Work Text:
Translators aren’t cheap. Although finding people who know two different languages is easy, finding people who know two different languages other than english, is not.
“It is not difficult to pick up a language,” skating legend and five time world champion, Victor Nikiforov says. His voice is a charming indistinguishable mix of accents that slide over one another, only his homegrown Moscow accent sticks to his words like glue.
Yuuri ignores him. “Why do ice skaters even need to know so many languages?”
“Because ice skating is an international sport,” Victor replies, pragmatically. “A lot of things are international, for example, interviews, fans, competitions, coaches, bed partners...” he trails off, waggling his eyebrows.
“I’m sure you’ve had a lot,” Yuuri leans casually against the side of the bed. A long relationship with Victor has made Yuuri immune to his overt come-ons.
“Mm, maybe,” Victor says, using his forefinger to brush Yuuri’s hair from his forehead.
Of course, Yuuri thinks, it leaves him more vulnerable to Victor’s more subtle gestures.
“Come up here and I’ll teach you how to scream in five different languages,” Victor’s smirk is conspiratorial, and it’s a haphazard attempt to throw up an illusion in order to obscure the truth.
Yuuri, feeling more confident, turns to the side to smile at him. “The only words you know in five different languages are “Go Victor” and “You can do it” and I would hope you’d learned that from your international fans rather than your bed partners.”
Victor finally drops the Casanova act that he can’t seem to hold up around Yuuri anymore, not since they started fucking, anyway, but probably before that. He flops over so that he’s leaning backwards over the edge of the hotel bed, his hair falling like a fountain of quicksilver down the side of the sheets. “Yuuri,” he whines, drawing out the ‘u’ sound with his mouth an attractive moue. “I can speak a lot more than that in five different languages.”
“You can speak eight,” Yuuri allows, kissing Victor on the mouth. It is a very attractive mouth. A very soft mouth.
“Really,” Victor murmurs, inches away from his lips. “Learning a new language isn’t too difficult. There are a lot of similar words and phrases. There are some things, no matter the culture, that are universal.”
“Oh yes? Like?”
Victor sounds decidedly more out of breath when he replies. “Like tea.”
“Tea.” Yuuri pulls away, giving Victor a consolatory peck when he whines at the lack of contact.
“It is grown on every continent, yes?”
Yuuri thinks about this. “Antarctica,” he says, proudly. “Antarctica and Alaska.”
“Although they are the iciest places on earth, they’re not places one would have ice skating competitions.”
“So only places which have ice skating are considered continents?” Victor thinks about this.
“The ones that matter to ice skaters, yes. And all the continents that matter to ice skaters have tea.”
Then he swallows Yuuri’s reply. Clever, and licentious and insatiable, Yuuri thinks, but eventually, reluctantly, he pulls away.
“Alright, tea is universal to every place that matters to ice skaters and indeed, you’re very amazing to know how to order tea in every place that matters, but I’m not as talented as you are.”
“If you’re talking about your mouth,” Victor says, eyes glazed, licking his lips. “It has a plethora of talents.”
Yuuri doesn’t know what the word ‘plethora’ means, but he likes the way Victor curls it around his tongue, pulling the ‘l’ sound to the back of his mouth. Besides, Victor’s lips are distracting enough that he forgets the word as soon as he’s learned it.
“Wait, wait wait wait, I have to finish this,” Yuuri says, pulling away for the third time, this time moving out of Victor’s reach so that he can gather up the scattered paperwork on the carpet. He gets up and moves to the desk on the other side of the room where his back will face Victor. He spreads out the paperwork, sets out a pen and paper and the laptop and steadfastly ignores Victor’s plaintive cries. “Yuuri, what about me?”
“Later,” he says, disappearing into the toilet to fill up the kettle. He sets the water to boil. “I need to get these in by ten pm and it’s already,” he checks the digital clock on the bedside table and curses under his breath. “One.”
“That’s plenty of time.”
“Not for me, I don’t understand half of this,” Yuuri groans, wandering back to the deck to shuffle through the papers.
“What language is it in?”
“Mandarin.”
“Ahh,” Victor sighs. “I cannot help you. I can only speak it. There are too many characters. It gives me a headache.” The sound of water boiling is deafening. There’s a ‘snap’ as the kettle turns off.
