns one bottle of cologne, currently in hand: from a sponsors gift bag given at a JSU event four years ago. He smells it. It’s...nice. Kind of...spicy? It smells a little like expensive body wash if he’s being honest. It certainly doesn’t smell like something he’d wear. Oh, but Victor’s going to be smelling it, wouldn’t it matter to him? Would it be weird to wear something only for the other person to hate it?
Before he knows it, he’s outside Victor’s door, standing in nothing but his undershirt and boxers, knocking tentatively. Victor slides open the door with a smile that freezes when he takes in Yuuri’s state of dress, a quick glance that starts at Yuuri’s eyes and ends somewhere around his left knee.
“Am I overdressing-?” He starts before Yuuri shoves the bottle into his face.
“Does this bother you?” Wait, “I mean, is it okay- I don’t- Should I wear this?”
Victor eyebrows twitch, like he’s stopped them from raising on pure instinct. But then he looks flattered. He leans forward to smell the bottle from Yuuri’s fingers and then glances back up at Yuuri’s face, his gaze heavy and contemplating.
Yuuri’s too nervous to even consider that look.
“It’s nice,” appreciates Victor.
Dinner of course consists of Yuuri trying not to fidget too hard in his seat and really trying to not consider the price of everything on the menu. But he orders them wine, and appreciates the music, and only sneezes once in the quiet restaurant where the ambiance consists of mainly cutlery and quiet conversation.
When the bill comes, Victor reaches for it without a single glance.
“Ah- Let me, please,” says Yuuri
“Why? I have more money than you” Victor replies, eyes crinkling, insulting Yuuri.
Of course, he thinks. Victor Nikiforov.
That night Yuuri follows Victor back to the inn, up to the second floor, dragging his feet. He says goodnight to Victor and closes the door to his own room.
Their second date goes like this:
It’s been six days since Yuuri tells his coach to leave him in Russia and return to his best friend during what might be his final days. Four days since Yuuri has cried messily into Victor’s shoulder in the middle of an airport, wishing he could hold onto this man forever. It’s 6:23 am and he blearily stumbles into the hallway, half asleep and straight into Victor’s arms and hears a softly accented “Ohayo” pressed into his sweaty bed head hair.
“Can we go out for dinner?” He mumbles into Victor’s sweater: grey, and soft, curly Makkachin hairs patterning the sleeve.
“Dinner?” He hears Victor ask.
“Dinner,” he clarifies.
Victor hums in ascend, and then Yuuri doesn’t see him for two straight hours in the afternoon.
Second date dinner is at a just-as-delicious but less break-Yuuri’s-bank-account restaurant by the Oceanside of Hasetsu. The lights are dimmer, and there’s a tea light candle between them on the table. Victor is leaning with his elbows on the table - rude - and can’t seem to take his eyes off Yuuri - justified, because Yuuri is guilty of doing the same. Victor is gorgeous, amazing.
“You look really nice,” he says softly, and Victor almost flushes, the corners of his lip balm smeared lips twitching up. His eyelashes look unfairly beautiful in the candlelight.
When the bill arrives, Yuuri practically dives for it, and then feels foolish when both the waitress and Victor give him amused, accommodating looks.
That night, Yuuri follows Victor back to the inn, up to the second floor. He lingers outside his own door saying goodnight, waiting, until Victor leans into his space and presses a soft kiss to the corner of his lips. He suddenly realizes, that’s not nearly enough.
His arms come up and tangle around Victor’s neck, pulling him flush back against his mouth. They both collide against Yuuri’s closed bedroom door. The bang barely registering as Yuuri scrapes his fingers along the nape of Victor’s neck and into his hair, mouth open against the other’s.
Victor’s hands are curled daringly into the shirt at Yuuri’s waist, he keeps dragging them upward like he wants to sink underneath the fabric and touch the warm skin at his sides.
Yuuri practically climbs into the other man, sinking low against his door to press a long leg between Victor’s thighs and pull him closer.
They pull apart messily, mouths sliding off lips and onto cheeks, breathing damp air and tension. Victor doesn’t let go.
“Some... other time?” breathes Victor, and it’s the first time Yuuri’s heard him nearly stutter. He knows what he’s asking.
He whines without meaning to, face still buried against Victor’s cheek. “Can’t I just… Can’t I just kiss you?” he asks, desperate.
“Oh,” breathes Victor. “Absolutely. Yes, Defi-” his breath hitches once Yuuri gets his door open and drags him inside.
