Chapter Text
“Mmmm,” says Yuuri, grabbing the edge of the duvet and pulling it over himself, rolling onto the edge to keep it in place. “Don’t make me get up yet.”
Viktor noses at the back of his neck, where his hair is beginning to brush the collar of his shirt. “You’re lucky I’m your coach,” he murmurs, making Yuuri shiver a little as his breath passes over his skin. “An extra hour in bed would never fly with Yakov, even in the off-season.”
Yuuri rolls onto his back, reaches up to brush a finger over Viktor’s lips. “That’s why I’m not in bed with Yakov.”
Viktor laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and the sight still makes Yuuri’s stomach flip-flop. “Please,” says Viktor. “If you leave me for Yakov, I won't know how to go on.”
Yuuri traces Viktor’s jawline with his fingertip, finding the spots where prickly pale morning stubble softens to skin. “The chance of that happening is very small.”
Viktor arches an eyebrow. “But not impossible?”
Yuuri laughs, pulls Viktor down to kiss him. “What can I say?” he murmurs against Viktor’s lips. “I have a weakness for Russian skating coaches.”
Viktor’s hand drifts down to the swell of Yuuri’s belly, soft beneath his T-shirt. He grabs a handful of pudge, squeezes gently, and Yuuri inhales, careful not to suck in.
“Very convenient,” says Viktor, tracing a fingertip over the skin of Yuuri’s stomach, “because I happen to have a weakness for Japanese world champions with cute bellies.”
Yuuri laughs a little as Viktor scoots down until his face is level with Yuuri’s midsection. “Are there many of those?”
Viktor shakes his head, dropping kisses along the soft curve of Yuuri’s belly. The ends of his hair tickle Yuuri’s skin, and he squirms against Viktor’s mouth.
“You’re the only one,” says Viktor, planting a loud kiss directly below Yuuri’s navel. “ You’re my weakness,” and Yuuri tangles a hand in Viktor’s hair as Viktor buries his face in Yuuri’s stomach again. “You’re so soft,” he says, voice muffled. “You’re like a bowl of pudding, solnyshko . I could lie here all day.”
Viktor has abandoned his coaching mentality for the off-season, favoring leisurely skating sessions instead of strenuous ones and showering Yuuri in treats, but Yuuri still periodically dreads the irrational thought that, once Viktor slips out of the honeymoon phase and back into the skating season, he might realize how decidedly unathletic Yuuri is looking these days, and reconsider.
Yuuri didn’t mind last winter, when his weight began to creep back up, when his stomach began to spill comfortably into his lap. It was something of a relief: Chubby Yuuri wasn't a figure skater. Chubby Yuuri didn't have to live up to any of the expectations that Skinny Yuuri did. No one even knew Chubby Yuuri in America - he was just another college student who liked his meal plan too much, who didn't exercise enough. He liked the anonymity the extra weight gave him, the little burst of freedom at the realization that if he didn't perform, he didn't have to worry about disappointing anyone, and if he didn't have to worry about disappointing anyone, it didn't matter how he looked.
Maybe that’s the crux of it, he thinks. His body is public again, his presence in the spotlight inviting commentary where he doesn’t want it. He’ll inevitably disappoint after each season when he begins rounding out again, and more than anything he fears reaching a point where he succumbs to the mindset that that’s is a bad thing, instead of a natural one.
He wants that old feeling back, that sense of peace with his body. He misses that fondness, the way that being chubby felt comfortable, reliable, in a way that being thin never has. Thin is precarious, and it always gives way to softness in the end.
He takes a deep breath, watches his stomach rise and fall as he strokes Viktor’s hair absently. The trick to being successfully anxious around Viktor is carefully disguising it so he doesn’t suspect a thing, and Yuuri’s afraid that if he ever does let slip that he’s anything less than a hundred percent comfortable with his body, he’ll make Viktor feel like he’s failed somehow. It’s not his fault that no matter how often he praises Yuuri’s body, Yuuri still doubts it again as soon as he’s alone, the imagined critiques of the media pressing in on him until he buckles.
Viktor shifts, inches himself back up in bed, and Yuuri moves to accommodate him until they’re spooning again. One of Viktor’s hands remains on his belly, absently stroking and teasing at his chub.
Yuuri lies on his side, staring out at the blurry skyline of St. Petersburg in the late morning light. The windows in Viktor’s apartment span nearly the height of the walls, and it’s taken the better part of the two months that he’s been here for Yuuri to stop feeling like he’s about to fall out of them whenever he passes too close.
“What are you thinking about?” Viktor says into his shoulder, and Yuuri starts. “You’re staring,” Viktor continues, gently. “What’s bothering you?”
Yuuri takes another deep breath. Viktor is still here, still next to him, still kissing his stomach like it doesn't bother him that there's much more of it now than there was a month ago. And it shouldn’t bother him, Yuuri corrects himself. It’s fine, he’s fine. More doesn’t mean less lovable.
“I'm hungry,” he says, and it's not untrue . “It’s your turn to cook. What are you going to make me for breakfast?”
He glances over his shoulder and catches Viktor’s smile, returns it. Viktor squeezes another handful of his belly.
“Anything you want,” he says. “Provided I can make it.”
Yuuri smirks. Neither of them is particularly good at cooking, but Viktor is markedly, undoubtedly worse.
“Omelets?” he suggests, reaching up to play with the ends of Viktor's hair. “You're okay at those.”
Viktor pretends to look stricken. “Just okay ?”
Yuuri shrugs, smiling. “Eh, you're all right. What about muffins? We have the ones from a box.”
Viktor grins mischievously, pinches at Yuuri’s sides where they bulge over the waistband of his boxers. “I like yours better,” he says, and Yuuri goes red.
“Muffin top ,” he says, covering his eyes. “That's called a muffin top .”
He peers through his fingers to see Viktor shrug, unfazed. “The top is the best part anyway.”
“Yeah, you would think so,” teases Yuuri. He sits up and stretches his arms over his head, feeling his stomach pool in his lap.
Viktor plants a final kiss on Yuuri's belly before sitting up beside him. “Come on,” he says, tousling Yuuri’s hair. “Let’s get some muffins into your muffin top, hmm?”
Yuuri groans, but when Viktor pokes his gut before rolling out of bed, he hides a tough little smile. Viktor loves him like this, and he’s liked himself like this before, so - it can’t be that hard to do it again, right?
Wrong , his brain says, panicky, that is very wrong and you know it -
He ignores the little voice, watches Viktor pull on his teal bathrobe, then tucks his glasses over his ears and follows him out of bed.