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Yuuri stares in unabashed awe, unsure if he will ever truly be able to comprehend the enigma that is Viktor Nikiforov. He doesn’t understand what he’s done wrong.
“Yes, Yuuri?” An angry flash of bright blue eyes beneath wet lashes. “What are you looking at?”
“I’m just surprised to see you cry,” Yuuri stammers, trying to brush Viktor’s bangs out of his eyes.
He winces hard, guilt twisting in his gut when Viktor bats his hand away and snaps, “I’m mad, okay, what should I do?”
“You’re the one who said it was only until the Grand Prix Final,” Yuuri snaps back, confused by Viktor’s uncharacteristic anger, directed at him of all people.
And then, the confession, spoken in a rush of hesitant breaths through trembling lips, “I thought you’d eventually decide you’d need my help for longer than that.”
Yuuri tries to reassure him, tries to make him see reason. He’ll be just fine, he doesn’t want to keep Viktor from all the important things he has yet to accomplish.
But the argument only becomes more heated, and Viktor only grows more distressed and incoherent. The fluffy robe is is slipping off of one shoulder, the damp silver bangs are drying haphazardly. He draws his knees up to his chest, burying his face to muffle his tears.
Yuuri doesn’t understand what’s happening. He doesn’t understand the effect his words have evoked. Why does Viktor care what happens afterwards? Unless….
“Viktor.” Yuuri tries to reach out, tries once more to brush away a few of the bangs to see the other man’s face. Viktor flinches away. Something twists horribly inside Yuuri’s chest at the rejection. “Why are you so upset?”
“I’m not upset,” Viktor insists, but his words tremble, angry and fragile with what Yuuri can only liken to heartbreak. He smacks Yuuri’s hand away a second time and curls in on himself, turning to face the window. “You can do whatever you wish,” he says, mumbling into his knees. “It makes no difference to me.”
It’s so piteously untrue that Yuuri’s first impulse is to laugh. He doesn’t. That would only make the situation worse.
“Viktor,” Yuuri tries again, tries to catch Viktor’s eyes. They remain stubbornly focused outside the window, staring at nothing at all. “Please, talk to me. I don’t understand.”
“There is nothing to understand,” Viktor releases a tremulous sigh, swiping at a rogue tear trailing down his nose. “That much is obvious.”
But nothing is obvious to Yuuri, and Viktor’s stubbornness is frustrating him. He wants to understand. But if Viktor is going to be an ass about it then Yuuri doesn’t see the point.
“Fine,” Yuuri says, grinding his teeth. “I’m going to get some air. Don’t wait up.” He doesn’t know why he should expect Viktor to do anything other than what he wants. What a stupid thing to say.
There’s the tiniest hitch of breath as he opens the door, but when he turns back, Viktor is pointedly staring out the window, ignoring him.
Yuuri sighs and closes the door.
—
When he cannot hear Yuuri’s footsteps any longer, Viktor begins to cry in earnest. Ugly, guttural sobs wrench from deep inside his chest, nearly choking him with their intensity. He wraps his arms around his stomach and rides out the spasms, rocking himself on the windowsill as the overwhelming feeling of loss threatens to crush him right then and there.
Yuuri doesn’t want him. Doesn’t need him any longer. It’s not exactly what Yuuri said, but it’s what Viktor knows to be true, what Yuuri might as well have said.
The realization is too much. He can’t breathe. Can’t breathe through the hurt. Everything hurts, so much. Even more so because he thought he’d finally found everything he’d ever wanted. But apparently, he is the one who is unwanted.
Eventually, Viktor tires himself out. The lingering tears dry on his cheeks, his clogged nose stops running, and he is left with nothing but a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. Emptiness, he realizes. A void he hasn’t felt in months, not since before he met Yuuri, at least.
But it is not an unfamiliar feeling. And at least this is a feeling he knows how to get rid of. He’s filled the empty before. Sometimes it works, at least for a little while.
Viktor stands on shaky legs, straightens his robe, and picks up the hotel phone. He presses the button for room service.
The first sip of champagne slides luxuriously down his throat, the bubbles tickling his tongue as he swallows. Viktor closes his eyes, relishing the warm, tingling feeling as the alcohol hits his bloodstream. He tips back the glass, swallowing a larger gulp, quickly draining the rest and immediately pouring himself another.
