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Viktor Nikiforov, at 26, was in peak physical condition.
His coordination, core strength, and balance were impeccable. This, paired with a naturally athletic build, allowed for five consecutive wins at the Grand Prix Finals. On the ice, Viktor was an alluring sight. If he was being modest, which Viktor never was, he was alluring regardless. Viktor was quite a handsome man. If his fans were to be believed, he was the perfect “bachelor”.
That was before Yuri.
Since Viktor was sixteen, he had lived on the ice. At 27, Viktor departed the rink. He’d spent the last year coaching Japanese figure skater, Yuri Katsuki. This was a feat that was just as emotionally, if not physically, demanding.
For the first month, Viktor accompanied Yuri on the ice. As Yuri became comfortable with the program, Viktor allowed himself a much needed break. Viktor considered it a reward. After a decade of uninterrupted training, it was relaxing to watch from the side. For Viktor, watching Yuri was bliss. Katsuki-san’s pork cutlet bowls were an added, if somewhat unexpected, bonus.
Viktor Nikiforov, at 27, was exhausted.
In preparation for the Russian Nationals, Viktor had just skated his fifth reiteration of “Zabaikalye”. This was Viktor’s newest short program. It was, of course, inspired by his fiancé Yuri. For Viktor, something about the choreography wasn’t right. It told a story, but not their story. Viktor ought to run through it again.
He was too tired.
Instead, Viktor pulled away from the center of the rink. In one swift motion, he draped himself over the dasher board. He cradled both arms around his ribcage and gasped in a breath. The whole scene was a bit dramatic. Admittedly, Viktor was a performer.
“Viktor,” Yuri called.
Wait. Yuri?
Viktor swiveled towards his fiancé. Yuri was bent over, pulling the skate guard off his left skate. Yuri’s un-tucked shirt was pulled upward, exposing his pale stomach. Viktor watched as the fabric fell back over Yuri’s navel. Behind Yuri, Yuri Plisetsky crossed his arms.
“Hey,” Yurio grumbled. His upper lip shifted into a sneer. The Russian Punk was intimidating, but Viktor had seen it all before. Yuri, still adjusting to Yurio’s bite, clenched his jaw in alarm. “Stop ogling the piggy, you pervert. Disgusting.”
Yurio, adorned in leopard print, was not dressed for practice. His hair was pulled back into an elegant bun, which suggested an earlier practice with Lilia. Yuri, on the other hand, wore his black and blue Under Amour. He stepped a foot out on the ice.
Crap.
Viktor didn’t even have the motivation to run his routine a sixth time. Had Viktor promised Yuri his time? Self admittedly, Viktor had a terrible memory.
“Viktor,” Yuri repeated. “You’re already here! Are you ready for practice?” Viktor flinched internally. Right, then. “Yakov said I could have the rink for an hour.” He paused, and bit the pink of his bottom lip. “Actually, he, um, said you can have the rink for an hour. Since, you know, I’m not—I don’t skate under him. Not officially, anyway.”
Viktor suppressed a smile. Unbeknown to him, Yuri Katsuki was Russia’s newest adopted skater. Yuri had spoken to Yakov? The elder coach must have known Viktor would be exhausted. The two of them had spent the morning on the rink.
Oh.
Yakov wouldn’t have! Would he?
“You look pathetic,” Yurio said, cocking his head at Viktor. “What is with all the wheezing? Eh? Are you sick, or something? Stay away from me. Unlike you two geezers, I have my entire career ahead of me.”
“No.” Viktor said, standing upright and running his fingers through his bangs. He needed to pull himself together. “I’m just taking a breath. I’m ready, Yuri. I—um, what are we working on today?”
“YOU DON’T REMEMBER!” Yurio shouted. “Typical. I am beginning to sense that this is a common theme.”
“I no—um, I do,” Viktor lied. “I really do. Yuri?”
Yuri did not respond. He pushed past the pair of squabbling Russians and took his place at the center of the rink. Viktor watched, mesmerized, as Yuri circled the rink. After a moment, he bent his left leg and spiraled into a perfect quadruple lutz. After regaining his balance, Yuri turned to Viktor with a cocky smile.
