Chapter Text
Viktor is honestly not a terrible caretaker. His brother is just a nightmare to take care of.
Technically, Yuri is his half brother. But that doesn't make him less than one-hundred percent of a handful. Viktor loves Yuri, of course he loves him terribly. But he is a little, four-year-old devil. Makkachin is wary of him, even, being the victim of one too many attacks with finger paints, and she loves everyone. Of course, that doesn't change Viktor's absolute devotion to his little brother. After their parents passed only a few years ago, it was just them, and all they had was each other. And Makkachin, of course, Makkachin was part of their little family, too.
He's easy enough to handle at home. Besides a few of the expected temper tantrums, he was a relatively well behaved kid, and low maintenance. All he needed was some crayons, some snacks and some cartoons and he was set. But around strangers, Yuri was a harrowing obstacle to conquer. Especially at the ice skating lessons he taught. Yuri loved the ice, and was getting quite good at skating around, but god forbid anybody try to take him off when lessons needed to be taught. He only ever brought him to the rink if he wasn't teaching, now.
To try and escape this, Viktor enrolled him in daycare preschool, hoping that it would not only take some stress off of him, but teach him some social behavioral skills he desperately needed. Every weekday, he would drop Yuri off at school at 8am, and he would pick him up in front of the school at 4pm and go home to make them dinner. On the weekends, they would visit the ice rink and skate around together. It was the very same, day in and day out. Until, of course, one day Viktor got an out of the blue call at the end of one of his classes, as he was taking off his skates and high-fiving a couple of the kids who were on their way out. The number wasn't saved, but he picked it up anyway, answering with a quiet Hello?
"Mister... Nikiforov?"
The man pronounced his name a bit hesitantly, and Viktor shifted the phone more comfortably between his head and shoulder, suddenly nervous. He began unlacing his other skate as he spoke.
"Yes? Who's calling?"
"This is Mister Katsuki... I'm Yuri's preschool teacher?"
Ah, of course.
"Oh, god," Viktor groans, rubbing a hand over his face. "I'm so sorry, what did he do?"
"It's nothing bad!" The teacher- Mister Katsuki- says on the other end of the line to quell Viktor's sudden bubbling embarrassment. "Well, um, not bad for him... well, a little bad for him. He isn't injured! But there was a little fight, and some kicking-"
"I'm so sorry," Viktor blurts, interrupting the man on the other side of the line, "I told him no more kicking, I don't know what it is with him."
Mister Katsuki huffs a little laugh into the receiver. "It's really fine, but he's a little touchy, and it might be better for him to come home for the day. Is that alright? I don't want to inconvenience you."
"Inconvenience me?" Viktor says, laughing off a fresh surge of mortification as he peels off his other skate and begins to towel them down, "I'd be making it your problem to keep him there the rest of the day. I'll be down to get him in ten minutes tops, alright?"
"Mm, thank you. No rush, he's calmed down a little bit now."
"Okay. Sorry," he apologizes, and drops the phone from his shoulder to hang up, sighing.
This kid is going to be the absolute death of him.
Once his skates were properly dried and put away, Viktor walked to the daycare.
It was a short distance and he would be there quickly, but he took the time to admire the sleepy little town he'd moved to recently. It was a tight knit community, small town in Michigan where everybody knew everybody, just an hour from Detroit. After his parents had passed away, Viktor decided it might be best to start fresh and raise Yuri somewhere that wasn't Moscow's bustling city. Besides, Russia was not exactly a safe place for him considering his sexuality, and America had always been appealing to him since he first visited when he was 17 for a competition, nearly ten years ago. It was nice, and English was already something he was familiar with and knew well, and Yuri was speaking both Russian and English as well. Plus, Viktor could hardly stand living in the same house he used to share with his parents. It just didn't feel right.
In his introspection, he nearly passed the school. Breaking himself from his train of thought, he reached out, pressing the doors open as a gust of warm air rushed through him, and stood uselessly in the entrance.
He'd... never actually been inside of here, which was ridiculous, and made him feel a little like an inadequate guardian. How could he have never even gone inside his own little brothers school?
After getting directions and a room number from a kind woman in the office, he took a right turn down a hallway and knocked lightly on a door labeled A114, and covered with little paper snowflakes, likely made by the kids inside. He leaned in to inspect them closer when the door suddenly opened to reveal a very, very cute Japanese man before him. Viktor's proximity to the door seems to shock him, and he jumps back, hand on his chest.
"Oh, my gosh, you scared me," he snorted, dripping the handle of the door. "Mister Nikiforov?"