---------
Turns out there’s a series of events that need to take place before they can go on their third date. This list consists in part of Yuuri martyr’ing his skating career for Victor’s in a Barcelona hotel room, Victor martyr’ing his skating for Yuuri, Yuuri winning silver, Victor flying back to Japan, then flying out to Russia 12 hours later, Yuuri winning gold at nationals, then tackling Victor in a rushed hug at the St. Petersburg airport.
Date three as it happens, takes place in February, at the quiet nudge of Victor’s nose against Yuuri’s cheek just as they are about to fall asleep. “Want to go out for dinner this week?”
Yuuri, calmed against the coolness of Victor’s sheets, in Victor’s bed, with Victor pressed up against his side, exhales in content and whispers, “Sure.”
21 hours later, Yuuri asks, “Is this a dress-up date, or an explore-the-city-in-minus-7-celcius-weather date?”
“Dress up!” Calls Victor from his closet, where he’d bee-lined the moment they got home, his coat flung onto the bed.
Yuuri’s been saddled with carrying both of their skating bags once they opened the door. “Yes, but my definition of dress up, or yours?” he mumbles, and shoulders the bags onto Victor’s strange coat rack chairs.
Victor, as it turns out, had not even brought 20% of his clothes to Japan. In Russia, his closet has an entire section dedicated to clothing bags that are zipped closed and wrapped up. 50% are his skating costumes from the past five years, the ones that could not make it to Japan back in April, covered in swarovski and gold thread. The other 50% were “my good clothes” as Victor called them. Yuuri spotted the name Versace printed at the bottom of one of the clothing bags. He doesn’t want to guess at which collection was more expensive.
Victor of course gave Yuuri free reign to look over the rest of his skating costumes when he had first arrived.
“How do you afford this!?” asked Yuuri, incredulous, when he’d first brushed his fingers down the guipure lace from Victor’s 2014-15 season.
“Jean-Paul Gaultier made that for me!” says Victor, mouth heart shaped.
Yuuri kind of hates him, but not as much as he loves his own personal Victor museum, which he’s personally become invested in curating.
Tonight, Victor emerges from his closet, black bikini cut underwear, and socks. He’s clearly contemplating between multiple outfits, finger resting on his lips.
Yuuri appreciates how great his ass looks in bikini cuts.
“What are you wearing?” asks Victor, and Yuuri’s eyes shoot back to his face. He looks too pleased, having caught Yuuri staring.
“Uh.” Clothes. His two clothing bags among Victor’s forest. “Grey?”
“Hmm, okay,” and then he disappears back into the closet.
It takes Yuuri one hour to take Makkachin out for his walk, shower, change, check his bank account to see just how much money he can throw away tonight, and save the google map route on his phone for when one of them inevitably ends up too drunk to talk tonight.
By the time he stuffs his wallet, keys and phone in his pocket, Victor is by the door, smelling amazing, looking too sexy to be Yuuri’s date, and tying the shoelaces of some...oh.
The shoes are shiny black leather, with thin laces and bright red soles that flashed colour whenever Victor turned his foot. They reminded Yuuri of the skirt on the Eros costume.
“I like those shoes,” he tells Victor. “The red on the bottom looks cool.”
Victor looks up at him like any sudden movement he makes will have Yuuri bolting.
“Can I buy you a pair?” he asks, a little too monotonous. He finishes putting on the left shoe and rises.
Yuuri, who’s wisening up slightly to Victor’s adoration of spoiling him, and loathe to allow himself to be spoiled replies, “Are they over 40,000 yen?”
Victor’s face folds up, lips mashed together, as he considers, Yuuri can tell, lying directly to his face.
“I don’t want to lie to you,” Victor hedges.
Uh-huh.
“They’re a little more than that, but I’d really love to buy you some.”
Yuuri exhales through his nose, and looks between Victor’s face and the shoes. They really do look like the costume Victor gave him for his SP, and he likes that tie to their shared history.
“How much more?” he asks slowly, considering.
Victor remains silent.
Yuuri blinks, “Double?”
Victor’s head tilts a degree down, his lips a thin line.
“Triple? Victor, just buy me another ring! Put it toward the wedding!”
On their third date they end up going to an Italian restaurant, in Saint Petersburg no less, with rich decor and dark wood. Yuuri stares at the pasta portion of his English menu with despair before deciding on fish. Victor is rude and leans on the table with his elbows. Yuuri repays this by sneaking penne off his date’s plate.