Work Text:
It starts off as a simple mistake during the morning after.
Yuuri wakes up with sunlight on his face and a pleasant ache in his body, the covers warm around him. His hand reaches out for his glasses underneath his pillow and Yuuri blinks languidly as it slips on his face. Why, is the first thought that comes into Yuuri’s mind as he stares at the ceiling, is my bedroom white?
It takes him a full minute to remember three important things:
One, he is not in Japan and this is not his room.
Two, he’s in Russia for the competition set in a month and this is Victor’s room. Which also means he is lying on Victor’s bed with Victor’s covers surrounding him.
And three,
“Oh my god,” Yuuri breathes out in reflex, his eyes widening and a blush steadily growing on his face. He pushes the covers away and looks down at himself, where there are several tiny purple hickeys painted on his torso. Yuuri can feel his lips slowly stretching out into a big smile, giddy and disbelieving all at once.
It seems like last night isn’t just an elaborate fantasy dream.
“Makkachin, no!”
Yuuri hears Victor’s voice from the kitchen, as well as Makkachin’s whining protests and the sound of something frying. His stomach growls at the idea of food. Yuuri gets out of bed, thankful that he remembered to put on his underwear before falling asleep—the thought of being naked in broad daylight is just too embarrassing—and then snatches up the nearest shirt to wear as he goes out of the bedroom.
It’s a little big on him, the V-neck baring his collarbones, and as he pads quietly to the kitchen, Yuuri distractedly wonders if he lost even more weight from all the stress of competing and from their daily practice. His mind blanks out as soon as he sees Victor standing in front of the stove, shirtless and wearing only his boxer briefs, and frying what smells like bacon in the pan. Next to him, Makkachin is pawing at Victor’s legs, making sad noises.
“I’ll feed you in a minute, Makkachin,” Victor promises, gently nudging the poodle away with his foot, “Don’t get too close, I’m cooking. Go wake up Yuuri.”
Yuuri’s heart skips a beat at the sight. Not once did he think he can have something like this, something so amazing and beautiful and domestic, and now that it’s here, right before his very eyes, Yuuri can’t help but feel a little overwhelmed.
He tiptoes across the kitchen, making shushing motions at Makkachin so the dog can’t ruin the surprise, and then slowly wraps his arms around Victor’s waist. Victor jumps in his place and the unattractive startled noise that leaves him makes Yuuri laugh. He places his chin on Victor’s shoulder, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “Good morning, Victor.”
“Yuuri, dear god,” Victor says, a little breathless from the scare, “You almost gave me a heart attack.” He cranes his neck to the side and blinks in surprise once he sees Yuuri’s impish grin. Slowly, Victor gives a dazzling smile of his own, leaning to kiss Yuuri carefully until the younger man is dazed and a little more in love. “Have I finally corrupted my precious Yuuri?” Victor whispers as they break apart, voice dropping low on purpose. “You’ve become such a little devil after sex.”
“V-Victor!” Yuuri squawks, scandalized, his mischief quickly forgotten. He feels his face heating up in mortification. “It’s so early in the morning! Don’t be crude.” Inside his hold, Victor laughs.
“There’s my solnishko,” Victor teases. He scoops the bacon strips onto a plate before turning off the stove, and finally whirls around to face Yuuri properly. “Good morning—“ Yuuri watches in confusion as Victor’s words die out, his blue eyes blinking wide as he stares.
“What?” Yuuri asks self-consciously as seconds pass by and Victor continues to stare, “Victor, what—?”
“You’re,” Victor begins in a stammer, and wait, are the tips of his ears turning pink? “You’re wearing my shirt.”
Yuuri looks down at himself once again, and sure enough, it’s Victor’s wine red shirt that’s hanging off his body. It’s no wonder it’s loose on him. “Oh,” Yuuri says in slight embarrassment, “Sorry, I must’ve picked up the wrong shirt. Should I go change—Victor?!”
Yuuri yelps as Victor crushes him into a hug before he can go, burying his face on Yuuri’s shoulder with a wounded noise. His hands flail for a bit, disoriented, and then settle on Victor’s broad back. “What’s going on?” Yuuri can’t help but ask, thoroughly confused.
“You’re going to be the death of me, Yuuri,” Victor says, his words muffled against Yuuri’s—well, his—shirt. His ears are flushed an even brighter red now.
“Oh,” Yuuri says absentmindedly, and then everything clicks inside his mind as Victor grips his hips tightly and begins to press kisses on the side of his neck, “OH.” He pulls away, yanking his head back so Victor can’t distract him with his mouth and then clarifies incredulously, “Victor, do you like this?” Victor drops his head so Yuuri can’t see his face and lets out another strangled sound. “Oh my god, you do,” Yuuri laughs at the discovery, flustered and to be honest, more than a little pleased. “You like this.”
“Yuuurrriii.”
“You like this,” Yuuri teases happily.
“It’s not funny,” Victor whines, pulling Yuuri close again, and then proceeds to kiss him so he’ll stop laughing. Yuuri just grins against his lips, his fingers curling into Victor’s soft hair. He doesn’t really understand the appeal but if Victor likes it, then Yuuri will gladly use it to his advantage.
