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8:33 AM. February 24th. St. Petersburg. Viktor’s apartment.
Slow, calm breaths fill the room. The curtains are drawn, yet soft light escapes into his bedroom. Yuuri finds himself waking up again in Viktor’s room. Waking up again in VIktor’s apartment. He stretches sleepily, fighting the urge to go back to sleep, to chase a dream he had already forgotten. He doesn’t need to turn around to know that Viktor is sleeping on the same bed as him, he had already memorised the dip in the bed, the rhythm of his breathing. It came as naturally as recognising the tune of each piece he’d skated to, as familiar as the beat that leads to a jump.
Despite this, Yuuri has his own apartment in St. Petersburg. The process of getting an apartment after the Grand Prix was a hurried affair, and after springing the news upon his family, that he’d be going to Russia to train, Yuuri, exhausted, settled with the cheapest available apartment offered. It was much smaller, much further, and much less warm than Viktor’s. And Viktor knew it. But it was good, Yuuri had reasoned, to have his own apartment, just in case a family member visited, or whatnot. Viktor made no comment after that, though Yuuri knew he was still not appeased.
It is unusual that Yuuri is awake first, so he decides to make the most of it. Covering a yawn with his right hand, the other in mid-stretch, on tip-toes to disperse the last of his sleepiness. Making his way to the kitchen, he smiles at the picture of Viktor and himself at the last Grand Prix, both of them smiling at each other, a dewy-eyed, soft look on each face. It stood in the middle of a shelf, distinct and proud. Very much like Viktor’s love, Yuuri thought.
He digs out a frying pan from the cupboard under the stove, mentally noting at how he now knows all the specific places Viktor keeps each household item. He shelves the idea of moving into this apartment. He didn’t have the words to bring it up. The eggs sizzle in the pan.
11:43 AM. February 25th. Park near home rink.
They make their way to the rink. The last of winter still clings to the edges of trees, the chill still apparent in the air. Yuuri sinks into his scarf and sighs, “Russian winter is so cold.”
Viktor laughs, “You have all the time in the world to get used to it.”
Yuuri blushes and tries to quicken his step, but desists when he stumbles on the slippery ground. Viktor catches his arm effortlessly, the ends of his lips tugged up just a little, eyebrows raised. Yuuri sighs again.
“You would think for someone who has broken a world record, you’d be able to deal with walking off ice, hm?” Viktor chuckles, poking Yuuri in the cheek, and shrugs. “I guess you just can’t have it all.”
Yuuri, as exasperated as he is amused, soldiers on, ignoring the rising warmth in his chest caused by Viktor’s laugh, ignores how his laugh, his smile, soothes his exasperation, ignores how a part of his mind swears that it would fight so hard if only to hear it again and again.
“I have it all anyway, since you’re here. So the joke’s on you.”
Viktor almost slips.
5:17 PM. March 3rd. On the way to Viktor’s apartment.
It’s been one of those days. It’s just a day where Yuuri can’t seem to get anything right. He’s a hurricane of anger and disquiet by the time practice is over, and a tsunami of self-loathing by the time they hit the roads. They’re walking home, like they always do after practice. Viktor’s apartment is close, and the walk helps as a cool-down. Yuuri doesn’t mind it, he enjoys it, but today, today he brims with impatience, each minute on the road getting closer and closer to overflowing.
“Yuuri…” Viktor starts, as he unlocks the apartment door.
“I know !” Yuuri can’t face him. Can’t bear to look at the face of concern and hidden disappointment. He knew he’d have comments, knew it was bound to happen, if not at the walk home then when they got back. “I know, okay? My secondary leg was sloppy. I should have raised my arms more. I’ll do better next time, just…”
He falters, just managing to swallow back down the words. Just leave me alone.
“Just what ?” Viktor’s eyes narrow, a crease forming between his eyebrows. But his voice is even, quiet.
Yuuri turns around. “Nothing.”
Dinner. Quiet, forced calm blankets the apartment. Even Makkachin’s tail doesn’t wag as he waits for his food. The clinking of cutlery slices the silence. They put their dishes in the sink, they don’t debate about who will wash up like they normally do, they don’t smile at each other like the usually do after a meal. Viktor volunteers to wash up. Yuuri takes a shower.
11:46 PM. March 3rd. Viktor’s apartment.
