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He was young, with long hair then. It hit him mid-back and whipped all over the place if he had been too lazy to tie it up tightly that morning before practice. In those days, his whole life revolved around skating and he found nothing wrong with that at all. It kept him busy; it kept food on the table; it kept him in school and out of trouble. His family wasn't the affectionate sort, and while they never gave any indication that they were disapproving of his career path, they also never gave him any word of encouragement, even as he climbed the ranks in his young adult life.
He made it to the Grand Prix Finals as a Junior skater; there were only five other young men who had done so that year. He felt pride - immense pride - towards his own accomplishments. When he had stepped down from the podium, however, it was only Yakov who greeted him with a brusque nod and a vaguely friendly pat on the back. He was told that the lecture over how to improve would come later. There was nothing wrong with celebrating victory while it was hanging from his neck in circular form. The banquet was held, and it was boring. Even though he was nearing his debut in Senior skating and had been in the sport for years, he still hadn't managed to make many friends. Sure, there were a couple people he talked to at this sort of event, but no one really interested him in any sense beyond polite conversation in parsed English. Most of the Junior skaters were still learning it anyway unless they were lucky enough to have been born in a country whose native tongue was the common language of ice skating.
He never really cared much about what happened after the season ended, either, really. Occasionally, like that year, he would go to different national and European events later on in the post-season and watch some of the older Russian skaters perform. They were always elegant, he noticed, and it caught his eye and his mind that he likely appeared the same. Especially with his hair long and his body still young, he would look as boringly identical as anyone else who came from his home country.
On his birthday, then, before he went into his senior season, he asked Yakov if he could reinvent his image. His was getting tired, and if he did nothing else, he wanted to be a wildcard. Something about constantly shocking the audience - be it the fans, competitors, or the judges - made his heart beat wildly out of his chest and his toes curl in his skates. It was what kept him awake at night, some times, in cold sweats over just how he could be surprising when most of his life had already been documented so heavily. What was left to startle everyone with, except losing the precious silver hair they all had come to love?
"Not yet, Vitya. Soon."
The promise of turned into spring, and spring just as quickly faded into the fall again. He premiered in the Senior category, still an androgynous figure for everyone to fawn over. He loved the accolades, and even though he didn't manage to land on the top of the podium that season, he still made it into the Grand Prix Finals. The look in Yakov's face as the two of them watched the skaters at the Gala for that year made his blood boil. He didn't win. The only blatant caress he had really received in the past year had been Yakov's quiet celebration with him as he had stepped off the podium the previous season.
It was killing him. Even after cutting his hair. Even after he continued to surprise everyone by perfecting a quadruple flip. Even after winning the Grand Prix five times in a row. Skating had become a chain around his neck that he only wished to drown himself with. Some days, he would look at the ocean in St. Petersburg on the way to the rink he practiced in and wonder what the water would feel like in his lungs, deep down where he might still feel something. Tying the laces on his skates meant shackling himself into acting the part of a man who had all the confidence in the world with all the charm to back it up.
However, just days before his birthday, and just after he had won his fifth Grand Prix gold, the banquet that signified the end of the regular skating season took place. At that event, he encountered a ridiculous competitor who, despite having taken dead last in the finals, drank himself into having a blast at a party that normally bored everyone in attendance to tears. Viktor saw the way that man's eyes lit up every time they caught sight of each other. What did it mean? And beyond that, why was Viktor so drawn to him? Like a magnet, throughout the night Viktor found himself being pulled closer and closer to the foreign drunk who couldn't keep his own clothes on.
Viktor laughed. Actually laughed! Taking pictures of the man - "Katsuki Yuuri," he had drawled thickly through his lips, his tongue heavy from alcohol - and even dancing with him towards the end of the night had resulted in Viktor being propositioned.
"Be my coach, Viktor!" Yuuri had pled, his hands grasping tightly at Viktor's neck while his hips idly bucked into the front of Viktor's pants.
If Viktor had been any more sane, he would've been embarrassed. As it stood, however, Viktor dragged the drunk away from the festivities and back to his hotel room to keep him from publicly damaging either of their reputation any more. He had gotten the key to Yuuri's room from the man himself; after plopping him down in his bed and propping his head up so he wouldn't drown in the aftermath of his inevitable hangover, Viktor scrawled his cell number onto the notepad in the hotel room with a heart next to it. "Call me," he half whimpered as he locked himself out of Yuuri's room.
