Chapter Text
Victor paced his apartment. Ten steps forward, turn, eight steps back, turn. Repeat. Waiting, waiting, waiting, the clock ticked. It was an antique, ugly thing; a gift from a forgetful great-aunt some Christmases ago. If he squinted hard enough the chipped wood and peeling paint blended together, transforming the sad, old clock into something beautiful and timeless, an otherworldly treasure. The ticking continued, its staccato beat worming its way into his ear and settling somewhere around his temple, thrumming uncomfortably.
The knock on his door came as no surprise. It was time, after all. He turned on his heal, his pacing interrupted on step six. He quickly crossed the small room and peered through the peephole, a residual habit from an anxious childhood. Yakov scowled at him through it, knowing Victor had his eye pressed against the glass.
“Hurry, Vitya,” he barked. “We’ll be late. Again.” Yakov hated Victor’s last minute napping habit, but it had become almost like a good luck charm at this point; he couldn’t break it now, right before the Grand Prix final banquet.
He felt unusually despondent as he shrugged into his suit jacket, the dark gray a mellow contrast against the crisp white of his dress shirt. Normally before a banquet he’d be rearing to go; jittery yet brimming with confidence, excited to meet his fellow skaters and prove himself off the ice. But lately his drive had been . . . lacking, to say the least.
The world didn’t seem as vivid, as vibrant as it had when he was younger. Colors weren’t as bright; emotions didn’t have the same depth as they did even a year ago. Victor had always strived to be the best: the best student, the best son, and, perhaps most importantly, the best figure skater in the world.
But now that he really was the best in the world, as attested to by his five gold medals, what was next? He could keep winning medals, probably for several more years. Although he was getting older, Victor had no doubt that he could still be competitive for a few more seasons. He had reached the top, and realized that although the view was nice, it lost its luster after a while, just like anything else.
The ride to the banquet was quiet, Yakov picking up on Victor’s mood, who sat staring out the window, arms crossed. Yuri was bent over his phone, looking distinctly uncomfortable in his formal suit, tugging incessantly at his tie. It was probably the first time he’d ever worn one, Victor mused.
Mila talked to Georgi quietly in the backseat, occasionally letting out a loud laugh. Victor liked his fellow skaters on the national team, even if Georgi was too far into his head most of the time and Mila couldn’t be serious for the life of her. And of course Victor had a huge soft spot for moody, prickly Yuri, all gnashing teeth and growled threats that hid a mushy interior, eager to please and be loved.
“How’s Anya?” he heard Mila ask, her mirth barely contained. Victor tried not to gag as Georgi sighed dreamily, launching into yet another story of his beloved soulmate. Victor was happy for him, truly he was. He could think of nothing more thrilling than listening to yet another story about Anya; about how gracefully she danced across the ice, or how beautiful she looked during their first meeting, when she said those fateful words scrawled across Georgi’s ankle: “Pardon me, but do you know this city well?”
It was love at first sight, Georgi claimed. He swore up and down that it didn’t matter that the phrases inked onto their bodies just so happened to line up, and that he knew Anya was the only one for him before she even opened her mouth, that even if their words didn’t line up they would still be together.
Nearly everyone said that. That they just knew, they didn’t have to verify or see the words on their partner’s body with their eyes. Victor thought it was bullshit. How could you just know, before speaking, that you were made for someone else, perfect in every way? That’s what the words and ink were for, after all.
Victor hadn’t found his soulmate yet. It wasn’t unusual; there was no guideline or age limit to finding your perfect match. And just because everyone was guaranteed a person “perfect” for them in every way didn’t mean that things always worked out. Just look at Yakov and his ex-wife. Or Victor’s own parents.
Georgi was still waxing poetry about Anya when the car pulled up to the venue, a fancy restaurant with a large ballroom. Victor had been there once or twice; it was nice, but nothing special. He vaguely wondered how long he would have to stay and mingle in order to not be considered completely rude.