Yuuri uses the spare bedroom tonight. Makkachin’s tail droops as he realises that he won’t be able to sleep with both of them, he licks Yuuri’s foot, as if as an apology, and trots out of the spare room to join Viktor. Something in Yuuri tightens, but he brushes it aside.
“Good night,” Viktor mutters faintly as he passes the room on the way to the bathroom. Yuuri tries his hardest to ignore the sadness tinged to his voice.
“‘Night,” he answers. He opens his laptop and starts surfing. He’d always been a night-owl, and Viktor an early sleeper. Which meant that he’d always get treated to Viktor’s late night snuffles, his occasional murmurs escaping from a dream, how his hair would fall in his face.
He misses him.
1:35 AM. March 4th. Viktor’s apartment.
He sneaks into Viktor’s room quietly, noticing how Viktor had rolled over to his side of the bed, hair a mess, mouth half open, clutching his pillow to his chest, face buried in the soft material. Yuuri, allows himself to smile softly. They could never fight for long, one or the other always giving in after a while.
The full moon makes the shadows in the corner of the room fuller, more domineering, and shines on the expanse of Viktor’s back, illuminating freckles that bespeckle his otherwise smooth skin.
Yuuri climbs into the bed, glancing at Makkachin, fast asleep at the end of the bed, perplexed at the thought of waking Viktor if he took the pillow out of his arms. Gently inching the pillow away, Viktor mumbles and sleepily opens one eye.
“Sorry,” Yuuri whispers, hands in loose fists, “I really didn’t mean to… take it out on you.”
Viktor closes his eyes again, wraps both arms around Yuuri, tucking him into his chest, and pulls the covers over them.
“Rest, Yuuri. You’re okay.”
And Yuuri cannot put any other name to the feeling that engulfs his chest other than safety.
6:38 PM. March 25. Yuuri’s apartment.
“It’s a bit of an inconvenience to drop by here just to pick something so small up, isn’t it…?” Viktor comments idly as Yuuri fumbles for his apartment keys. “Won’t it be easier if you stayed closer to the rink?”
“Hmm?” Yuuri replies, only half listening, too focused on finding his keys, “And where do you suggest I stay then?”
A jingle interrupts the conversation, Yuuri exclaims in triumph as he finds his keys, slots it in the lock, and barrels into his apartment, completely forgetting about the previous conversation. “Ah, Vitya, could you look in there, I’ll look in the kitchen…”
Viktor forgets the conversation, the only thing occupying his mind was how Yuuri had called him Vitya.
7:00 PM. March 25th. Yuuri’s apartment.
They spend much longer than expected at Yuuri’s.
After the initial shock, surprise, elation of Yuuri calling him Vitya, Viktor looked around the room that Yuuri had shooed him into, only to realise that he didn’t know what exactly he was meant to be looking for.
“Yuuri?” Viktor called out, hesitation permeating his words, “What am I supposed to be looking for?”
Yuuri, a smile like a ray of sunshine painted all over his face, corners of his eyes crinkled, walks in a second later, a stack of books wobbling dangerously on his hands, “I found it.”
He sets the load on the ground, exhaling contentedly. The shadows in the room frame Yuuri’s profile perfectly, softening his cheekbones, emphasising the roundness of his rosy cheeks in the late Russian spring sunset, making Viktor want to draw him close and nuzzle the exact spot where Yuuri’s neck meets his shoulders, want to map the constellation of freckles on the nape of his neck, now almost hidden by Yuuri’s longer hair, want to trace his collarbone with small pecks.
Viktor takes a deep breath.
He’s handed an orange book, which he soon recognises as a photo album. He runs his fingers over the uneven felt, no doubt rendered rough due to years of use, passed around in family gatherings. A faded black marking at the top of the album catches his eye. He’d been around Yuuri long enough to recognise his name, as well as a bit of elementary Japanese. Katsuki Yuuri, 1994, two years old.
He thumbs through the pages, the crackling of plastic accompanying each page flip. Yuuri on a toy motorcycle, both arms raised, an air of exuberance surrounding him, portrayed by the sparkle in his eyes. A polaroid of Yuuri on a high chair, face twisted in a scowl, spoon fisted in his right hand, tears leaking out the corner of his eyes. ‘ Temper tantrum! ’ is written in Japanese. The next picture featured Yuuri on the same high chair, eyes puffy from crying, but a bright smile decorating his features. A bowl of half-finished rice sits on the tray of Yuuri’s high chair. The picture is captioned ‘ katsudon solves everything ’.