That year, he spent his birthday pouring over the news stories about that Katsuki Yuuri who had yet to contact him in any way, much less call him back.
Makkachin whined in Viktor's lap, feeling very ignored in the face of Viktor completely absorbed in so much as every blog post that made its way online.
And then, months later, the unthinkable happened. Yuuri skated Viktor's program for the world to see, and did it in such a way that Viktor felt called yet again to Yuuri's side. Had he been trying to prove himself? Viktor knew that he had gotten last in the Grand Prix finals the previous season, but Yuuri had made it all the way there. Did he not think that Viktor recoginzed how much potential he had?
Or maybe, some deep part of Viktor wished, Yuuri wanted Viktor there under the same siren song as he had sung the night of the banquet.
As a coach, Viktor tried to keep himself off Yuuri as much as he could, but he was constantly in physical contact with his student. His hair when the light shone on it from inside the skating rink, his eyes when Viktor promised him something in return for learning a new technique, his smile when he finally mastered something and Viktor praised him. All left Viktor longing to touch - to feel - Yuuri like he had never experienced before. Was it just that he had never had anyone so willing to accept his hands? Yuuri certainly flushed when Viktor moved stray strands of hair from his face after a work out made them cling to his forehead, but he also hadn't pulled away for quite some time.
Viktor wondered occasionally if he was overstepping his bounds, especially as Yuuri continued to not pick up on the hints Viktor gave about the banquet, but Yuuri surprised him so thoroughly that he couldn't keep himself away if Yuuri would let him in. Without pushing too much, Viktor tenuously reached himself out for Yuuri, and Yuuri responded. If Yuuri would open up even a smidge, Viktor would reveal more about himself, too. Every gesture Yuuri grew comfortable with was another instance when Viktor's heart skipped a beat and his toes curled inwards.
Skating on the ice no longer was his home; Yuuri was. So when Yuuri approached him, quietly knocking on his bedroom door one night when they had just returned from a competition abroad, Viktor wholeheartedly agreed to letting Yuuri sleep in his bed. With Makkachin curling comfortably at their feet and Yuuri sleepily grabbing a fistful of Viktor's bed clothes to his chest, the silver haired man felt like he had found a proper family at last.
The family of two - three, counting the fluffy poodle who loved jogging alongside his owners - cemented their relationship the night before that season's Grand Prix finals by exchanging rings and whispered promises in front of a Barcelona cathedral. Viktor nearly cried, tears stinging his eyes as they welled up in the breezy cold of early December, as Yuuri shakily placed a simple gold band on his right ring finger.
He did cry the following night when Yuuri said that they should end their relationship without consulting him first. What had happened to his family? It had been fewer than twenty-four hours, and yet the other groom-to-be was already seemingly getting cold feet. In a selfish plea to his fellow Russian skater, Viktor communicated through a frightened embrace that they couldn't let Yuuri win gold.
They would have to be married some other time; Yuri Plisetsky understood the message and took home his first Senior division gold medal.
Without the fulfilled promise of a gold medal, Yuuri vowed with his legs straddling Viktor's that he would indeed bring home one for Viktor to kiss. In the meantime, Viktor settled for kissing him. But what was there to settle for, if Katsuki Yuuri was the prize? Nothing felt less like settling in the whole world as their rings bumped against each other in a lazy handhold. They were still sitting on the floor of the rink - still in the view of the spectators and reporters alike - straddling each other when they shared their second public kiss. This time, shock was much less the prevailed emotion. Love, both agape and eros, were present in the kiss as Yuuri's tears pressed into Viktor's face as needily as his lips.
When they went back to the locker rooms to allow Yuuri to change, Yuri walked by and said with a mix of absolute disgust and complete affection, "I was going to let you borrow my gold medal so you could kiss him, Katsuki, but I guess you two are gross enough on your own."
Yuuri, happy enough that he was no longer the 'pig,' yelled a loud, "Congratulations" at the receding figure of the brooding fifteen year old.