Chris greeted him first, pressing a drink into his hand before he had a chance to remove his coat. Victor liked Chris; he was a great skater, a fun drunk, and a damn good friend. Normally Victor would grab the glass, drain it, and be ready for another within minutes, eager to make the normally stuffy ceremony go by faster and maybe cause a bit of mischief along the way. But he wasn’t feeling normal today. He hadn’t been feeing “normal” for a while now.
Victor discreetly put his drink down on a table after Chris flitted away, excited to mingle and meet other, newer skaters. He wasn’t in the mood to drink, not right after he’d won the final. And besides, someone had to watch Yuri and make sure he didn’t sneak anything again. Victor shuddered at the tongue lashing he’d gotten at last year’s celebration when Yakov caught the then 13-year-old sneakily taking a sip of Victor’s vodka when his back was turned. Despite being convinced that Yuri had done it for no other reason than to get him into trouble, Victor was still on guard, and kept an eye open for the short blond, sulking moodily in a corner.
Victor made it a point to greet each skater that came to the banquet. Even if he had been feeling a bit off lately that didn’t mean he had an excuse to be rude and stand offish. He had already dealt with Chris, and a quick glance to the center of the room saw him entertaining a few of the female skaters. Michele Crispino was pleasant enough until his sister arrived. When Victor tried to introduce himself to her Michele immediately excused them with a dirty look and a protective arm slung around her shoulders. Victor was an only child, and wondered briefly if that’s how all siblings acted or if they were special.
JJ was interesting, to say the least. Cocky, extroverted, and brimming with excitement. He came from a family of champion figure skaters; victory was in his blood. He was good, and he knew it. Just a two-minute conversation with the guy gave Victor a headache and he quickly excused himself. Maybe he did need a drink after all.
He saw Yuri by the champagne table and made a beeline over, determined to stop any shenanigans before they could begin. On his way to save Yuri from himself he ran into the Chinese representative, Cao Bin, who had come in fourth place. He was a reserved man who didn’t speak much. He congratulated Victor and quietly accepted Victor’s own compliments. They were in the middle of a quiet discussion about the upcoming World championship when the last men’s skater entered the party, the Japanese representative. Yuuri Katsuki.
“What’s wrong, Yuuri?” His coach asked loudly, a hand clasped on his shoulder. “You look so glum. Have you had anything to drink? To eat? There’s pizza. . . .” Victor could feel Yuri stiffen at his side, muttering under his breath about how there could “only be one.”
The Japanese Yuuri looked how Victor felt inside. Worn out, depressed, and like he had been dragged to the banquet against his will. At least this Yuuri had a reason for being upset. He had come in over 100 points behind Victor, and his routine had been sloppy, to say the least. Victor made it a rule to know his competitors and their strengths and weaknesses before big competitions. And something had happened to Yuuri Katsuki before the Grand Prix final. Normally his spins and step sequences were flawless, and while his jumps weren’t his strong suit, he never seemed scared to attempt them like he had been just hours before.
Even though his shoulders were slumped and his eyes were downcast Victor couldn’t help but be intrigued by him. Yuuri’s presence was magnetic, and more than once Victor tried to politely excuse himself from his current conversation only to be swept into more small talk as more people entered, all wanting to talk to the champion.
Victor quickly lost track on the Japanese Yuuri as Yuri stole his attention by trying to snag a flute off a passing waitor’s tray. Their introduction would simply have to wait.
Forty-five minutes later found Katsuki Yuuri swaggering away from a table in the back of the hall, empty champagne glasses littering the surface. Victor watched in curiosity as he unknotted his tie and stumbled to the center of the room, swaying in time to the low, upbeat music playing softly in the background.
“What’s he doing?” Yuri scowled, looking unamused as he crossed him arms in disgust. Victor vaguely wondered what happened between the two of them, not looking away from Yuuri. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so enthralled with a person he had never met before; from the tapping of his foot to the swing of his hips. It was almost frightening, this connection he felt. And Yuuri hadn’t looked his direction once.
