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"Yuri Nikolaevič Plisetsky, I’m in tears."
Viktor Nikiforov all but hollers, and he probably gets away with it only because he’s Viktor Nikiforov, living legend and all that shit. He’s also sitting on the hood of his car with a suspiciously large McDonald’s cup in one hand and what is supposed to be his shirt in the other— and Saint Petersburg isn’t exactly warm in the middle of fucking March. All clues that lead to only one explanation, and Yuri feels the urge to sucker punch Viktor in the face rising. The fact that he’s my emergency contact is just sad.
"Are you drunk?"
Viktor’s response is throwing Yuri the keys of his Mercedes.
"Yep, absolutely. You’re driving."
"How are you drunk already?"
"Not already, Yurio dearest, but still. Also I made a Bloody Mary before I headed out."
"That thing’s a Bloody Mary?"
"Tomato juice and vodka."
"Jesus Christ."
Yuri slams the driver’s door and sighs, relaxing into the soft leather. All he wants now is to go home, have an epically long shower, and try and forget all about the night that just passed. He also considers drinking at least five calming teas before hitting the ice that afternoon— because God help them all if Yakov finds any traces of a wild night out on any of them, he’s going to shout them into next week. Not that I’m ever going out again with the Katsuki-Nikiforovs. Over my dead fucking body. Beside him, Viktor slurps loudly on his straw. Yuri turns with a murderous glint in his eyes.
"Before you say anything, consider that I crawled out of the bed where my very naked husband was and drove all the way to Primorsky just for you."
"Fine, whatever," Yuri growls, grabbing the keys to select the right one in between the thousand and one charms Viktor keeps dangling from the keyring. Yuri also pats around looking for his purse, because he always has chewing gums there and his breath is frankly terrible, even though at least it doesn’t smell as alcoholic as Viktor’s. "Let’s just get this over with."
"Over? Yurio, you haven’t even started. I want to know everything, who was he, what was he like, what did you do, was he good—"
"Fuck."
"What?"
"I left my purse inside."
"You’re kidding." Viktor is trying to act shocked, but Yuri can see his mouth beginning to take that terrible heart-shape that means he’s absolutely delighted. Yuri wants to strangle him, and then strangle himself, possibly with one of his gold medals. How can this be happening to me? Is it because I didn’t answer to enough fan tweets this month? Is it that?
"Do I have the face of someone who’s kidding?" Yuri’s voice rises at least three octaves in the last syllable, and he’s pretty positive that by now he has the eyes of a madman. But he can’t go back inside. It was a miracle he managed to sneak out without waking— wait, what was his name again?
"Well, just leave it!"
"I’m not leaving a 125.000 rubles Cartier purse at a stranger’s house!"
"One hundred twenty— you know, I feel you spend too much money on accessories, Yurio."
"Are you seriously saying that to me right now, you of all people—"
"Okay, fine! Go back and get it, then."
"No way I’m going back in there alone!"
"You’re a child," Viktor pouts, his cup now empty and his arms crossed over his chest. Yuri pushes the car door open with the same springy joy of a man walking to a guillotine.
"I am twenty. Move it, Nikiforov, the sooner we get the purse, the sooner we drive away, the sooner you’re back with Katsudon."
"Alright," Viktor chirps, and Yuri makes a giant mental note to tell Katsudon to control his husband’s alcohol intake. As he follows Viktor to the apartment block’s door, Yuri steadies himself. This is not going to end well.
"This is such a nice place!"
Viktor seems to have forgotten the indignation with which he just scolded Yuri for leaving the apartment door open— it’s not like I could close it from the outside without keys, shut up— and is now strolling leisurely into the kitchen area. Yuri has to admit that the apartment looks really good, now, with morning light coming in from the big windows and an airy living room just in front of them. Didn’t exactly have time to tour last night. He’s still looking at the selection of paintings and posters hanging on the walls when he hears Viktor slamming his cup down on the marble counter and take off his sunglasses.
"In the name of all that is holy," Yuri whispers, trying to condense all his rage in a very hushed tone. "Please don’t make a mess. Let’s find the purse and—"
"Look at this!" Viktor exclaims, holding up a bowl of fresh fruit. "These are strawberries! They cost so much this time of year, what is he, a doctor?"
"Don’t eat those. And he’s a DJ." Yuri vaguely remembers the stranger— tall, dark hair, and Ote… Ota… something? A foreign name for sure— telling him that when they were still at the club.
"Wow," Viktor comments, before shoving four strawberries in his mouth. Yuri really wants to punch him.
"Listen, it’s a tiger-striped purse, not too big, I don’t remember where I left it, probably in the living room so let’s check it, okay?"
"This is so fun! Sure, not as much as Yuuri when he wakes up and he crawls all over my back like he always does when he’s hungover and—"
"Stop talking!"
Yuri walks to the sofa, where he takes off one pillow after the other. Then to the armchair. Then to the library shelves. Come on, come on, where are you? Then the fridge door slams, and Yuri has grown out of his "Russian punk" phase when he finally got through puberty, but he might just delve back onto memory lane and cut a bitch.
"What the fuck are you doing, Viktor?"
"Looking for your purse!"
"In the fridge?"
"Hey, I’m just trying to help—"
"And I really appreciate it—"
"Oh, Yurio, you’re so welcome," Viktor puts his hands on his chest and Yuri snatches them away, shaking them to try and clear some of the alcohol daze from Viktor’s brain.
"But this is one of those golden opportunities for you to think before you act, Viktor. He’s going to wake up, find us here, report us, we’re going to end up in jail and I’m not ready to kiss my career goodbye because you’re too drunk not to make noises while we’re snooping around a stranger’s house!" Yuri's voice has now reached full hysterics.