He is wordlessly handed another album once he had finished with the first. “This one was when i was seven,” Yuuri murmurs, “I’d just started skating then.”
The first picture is of Yuuri buying a pair of ice skates, a standard black coloured pair with silver blades. Yuuri’s tongue pokes out of his lips as he tries tying the laces by himself, eyes narrowed and focused. There’s one of Yuuri on the ice for the first time, arms outstretched for balance, a little bead of sweat forming at the top of his forehead, eyes wide with both uncertainty and excitement. Yuuri doing a thumbs-up pose on the ice. Yuuri picking himself up after a fall.
Yuuri watches Viktor as he flips through the album, notices how the ends of his lips would twist upwards, how he would bring his hand to halfheartedly cover his mouth as he chuckled. How his eyes had gotten glassy, this soft, soft expression on his face. A rising warmth, that feeling , once again envelops his chest, the urge to rest his forehead against Viktor’s shoulder now stronger than ever.
He does just that. And he stays in that position until Viktor twitches, a chuckle morphing into a laugh. “What’s this, Yuuri?”
He turns, showing Yuuri the picture in question, “Wow, I really didn’t know you were that big of a fan!”
Yuuri takes a peek at the picture, and groans. A long, long groan. 12 year old Yuuri stares back at him with effervescent eyes, a broad smile fixed in place, both hands carefully clutching a plastic wrapped package. ‘ Limited edition! 50 exclusive posters of Russian figure skating star Viktor Nikiforov!’
“Wow, I didn’t know these even existed!” Viktor doesn’t hold back his howls of laughter as Yuuri buries his face in his hands, “There’s even more here, Yuuri! Get this, a year later and I’ve been upgraded from ‘figure skating star’ to ‘figure skating superstar’! Oh, oh, here’s another one! ‘ Living legend Viktor Nikiforov’ !”
Yuuri opts for emitting an even longer groan, screwing his eyes shut, and placing his hands on his ears, head resting on his bent knees.
Viktor, after another fit of laughter, crawls closer to Yuuri and wraps his arms around him. “Shut up,” Yuuri grumbles.
Viktor opens his mouth in dismay, about to protest. “You were thinking it though,” Yuuri insists, voice muffled by his knees.
“I was only thinking about how I now need to scout out all the online shops to get every single merchandise of world record breaker, Katsuki Yuuri,” said Viktor in an offhanded manner, smiling into Yuuri’s dark hair. And Yuuri falls in love with him again, right then and there, despite his embarrassment, despite his burning red cheeks, despite the lone chuckles that still bubble from the depths of Viktor’s chest.
3:12 PM. April 16th. Home rink.
Yuuri sits at the sidelines, warming down after finishing his routine. He watches Viktor land a perfect death drop spin. He had insisted that Viktor take a rest day, stemming from how he had noticed Viktor favouring his left leg the other day. They’d never really seriously talked about strains or injuries before, but it was unspoken between them that they’d never let the other exert themselves too much. He turns away before Viktor can launch into another jump, annoyance and concern lacing the insides of his chest, eating at his heart and crawling through his throat. He knew, specifically, the gnawing feeling that infested their insides, that kept them pushing, kept them anxious for the scratch of the blades against ice, the abominable clawing deep in the gut, if you stop now, you’ll never start again.
Yuuri knows that feeling all too well.
So he keeps quiet, lets Viktor fight it out on the ice, listens to the scrape of the blades kicking up ice as Viktor enters another spin, marking the end of his routine. He’ll take it up with Viktor later, in the quiet of his apartment, the only place Viktor will let his guard down, the only time Viktor will close upon himself, characteristic smile replaced with an unfamiliar frown, where he’ll massage the bruises that mar Viktor’s feet, where he’ll slowly kiss each purple welt, grotesque and incongruous against his porcelain skin.
9:42 PM. June 1st. Viktor’s apartment.
Yuuri was back in Japan, visiting his family, handing out souvenirs like it was Christmas. Viktor is in St. Petersburg, much to his dismay, bored out of his mind, spread over the bed he normally shares with Yuuri, sighing and thinking of Yuuri.