And oh look, Chris had appeared, holding a bottle in one hand and a phone in the other. They spoke for a brief moment before Yuuri grabbed the alcohol from Chris and took a large swig, face flushed red. Vaguely Victor wondered where his coach was, and why he wasn’t putting a stop to his behavior. But then Yuuri started to dance, turning Victor’s brain into a stupid mush.
He got up close to Chris and his camera and started to move. Clearly drunk, Yuuri was grinning and laughing and taking huge gulps from the bottle, golden liquid flying from the opening to land on the floor every time he moved too quickly. Upon encouragement form Chris, he started to dance, kicking a leg in the air and leaping across the dance floor, people scrambling to get out of his way and moving in closer to take snapchats.
Victor could hardly believe his eyes when Yuri was suddenly pulled into the circle. His cry of indignation could be heard across the hall when Yuuri threw himself into a spin, legs outstretched. Yuri clearly got over his stage fright and his competitive streak came out in full force as he threw himself into an elaborate jump, attempting to keep up.
Deciding he couldn’t stand there passively anymore, Victor pushed through the ring of people surrounding the two and grabbed his phone. Grinning in delight he pushed close to Yuuri, balancing precariously on one hand as Yuri scowled and hopped on one leg. Yuuri suddenly looked up, straight into Victor’s eyes, and fell flat on his face.
Time didn’t stand still. The world didn’t stop spinning. But there was a spark. Something irreversible happened between the two of them; Victor loomed over Yuuri, a phone clutched in his hand, and Yuuri lay on his stomach like all the air had been knocked out of him, staring at Victor with big, shining eyes.
The moment ended when Yuri yanked Yuuri up, unwilling for their impromptu dance battle to end. Yuuri started dancing again, but he didn’t take his eyes off Victor. Victor felt his heart speed up, and a dull warmth throbbed in his chest before heat bloomed in his cheeks. The way Yuuri danced, eyes only on him, made him feel for the first time in what seemed like forever.
Victor wasn’t sure how it happened, but all of a sudden Chris was in front of Yuuri with a fucking pole. A slippery, shiny, silver stripper’s pole. And Yuuri was unbuttoning his pants, flinging them into the crowd, two girls fighting over who would get the honors of keeping them.
Yuuri’s legs were toned, tanned, and strong. His thighs were lithe and smooth, and as they gripped the pole Victor had to look away, his brain flat lining, mouth dry. God. Yuuri swung around a few times experimentally before Chris joined him, nearly naked except for tiny, tiny briefs around his hips. Chris gripped the pole in one hand and a bottle of liquor in the other, swinging around like a seasoned pro.
Inspired, Yuuri quickly discarded his shirt, making sure that it smacked Victor in the chest, who clutched at it desperately, as if it were really Yuuri and not a piece of fabric. Victor wasn’t sure how long they were on the pole for. It seemed like hours, his eyes hungrily tracing over all of Yuuri’s exposed skin. His strong arms, the rippling abs. His graceful hands, stretched out towards Victor, eyes seductive, the smirk on his face telling Victor he knew exactly what he was doing.
With a final flourish of his hips and a lasting caress to Chris’s back, Yuuri hopped off the pole, immediately walking to the fangirl holding his pants. After murmuring something to her that stained her cheeks red, he slipped his dress slacks back on, Victor’s mouth falling open as he stepped into the legs, shimmying his hips. Yuuri started to walk towards him, snagging another drink off a tray and draining it before slamming the glass down next to Victor.
With delicate fingers Yuuri took his shirt from Victor’s slack grip, and shrugged it on with a lazy roll of his shoulders. Victor followed Yuuri’s hands as they buttoned his shirt, unable to tear his eyes away as more and more skin was slowly covered up.
When Yuuri had finished redressing himself he raised a hand to Victor’s neck. A finger traced around his nape and down his throat, caressing his pulse point. Victor couldn’t catch his breath. Yuuri had stolen the air from his lungs, and he suddenly exhaled in a rush as Yuuri grasped his tie and yanked him forward, onto the dance floor.
Yuuri was drunk. Victor knew this, could smell the alcohol on his breath. But the way he was moving, fluid and elegant and beautiful, was unlike any drunk person Victor had ever seen. Yuuri clapped and slid, Victor following his lead, a huge smile on his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this happy, the last time he’d felt so alive.
