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When Yuuri sees his home on the horizon, the familiar tiled roof and old-fashioned sliding doors, he can only sigh in relief.
Winning the Grand Prix had been an indescribable, breathtaking experience only topped by Victor’s rather public and beautiful proposal just minutes after receiving his award that had left Yuuri appropriately embarrassed and incandescently happy.
His mother's round face comes into view and he’s quickly pulled into a warm, familiar hug that makes him tear up a little. He hasn’t been gone long, surrounded by familiar faces in an international competition while his family watched on a television screen, but homesickness is neither rational nor controllable, and he can’t help that he’s missed his mother and her sweet, proud smile.
There’s still so much to do, though, unpacking luggage and scheduling interviews and celebrating with friends and family, so it isn’t until far later in the night when most of the people staying at his family's inn head to bed that he’s able to talk to his mom, one on one.
“Yuuri, I am so proud to call you my son.”
Yuuri’s throat clicks when he swallows, cheeks flushing from embarrassment and some disbelief. Everything still feels surreal, like a dream he’s going to wake up from any second. He’s heard those words before, but for some reason it’s different this time and he thinks he knows why. “Mom…”
“It’s not just because you are an extremely hardworking and talented ice-skater, although I am proud of your accomplishments too.” She pats his cheek, brushing hair from his face affectionately like she used to do when he was small as she sighs, “You can be self-conscious, yes, and prone to letting your anxieties get the best of you, but you are also so strong and determined. Most of all, you are kind. I have never wanted more for my children than for them to be happy and have a good heart.”
Yuuri doesn’t know what to do but nod, blinking back tears, lips pressed together in a tight line.
His mother watches him with loving eyes, seems to understand how overwhelmed he is by everything. “Good people bring good things, Yuuri, and Victor is one of them. I’ve always seen your potential, but when he came into your life, you blossomed, dear. You became the Yuuri I knew you could be even when you couldn’t see it yourself. This is why, my sweet boy, I ask you not to hurt him.”
Yuuri can only stare in stunned silence as his mother refills his half-empty tea cup. He blinks once, twice, and realizes he isn’t hearing things. “Hurt him?”
He’s heard friends and rivals say the same thing to Victor about him - warning Victor not to break his heart or make a joke of their relationship, keep him happy because he was too good for an international playboy and professional flirt. Yuuri had been annoyed by it all, as joking as some of it was, because of course Victor would never hurt him - not on purpose - but he hadn’t said a word after Victor’s reassurances that it was fine and a sign of their friends acceptance of their relationship.
“I like knowing so many people care about you as much as I do,” he’d said.
So he’s not unfamiliar with the ‘don’t break his heart’ speech but no one, not even Victor’s old friends, had confronted him about hurting Victor.
Why would I-
His mother smiles kindly, but when has she ever not been kind? She takes his hands into her own, squeezes them gently. “Oh sweetheart, I know you would never break his heart on purpose, but you have to admit...you can be quite oblivious. It’s why your father lost the bet. He said you two would be together right away, but we both know it took a few weeks.” She winks at him with a laugh.
Yuuri can’t help it - he chokes on his tea. “You what-”
“That obliviousness can sometimes be a blessing, but it can also be a curse. Please, think about what you say and do when it comes to Victor’s feelings. He is a world-class skater and he’s had relationships before, but no one, not even a rumored playboy, can pretend to look at someone like he looks at you.”
Yuuri’s heart is beating too fast in his chest and his cheeks are uncomfortably warm. He thinks he knows what she’s talking about, has seen it on tv screens after interviews and in the instagram pictures Phichit insists on posting, but he has to hear it out loud. “How does he look at me?”
“You know how some people say, ‘like he hung the moon’?” He flushes hot and nods, stomach flipping, and his mother smiles so bright it makes the crows feet around her eyes more prominent and takes off ten years from her face at the same time. “He looks at you, my dear, like you are the moon, stars, and sun all combined.”