Yuuri. The best thing that had ever happened to him. The very thing that had pulled him out of the pits of his melancholia. There had always been something missing, something dislodged, something not even landing every jump could adjourn.
He was a house on fire before Yuuri, destructive, desperate, deadly. He’d been in this game for so long, so long, and he was tired . He’d been searching for something, but he didn’t know what, but he recognised the ache in his chest, like a red string pulling him towards something, or someone. He consistently stayed way past training hours, composing a furious melody on the ice, frantically skating backwards, forwards, sideways, chanting the cues of each jump, spin, and step sequence to himself, like a prayer at the tips of his tongue, hoping against hope that that feeling, that heartache, would subside.
He was a hurricane of sadness, but he hid it so very well. He threw himself into his work, never mind the fire in his lungs, never mind the ache in his knees, never mind if he ached for something more than this. He pushed and pushed, drawn to skating like an insect attracted to the light, never mind if that may be its undoing, if that’s what gets it killed. Viktor Nikiforov knew his breaking points, and yet sometimes he keeps on going.
And then Yuuri.
If Viktor Nikiforov was a fire, then he was also a star, and Katsuki Yuuri was his binary star, pulled by his orbit, never shrinking back from his ferocity, but never dwindling his own spark either. Stay close to me , a piece carefully choreographed by Viktor himself. And in each crescendo he admits his loneliness, allows his desperation for that finding that something to permeate through the rhythm, his sadness to trickle through the baritone voice. Then Yuuri danced to it almost a year ago, as if his body was made for music, as if he understood the message behind the piece, and everything in Viktor just came to a screeching, sudden halt. Oh. So this is it.
They say, never search for the eye of the storm, but Yuuri does, and what else could Viktor do but open all the doors when Yuuri comes knocking?
Viktor sighs and rolls over on his bed, mentally debating the idea of asking Yuuri to move in with him. It would only make sense, almost every essential of Yuuri’s has already found a perch in Viktor’s apartment, and it wouldn’t take much to transfer the rest of Yuuri’s things over. Sure, Yuuri had pointed out that some relatives may need a place to stay if they visited St. Petersburg, but isn’t that what a hotel is for? Viktor whines softly, kicking up the blankets that rest at the edge of the bed.
The clock on Yuuri’s bedside table reads 10:20 PM. He closes his eyes. He misses him.
3:24 PM. June 12th. Pulkovo Airport.
Viktor jiggles his leg impatiently, Makkachin laying on the ground beside his bench, perking his ears and sniffing every time an announcement from the PA system is made. He’d gotten here an hour too early, eager to greet Yuuri. He’d tell him about how he had takeout almost every night in the duration Yuuri was gone, as it was universally acknowledged that Viktor Nikiforov, winner of five consecutive World Championships and five Grand Prix Finals, cannot cook to save his life. He could picture the conversation in his head already, Yuuri would sigh that exasperatedly amused sigh, laugh at him, and continue to tell him about his time in Japan.
It’s another long and arduous half and hour before Yuuri is out of the arrival hall. Of course, it is Makkachin who spots him first, snorting happily and bounding forwards, and Yuuri besieged by the tail-wagging Makkachin bravado, who had planted his paws on Yuuri’s front, barking cheerfully.
It hits him all over again. Yuuri, looking oily and sleepy after a 13 hour flight, who had gained a bit of chub, undeniably from how much katsudon he had been treated with on his trip, a faint shadow of eye-bags beneath his eyes, was resplendent. The literal and figurative light of Viktor’s life. And Viktor, despite himself, cannot help the overwhelming sensation in his chest, the one that swallows him whole, the one that makes the edges of his eyes water.
“I missed you so much,” he says, pressing his face into Yuuri’s coat.
“Stop drying your tears on my clothes, I missed you too.”
4:56 PM. July 16th. Convenience store.
The rain comes hard and fast, unexpected and insistent. They’re stuck in a 7-Eleven, hair damp and dripping, dressed in old sweat-pants and a hoodie that could probably walk on its own at this point of its use.
Yuuri stares out the glass doors of the convenience store, squeezed between an aisle of confectionery and an aisle of toiletries, looking both out of place and at ease, like he belonged in a supermarket advertisement, browsing the shelves for household utilities. Viktor is struck with the thought of a future, a real future, outside the ice skating scene, and is simultaneously buoyant and boneless.