He’s exhausted, and hasn’t eaten since breakfast, so it isn’t long before the emptiness becomes an afterthought. Viktor opens the window, sighing contentedly as the cool breeze kisses his cheeks. For a moment, the hollow feeling swells, because he wishes it was Yuuri kissing him. Kissing his tears away with those soft, beautiful lips.
Viktor opens the second bottle and doesn’t bother with a glass this time. He takes several long pulls before setting the bottle down between his knees on the windowsill. He reaches for his phone, cursing softly when he realizes he’s hoping to see a message from Yuuri. But the screen is blank. Viktor takes another drink. It isn’t long before the second bottle rolls empty at his feet. He opens the last bottle.
Viktor waits, gazing out the window until he can’t stand the silence any longer. He has a terrible feeling that Yuuri isn’t coming back. He was so awful to him, he overreacted and wouldn’t talk when Yuuri asked him to. He called him selfish, but really it’s his own selfishness keeping Yuuri tethered here. This is all his fault. Why on earth would Yuuri want to come back?
The surge of panic that thought induces is enough to make him burst into tears all over again. He hiccups helplessly on a slurry of snot and fresh tears between drinks.
Viktor glares at his phone, willing the screen to light up, willing Yuuri back. He unlocks the screen and stares at Yuuri’s contact. He goes a little crosseyed as the letters and numbers lose their shape and begin shifting ever so slightly in all the wrong directions. His thumb slides over the contact and without thinking, he’s calling Yuuri.
Viktor’s breath stutters to a halt when he hears the ringing cease midway through, not even lasting long enough to go to voicemail. Yuuri ended the call before even considering to pick it up. He doesn’t want to talk. Doesn’t want….
A sick feeling slowly begins spreading up from his stomach. He quickly gulps down the last third of the bottle. The taste is no longer pleasurable. The champagne has long since gone lukewarm and rather flat. The yeasty aftertaste lingers in the back of his throat, making him want to gag. Viktor tosses the empty bottle on the floor beside the others and staggers to his feet.
The rooms spins horribly and the floor begins tipping sideways beneath his feet. He stumbles, catching himself on the corner of the bed.
“Eбать,” Viktor curses, dragging a hand over his mouth as he suddenly realizes just how drunk he is. He should have slowed down, shouldn’t have had so much so quickly.
He crawls onto the bed, swaying on his hands and knees before collapsing onto the mattress. His cheek brushes against Yuuri’s discarded undershirt resting on top of the disheveled sheets. Viktor’s fingers fist the soft fabric as he bunches the shirt beneath his chin. His chest aches as he inhales Yuuri’s lingering scent, so comforting, and yet all at once overwhelming.
Viktor releases a shaky sob, burying his face in the fabric.
“Yuuri,” Viktor hiccups, “—’m sorry…sorry….”
He doesn’t remember falling asleep.
—
Yuuri struggles with the overly full plastic bag as he jiggles the keycard out of his back pocket. He’s been gone for just under two hours, but somehow it doesn’t feel long enough. He just needed some time to decompress and compartmentalize his whirling emotions. Away from Viktor. Viktor, who makes the simplest decision confusing. Viktor, who Yuuri is certain has never looked so sad as when Yuuri mentioned retirement. Viktor, whom Yuuri so ardently adores, perhaps even loves, despite his better judgement.
Viktor, who is currently passed out on their hotel bed, snuggling Yuuri’s discarded t-shirt.
Yuuri takes a glance around the room, frowning at the empty champagne bottles that definitely hadn’t been there when he’d left, and sighs. He places the grocery bag on the coffee table before removing his shoes and crossing over to the bedside.
Viktor’s hair is a mess, his cheeks are flushed and splotchy, still damp with drying tears. The t-shirt is unsalvageable. Viktor’s robe has slipped completely off one shoulder, the tie draped uselessly over his hips and failing to conceal anything, now. His mouth hangs open, thick, congested breaths puffing into the t-shirt.
Yuuri discovers that his earlier anger has all but dissipated at the sight of his stupid, devastatingly beautiful coach curled up on their shared bed, dead to the world, clutching his t-shirt for dear life. He’s never seen Viktor in such a wantonly vulnerable state. Something in his chest twists, gripping his heart tight. Yuuri realizes then, that he is a lost cause. He will do anything for this man, despite his flaws. Yuuri had always suspected they were there, buried somewhere far beneath the glittering smile and cheerful grace. But the downfall of his idolization was that until tonight, he had failed to see the person beneath the performance. And Yuuri suddenly realizes how many pieces he’s been missing, pieces of Viktor he has yet to place inside the puzzle.