“It’s similar to kanji,” Yuuri says, dropping a complimentary tea bag into the only other clean mug. The other one, stained with coffee dregs, is sitting on Victor’s bedside table. He pours the water into the mug, rescuing the tag before it slips into the hot water. “But not all of them are.”
Victor mumbles a response, but Yuuri barely hears it, already lost in his work. He spends three solid hours translating every single word. But even once he’s done that, he can barely grasp the meaning of the words, let alone the contract. At 4.52pm, he throws down his pen in frustration. “It’s no use.”
“Maybe,” Victor pipes up from the bed, voice slurred with lethargy. “Maybe you can read it out to me.”
“Maybe I could pretend I lost it.”
“If you’re going to procrastinate, let us go out!” Victor exclaims, leaping off the bed in a sudden show of enthusiasm.
“How are you so- How do you have so much energy?” Yuuri amends, turning in his chair and leaning an arm against the backrest.
“Hmm? I took a nap.” Victor has shed the robe that’s half fallen off and is pulling on a cashmere sweater over a grey long sleeved shirt. He steps into a pair of slim-fitting khakis and adjusts himself in the mirror. He only looks over at Yuuri when he’s putting on his scarf, and frowns disdainfully. “Yuuri, why aren’t you dressed yet?”
Yuuri is aware he’s staring. He’s pretty sure Victor knows he’s staring too, which is why he hasn’t wrapped his scarf around his neck yet, leaving his collarbones exposed: sharp and leading to an eye-catching dip. Yuuri has nibbled his way across them before and he feels the heat in his belly at the thought he is the reason for the scarf. Victor is trying not to smile. He walks over to Yuuri. “Yuuri,” he purrs. “Perhaps you would rather stay here?”
“Wh-” Yuuri starts before Victor reaches out to touch his neck, lightly, first, with just his fingertips, then slowly cupping it with his fingers, sliding them down to trace his collarbones. He tugs gently at the white collar hanging loose around Yuuri’s neck.
“You seem very attached to my shirt.”
Yuuri flushes, suddenly aware that he’s in nothing but his boxers, socks and Victor’s shirt. “Oh,” Victor marvels. “The way you colour is sublime.”
“Victor, don’t,” Yuuri begs, confused but no less enamoured, and colours further. “I need to do this work.”
Victor pulls back. “You, you, you,” he tuts. “We, need to go outside. Get fresh air.” He straightens, tugging Yuuri to his feet. “Come, get dressed.”
Yuuri lets himself be manhandled to the toilet where he sheds the shirt, already crumpled beyond reason, before he relieves himself. He unboxes the complimentary toothbrush he neglected the night before in favour of a midnight snack, so to speak, and sets about cleaning his teeth. He shaves, washes his face, and debates having a shower. He could use a cold one.
Finally, washed and clothed, he follows Victor to a local café. Small, quaint and quiet. Victor decides on a salad and black coffee and Yuuri almost orders a cake to replenish his sugar reserves, but opts for a hearty lentil soup instead.
“As your coach, I approve,” Victor says, making eye contact with the waiter, occupied with another customer, who indicates to give him a moment.
Yuuri closes his menu, “Thank heavens for small mercies.”
“Well done, you’ve used an idiom correctly,” Victor teases, clapping.
Yuuri furrows his brows, “Is that iinarawashi or kanyouku?”
Victor drops his hands, and the waiter comes around. He doesn’t speak a word of english or japanese.
Despite this, Yuuri orders for both of them. “And what will you have to drink, sir?” The waiter asks.
“He’ll have a coffee,” Yuuri replies, gesturing to Victor’s stunned visage. “And I’ll have a cup of Darjeeling.” He curls his lips back into a grin.
The waiter leaves and Yuuri takes out his phone to type out a quick email to the contract holder, asking for a translation. He should have done this from the start but at least now he’ll have a point of reference to go on in case the translation doesn’t cover all the clauses. He thinks about the complimentary toiletries back at the hotel, the half-empty cup on the desk and the rumpled sheets on his bed. The toiletries will be replenished, the cups will be cleaned and replaced, and the sheets will be cool by the time they return to warm it up again, indefinitely.
They will leave the hotel tomorrow, and the country, soon after. He receives an email alert and smiles at the positive reply. One less thing to worry about.
His tea arrives, and as he blows on it, he sees Victor, looking like he does on the sidelines after Yuuri has just done something spectacular on the ice, like land a quadruple loop.
He shrugs. “Neko mo cha wo nomu,” and takes a sip.