Work Text:
Japan
They throw Yuuri a big party when he gets back home, with balloons and confetti and a cake. There’s music, Japanese hits and America’s top 40, Yuuri’s mom letting Viktor play a few of his Russian favorites, too.
“Yuuri,” Viktor says, grinning because he missed him, even if he only came back from the competition in Okayama two days before Yuuri. “Let’s dance.”
He takes Yuuri’s hand. Yuuri blushes and nods, lets Viktor lead him to the impromptu dance floor in the middle of the living room, furniture pushed aside and Mari dancing to her favorite boyband, the triplets filming it with their mom’s phone and Makkachin running around, wagging his tail and barking.
Viktor holds both of Yuuri’s hands and shakes his arms, spins his around a bit. Yuuri spins him once. Mostly they dance close to each other, not really touching, Viktor coming up with ridiculous moves to make Yuuri laugh.
Takeshi and Yuuko are the first to go, taking their daughters with them when it’s close to midnight. Yuuri’s parents go to sleep soon after, and Mari goes outside for a smoke. In the end it’s just the two of them and Minako snoring on a table, Makkachin licking her sleeping face.
The house is quiet, the radio turned off because it’s so late. What’s left of the cake sits, for some reason, on top of the television. There are dirty cups and deflated balloons all around, and Viktor thinks he’ll get up in a couple of minutes to start the cleaning, but not right now.
Right now he’s sitting on the floor, his back against a wall, Yuuri’s head on his lap. Yuuri is lying sideways, the tips of his fingers on the tatami very close to Viktor’s knee. Viktor runs his hands through Yuuri’s hair and hums.
Suddenly Yuuri turns, his back on the floor. He stares up at Viktor and Viktor blinks back, smiling.
“What is it, Yuuri?” he asks, and instead of answering Yuuri gets up and says, “Let’s go to the rink.”
“It’s two in the morning,” Viktor says, just because, and “Okay.”
So they go. Yuuko gave them a spare key back in July, when she realized they would be spending even more time here than her, right after the assignments came out.
Yuuri gets on the ice fast, starts practicing his choreography. Yuuri’s been falling less recently, landing his jumps with poise and the right angles. Viktor’s choreography is good, but Yuuri makes it beautiful and sad, lonely and alive.
He falls tonight, more than he did at the competition. He’s panting in the middle of the ice, so Viktor skates close to him, touches his shoulder.
“What’s wrong, Yuuri?”
Yuuri doesn’t answer, just fidgets with his fingers. Viktor’s been here four months, close to Yuuri almost all the time, seeing his ups and downs, his ins and outs. He’s found Yuuri to be brilliant, and cruel, and kind.
He knows Yuuri, so he says, “Are you worried about the next competition?”
Yuuri plays with the hem of Viktor’s favorite white shirt, stretching the old, threadbare thing. Viktor doesn’t mind.
“We still have two months to go,” he says, trying to sound as reassuring as he can, as he remembers his coaches being. “We’ll work hard until then. You’ll be most beautiful man they’ve ever seen.”
Yuuri looks up at him.
“They’ve seen you,” Yuuri says, doubtful.
Viktor laughs.
“That’s true,” he says. Then he cups Yuuri’s face in his hands, looks him in the eye. “So now it’s your job to make them notice you.”
He smiles. They stare at each other for what feels like a lifetime. Viktor waits.
“Okay,” Yuuri says, a fire burning bright in his eyes. Yuuri places his hands on Viktor’s waits and takes tentative steps forward, pushing Viktor back.
“Yuuri?” Viktor blinks, and it’s another full minute of this for Viktor to realize Yuuri wants them to dance.
He puts his hands on Yuuri’s shoulders and lets Yuuri set the pace.
China
They arrive in Beijing one day before the competition, on the first Thursday in November. In the hotel lobby they run into Celestino and Phichit, who runs to hug Yuuri. Viktor makes small talk with Celestino, but he watches the way Phichit touches Yuuri’s cheeks and hands and hair, how Yuuri doesn’t seem bothered by it. Phichit looks at Yuuri the same way Viktor imagines he does, face breaking in a huge grin when Yuuri laughs.
