Work Text:
Paper
They have an early flight out of Barcelona the morning after the exhibitions finish and Yuuri is glad of it. Back when they were in Hasetsu Viktor raised the option of staying in the city for another day or two to sightsee and unwind. Sitting on Viktor’s enormous bed and comparing airfares, the idea seemed enticing but too presumptuous. Yuuri couldn't get out of Sochi fast enough the year before. If he failed again? Two years in a row? He wouldn't be able to make it past the edge of his hotel bed. Or the room service menu.
But then he set a world record, beat Viktor’s, and it's odd. The only reward he wants now is to go home, back to Viktor’s enormous bed, and sleep. Katsudon and then sleep. Katsudon and greet Makkachin and then sleep.
He mentions as much to Viktor as they settle into their seats on the plane. He fusses with the complimentary blanket and pillow, toes off his shoes, and completely misses the look on Viktor’s face.
“That was always an option, you know,” Viktor says, “Whether you won or lost. Especially if you medaled. I find not making it past the room service menu very unwinding.”
Yuuri snuggles deeper into his sterile airplane comforter and finds relief in the fact that first class has its own boarding section, and the hundred or so people who are in the process of getting to their seats didn’t hear that. A woman across the aisle from them pulls down her oversized sunglasses anyway just to wink at Yuuri. Great.
“And if it had been up to me,” Viktor continues, rifling through the complimentary toiletries kit before deeming it unworthy and standing to get his own from his bag in the overhead compartment, “we wouldn’t have been spending our first anniversary on an airplane. I really would have preferred a little more space for this.”
Excuse what. “What.” Yuuri sits bolt upright.
Viktor has a folder in his hands, not his fancy leather toiletries bag.
“It would have been best to place these all out at the same time for you to view?” Viktor says, tilting his head. It does not answer Yuuri’s question. It does not answer Yuuri’s question at all. “Like on a hotel bed. I think they would have looked marvelous on top of rumpled sheets.”
The woman in sunglasses whistles. Yuuri is one hundred percent certain he’s seen her face on TV before. A singer? An actress? She is famous and she is making fun of Yuuri right now and it is not fair.
Viktor settles back into his seat and leans his shoulder up against Yuuri’s. Then he opens the folder. Inside are a collection of prints. One with Yuuri in a sit spin wearing the costume from his free skate last year. Another with Yuuri leaning against a brick wall, holding a can of iced coffee. All of them are prints of Yuuri, some glossy some matte, all in perfect condition.
“What,” Yuuri says again, clears his throat, “what is this?”
“Oh, I kept them all in the same place. Just a moment, your gift is in the middle.” Viktor thumbs through the replicas of Yuuri’s face until he comes to a print on slightly higher quality paper. It’s of the two of them. In their exhibition costumes. Skating their duet. “This,” Viktor picks the print up with a flourish and deposits it on Yuuri’s lap. “Is for you. Happy anniversary.”
Yuuri does not know what to say so he stares at Viktor until he explains himself.
“It’s our anniversary,” Viktor says as though that makes everything completely clear. “Paper? I looked it up, and anniversaries have themes in some places and our first anniversary is paper!”
They exchanged rings two days ago.
Yuuri hasn’t won gold yet.
He likes to think he’d remember getting married.
“Yuuri?”
“How did you get this so fast?” It’s definitely a picture from yesterday. It can’t possibly be a real poster from one of Viktor’s licensed merchandisers. Can it? Yuuri would pay extra for immediate Viktor Nikiforov posters but he can’t imagine the demand for the two of them together to be that high.
“I called in a favor from a friend,” Viktor says, clearly still proud of himself. “Do you like it?”
Yuuri does. He’ll always like posters of Viktor. He’ll always like proof of the two of them, together. “Yes. But what is it for…?”
Viktor brushes an invisible spot of dust off a photo of Yuuri leaning back on the hood of a car. “It’s been one year since I bought my first posters of you, of course.”
Sapphire
On the 45th time Yuuri is late to meet up with Viktor he is given a kiss on the cheek and handed a smooth red box. “I didn’t include the times you were late before we started dating,” Viktor says, beckoning for Yuuri to open the box, which is heavy and looks like it has velvet lining. Yuuri has the distinct feeling he’s holding more money than he ever has before in his life. He says so and Viktor laughs and strokes a loving hand across Yuuri’s cheek. “Nonsense, lyubov moya,” he says, “You held both our first class plane tickets to Moscow when I had to adjust Makkachin’s leash in the airport. Don’t you remember?”