.
.
.
Yuuri starts wearing Victor’s clothes at every given opportunity he can get away with.
He wears the striped sweatshirt Victor likes after a shower, feigning cluelessness as he saunters into the living room and pretends Victor’s heated gaze on him isn’t affecting him in the slightest. He comes back to the apartment from his morning jog wearing the blue hoodie, oversized and baggy on him, reveling at the sigh Victor lets out when he kisses him ‘welcome back’.
It works for his favor fantastically, as it turns out. Yuuri attempts it once during a late evening, changing into one of Victor’s long-sleeved sweatshirts and his shorts just in time for his run. When Victor calls from the living room, he makes a show of stumbling out of the bedroom and yawning, blinking his eyes as if he’s drowsy. Victor looks visibly stunned at the display.
“It’s time already?” Yuuri asks, rubbing his eyes on the cuffs of the sweatshirt. In front of him, Victor takes a painful-looking swallow. “Is it okay if I skip just this once? Can’t we just take a nap?”
“Yuuri,” Victor scolds as he crosses his arms, and Yuuri blinks owlishly at him, waiting.
A second passes by.
Two.
Three.
“Fine, just this once.” Victor drops his arms and sighs explosively, saying something in Russian under his breath, and Yuuri grins in triumph. He turns his back on his boyfriend, glancing over his shoulder and smiling.
“Victor?”
“Cheating,” Victor complains with a pained expression, even as he follows Yuuri to the bedroom, “you’re cheating.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yuuri says as he slides under the covers, sighing at the pleasant softness of the bed. This is so much better than jogging.
“Oh, you don’t, do you?” Victor raises an eyebrow, and then leans down to pepper Yuuri’s face with kisses until Yuuri is flushed and laughing. They go to bed earlier than usual, but as Victor slides in next to him and pulls him close, Yuuri finds that he has no complaints.
“That trick isn’t going to work on me again,” Victor informs him later as a matter-of-factly.
Yuuri huffs out another laugh. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Victor grins, shaking his head in defeat. “You’re torturing me, Yuuri,” He whispers, brushing back Yuuri’s dark hair and kissing his forehead. “You’re too adorable in my clothes. It should be illegal.”
Yuuri glances up, trying to see Victor’s face without glasses and in the dim light, and then suggests lightly, “I’ll stop wearing them, then.”
Victor’s answer is an emotionally conflicted groan.
.
.
.
By the time next week rolls around, Yuuri has gone through at least a third of Victor’s wardrobe. One free afternoon, Victor tells him he’s never had to do so much laundry in his whole life. He plucks at the fabric of his the dark sweatshirt that Yuuri’s currently wearing.
“Yuuuuuuriiii,” Victor elongates the syllables in his name like a child, and from where he’s sitting on the couch by Victor’s side, Yuuri pushes back at him in protest, “If you keep wearing my clothes, I’ll eventually run out of things to wear, you know.”
“Okay,” Yuuri says, too immersed with going through his friend’s Instagram to answer correctly.
“But then I’ll be naked all the time,” Victor says and then pauses, his smile turning devious. He presses up to Yuuri until his front is glued to Yuuri’s side and then breathes into Yuuri’s ear, “Oh, I see. Yuuri can’t get enough of me naked, is that it?”
“N-No.” Yuuri doesn’t even tear his eyes away from phone. “Your shirts are just comfortable.”
“I’ll buy you similar shirts to wear.”
“No, I like yours.”
“But I’m running out of clothes, Yuuri.”
“That’s okay.”
“Yuuri, you’re not listening.”
“I am.”
“Pay attention to me.”
“Yes, Victor.”
“Yuuriii.”
“Yeah.”
“Solnishko.”
“Mm.”
Victor releases a defeated sigh and drops the one-sided conversation, sullenly cuddling up against his side. Yuuri smiles as his boyfriend huffs, sulking, and then it’s peacefully quiet for a while, aside from their breathing and the sound of Yuuri’s phone. By their feet, Makkachin is sleeping soundly.
Just as Yuuri’s beginning to wonder if Victor fell asleep as well, Victor speaks up over his shoulder, “Just so you know, I’ll get revenge one of these days, Yuuri.”
Yuuri hums teasingly, thinking nothing of it. “Sure, Victor.”
.
.
.
It happens three days later when Yuuri’s all but forgotten about the conversation.
“Makkachin,” Yuuri beckons after he’s washed the dishes after lunch and dried them, watching the dog bound his way over to him excitedly. Yuuri indulges him for a few quick seconds, scratching behind Makkachin’s ears until his tail is wagging and his tongue is lolling out. It’s silent in the apartment with only him and Victor, so unlike the crowded onsen he’s used to, but Victor insists that with Yuuri around, this is the liveliest his apartment has been.
“It must have been lonely for you and Victor, Makkachin,” Yuuri murmurs to the dog, ruffling his fur fondly, and Makkachin blinks at him like he understands.
Yuuri smiles, and then looks around the empty living room, “Speaking of Victor, where did your owner go, huh?” He asks, squishing Makkachin’s snout playfully, and Makkachin licks his hands in response.