They leapt around, circling each other for a while. Tension was building between them, thick enough to cut. Victor knew people were watching them. Yuri, Chris, both their coaches, and god knows however many others. Seeing them come together and flit away, a complicated dance neither knew, making it up on the spot. And then they were touching, chest to chest, hip to hip. Yuuri spooning him from behind, lowering him into a dip. Victor’s hand pressed against Yuuri’s back, Yuuri’s palm pressed tenderly to his cheek. Both their smiles were so big their eyes crinkled, almost disappearing in their uninhibited joy.
Eventually Victor needed to take a breather. Yuuri’s stamina was incredibly, and Victor was out of breath trying to keep up. Victor made his way over to Yuri, a dopey grin plastered on his face; Yuri looked pissed, standing next to a still shirtless Chris.
“Wipe that disgusting look off your face,” Yuri spat, looking sweaty and disheveled from his recent dance battle. Chris laughed throatily, running a hand through his hair and looking behind Victor.
A force tackled him from behind and spun him around. The smell of champagne and something sweet wafted upwards . . . strawberry bubblegum? Victor looked down to see Yuuri plastered against him, tie now knotted around his head. His hips started to move, softly grinding against Victor’s own and making parts of him come alive in a violent rush.
“Victor,” he said, voice heavy with alcohol and lust. “After this season ends, my family runs a hot spring resort, so please come.”
Victor immediately went stiff as a board. He barely heard the rest of Yuuri’s comment. “If I win this dance battle, you’ll become my coach, right? Be my coach, Victor!”
Staring into Yuuri’s large, puppy dog eyes, he immediately locked his arms around soulmate. His soulmate. Because the words Yuuri just slurred were written in slanted handwriting across his ribs.
This boy Victor had just spent the night dancing with, this boy who brought color and fun back into Victor’s life, was his soulmate. Perfect for him in every way. And Victor had subconsciously known. The magnetism, the inability to look away from each other the entire night. It was everything everyone told him it would be.
“Nothing would make me happier,” Victor said, gazing down at Yuuri . . . . drunk, drunk Yuuri. Victor gazed at him with adoration, heart filled with something, feeling full enough to burst.
Those words evidently meant something to Yuuri. He jolted back before moving his head back from its resting place in Victor’s neck. “Victor, look at this,” he shouted, mouth gaping. He reached down, fumbling with the laces of his shoes, pulling his sock off. There, curling around his ankle, in very familiar handwriting, were the words Victor had just said. Nothing would make me happier.
“No one’s ever said those words to me before,” Yuuri said, eyes wide in awe, tie slipping down to cover more of his forehead. “Does this mean. . . .”
Victor didn’t care that the whole banquet hall had suddenly turned away when seconds earlier they’d had their cameras out. Soulmates were a private, intimate thing. Not for outsiders to eavesdrop on.
“Yes,” Victor breathed. “Yes!” he said louder, grabbing Yuuri around his waist and dipping him into another tango.
They both laughed helplessly, drunk on love and relief that they had found each other. “I can’t believe it,” Yuuri said, stroking Victor’s face. “I’ve waited so long. And to think it’s you. You’ve been my idol since your debut at juniors. I have poster of you in my room.”
Immediately Yuuri looked confused, as if he wasn’t sure why he had just said that. Victor suddenly wondered just how inebriated he was.
“Well I suppose I’ll just have to order some of you for my room the,” Victor purred in his ear, amused before dropping his lips to Yuuri’s ear and leaving a small kiss on the lobe. As Yuuri visibly shuddered Victor wondered if his half a glass of champagne had gone to his head; PDA of any kind was unlike him. Yuuri was messing with his head.
They held each other for the rest of the night, swaying back and forth. Victor teasingly started to ruck up his shirt to show Yuuri the words tattooed on his ribcage before Yuri scrambled over, barking and grabbing Victor’s suit coat, throwing it over his shoulders.
