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It had been a bit of a struggle to get dressed, given that neither Victor nor Yuuri had much wanted to take their hands off of each other for long enough to pull on pants. Victor smiles at the thought of Yuuri fretting about their reservation even with Victor’s teeth sunk into his inner thigh not an hour ago. Now he’s fresh-faced thanks to Victor’s own miracle moisturizer, an essential in the Russian winter, hair combed neatly into a part on one side, and dolled up in a suit in the shade of deep navy blue he favors, lapels satin for just the right amount of flash. It’s an outfit offset by Victor’s own more traditional black one, though his is cut slimmer.
Victor lounges in the armchair watching Yuuri check himself out in the mirror for a long, indulgent moment longer before stepping into it behind him. Yuuri’s boots lend him a bit of height, so Victor’s only got an inch or so left on him in his own flat shoes - Yuuri leans back against him and sighs happily as Victor wraps his arms around his waist. They regard each other in the mirror. If each of them look good tonight, Victor reasons, they look fantastic together. “Look at you, myshka,” he says softly, and he smiles at the blush that heats Yuuri’s cheeks at the nickname.
“I’m still not sure about this,” Yuuri admits.
Victor tips his head to kiss his jaw. “It’ll be fun!” he protests. “St. Petersburg has such an amazing food culture - if I took you someplace dingy, I’d never forgive myself.”
“You don’t have to take me out someplace fancy to impress me,” Yuuri grumbles. And it’s true: Victor has never known him to subscribe to the song and dance of dating. He thinks that it’s a silly game of raising stakes, and now that he’s got Victor, he doesn’t see what they have to prove to each other. And besides that, Yuuri’s never been much for bougie cuisine - he prefers comfort food, the simple combinations that make up his mother’s home cooked meals, to fine dining. But Victor wants to make him feel special.
Victor comes around to stand in front of Yuuri. “Please, myshka,” he says, and Yuuri smiles easily as Victor takes his hands in his, “it’s your birthday. Let me do this for you.” He kisses Yuuri’s knuckles, the way he’s fond of doing, and sees any further argument Yuuri would have posited dissolve before his eyes.
*
The entrance to Dans le Noir is less imposing than Victor had anticipated. The bar the host leads them to is cheerful and not incredibly crowded, and there are a few people in booths who are clearly just here for a cocktail, not the full experience this place offers. The host introduces them to their guide and then to their tablemates, two girls about Yuuri’s age who are already tipsy. They keep chattering away excitedly in German, glancing back and forth between them all, and Victor flirts, even nudges Yuuri and gets him to do so, too. He watches Yuuri carefully as they sip their pregame drinks - he seems relaxed enough, seemingly having found some common ground with the girl who’d naturally paired off with him.
They are eventually presented the menu, which is limited due to the seasonal rotation, and Victor settles for the fish, Yuuri opting for the lamb. After a short while longer, they are escorted to the locker room downstairs - Yuuri gives Victor a miserable look as he surrenders his phone - and then through the curtain into the dining room, holding each others’ hands in a line. Yuuri takes the back of the pack, and he squeezes Victor’s hand as they’re led to their table. Victor squeezes back, reassuring him. It’s pitch black in here - it’s a trust exercise to be following the women. Victor feels he’d get lost if anybody let go.
The ambient sound of the dining room is what strikes him as they’re finally seated - it’s surprisingly loud, people laughing uproariously and talking in a mix of languages. Perhaps the dark amplifies the sound, makes it seem as if it takes up more space. Victor palms around for his napkin and folds it and then reaches out to put his other hand in Yuuri’s lap. Yuuri moves his chair closer in response, until they’re touching, thigh to thigh.
Victor smiles. He leans over to whisper in Yuuri’s ear, nibble at his earlobe, and Yuuri snorts - it’s the sort of indignant response he usually gives him when he is not in the mood but could be swayed, and Victor notes that. For now, though, he walks his hands along the table until he reaches his wine glass. Giving it a taste, he is pleasantly surprised by the crisp white bordeaux they’d paired for him with his fish. He goes to offer it to Yuuri to taste, and then he realizes - he lets his head collapse on Yuuri’s shoulder, laughing. Yuuri hums, a question.
“Where are your lips?” Victor asks, perhaps too loudly, and Yuuri snorts again. He takes Victor’s free hand from his own lap and raises it, letting Victor feel around his chin with his fingertips. Victor smiles when he finds the plush pad of Yuuri’s bottom lip, and he leaves it there while he maneuvers his glass, using it as an anchor point. “Ready?” he asks before tipping the glass back, and Yuuri drinks for a moment. Victor is careful to right the glass before he thinks it’s strictly necessary, not wanting to cause a coughing fit. Yuuri hums again in approval - he’s not much of a wine person, but he knows something tasty when he tries it.