A confirmation of something he already knew: everyone falls a little bit in love with Yuuri.
In the elevator, Viktor says “You and Phichit seem really close.”
“Yes,” Yuuri beams. “We were roommates back in Detroit.”
Yuuri is not his to own, and he looks happy, so Viktor smiles back at him, doesn’t push.
Yuuri goes fifth in the short program. Viktor can feel Yuuri shaking next to him, so he puts both hands on Yuuri’s shoulders and says, “Breathe.”
They breathe in and out together ten times. Then Viktor hugs him, and Yuuri hugs him back.
Yuuri’s performance is lukewarm. His dancing is not on point and he falls twice, gets a 79.65 and finishes fourth.
Viktor goes over all his mistakes with a smile, and Yuuri takes it like the adult he is.
“But,” Viktor adds, at the end of his speech, Yuuri’s face flushed with the compliments Viktor also knew to give him. “You’ll do better tomorrow.”
Yuuri’s head is held high when he says, “I will.”
Phichit places first, and he hugs Yuuri again after the event is over. He introduces them to Guang Hong Ji, who waves shyly from behind Phichit’s back.
“Come have dinner with us, Yuuri!” Phichit says, holding both of Yuuri’s hands. “You too, Viktor.”
“Thank you for the invitation,” Viktor smiles. “But I don’t think I can. You young people have fun.”
“Are you sure?” Yuuri asks, frowning.
“Of course,” he says. He kisses Yuuri’s cheek. “I’ll see you at the hotel.”
They leave, and Viktor goes searching for Yakov. He finds Mila instead.
“Viktor!” she says. “Where’s Japanese Yuuri?”
A couple of hours later they are in a bar, getting drunk. Rather, Viktor gets drunk; Mila drinks one beer and says she’s done, she’s still competing tomorrow. She talks about her ex-girlfriend who still texts her, about this Canadian skater she’s trying to seduce. Viktor talks about Yuuri.
He likes Mila, and he misses her. She is probably his best friend after his sister, has been since they became rinkmates when she was fifteen and he was twenty-four.
So she looks at him hugging a bottle of vodka, pouting, and smirks.
“Ah,” she says. “So this is Viktor in love, hm?”
Viktor is useless the next morning, but he hurls his ass out of bed and into the shower by lunchtime. He eats with Yuuri and Phichit and Celestino, his arm slung over the back of Yuuri’s chair. He hugs Yuuri a lot throughout the day, holds his hand whenever he feels Yuuri start to vibrate with nerves and anxiety.
Then it’s time for the free skating. Yuuri goes second to last, and the moment he steps on the ice Viktor knows he will be perfect. He looks at Viktor right before he starts. Viktor blows him a kiss, and Yuuri smiles.
Yuuri skates like he’s having fun, like he loves the ice and it loves him back, his movements neat and precise and lovely. It’s the most beautiful thing Viktor has ever seen.
Yuuri hugs him for a long time after. Viktor holds him back, whispering “That was perfect,” and “You’re beautiful.” When they sit, waiting for the scores, Yuuri rests a hand on Viktor’s leg.
The score is 184.41, for a total of 264.06, which gets him first place. Yuuri cries and lets Viktor kiss his hair.
Russia
Moscow is not the same as St Petersburg, but it’s close enough to home that Viktor beams the entire ride to the hotel, snapping pictures of every street they pass, of Yuuri against the snowy Russian background.
“When you win,” Viktor says, moving closer to Yuuri but not too close, aware of the taxi driver watching them in the rearview mirror. “I’ll take you to the best Russian cuisine restaurant in town.”
Yuuri smiles, nods. “I look forward to it,” he says.
Yuri knocks on their hotel room door that evening, looking not quite as angry as is his usual. Viktor is taken aback but he smiles, tries not to show his surprise.