"Yes," he said, breath suddenly taken away. Christ, he was attractive, and if Viktor believed in something as cliche as love at first sight, he might bargain that this was it. He only got more and more sure as... Mister Katsuki? smiled and opened the door wider for him to slip inside. Viktor caught from the corner of his eye Yuri sitting in a corner of the decorated room as he entered, smashing blocks together, but he gets up and runs to Viktor when he sees him, clinging to his pant leg. Viktor pats Yuri's hair, and Mister Katsuki laughs brightly, like the gentle tinkling of bells. Holy shit.
Immediately, his mind is full of ridiculous thoughts. He's a teacher, so he must be out of college, and he doesn't look new. He's probably four or five years younger than me. Twenty two? Twenty three?
"Your son is quite the troublemaker," the teacher chided, playfully, and Viktor can hardly believe how much he was reacting to a simple laugh, "but honestly not the worst I've dealt with. He's very sweet when he wants to be." The other man's glasses were blue, half rimmed and his hair was a stark black. His eyes were brown, which some may say were boring, but the way they shined with his smile was like a visual display of magic, especially with how it made Viktor's heart stutter embarrassingly. The teacher looked up at him, smile still stretching along his face, and Viktor cracks.
"He's not my son, he's my brother." A pause. "And also, I'm single," Viktor responds, not even thinking for a second. And then, humiliation licking at his heels, "and also also, I didn't mean to say that out loud. How old are you?"
The way the teacher's cheeks go pink in surprise is very satisfying, and the nervous laugh he lets out a moment later even more so. His hand comes up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, clearing his throat. "That's nice," he says, for a lack of more words and normal cognitive function, seemingly short circuiting in front of Viktor. Good, he thinks, now we're on an even playing field. "I mean, I'm twenty four. Why do you ask...?"
"Just curious," he mumbles, "I'm twenty seven, but I'll be twenty eight on Christmas."
"Interesting," Mister Katsuki says, eyes drifting over Viktor's face.
They spend the next several moments looking at each other- does he have freckles?- before Yuri is pulling insistently on his jacket sleeve, jostling Viktor from his brown-eyes, black-haired stupor and gently shaking him back into reality. He tears his eyes away from Mister Katsuki's maybe-freckles down to his little terror.
"I want to go home," Yuri says, pulling on his hand, "I'm hungry." Viktor leans down to his level, pointing his finger in his face.
"We'll be having a talk at home," He says sternly, looking back up at Mister Katsuki. "Sorry about him, I promise he doesn't get away with it." He puts himself back up off of one knee and tries to ignore Yuri's whining.
"Oh, it's no problem at all! Really, kids are just like that sometimes. It's my job!"
Viktor holds out his hand for a handshake, "Viktor, by the way."
The teacher looks at his hand, seemingly caught off guard, but slips his hand into Viktor's anyway, squeezing slightly. "Yuuri."
"What did he do now?"
A laugh, "No, that's my name. With two u's."
"Ah! Yuuri," Viktor holds Yuuri's one hand with both of his, "I hope to see you again soon... well, not that I want Yuri to pull anything like that again, but," he babbles, seemingly unable to stop the parade of words spilling out of his mouth.
Yuuri-with-two-u's just beams brilliantly at him, his smile is all teeth and it's making him weak. How long has he known this boy for? A solid three minutes?
"It's no problem," Yuuri assures him, patting Viktor's hands that are encircling his, "I know what you mean. I was actually wondering why I never saw anybody picking Yuri up. You must get him at the front of the school?"
"Yes, but I'll probably start picking him up from the classroom now," he says, casually letting Yuuri's hands go and winking. It would probably be a lot more effective and charming if he wasn't sporting a healthy blush of his own, but Yuuri grins, cheeks pink, and nods.
"Then, I guess I'll see you tomorrow, Mister Nikiforov."
"Viktor," he reminds Yuuri.
"Viktor." And he just cannot get over how lovely his name sounds out of Yuuri's mouth. Yuuri clears his throat, gesturing with his head to their hands, and Viktor lets go, wondering exactly how long he's actually been holding both of Yuuri's hands, oh my god, he's not a schoolgirl, get a grip-
Yuri has ever so patiently been pulling at Viktor's jacket to make him move during this whole exchange, so Viktor flashes an apologetic smile, waves with his free hand, and follows along out of the door, incessantly yanking preschooler ahead of him.
"You're gross," Yuri says to him, turning around and sticking his tongue out.
"You're gross,' Viktor retaliates, scooping him up and under his arm like he knows Yuri loves but won't admit, "and we don't kick, mister."