The food comes not long after that, giving Yuuri just enough time to take his shoe off and slide his foot up Victor’s pant leg, and Victor just enough time to adjust his grip around Yuuri’s wrist to a vise, a promise, before they are forced to focus on making their utensils cooperate with them. It is exceedingly difficult to cut fish in utter darkness, and more than once Victor seriously considers picking up the whole filet and tearing into it with his incisors. Finally getting what he thinks to be a suitable piece cut, he stabs it with his fork and chews, finding that it’s… not the best fish he’s ever had. Not even the best haddock he’s ever had, if he’s being honest. It’s chewier than it is flaky, a bit gamey for fish - overcooked. Given the dark, Victor is free to make a displeased face as he chews through it.
“How is it?” he asks the table, having washed the less-than-pleasant, overwhelmingly salty aftertaste down with a generous swig of his wine.
There’s a shared groan from the two young women across from them in answer. “Not great,” one of them says in English, “I’ve had better steak in… Hamburg!” And Victor supposes that’s probably funny if you’re German, as they both laugh.
Yuuri is slower to answer, maybe because he’s been fighting down the urge to vomit. “I always… feel kind of bad eating lamb, because they’re so cute,” he says, “but I don’t think that’s what’s making this whole thing so gross.”
“I don’t think so either.” Victor leans in and presses his forehead to the side of Yuuri’s head. “Yuuri?”
“Yeah?” Yuuri’s voice is a little muffled - he’s leaning down, trying to put his boot back on.
“I hate this."
There’s a great sigh of relief from his boyfriend. Yuuri turns into him, not quite managing not to knock shoulders. But he kisses Victor fully anyway, a little sideways but breathtaking, and says, “Me too,” when he pulls away.
*
Stumbling out onto the street, Victor finds the adjustment to even the half-light is harder than he’d ever dreamed. He blinks hard, feeling like he’s coming back into the world of the living. Yuuri is doubled over laughing, leaning against the alley wall.
“God, that was the worst,” he says as he catches his breath, supporting himself with his hands on his knees. “I almost had a panic attack like five times.”
Victor is suddenly overcome with guilt. He approaches Yuuri, who straightens up and lets Victor put a finger under his chin to tilt it up to meet his eyes. “I am so sorry,” Victor says seriously. Yuuri’s face falls slack from his previously-implacable grin, and then he grabs Victor and steals the breath out of him by dipping him dramatically into a kiss, holding him up at the small of his back.
He comes away laughing, though Victor is left panting and breathless. “Victor, it’s all right,” he tells him, and the ease with which he says it has Victor on the verge of believing it. Yuuri presses himself up to his side. “Mm,” he says, putting his head on Victor’s shoulder. “The whole thing left me hungry, though. I feel like that’s ironic. Is that ironic?”
Victor glares at him. “Whatever,” Yuuri continues, “let’s find another place?”
“Yes,” Victor confirms, but he keeps Yuuri there for a moment, squeezing him tightly round the waist.
*
It doesn’t take long to find a diner Victor remembers from his youth - coming into the city he’d always asked to eat here. It’s one of those kitschy 24/7 places that serves breakfast whenever you want, and he remembers getting Belgian waffles as a kid, with an ice cream sundae for dessert. Looking back, trips into the historic part of town always seemed to make his mother’s attitude toward his sugar intake more liberal.
They settle in a booth meant for families, Yuuri on the outside. There are a couple families here, a group of college kids drunk off their ass and inhaling nachos. Victor ignores the fact that they undoubtedly look out of place in their formalwear and wraps an arm around Yuuri as he cuddles into his side. He accepts a laminated menu from the server and thanks her, and Yuuri nabs it from him. “I want to eat literally everything,” he declares. Victor laughs.
This place is like stepping back in time - some uptempo jazz is playing on the tinny speakers, and the decor hasn’t been updated since the Berlin Wall came down, so before Victor ever remembers coming here, though he’s sure they did before the Soviets lost power. The Cold War had always been a sore subject for his mother, and he tended to leave it alone. His childhood had been a happy one just the same, one spent blissfully privileged.
As Yuuri orders each of them a Belgian waffle with extra strawberries on the side, Victor finds himself thinking the world has been exceedingly good to him.