“We’re leaving now,” he said. “Yakov is sick of waiting for you. Let’s go.”
“You’re leaving me?” Yuuri asked, his eyes suddenly much clearer than they had been all night. “But I just found you.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Victor quickly assured him. “But it is getting late. Maybe we should head back to the hotel.” Yuuri nodded, still plastered to Victor’s side. After darting away to tell his coach that he was heading back to the hotel, Yuuri skipped over to the Russian team, slipping his arms into the jacket Victor held out for him.
They sat in the very back of the SUV. Georgi was designated driver, the only one who had a license and didn’t drink; he’d been too busy facetiming Anya in the corner. Yuuri’s hand was on Victor’s thigh, stroking lightly. Yuri staring at them in horror, inching closer and closer to the window. Mila laughed carelessly from the back, tipsy. Yakov was dozing next to her, his weakness for vodka having overtaken his declaration of temperance within the first hour of the banquet.
“Yuuri, what’s your room number?” Victor asked quietly, Yuuri leaning heavily against him as they moved to the elevator, his rapid downing of champagne after champagne finally catching up with him.
“Mmmm 203,” he murmured sleepily, nuzzling into Victor’s neck as they entered the elevator. Yuri gagged loudly from behind them, punching the fifth-floor button rapidly, as if that would get him to his floor faster, away from Victor and Yuuri, quietly cooing to each other in the corner.
They both exited on the second floor, Victor stumbling over their combined weight. He fumbled with Yuuri’s room key, procured with a wink and questionable fumbling. His room was nearly identical to Victor’s, the only noticeable difference being the view.
After depositing Yuuri into a giggling heap on the bed Victor made short work of removing his tie, still knotted in his hair, and pulling his shoes off. He resisted the urge to undress Yuuri any further, and instead flipped him over, running his hands through his hair soothingly.
“Will you stay with me?” he slurred sleepily, squinting as Victor removed his glasses and set them on the bedside table.
“Not tonight,” Victor said softly, drawing a glass of water from the sink in the bathroom and putting it down next to the glasses, knowing that Yuuri would be desperate for it in the morning.
“’Kay,” he mumbled, turning his face into the pillow.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Victor said tenderly with one last stroke to Yuuri’s back. “We have that last press conference, after all.”
Yuuri didn’t respond, and let out a soft snore. Victor smiled before forcing himself to his feel. The door closed behind him with a soft snick. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.
Victor walked with Yuri out of the arena, his wise, worldly advice being strongly rebutted with a practiced, bored scowl. Feeling eyes upon him, he turned suddenly, seeing Yuuri staring at him wistfully. Victor’s heart immediately started pounding, and all of the blood in his body seemed to leave his brain, creating a faint whistling noise in his ears. Because Yuuri, his soulmate, the new reason for his life and love, was standing in front of him.
“A commemorative photo?” Victor asked teasingly, eyes lighting up at the sight of Yuuri. “Sure,” he answered quickly, stretching his hand outwards. He expected Yuuri to laugh and roll his eyes, or maybe blush over their unconventional meeting now that he wasn’t drunk. He expected Yuuri to throw himself into his arms, repeating his desire to have Victor coach him. And Victor would do it, wholeheartedly and without reservations.
What he didn’t expect was for Yuuri to abruptly turn on his heal, grabbing his suitcase and wheeling it behind him in his haste to leave the arena. Victor couldn’t move. He stared dumbfounded after the love of his life as he . . . left. Walked away, as if Victor’s heart meant nothing to him. As if the ink, words, and feelings tying them together suddenly meant nothing.
Victor stared after him, dumbfounded. Had he changed his mind? Did he hate Victor for taking advantage of him while he was drunk? Was he disgusted with him, and decided he could never love someone as silly, as ridiculous, and as much of a workaholic as Victor?
Victor didn’t care that Yuuri was walking away from him. He cared about why. What had happened in the less than 10 hours they’d been apart? What had Victor done? Unable to get his voice to work, Victor watched in silent horror as the love of his life walked out the doors into the snowy night, the darkness and swallowing him.