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Yuri wakes up early on Friday morning. It's December, and the sky is frigid and grey. The floorboards, however, are warm; he'd discovered earlier that year that, to his pleasure, Lilia's floors were heated in all of the bedrooms of her house, including the guest room that had become Yuri's own.
He brushes his teeth and splashes some water on his face before going down the staircase to the kitchen on the first floor.
Lilia is seated at the island, reading the news on her phone, glasses perched imperiously on the bridge of her nose.
"Good morning," Yuri mumbles, because he'd learned well after the first time he hadn't and she'd lambasted him for a 'complete and total lack of etiquette.'
"Good morning, Yuri," Lilia replies calmly, looking up from her phone. "Your coach already left an hour ago."
"What?" Yuri blinks at her, hand frozen halfway to the coffeepot. "So early? Why?"
She smiles, brief and sharp. "Apparently Vitya is having some trouble with his program."
'Trouble,' it seems, is a bit of an understatement.
When Yuri gets to the rink, he skates into the middle of a shouting match between Viktor and Yakov. Yuuri is standing off to the side, one hand over his mouth—Yuri can't quite tell whether he's pissed or amused.
He retreats to the boards, where Mila and Georgi are lounging, watching the show.
"What's going on here?" Yuri asks warily.
Mila shushes him. "Just watch."
"—don't know what the point of me going to Nationals is if I'm not going to do anything interesting while I'm there," Viktor says heatedly. Ah, Yuri hates to admit it, but it's good to hear him get worked up again. When he was off coaching Yuuri, he hardly ever really got mad. The first time he'd yelled, a week ago, Yuuri had gone pale, and Yuri had laughed and laughed.
"If you wanted to be interesting, you should have given yourself more time to prepare," Yakov growls.
Viktor rolls his eyes. "Well that's not really something I can fix now, is it?" His gaze turns sly. "Unless you think I should postpone my comeback until next season?"
Yakov's eyes narrow. "Fine, if you want to waste even more time."
Viktor throws his hands up in the air. "I'm wasting time! You're the one who won't let me—"
"Viktor," Yuuri finally cuts in, and Viktor startles, as if he'd just noticed him there. It's gross, really, the way that Viktor's body language completely opens up when he sees Yuuri, shoulders relaxing, mouth softening. So gross.
Yuuri is smiling faintly when he says, "I need some help with the quad flip, can you take a break for a bit?"
Yakov huffs, but doesn't say anything to stop Viktor when he immediately beams and skates off to work with Yuuri at the other end of the ice.
"Hey, Yakov," Yuri says, thinking now would be a good time to distract him (as funny as the yelling matches are, they're messing with his focus). "I need you to help me beat both of those idiots at Worlds."
"You'll have to beat Vitya at Nationals first," Yakov grumbles.
Yuri scoffs. "Please. With how simple his routine is?"
Viktor's routine isn't simple, not at all...for the average skater. But Viktor isn't average, and people will be expecting his comeback to be extraordinary. Viktor, who thrives on meeting and exceeding expectations, will want, will need to do more, and Yuri knows this must've been what he and Yakov were arguing about.
So he says, "It'll be easy, easy as—ha—pirozhki," just to see the daggers fly from Yakov's eyes.
"Vitya," he calls to the other end of the ice, and Viktor looks over silently. "Add the extra jump."
Viktor smiles, smug, and Yuri fights against satisfaction and irritation in equal measure. "I knew you'd come around," Viktor beams, skating over hand in hand with Yuuri (ugh).
Yuuri laughs at him and pulls away to join Yurio in the corner. "Good morning, Yurio."
Yuri sighs. "What's going on with him?"
"Viktor can't bear the thought of disappointing his fans," Yuuri says with a shrug, so it seems Yuri was right. "There's a lot of people expecting a lot of things from him."
"Yeah, but..." Yuri frowns. "He can do it, right? I mean. He's Viktor."
Yuuri looks at him contemplatively for a moment, before breaking into a smile. "Of course he can!"
He says it so brightly, confident in a way Yuuri never is, that Yuri can't help but worry.
After practice, Yuri forgets his phone, and has to come all the way back for it. When he enters the rink, though, he hears the sound of skates on ice, and frowns. Everyone should have left by now.
"Viktor, come on, let's go home," he hears Yuuri say. Uh-oh.
"Just one more," Viktor calls back. It's the opposite of the way they usually are, Yuuri with his greater stamina wanting to press on even when Viktor is tired. The fact that even Yuuri is saying they should stop is worrying.
"What are you two idiots doing here still?" Yuri yells from behind the boards.
Viktor ignores him, and even Yuuri barely reacts. Damn. Yuri's losing his touch.
"Ah, Yurio-kun," Yuuri says. He sounds...relieved? "We were just finishing up."
"Just one m—"
"I said," Yuuri says dangerously. "We were just finishing up. Right, Viktor?"
Viktor skids to a halt in front of Yuuri, and the two of them stare at each other, engaging in some sort of battle of wills. Yuri shifts, uncomfortable.
"You..." He rubs the back of his neck, averts his eyes. "You guys okay?"
Yuuri and Viktor break eye contact to tilt their heads at him in eerie unison. Ugh, how are they already this married, Yuri thinks disgustedly.
"We're okay," Yuuri says. "Just a little stressed, I think."
"Why?" Yuri asks, genuinely confused. "You'll both be fine."
They blink at him.
"I mean," Yuri amends hastily, "I'm going to crush you both at Worlds—and you, Viktor, you'd better watch out at Nationals—but like. Other than that."
Viktor breaks out into a smile, wide and genuine. "Aww, Yurio," he coos, skating over with his arms open, and Yuri winces.
"Don't you dare," he hisses, but Viktor ignores him to lean over the boards and hug him. Yuri doesn't hug him back but he...doesn't push him away. There's a small part of him that notices that Viktor looks like he needs the reassurance, and he ignores it and the sharp clench of discomfort it causes. Viktor is fine. Viktor is always fine.
"Thank you, Yurio," Viktor says in that soft, serious tone he gets sometimes. Yuri shoots Yuuri a panicked glance over Viktor's shoulder, and Yuuri looks like he's stifling a laugh.
"Okay, Viktor," Yuuri says, smiling. "Let's go home." He holds out his hand.
Viktor pulls away from Yuri, takes Yuuri's hand. "Sure," he says, smiling back.
Viktor is not fine.
Yuri stands tall on the podium in Chelyabinsk, his gold medal heavy with promise and emotional turmoil. He's not enjoying any of it, not the cameras flashing, not the crowds cheering, not the satisfaction of finally, for once in his life, being the same height as Viktor Nikiforov.
Yuri can't enjoy a second of it, because when he looks over at Viktor, intending to be smug, Viktor's looking down at his feet. His bangs are in his face, but his lips are pressed together tight enough that the edges of them are starting to go pale. It's so unlike him that Yuri wants to scream.
"Hey," he says, and Viktor lifts his head to look at him. "Smile, yeah?"
Viktor stares at him, uncomprehending, before he seems to register where they are. He blinks, slowly. Once. Twice.
Then he turns to face the camera and beams, the signature Viktor Nikiforov prince-like smile, dazzling and brighter than the flashes in their face. The change is so swift, so sudden, that Yuri flinches.
As soon as they get off the ice, he pulls out his phone and pulls up his texts.
To: Katsudon
call ur husband