“Victor?” Yuuri calls after a while, and hears noises coming from the bedroom.
“I’ll be out in a minute, Yuuri!”
“What are you doing in there?” Yuuri asks, curiosity piqued, and then walks towards the room, leaving Makkachin to lounge around in the living room. There’s a concerning thud behind the door that makes Yuuri’s eyebrows jump, followed by Victor muttering things in Russian. “Are you okay?”
“Yes!” Victor exclaims enthusiastically, sounding out of breath. “Finally!”
Yuuri turns the knob, pushing the door open. “Victor,” He starts, and promptly chokes as Victor turns to face him with the same million dollar smile that notoriously sends his fans to their knees. That’s not what gets Yuuri’s attention, though.
What does is the sinfully tight shirt Victor has forced himself into, looking at least two sizes too small for him to wear judging by the way the fabric clings to his body like a second skin, the sleeves pulled short over his broad shoulders and snug around his defined biceps. It’s also then that Yuuri realizes exactly why the color and the pattern of the shirt are familiar.
“Is that—are you—,“ Yuuri sputters as his face quickly turns to a violent shade of red, “Are you wearing my shirt?”
“Ta-da~!” Victor singsongs, spreading his arms open and baring himself to Yuuri’s eyes. The movement makes the fabric stretch obscenely across his chest and the cloth is thin enough that Yuuri can trace Victor’s abs underneath it. Yuuri lets out another choking noise, his face feeling like it’s about to combust any second now.
“Do you like it?” Victor flutters his eyelashes, purely intentional, and all the blood leaves Yuuri’s head to rush south so fast, it makes him dizzy. If Yuuri didn’t see the appeal of wearing a partner’s clothes before, he sees it now in a full, live display.
“It’s a little tight,” Victor says distractedly when Yuuri doesn’t answer his question, looking at his torso and twisting here and there, stretching out the shirt even more. When Victor does an experimental stretch, the hem rides up and bares a sliver of skin by his hipbones. Yuuri suppresses a dying whine in his throat. Holy shit, he thinks as heat stirs in his abdomen. Victor is actually going to give him a heart attack if he continues. “And a little thin, too. Is this an old shirt? Yuuri—“
“Take it off,” Yuuri croaks out weakly, and Victor pauses, blinking at him. “Victor, you’re stretching out my shirt. Take it off.”
“But I just wore it,” Victor says with a little pout, “It took me such a long time to put it on, too.”
“Take it off,” Yuuri repeats, gaining resolve despite the hot flush on his face. He stalks towards Victor and the older man is smart enough to move away from him. “Victor, you’re ruining my shirt!”
“You don’t like it?” Victor grins, dancing away when Yuuri makes a grab for him. His laughter is light and melodious as he teases Yuuri. “But you’re blushing!” Victor is quick on his feet from all those years of skating on ice but Yuuri is agile, too. He chases Victor around the room, the two of them running around like a pair of five year-olds.
“This shirt is mine now, solnishko!”
“Victor!” Yuuri wails, absolutely red in the face as he lunges for Victor again, “Take it off!”
Finally, Yuuri manages to grab for the hem of the shirt and as he crashes ungracefully against Victor, the two of them collapse onto the bed in a flurry of limbs and breathless laughter. Victor takes a gasp of air in between his laughs, his hands automatically going up to hold Yuuri by the hips as the younger man begins to sit up.
“Are you okay?” Victor asks with a chuckle and a pink flush of effort on his face, and Yuuri feels like melting as he stares down at his boyfriend.
Victor is unfairly beautiful, especially like this with his ocean eyes bright with mirth, his pretty mouth spread into a teasing grin, his silver hair splayed like a halo around his head, and Yuuri is a weak, weak man.
Yuuri leans down and kisses Victor long and deep, the way Victor taught him months ago, the way he knows steals Victor’s breath away and makes him react. When they pull apart, Victor is breathing heavily.
“Take it off,” Yuuri urges softly, tugging at the hem of Victor’s—well, his, technically, but what the hell—shirt. He kisses Victor with his eyes halfway open, his lips pressing with just the right side of soft, and pushes his hips down, letting Victor know how he feels about the situation clearly. “Victor, take it off.”
“Oh,” Victor whispers against Yuuri’s lips, grinning again, “what do we have here? It seems like my solnishko likes it, too.”
“V-Victor.”
“Yuuri likes it, too~”
Yuuri blushes again. “Shut up,” he grumbles and Victor laughs.
“I win,” Victor says.
Yuuri huffs and tugs at the shirt once more.
This time, Victor gladly takes it off and makes a show of dragging the fabric over his taut muscles, the cloth sliding along his skin as he slowly peels it away.
They don’t come out of the bedroom for another two hours or so.
.
.
.
.
.
The next week when Victor comes home after buying takeout, Yuuri greets him in nothing but an oversized sweater and a pair of briefs and Victor almost gets an aneurysm.
“I win again,” Yuuri declares with a blush on his face and a triumphant grin, taking the food away from a speechless Victor.