The bastard! Since arriving in Russia, Yuri had changed. The Eros he created on ice was morphing into everyday life. Yuri was confident in a way Viktor had never before seen. It was enduring. And amusing. And, unsurprisingly, arousing.
“hmmm. Enough rotations, but the landing was sloppy.” Viktor mused.
“Alright, then.” Yuri raised an eyebrow. “It’s your turn. That is, of course, if you are not too tired. I get the feeling you’ve been out here a while.”
“Not at all,” Viktor scoffed.
He followed in Yuri’s wake, carving a soft “S” into the ice on his way to the center of the rink. When he passed Yuri, he reached out his fingertips. They brushed softly against Yuri’s jaw.
“Good luck, Viktor!” Yuri blushed.
“Harrumph,” Yurio grumbled, hiding his face behind the tiger-print of his phone case. “When will my suffering end?”
Viktor replaced Yuri at the center of the rink. After gaining momentum, he prepared for the jump. Viktor’s sweatshirt was loose; it trailed slightly behind him as he picked up speed.
A soft ache shot through his back leg. Damn, this was only supposed to be the warm-up. Viktor could feel Yuri’s eyes on the back of his skull. He couldn’t stop now. Viktor never wanted to disappoint his fans.
Viktor leapt.
Yes! The takeoff was perfect. He spun in three crisp rotations. Halfway through the forth, Viktor’s skate made contact with the ice.
His ankle rolled, and Viktor’s back foot slipped out from under him. The pull of raw ice slid up his leg, towards his hips. Viktor pushed out his palm to soften the blow. Viktor used his right knee as leverage against the ice. He was hoping to recover with some dignity. Instead, he propelled towards Yuri, knocking his fiancé off his feet.
A pair of gloved hands cupped Viktor’s shoulders. Yuri was upright on the ice. He looked uninjured.
“V—Viktor.” Yuri asked. His words were uncertain and choppy.
Viktor was familiar with falling. It was impossible to win the Grand Prix without a few failed jumps. Still, Viktor had fallen with inelegance. He had not been so careless in a number of years. It was painful, not to mention embarrassing. Blood rushed to Viktor’s cheeks.
“He’s fine.” Yurio called. He was completely unfazed by Viktor’s tumble. “If he was in pain, we’d know. Viktor’s a drama queen.”
To Yuri Plisetsky, Viktor Nikiforov was imperfect. It was nothing new.
“Are—are you okay?” Yuri asked, ignoring Yurio’s attempt at comfort.
Viktor laughed, but it was not his usual airy jingle. Instead, it was harsh and defensive. Viktor removed Yuri’s hold on his shoulders and pushed himself to full height. He towered over Yuri.
“Yuri, don’t tell me you were seriously worried!” Viktor said. “I’ve seen you fall a hundred times. You really were quite pathetic, in the beginning.”
“But...” Yuri looked uncertain. “I’ve never fallen like that. Not from exhaustion, anyhow. You shouldn’t have— Viktor, you’re… ”
To Yuri Katsuki, Viktor Nikiforov never failed. This was entirely new.
“Viktor Nikiforov?” Viktor suggested meekly.
Yuri’s brows furrowed. A moment of silence hung between them.
“I wondered when you would finally realize it.” Viktor hummed. “I’m not perfect, Yuri.”
Yuri recoiled. His eyes were wide. He looked insulted. Viktor expected disappointment. He expected tears. This, whatever it was, wasn’t that.
“I can’t believe you think that. I can’t believe you think I’d— Even now?” Yuri spat. He stood up, and turned his back to Viktor. “We are done here.”
Wait. What?
Viktor watched as Yuri slipped out of his skates…
“I’ll see you at home,” Yuri called over his shoulder. “If you are going to keep skating, call Yakov. At the very least, he can take a look at your foot. Yurio? Want to grab lunch?”
Yurio, slyly watching their dispute over the top of his phone, nodded. Viktor caught Yurio’s eye, and the younger Russian shrugged. Figures. In a show of loyalty, Yurio silently followed Yuri out of the rink.
As a nasty reminder, Viktor’s ankle throbbed. Viktor pulled out his phone.
