Work Text:
Victor Nikiforov sits at his desk, drink in hand, eyes absent-mindedly staring at the clock on his wall reading 3:27 AM. Victor doesn’t sleep well; it’s not a new thing. It’s been a common occurrence since he was around fifteen, and he’s gotten good at hiding it. The constant weariness that you can feel at the bottom of your bones, the shaking hands, the empty eyes devoid of all emotion; all things that can be fixed with a smile, and smile Victor does best.
The issue comes in that the trademark Nikiforov smile may fool everybody else, but naturally, it proves harder to deceive yourself. Victor is no stranger to the deep, harrowing loneliness that pierces your skin and gnaws at your bones. The absence of physical affection is a wound that is tackily plastered over with cheap peeling bandaids, and thin bandages. It’s a sore fact that he has to confront more than he would like to admit, so his nights are filled with liquor and his days with caffeine. And still victor smiles, a bitter painful smile that is full of self-loathing and hostility, but this smile is the key to his character. It’s a complex job, the antagonising phoney grin that’s been perfected for years; years of hurting, years of emptiness, years of dull indifference.
The drinking started when he was very young. At first it was a sip from the side of an uncles cup at those dull family gatherings that seemed never to end, but they say, with age comes maturity and seemingly quite an expensive taste. But money is not a problem for a Nikiforov, it never was. The very idea that something succeeded a budget insulted them, and wallets were continually stocked with fat, crisp bills. Even if he hadn’t made his life fortune at the age of seventeen, Victor would never have had to worry about when the next paycheck would come rolling in. Even expensive spirits could not manage to dent Victor’s fortune, so there never was an absence of the subject. The way the alcohol burned his throat and cleared his mind of any thoughts began to soothe him, and it went from a drink at the weekend to indulging every night. It rarely mattered what he drank, only that his drinks cabinet became a comfort, and any moment that he was not sober was a good one. However, he was always careful not to show up to training intoxicated. The façade of cheer, and indulgence takes priority. It was essential to keep up the character that his fortune had been built on.
When deprived of something essential to you, coming up with a solution is no difficult matter, and so during the day it was caffeine. Cold, hard, black coffee; and at the rate Victor drank it, strong enough to sedate a small child. It was a convenient solution, the smell of coffee beans overpowered that of the alcohol, and Victor’s secret was safe. A dirty, wretched secret that he would have protected with his life, for the one thing that money cant buy you is public belief, nobody would be allowed to see the shaking, sobbing wreck that Victor Nikiforov reverted to when the spotlight turned off.
The first time Yuuri stayed over, Victor lay in his arms through the night. The subtle warmth radiating off of the younger was a stark contrast to the harsh burning of the spirits Victor had come to love, but he lay next to Yuuri all night, terrified of waking the man sleeping next to him, whose affection he did not deserve.
The second night followed in suit, and before he became aware of it, Victor was spending more nights wrapped in his lovers tight embrace than in the chokehold of his alcohol cabinet. And so, day by day, week by week the deep gash that had adorned Victor’s chest for so long began to heal. Soon the painful smile that he had grown to loath came to him easier, and it seemed to sneak up on him when he was least suspecting it. The pace at which the bottles in his cabinets emptied slowed, and for the first time in years he felt himself relax. Victor became less reliant of caffeine, and more on Yuuri’s subtle accent, and his lopsided grin.
But still, his thoughts turned on him at night and his heightened senses never failed to attack his resting mind. The silence of the night deafened him, and he began to dread the heavy handed grasp of darkness that came with the night. Without the presence of liquor, he lay watching the angel next to him rest, and for the first time in years he wished desperately that he could join his beloved for more than the fleeting hours of the early morning.
The first time he talks to Yuuri about it, he is filled with gratitude at the lack of pity. Its unexpected, an event occurring after desperate thrusts, hot breaths, groping hands; when they lay next to each other, exhausted and spent, Victor feels compelled to open up. He sleeps through that night, for the first time in fourteen years, and he wakes up in the safety of Yuuri’s arms. Jet black hair splayed across the pillows, shirt riding up and exposing his toned stomach to the cold morning breeze, and Victor cant help but gently kiss his lips. Just after their lips touch, he is pulled back down buy a dazed Yuuri, and Victor grins. Hands firmly on hips, fingers hooked in soft hair, hot breath on pale skin and the two disappear under the covers once more.
It takes a year before Victor can sleep through the night more often than not, and still the evenings are filled with breathy moans and deep pillow talks. He can’t remember the last time the liquor cabinet needed to be restocked, and Victor’s usual double espresso had long since been swapped out for a gentle latte. His smiles were no longer fabricated, and for once in his life Victor Nikiforov felt satisfaction. He was happy right here, right now and nothing could change that.