“Yurio!” he says. “Long time no see.”
“Whatever,” Yuri says. “Where is that guy?”
“Yuuri is taking a bath. Do you want to wait for him?”
Yuri scowls. “No,” he says, and leaves.
“Well!” Viktor tells the room at large.
Yuuri is the last one to perform this time, and he gets so nervous watching Yuri’s flawless short program that Viktor marches him out of the rink and into the toilet, where he rubs Yuuri’s back while he hyperventilates.
Viktor hugs him before he goes on the ice. He falls once, twice, but he gets back up and finishes the program. He manages to be third with an 80.57.
“I’m sorry,” Yuuri says, his forehead on Viktor’s shoulder, hands on his waist, wrinkling Viktor’s Armani suit.
Viktor puts a hand on the back of Yuuri’s neck. “You don’t have to apologize.”
Yuuri sighs.
The next day, right before he starts, instead of going to Yakov, Yuri skates until he’s in front of them on the barrier and says, looking into Yuuri’s eyes, “Watch me.”
Viktor is sure it’s impossible for the people here to do anything but look at Yuri, but Yuuri still nods, face serious.
Viktor knows Yuri, too, has known him since he was a snotty brat who came to the rink with his grandfather. But he doesn’t know this Yuri, who skates with grace and poise, movements delicate and precise, who makes the crowd sigh with ooohs and aaahs.
“Viktor,” Yuuri whispers, his hand closed around Viktor’s wrist. “How am I supposed to beat that?”
“Hmmm,” Viktor goes. Yuuri’s face is pale, his fingers trembling. Viktor covers Yuuri’s hand with his own. “Maybe don’t try to beat it.”
“What?” Yuuri takes his eyes off the ice. Yuri’s score has just been announced, a personal best and record breaking for the Rostelecom Cup. “I have to win!”
“No, you don’t,” he sees Yuuri’s face flush with rage, his eyes filling with tears, so he adds: “You already have fifteen points. Placing second or third should be enough.”
Yuuri, who wants to win not for anyone else, but for himself, stalks away and skates with fury. It’s a desperate attempt to prove himself, technically perfect but painful to watch. He gets a 164.49 and finishes third, Yuri in first place.
Viktor holds him while he cries and says he’s sorry again and again.
It’s one week until the NHK Trophy, when they’ll know for sure the top six, and another week after that until the finals in Marseilles. There is nothing they can do but wait, so they go to St. Petersburg.
Viktor’s apartment looks exactly the same as he left it. Even his plants are still alive, because he left his sister with keys and a promise to water them at least twice a week.
“I’ll have to introduce you to my siblings,” he whispers in Russian. The thought gives him pause, the idea of Yuuri meeting his brother and sister, having the three people he loves most in the world together in the same room.
“Hm?” Yuuri blinks at him. “What? What are you smiling at?”
Viktor giggles, happy and bubbly.
“Nothing,” he says. “Let me show you to your room.”
The guest bedroom is next door to his, a similar arrangement to what they have back at Yuutopia.
“So you won’t miss me,” he says, and winks.
Yuuri doesn’t blush, says “Aren’t you the one who’d miss me?”
Bold! Viktor thinks, and laughs.
Viktor takes Yuuri to the rink and introduces him to Yakov, Mila and Georgi. Yuri is there, too, watching Yuuri from a distance, snarling at Viktor if he gets too close.
Yuuri is lifeless and distant for the whole week, fumbling basic jumps and eating a lot. The first night of the NHK Trophy, he knocks on Viktor’s open door and says “I can’t sleep.”
“Okay,” Viktor says, and takes them to the living room, where he sits Yuuri on the couch and gives him a mug of warm milk.
In the dark of the room, their feet touching on the couch, Yuuri talks about his time in Detroit, about being away from his family and not speaking the language well, about being terrified all the time. He tells Viktor about the girl who composed the song and how he tried to date her for two weeks and fled, thinking himself undeserving of a good love. He whispers about a boy at a party who grinded his hips against Yuuri’s, about how he literally ran away.