He knows, if Viktor will let him, that he will spend the rest of his life working to complete the picture.
Yuuri reaches over without thinking, brushing a strand of hair from Viktor’s cheek. His skin is feverish beneath Yuuri’s hand. Viktor stirs at the contact, lips smacking softly as he swallows, releasing a soft groan into the t-shirt.
“Viktor,” Yuuri whispers, stroking the back of his fingers through silver strands.
Viktor blinks, slowly at first, his gaze unfocused and bloodshot. Then he seems to register Yuuri sitting beside him. His eyes go wide, then wet, and then he’s releasing the t-shirt in favor reaching out to grab onto Yuuri’s sweatshirt, using the leverage to pull himself into an awkward sitting position.
Yuuri helps him upright, placing both hands on Viktor’s shoulders when he nearly sways into Yuuri’s chest. Viktor focuses on him for a long moment, his eyes so full that Yuuri can practically see his own reflection.
His voice is barely more than a hoarse croak when he manages, “Yuuri…” before promptly burying his face in Yuuri’s neck. He nuzzles contentedly there for a moment, hot breath tickling the sensitive skin below Yuuri’s jaw.
“Viktor,” Yuuri gasps softly, wishing he knew what to say. Instead, he wraps his arms around Viktor’s shoulders, pulling him in closer, rubbing a hand down his back.
“‘m sorry,” Viktor slurs, voice muffled in Yuuri’s neck. There’s a gentle jolt against Yuuri’s chest as Viktor hiccups, then tries to nuzzle impossibly closer. “I don’ know why I got so mad, Yuuri. I’m sorry. Please don’-don’t leave me….”
Again, was the word Viktor had just enough coherency to refrain from begging.
“You’re so beautiful, so talented, you can do whatever you wish, you don’ need me to—“
“Viktor,” Yuuri shushes, stroking his fingers through the silver-blond strands, “I’m not sure what your going on about. But I never had any intention of leaving. I just needed some air. A little time to clear my head.” Viktor’s chest has stopped moving against his, almost as though he’s holding his breath. Yuuri continues, hoping that he’s saying the right things. “I’ve always needed you.”
Viktor’s breath hitches, he pushes away to look at Yuuri again, that same desperate longing.
“Don’t you?” he asks, so quietly that Yuuri is convinced he’s misheard.
“I do,” Yuuri says, determined. “You must know I do.” And then, because as much as he wants to believe, he’s still unsure, “Don’t you?”
“I—“ Viktor hesitates, eyelids drooping as he struggles through a particularly wet swallow. “I don’t know,” he admits, uncertain, and far too young.
“Viktor,” Yuuri says firmly, tilting the other’s chin up to meet his eyes. “Look at me.” Viktor does, blinking tears out of his long lashes. Yuuri gently wipes his cheek with the pad of his thumb. “You’re so important to me. I can’t imagine not having you in my life. It makes me sad just thinking about it.”
Viktor sniffles, but the barest trace of a smile quirks at the corners of his lips. Relief floods through Yuuri, and he releases the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He hates seeing Viktor like this.
Viktor drapes himself over Yuuri’s shoulder again, mouthing sloppy kisses against his neck before eventually finding Yuuri’s lips. His bare hips rut against Yuuri’s leg and he hums into Yuuri’s mouth. Yuuri laughs softly, indulging him for a moment before breaking away. Viktor tastes like stale champagne.
An odd look pinches Viktor’s face, then he belches, the noise rumbling deep in his throat. He belatedly brings a hand up to cover his mouth as Yuuri’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
“Oh,” he slurs, looking as caught off guard by the outburst as Yuuri. “I’m sorry.”
“How much have you had to drink?” Yuuri laughs, rubbing a hand down Viktor’s arm.
But Viktor is not smiling, in fact, he’s looking rather ill. Sweat blooms across his upper lip and he licks at the moisture, swallowing thickly. He mumbles something in Russian that Yuuri doesn’t quite catch.
“Vitya,” Yuuri asks, concerned by Viktor’s lack of response. “Are you all right?”