"I think you’re really going overboard—"
"Have you realized the situation we’re in—"
"Well, it’s not my fault and I could be at home with my husband—"
"Excuse me if you’re not fucking Katsudon for one minute of your life—"
Viktor’s hand hits Yuri’s cheek in the blink of an eye, and Yuri’s basic instincts kick in— so before he feels outraged, he returns the slap. The two stare at each other for exactly five seconds of stunned silence, before Viktor closes his eyes and takes a big breath.
"You’re right, I’m sorry. Let’s get back on track."
"Sorry, too. And please."
"Did you check the bedroom?"
"No!"
"Why not? It’s the most obvious place it’s going to be!"
"I’m scared."
"Yuri Plisetsky, you almost landed a quadruple axel at Worlds last year. You can’t be scared of this," Viktor declares, grabbing Yuri by one arm and dragging him towards the closed door that Yuri just barely managed to tiptoe out from.
Yuri opens the door slowly, one careful inch after the other, or at least until Viktor manages to get a glimpse of the man still asleep inside. The second he does, he all but kicks Yuri aside and saunters to one side of the bed.
"Are you kidding me?" He mouths, blue eyes wide and fingers pointing down.
"Viktor, for fuck’s sake."
"Is this him?"
"Viktor, shut up!"
"He’s gorgeous!"
Now that Yuri’s really looking, he has to admit that Viktor’s right. I mean, I knew he was handsome, or I wouldn’t have come home with him. But the neon lights of the club were one thing. Now, with sunlight streaming in, Yuri can really appreciate the broad back and the dark undercut and the sharp features. Damn, he really is.
"Get back in there! You’re not missing this chance!"
"Are you insane?"
"Yuri Plisetsky, you take your pants off this instant and get back in this bed!"
"I never took my pants off to begin with so I’m not taking them off now!" And wow, Yuri can’t believe that they’re having this fight in whispered voices over a very attractive sleeping person. How is this my life?
"Hold up. What?"
Yuri’s mind flashbacks to the night before and the almost emotional crisis he had after pulling away the guy’s shirt. No fucking way you’re ready for a one night stand, Plisetsky. Not now, not ever. The guy hadn’t even been that upset when Yuri had told him he preferred to just go to sleep— he had slung an arm over him and called it a night. Yuri explains it to Viktor in the quickest way possible, and Viktor’s jaw all but hits the floor.
"Bozhe moi Yurio, he’s perfect."
"Yes but he’s the kind of perfect who will be mean to me in the morning so I’m just cutting the bullshit now let’s get my purse and get out of here!" Okay, then, apparently this conversation is happening.
"Not all guys are assholes!"
"You’re saying that because you married the only good one!"
Viktor reaches for Yuri’s hands, and his face his almost serious when he speaks again.
"Yuri, you need to learn how to trust people."
"But—"
Whatever objection Yuri was going to make gets interrupted by the guy stirring and turning on his back. A chest clearly chiseled by the gods themselves, is now displayed for everyone to see. And it’s not the only thing visible. This time, it’s Yuri’s jaw that drops down like Newton’s fucking apple.
"Yes, you’re definitely getting back in there," Viktor declares. "Do you see this bulge?"
"I see it," Yuri admits, because he has eyes.
"Come on, pants off, now!"
And that’s the last thing they manage to say, because the guy is now very much waking up. Viktor bolts out the door with an agility that only his lifelong career as a professional athlete allows him, and Yuri slips back under the covers, messing up his hair so maybe hopefully it looks like he just woke up too.
"Morning," the guy— Otabek, that’s his name, Otabek!— mumbles, and Yuri kind of wants to punch him too. With his lips, though, because no one should be allowed to look this adorable at nine in the morning.
"Hey, morning!" Yuri answers, trying his best 'I totally wasn’t stalking your house and discussing your bulge with my crazy drunk older brother figure just minutes ago' and ignoring his phone vibrating. It’s probably Viktor. And knowing him, it’s probably just a series of 'fuck him' with progressively worse spelling.
"Did you sleep well?" Asks Otabek, and when Yuri nods, he smiles. It’s such a stunning experience that Yuri is kind of glad he followed Viktor’s advice. Not that I’m ever going to tell him.
"You know, I just realized— you’re Yuri Plisetsky, right? The skater? I always follow your competitions." Otabek scratches the back of his head, the short hair of his undercut, as if he’s unsure of wether he should continue or not. "I’m a fan."
"I’m a fan of your music," Yuri blurts out, and that’s just real fucking smooth. But Otabek laughs.
"Yeah, you said so last night. A couple of times. Since we’re doing confessions, I have to tell you that your eyes really are stunning. Pictures don’t do them justice." How can this guy say things like these with a straight face, dear gods of skating? Yuri feels his lips bend into half a smile, though, that paired with the furious blush he feels spreading across his cheeks must make quite a sigh.
"Thanks, I guess."
"You’re welcome. Coffee?"
Yuri gets up as Otabek pulls on a pair of sweatpants, and then follows him to the kitchen, where luckily Viktor hasn’t left any of his shit. Yuri’s kind of worried about him driving back to Nevsky District all by himself, so he quickly taps away a couple of texts to Katsudon, who hopefully has reacquired enough of his brain functions to deal with it. Then all Yuri has to do is trying and failing not to stare at Otabek’s back as he opens cabinets and drawers to prepare breakfast.
It’s only when there’s a steaming cup of coffee in front of him that Otabek says, "Oh, by the way, the club doesn’t open until five in the afternoon, if you want to go and collect your purse."
Of course I left it at the fucking club.