The banquet was quieter that year, but Viktor was okay with that. He would rather Yuuri save the pole dancing routine for himself, anyway. He was wished a fond return to skating. It no longer was a prison sentence to him; so long as he had Yuuri next to him the whole way, he could yet again enjoy the sport that had brought them together. Even more so if he got to continually tease Yuuri over having idolized him for the better part of twenty years.
They moved their base of operations back to St. Petersburg. Yuuri smiled, squeezing Viktor's hand as they walked along the edge of the road towards Viktor's apartment. It was a leisurely stroll, Makkachin not even on a leash yet following closely at their heels. As they passed the sea, Yuuri made an offhand remark about how it was like Hasetsu's.
Viktor agreed. The only pull of the ocean now was that of seeing Yuuri in his swim trunks. Laughing lightly at Makkachin, who was barking at sea gulls, Viktor leaned so his head would rest on top of Yuuri's. They watched Makkachin run in circles around the flitting birds, the light curls of his hair bouncing wildly as he tried jumping to nip at the feet of the offending gulls.
Soon, the birds had flown far past even where Makkachin could torment them from, and the three continued in their meandering back to where they would live. Together. The thought of it all sent a shiver down Viktor's spine, and apparently even Yuuri felt it through their joined hands.
"What is it, Vitya?" Yuuri asked, his smile barely visible under a thick knit scarf.
Viktor chuckled, feigning heart pains by clutching at his chest. "What else are you going to do to me, Yuuri? You're too sweet for this old man."
"I've always liked older men," Yuuri retorted, intentionally bumping into Viktor's shoulder. "Especially Russian ones."
"Well, I've recently learned that katsudon are my favorite things in the world," the silver haired man replied back. His voice was lower, more suggestive. "They're delicious."
Yuuri's small bout of confidence faltered and he coughed, looking away from Viktor.
Viktor wasn't upset, instead enjoying the company of flushed, sputtering man next to him. "We're home," he said quietly in a moment. With his free hand, he waved vaguely in front of him to the stories-high apartment building that sat nestled next to other similar ones. It was a fairly new complex, the architecture revealing inspiration from other European countries' designs. Glass windows from some of the apparently more expensive suits higher up were collecting the snow falling from the sky in fat flurries.
The two of them strolled in, Makkachin following behind at a tired pace. The guards recognized Viktor and nodded at him, welcoming him silently into the complex. A quick elevator ride up with Makkachin wagging his tail excitedly in between his two owners later and the three stepped out onto their floor. Digging in his pockets, Viktor produced a key and turned it in the lock.
Out of habit, Yuuri called, "Tadaima."
Viktor responded with the rest of the ritual in his own accent. "Okaeri, Yuuri."
Yuuri blanched for a moment, remembering he wasn't at his typical home. However, seeing the wide grin Viktor was giving him, he responded in kind with an upturning of his mouth.
With a bark, Makkachin acted like his owners and spoke when coming into the apartment.
"Happy birthday, Viktor," the younger man laughed jovially, pulling his scarf down from his face.
Suddenly, Viktor felt tears welling up in his eyes. He knew that Yuuri loved him; the rings on their fingers that glinted in any lighting was proof if his relocating his life for Viktor wasn't enough. However - hearing the words while standing in the kitchen of their now shared apartment, seeing Yuuri's reddened ears from their walk in the freezing Russian winter, feeling his hands lifted to Yuuri's mouth for a gentle peck - Viktor couldn't keep himself from shaking his head in disbelief.
"What's wrong?" Yuuri asked, still holding Viktor's hands close to him. "Did I do something?"
"Absolutely everything." Pulling Yuuri in close to him, Viktor brought their lips together, his hands cupping Yuuri's head and tangling in his hair. He felt Yuuri smile into the kiss before returning it, his lips chapped yet still the most desirable to Viktor.
"I could do something else," Yuuri swallowed, his eyes meeting Viktor's with an intense stare. Their breath mingled together, humidity and something else entirely tangible in the centimeters between them.
"Maybe later, after you're done kissing me." Viktor teased.
"I'll never be done kissing you," Yuuri shied away, his expression changing into one of pure love.
"Then do it again, please?"
"Gladly."