“Feel sick….” Viktor moans, eyelashes fluttering as he struggles off the bed. Yuuri scrambles to help him to his feet. He’s terribly unsteady, swaying dangerously as soon as he’s upright.
“Okay,” Yuuri soothes, wrapping his arms around Viktor’s shoulders. “Let’s go to the bathroom.”
Viktor nods, one hand hovering over his mouth. He belches again, gagging a little into his palm, and Yuuri cringes as he watches Viktor lose the battle and suddenly there’s viscous fluid dripping through his fingers. Viktor whines, struggling to choke back the next mouthful. His throat works convulsively, warring with the urge to continue retching.
“Hold on, almost,” Yuuri begs, practically carrying Viktor the last few feet into the bathroom and pushing him down to squat over the toilet. Yuuri quickly lifts the lid and braces Viktor’s forehead so it doesn’t smack the back of the toilet as he lets go of his mouth and the restrained flood of liquid explodes into the bowl.
“I’ve got you,” Yuuri soothes, bracing his feet on either side of Viktor’s hunched form to hold him steady as he strokes the damp bangs out of his face. “You’re all right. Just breathe, Vitya.”
Viktor hovers for a moment, trembling, throat clicking with wet swallows as he drools into the bowl. Then a guttural burp ushers up a thick wave of his overindulgence. His eyes roll back into his head as he stops fighting and surrenders to his body’s demand.
“There you go,” Yuuri encourages, rubbing his hand down Viktor’s spine. Viktor groans weakly, back arching as another lengthy stream of liquid gushes violently into the water. He coughs, gulping air as he waits for the next round.
“Blyad’—“ Viktor curses through a particularly wretched bout of gagging.
“I know,” Yuuri agrees, pausing the back rub in favor of massaging Viktor’s spasming stomach muscles. “I’m sorry. I know it hurts.”
Over the next fifteen minutes Yuuri offers comfort the best he can while Viktor empties himself out. When he’s been reduced to dry heaving, and nothing has come up for the past few minutes, Yuuri carefully pulls Viktor away from the bowl and settles him against the tub. He flushes the toilet and wets a wash cloth, wiping Viktor’s face and then his soiled hand.
Viktor is pliant and exhausted, allowing Yuuri to clean him up without a word of protest. But he won’t look Yuuri in the eyes.
“Are you feeling better?” Yuuri asks, brushing the stress tears from Viktor’s cheeks. “Wanna try some water?”
Viktor shrugs and Yuuri decides to take that as an affirmative. He fills a glass with sink water and offers it to Viktor, who takes two tentative sips before setting the glass on the floor.
“I’m sorry, Yuuri,” Viktor says quietly, his voice wrecked from vomiting. “I’m a mess. You shouldn’t have to put up with this.”
Yuuri sighs, squatting down next to Viktor. He presses a kiss to the other man’s forehead. “Yes, you are,” he agrees with a teasing smile. “But it happens to everyone. And I like taking care of you, Viktor. Let me.”
“Don’t kiss me, I just threw up,” Viktor pouts, chest jolting with a residual hiccup. “I’m gross, Yuuri—” His words catch on another mournful hiccup.
But Yuuri only smiles, kissing the tip of Viktor’s nose this time, just to see Viktor’s face wrinkle in disgust.
“Do you feel like you’re finished?” he asks, searching Viktor’s flushed face. “Or should we camp out in here for a while longer?”
Viktor rests a hand on his stomach, swallowing carefully as he considers, “I think I’m all right.” He drops his forehead on Yuuri’s shoulder. “I’m so tired, Yuuri.”
“I know,” Yuuri rubs a few circles into Viktor’s back. The motion coaxes up a soft burp, and Viktor muffles the unpleasant noise in Yuuri’s shirt. “Still okay?”
Viktor nods, “Sorry,” he murmurs drowsily. “So gross.”
“You can’t help it,” Yuuri reassures. “It’s all right.”
“Wanna sleep,” Viktor slurs. “I need to lie down, please, Yuuri.”
“Okay, we can do that,” Yuuri promises. “But you should really brush your teeth first.”
Viktor catches his sleeve as he rises to his feet.
“Stay with me, tonight?” he asks, looking so earnestly into Yuuri’s eyes that for a moment, Yuuri feels like crying, himself.
“Of course, Viktor.” Yuuri guides the other man to his feet, pulling him into a reassuring hug. “I’m not going anywhere. Promise.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, brush your teeth.”