Work Text:
Yuuri Katsuki wakes up on November 29th feeling considerably older than he had the day before. Twenty-four has such a different texture to it than twenty-three.
On his last birthday his anxiety over the Grand Prix Final had saturated every thought, turning him into a jittery ball of tension with a tendency toward migraines and stress-eating. When he turned twenty-two, he’d had a crisis about his age, which in retrospect seems exceedingly foolish. Twenty-one he had spent in bed with the flu.
He’s honestly never had much luck with birthdays.
This year, the weather is on his side. Clear skies, unusually mild for late November, the sun drenching him in gold as soon as he opens his curtains. He has birthday greetings from his university friends, well-wishes from instagram followers, and a single text from Viktor. Just a heart and “see you soon”.
-
He takes Macchachin out. She has recovered enough to lope along with him when he runs, provided they take frequent breaks. That suits Yuuri fine. No need to wear himself down every time he trains. They stand at the top of the hill together; he stretches and she sniffs at the flowerbeds. The sky is so blue and the wind from the southwest is friendly. He stands and watches the town wake up.
-
He has ballet and strength training with Minako-sensei today, but they take it easy because of his birthday and her hangover.
“Where’s your other half today?” she asks, when they are finished and drinking pocari sweat from the vending machine in the lobby that no one uses but them.
“In Moscow with his mom. Her birthday is six days before mine.”
“Mmm.” Minako holds the cold bottle against her forehead. “It’s weird to see you without him.”
Yuuri fiddles with his drink, rolling the corner of the label up again and again until his fingertips are gritty with adhesive.
“You and Viktor Nikiforov. Shit.” She smooths her sweaty bangs back down. “I mean, I always expected you would meet him, since the skating world is so small. But I never thought--.” Her eyebrows do something complicated and suggestive. “Did you see any of this coming?”
Yuuri’s laugh is a little tight, because this question has a lot folded into it. He taps the ball of his foot against the studio floor, trying to work away a cramp before it can form.
In a way, of course he had seen it coming. Viktor had been all he thought about when he got onto the ice. And off of it, too, when he began to appreciate other aspects besides his skating talent. Or, rather, to understand what that appreciation meant. It would be impossible for Yuri to untangle his devotion to the sport from his devotion to the man. And he wouldn’t want to.
But when he began to move up in national rankings and the likelihood that he and Viktor would one day compete on the same rink grew, even then he only ever hoped to shake his hand, maybe stand next to him on a podium. The idea that Viktor would seek him out, would be moved by one of his performances, had never come up in even his most torrid imaginings.
Well. There had been some torrid imaginings. Once when Yuuri was drunk he’d told Viktor a few of the less embarrassing ones, much to his delight.
Minako clears her throat, and he realizes he’s just been staring at the floor.
“I feel like I went to sleep in April and just never bothered to wake up.”
Minako drinks her pocari like it's a beer, in hard swigs, before letting it dangle from her fingers. “Heck of a dream.”
-
When Yuuri checks his phone he finds one missed call from Viktor amidst the instagram notifs, as well as two text messages. The first says storms in moscow gonna be late, followed by a line of frowny faces. The second just says christmas music, surrounded on both sides by knife emojis. Yuuri grins at the screen.
Viktor’s phone goes straight to voicemail when he returns his call, so he’s either managed to get a flight out or he’s turned it off to conserve battery. It’s fine, Yuuri scolds the disappointment building up inside him. There’s nothing inherently sacred about a birthday. They can celebrate tomorrow. Or the day after. Whenever.
-
Yuuri has dinner with his family that night, which he needs to do more often. It’s been so long since it was just the four of them. His mother tends to get quiet around Viktor, self conscious of her accent, though Yuuri has told her repeatedly that Viktor’s is just as heavy as hers. She’s spent years running a hotel--her English is perfectly passable.
They eat hot pot and then play cards. Mari sneaks Macchachin little bites of beef beneath the table.
“Is your coach not home yet?” his father asks. Yuuri has been compulsively checking his phone all through dinner.
He slides it into his sweatshirt pocket. “His plane is delayed. I’m not sure when he’ll get back.”
His dad’s smile is complicated. Yuuri has never officially told his parents that he and Viktor are dating, but it’s not like they have been discreet. His father hasn’t said anything to him directly, but he’s become cagey about calling Viktor by his name, and once Yuuri had overheard a brief conversation between his parents when they thought he’d gone to bed.
“But he’s had girlfriends!”
“One girlfriend, when he was seventeen. And she didn’t last long. Besides, he’s worshiped Viktor for years.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to.”
Not the glowing encouragement and acceptance he might have fantasized about, but Yuuri knows to give them time.
-
Yuuri says goodnight and creaks up the stairs to his room. Maybe he’ll see if Phichit is awake. It’s seven in the morning in Detroit, but he’s always been an early riser. Or maybe one of his university friends is online. Not that he has a problem with being alone tonight. He doesn’t.
He hears a sound from the other side of his door and goes still. The possibility jumps through him like a spirit latching onto his back.
Candles throw soft light onto the wall, scattered across the desk and the windowsill. The bed is occupied. Long legs, cut stomach, the body Yuuri had thirsted over for years and only recently become intimately acquainted with. Viktor is spread out into a magazine centerfold, one arm held elegantly across his forehead. His smile is wicked in the dark, and for a moment they just stare at each other.
Then Yuuri is scrabbling at the door jam to keep himself upright he is laughing so hard, relief and joy and sheer absurdity bubbling up and out.
“You know, that isn’t the reaction I was hoping for.” Viktor’s says amidst Yuuri’s giggles. “More like ‘Viktor, take me now’ or ‘Viktor, this is just what I wanted, how did you know?’”
“So you’re my birthday present?” Yuuri shuts the door behind him, the draft shivering the candles. The shadows paint watercolors across the room.
Viktor gestures down to his crotch. “I would have put a ribbon on it, but I didn’t have time.”
Yuuri unzips his sweatshirt, chest still trembling with laughter, fingers shaking in his haste to get undressed. His phone hits the floor with a sharp thud.
Viktor shifts onto his back, a lazy roll of his body. “Hurry up. I’m cold.”
“Gifts shouldn’t be so demanding.”
“How ungrateful. I went to all this work just to surprise you.”
Yuuri imagines Viktor stopping at the convenience store to buy twenty tea candles, sitting on the plane and forming his plan to set himself up like the cover of a cheesy romance novel. The fondness presses at his insides; he didn’t know it was possible to like someone this much. He pulls off his last sock and climbs onto the bed.
Viktor’s fingers are chilled but his lips are warm. “I missed you,” he says softly.
Yuuri rests his head against his chest, squeezes his eyes shut. If all his birthdays can be just like this, he’ll never worry about getting older again. He won’t ever fear the future.
He swallows thickly and looks up. “No rose petals?”
“They make me sneeze.”
“You’re not willing to suffer for aesthetic?”
“If you really want me to debauch you on a bed of flowers--.”
Yuuri says, “I’m so glad you’re back.”