In return Viktor tells him about being fifteen and kissing a boy and thinking, this is it. About how he dated that boy for six months and had his first heartbreak, about the awkward and underwhelming sex he’s had with a couple of girls. He talks about his sister, who is actually his twin and a principal at the Mariinsky Ballet, about his baby brother who is studying to be a doctor. He even tells Yuuri about his parents, who haven’t come to his competitions in seven years, not since they caught him with his hand down a Chinese skater’s pants.
They talk until their eyes are too heavy too open, the sun peeking in through the thin curtains in Viktor’s living room.
France
“Viktor,” Yuuri says, voice a whisper in the dark. “Are you awake?”
Viktor turns in his hotel bed, faces Yuuri’s owlish eyes.
“Yeah,” he says. He pats the space next to him.
Yuuri sighs, gets up from his bed and comes, burrows under Viktor’s covers, their knees touching and faces inches apart. Viktor tucks his hands safely under the pillow.
“It’s the final tomorrow,” Yuuri says.
“Yup,” Viktor smiles. “You should get some sleep, it’s important to be well-rested.”
“Hmm,” Yuuri goes. He raises his hand to Viktor’s hair, combing his fingers through it. Viktor closes his eyes.
“Am I really going bald,” he whispers, a sudden lump in his throat making it hard to breathe.
“A little,” Yuuri jokes. Viktor laughs wetly.
“Bad genes,” he says.
It’s quiet then. Yuuri’s fingers on his scalp are warm and lovely.
“Hey,” Yuuri says. Viktor opens his eyes to Yuuri’s serious face.
“What is it?”
“I wanted to say thank you,” Yuuri says. “I wouldn’t be here without you.”
“Nonsense,” Viktor shakes his head. “You’re amazing. You would have made it without me.”
“Maybe,” Yuuri agrees, tentatively.
Viktor smiles. “You’ve always had it in you. You just needed a little push.”
“I’m glad you’re here, Viktor,” Yuuri says. Viktor feels like he wants to cry, but he smiles.
“I’m glad I’m here, too.”
Yuuri blinks, sighs, and closes the space between their mouths.
Viktor feels like he’s burning, from the tip of his toes to his hair, where Yuuri’s hand is still buried. He’s been waiting so, so long.
He takes his hands from under the pillow and uses them to cup Yuuri’s face. Yuuri breaks the kiss, staring at Viktor with warm and open eyes.
“I love you,” Viktor says in Japanese, the way Yuuri’s sister taught him, the way that means I am serious and this is real and I want to be by your side for as long as you let me.
They usually communicate in English. Viktor speaks little Japanese, random words he got from watching Ghibli movies cuddled on the couch with his siblings when they were little. The only Russian Yuuri knows how to read and write is Viktor’s name.
“I love you, too,” Yuuri says in all three languages. Viktor giggles.
“I’m glad you do,” he says, smiling, his thumbs drawing circles on Yuuri’s cheeks.
Yuuri blushes.
“After the Grand Prix,” Yuuri says, like the words are being pulled from his heart and his gut. “Is it okay if I visit you in Russia after the Grand Prix is over?”
Viktor hums.
“What are you talking about?” he says. He kisses the corner of Yuuri’s mouth. “My dog’s in Japan. Japanese nationals are in two weeks. We have to get you on the podium,” he smiles. “Besides, I still haven’t seen all the ninja castles in Hasetsu.”
“Oh,” Yuuri says. He breathes a sigh of relief. “Okay.”
When they go back home, Viktor will take Yuuri and Makkachin to that same beach. The dog will run in the sand and bark at the waves, and Viktor will hold Yuuri’s hand and ask again. He hopes the answer will be yes this time.
But that’s later. Now Yuuri kisses him again, and Viktor closes his eyes and smiles into the kiss.