Yuuri doesn’t because unlike Viktor he doesn’t have the same textbook memory for all the little things he does. He’s unsurprised but uncomfortable to think that the contents of the box cost on the order of two first class international plane tickets.
When he opens the box he sees a watch. It’s silver with a blue face and three little sub faces. It has bright red dials. It has a co-axial chronometer according to one of the sub faces, whatever that is.
“It’s made of sapphire crystal,” Viktor says, picking it up and holding it up to Yuuri’s wrist. “Because you’ve been late 45 times. The 45th anniversary is sapphire. I didn’t think you’d wear the sapphire tiara, so the woman at the shop recommended this instead.” He fits it around Yuuri’s left wrist, right below the plastic Mickey Mouse watch Yuuri found on the ground on his third day in Detroit.
It’s a very nice watch, but it costs more than the rest of Yuuri’s closet combined, sans his skating costumes. It has to. Viktor bought it. It’s made out of sapphires. It’s a watch with three watches inside it. Viktor bought it. “This is too much, Viktor,” he says. “Do you have a receipt? Can you still get a refund?” And, “…how long have you been carrying this around with you?”
“Not long,” Viktor says, fiddling with one of the dials. “Since January.”
It’s May.
“I can’t accept this,” Yuuri says. Viktor sends him his moodiest ‘I Have Been Faced With My Own Mortality And You Won’t Even Let Me Be The Little Spoon’ pout. Yuuri holds firm.
The next day Viktor comes back to Yuuri with a metal box. Inside it is another watch with a silver band and a blue face. This time it only has one set of hands. It is a singular watch. Yuuri has heard of compromising in relationships. He expected to be doing it over dirty dishes or who got to control the radio. “Thank you,” he says, allowing Viktor to put it on his wrist. This time he even takes off his old watch. “It’s very beautiful.”
Viktor beams. And then hands Yuuri an enormous bunch of blue roses. If Yuuri had to guess he’d say there are exactly 45 of them. “They symbolize me,” Viktor says helpfully. “Giving myself to you.”
Yuuri feels his heart melt, just a little.
“The watch symbolizes how you need to pay more attention to the time.”
And then freezes back solid immediately.
Steel
On the morning after their actual eleventh wedding anniversary, Viktor presents Yuuri with a pair of stainless steel shears. No box, no bow. They look very simple, which makes Yuuri immediately suspicious. He remembers the second sapphire watch from their first year together, back from the days before Viktor realized it was better for them both if he didn’t use their joint account to buy things for Yuuri.
“Did you forget about these yesterday?” Yuuri asks, knowing Viktor didn't but hoping for a different answer all the same.
“No,” Viktor bites back a smile. He's proud of himself for something. Yuuri is about to be embarrassed by his husband. He knows what that look means.
“Yesterday, our anniversary? When it would have made sense to give me this obviously themed gift? The theme being steel? It was our steel anniversary yesterday and I looked it up to make sure I was ready for you to give me a steel-themed gift?”
“I don't need an excuse to give you a present,” Viktor huffs, offended.
True. Viktor has never needed an excuse. But he's always loved a striking bit of symbolism and unless someone's making 200,000 yen scissors now this isn't in the right vein for one of Viktor’s regular surprise gifts.
“Then thank you,” Yuuri says. “Now what are you so pleased about?”
“Using them, of course,” Viktor says. “Now come, into the bathroom. I want to have a mirror for this.”
Yuuri rolls out of bed and lets Viktor drag him in front of their sink. His hair is sticking up on one side. He’s got spit and pillow lines on his cheek. He hasn’t shaved in two days. Viktor crowds up behind him and reaches around him to turn on the taps. Yuuri doesn’t understand why Viktor doesn’t just let him shower first.
“Isn’t this more of a gift for you,” he asks, watching as Viktor combs his hair, parts it carefully, begins to snip away at the edges, “than for me?”
Viktor’s eyes flick down, down. “Are you really sure you don’t think this is for us both?”
And he’s got Yuuri there.