“Hey, Yuuri…” he starts, drawing his eyebrows together and biting his lip, unsure of how to phrase the coming question, “What are you… How do you see yourself… In the future?”
Yuuri turns around and cocks his head, humming in contemplation, and the air thins and lengthens, the splatter of the rain outside hums in the background.
“You mean, when we both retire, right?” He doesn’t pause to let Viktor answer. “Well, I guess I’d get bored of staying at home all day, so I’d probably get a job, maybe coach kids? I want to be close to the people I care about too…”
He trails off and and shifts his gaze to meet Viktor’s eyes, soft and gentle. “What about you?”
“I… I would take on anything, as long as you’re by my side.” Heat creeps up Viktor’s face long before he finishes the sentence, and he tries his hardest to school his face into a neutral expression, which is not very neutral at all.
“You just stuttered,” Yuuri grins. Viktor wants to tell him to shut up , but laughter is already bubbling from him, the kind that makes his heart stop and start again. “I’ll be there, you know, you’re my best friend... I love you.”
He says it like a fact, like he’s naming all the jumps, all the combinations in his upcoming routine, as certain as cycles of the moon, as the seasons of the year. He wants to laugh and cry, wants to stop everything and press rewind to hear those words again, like the universe started and ended with those words, because Yuuri was his epiphany, a walking, living testament to his happiness.
“I love you too, Yuuri.”
Raindrops drum against the roof of the convenience store, car lights flash momentarily outside the quiet 7-Eleven, and the world continues on as they wait out the rain.
6:54 PM. July 31st. Viktor’s apartment.
Late evening sunlight caresses the back of Yuuri’s neck as Viktor kisses his forehead, his cheek, his lips, soft and tantalizing, sending a goosebumps along the lengths of his arms, making the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end.
Yuuri lets out a breathy laugh, the one that reminds Viktor of autumn winds, and intertwines their fingers, like hands held up to blue skies, like japanese festival lights. Viktor’s eyes are lidded, licking his lips in invitation, and gently tugs Yuuri towards him to close the distance. “Yuuri…” he murmurs, voice deep and laced with longing.
Yuuri curls his hand on the edge of Viktor’s cream shirt, barely noticing the soft croons of the song in the background. He is pulled toward Viktor like how the moon pulls the tides on the shore. He opens his lips to Viktor’s crescendos, a duet of lips and teeth, an allegro of hums and moans that start in the throat and echo in the chest, a harmony of mumbled affections, hitched breaths, and hungry, hungry kisses.
And even as the song ends, they tide it over with quiet affections, pressing their foreheads together, fingers still intertwined.
“Move in with me, love,” Viktor whispers, as the endings of the song echoes in his mind. They were a song on repeat, with no distinct end, a number Viktor knows like the back of his hand, so significant and familiar, never growing old.
There’s a beat of silence, a quiet contemplation on Yuuri’s end. “Okay,” he whispers back soon after, like he’s agreeing to a forever.
2:19 PM. August 6th. Viktor and Yuuri’s apartment.
The last of Yuuri’s boxes make its way into the apartment, dust from the barely-used items glimmering in the afternoon sunlight. Yuuri had called home the day after he agreed to moving in, passing the information of his move to his family, and regretfully informing them that they’d have to stay in a hotel if they visited, only to have them respond with, “Finally.” and “Why’d you take so long?”, much to his chagrin.
Yuuri drops onto the couch dramatically, one hand flopping onto his forehead, and emits an elongated groan. “I never realised that I owned so many things,” he comments, eyes shut and breathing quiet.
Viktor sits on a chair adjacent to the island in the kitchen, a mug of steaming coffee clutched in his right hand, his head resting on his left, a faint smile gracing his features, soft and welcoming.
“What’re you looking at,” sniffs Yuuri, cracking his eyes open, and tilting his head to the side.
“Nothing. I...I’m just really, really happy.”
He matches Viktor’s smile then, warm and full and fond, and thinks about everything they had done that got them in this position, thinks about how he’d made loving him a performance art, triumphant yet hesitant, how Viktor always understands him, ever since they first met as coach and student, humble blaze of a dream tucked quietly in their chests, how genuinely and certainly they love, both gentle and intense.
“Me too.”