0-0-0
Viktor opened the door to the front closet, scanning for an available hanger. His tan overcoat battled for space against Yuri’s selection of sweatshirts. Since Yuri moved in, this was a constant struggle. Viktor’s, their, apartment had never been so full. Usually, this brought a smile to Viktor’s lips. Today, he wasn’t sure what to expect. Yuri had been so angry with him.
His jacket slipped off the hook, landing on the closet floor. Viktor had fallen off his pedestal.
“Viktor?” Yuri called. “Is that you? I have leftovers from lunch, if you want it?”
Viktor followed Yuri’s voice into the kitchen. His fiancé was seated at the bar. To Viktor’s relief, he didn’t seem too upset.
Instead of joining Yuri at the bar, Viktor made his way to the couch. He stretched out his sore leg and breathed out a sigh. It barely ached anymore. On a whim, he placed a cushion under his heel.
“How’s your leg?” Yuri asked, eyeing the cushion. “Yakov called. He said it’s not even sprained.”
So, Yakov had called? Ha! The man insisted he was not Yuri’s coach. Still, he treated Yuri like one of his own.
“I’m not indestructible. You know that, right?” Viktor said, and averted his eyes. “I might be your idol and coach, but I make mistakes. It’s not fair for you to expect that. I’m going to fall. ”
Yuri shook his head. He dropped the letter he was holding, and took a step towards the couch.
“I know I’ve disappointed you.” Viktor confessed. “I know why you are mad.”
“You are ridiculous, you know that?” Yuri asked. From behind, a pair of arms wrapped around his neck. “Yes, you are Viktor Nikiforof, five time champion of the Grand Prix.” His voice softened as he reached for Viktor’s hand. “And, yes, you are also my coach. But you are my friend. And my fiancé. You are you, and I was worried.”
Yuri went quiet, and Viktor swiveled to meet his eyes.
“I have never seen you push this hard. Not when you are this tired. And you knew it too. You just kept going. It was so stupid, Viktor! Did you want me to see you hurt?” Yuri’s eyes were rimmed with tears. “Did you want me to feel guilty, Viktor?”
Viktor stared at the man in front of him. He was scared and angry. Oh. Viktor had really hurt him. There were many things that Viktor wanted. Seeing Yuri in pain was not one of them.
Apparently, it went both ways.
“Yuri.” Viktor started, a defense lined up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think about it. I didn’t think about us.” Hm. Not what he intended to say. Yuri’s face was curious, so Viktor pushed forward. “But, you heard Yakov. I’m not actually hurt.”
Yuri raised an eyebrow at Viktor’s padded ankle.
“I’m not that hurt, anyway. I was able to break my fall. I’m a bit sore, but,” Viktor shot his fiancé a cocky grin. “Nothing I haven’t endured before. You shouldn’t feel guilty. I’ve never wanted that.” Viktor sighed. “I just wanted to prove to you, and myself, that I was performing like normal… but I’m not, am I? All that time off took its toll. I’m out of shape,” Viktor confessed.
“You’re old.” Yuri teased.
“Now you sound like Yurio” Viktor smirked, and then sighed. “I have a lot of work to do before the nationals. We have even more work for the Grand Prix Finals.”
“If you want,” Yuri suggested. Viktor caught a strange sparkle in his eyes. “I can help. First things first, no more pork cutlet bowls.”
Viktor pouted, and Yuri swatted his arm.
“Tomorrow, you can join Maccachin and me on our run. And if you’re ever too tired for practice…”
“I’ll coach from the side,” Viktor agreed.
Yuri, now satisfied, joined Viktor on the couch. Viktor leaned forward so that Yuri could nuzzle in behind. Once Yuri was settled, Viktor rested his lips and nose into the crook of Yuri’s neck. Yuri, Viktor assumed, was blushing.
His fiancé was adorable.
“I know you worry,” Yuri admitted, lips brushing against Viktor’s silver hair. “I know you worry about me. Shouldn’t I get to worry about you too? It’s only fair.”
Viktor pressed his lips to Yuri’s in agreement. His terms were, indeed, acceptable.
Yuri Katsuki, at 23, was in peak physical condition.
With some time, and help from his fiancé, Viktor would be as well.