Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Something is beeping.

Victor wrinkles his nose, shifting slightly. The beeping is both annoying and nearby, too close to ignore. “Ugh,” he mutters, rolling onto his side. As he does so, something tugs painfully at his arm.

“Ow,” says Victor, and opens his eyes.

For a few seconds, he has no idea where he is. Then his eyes fall on the plastic tube taped to his arm, trailing from near his wrist up to a clear plastic bag on an IV pole, and he realizes he’s in a hospital room. That explains the smell, he thinks. The IV tubing passes through a box, and a red light flashes next to a screen on the box’s face—that’s what’s beeping. The next thing Victor registers is that it’s very warm in this room, but instead of being oppressive, he’s still a little chilly, despite the veritable mountain of blankets piled atop him.

That’s when realization hits. He sits up too fast, and a cramp shoots up his back, making him gasp. He must be louder than he realizes, because someone slouched on the other side of the room stirs. Victor looks over to see Yakov sitting up in his chair, rubbing at his face.

“Yakov…” Victor winces; his voice sounds terrible.

“You’re awake,” Yakov says. Victor braces internally for a thorough chewing-out, but Yakov just gets up from the chair and comes over to the bedside, moving very stiffly. “How are you feeling?”

Victor actually has to think about it for a minute. The answer is both surprising and somehow delightful. “Not great,” he says. “Everything hurts. But, uh… w-what day is it?”

“Saturday,” says Yakov. “They took you to the hospital last night. It’s almost five am.”

“Oh,” says Victor weakly. He can’t help the smile that breaks across his face, tremulous and painful as it is. He can feels his eyes watering, and when he swipes a hand distractedly across them it comes away wet.

Yakov grunts. “You’re an idiot,” he says. Theeeere it is, Victor thinks, and lets out a noise that’s half-laugh, half-sob.

“Vitya—“

“Sorry for making you worry,” Victor croaks, and then starts laughing as tears stream down his face. Yakov lets out an exasperated sigh. He shoves the bedrail down and sits on the edge of the mattress, reaching over to gather Victor into his arms, gentle as a mother with a newborn. Victor can only imagine how unattractive and dumb he looks right now: dirty, unwashed, half-dead, sniffling into his coach’s shoulder and clad in just a drab hospital gown, but he’s so happy he can’t even speak.

After a few minutes, Victor manages to collect himself, and he sits back, wiping at his face. Yakov pretends to study a pattern on one of the blankets while Victor blows his nose, but he does not get up from the bed. “Okay,” says Victor finally. “Tell me what happened, please.”

The story is brief, but still makes Victor cringe a little. When Victor bolted after Maccachin, Oksana and Yuuri were first concerned, and then—when Maccachin turned up, barking furiously and yanking at Yuuri’s coat with his teeth, noticeably sans Victor—they had turned frantic. They’d followed Maccachin to the beach, where they’d found Victor unconscious and half-frozen, his clothes soaked through.

“Your lips were blue, and you wouldn’t wake up,” Yakov says, expression stony. “The girl was hysterical. You’re lucky Katsuki kept his head.”

“I’m very lucky,” says Victor, and mentally adds, in more ways than one. “Ah, but what about the other dog? Oksana’s dog? Was he okay?”

Yakov snorts. “Of course you’d ask about the dog! Yes, her dog was fine. Why would—“ Yakov stops abruptly, eyes narrowing. “You went into the fucking Black Sea after the dog?”

“Yes,” says Victor. “He would have drowned.”

“Unbelievable,” mutters Yakov, and shakes his head. “Well, Katsuki called an ambulance, and they brought you here. I joined them here when I got the call.”

Victor lets out a soft sigh. “Thank you for coming,” he says. “Um, but… are they going to keep me? Do you know?” He fiddles a little with the blanket, feeling unsure of what to say or do for the first time in what seems like years. It’s an incredible feeling.

Yakov’s expression somehow sours more, no doubt breaking some kind of record. “They want to keep you until they’re sure there’s been no complications,” he says. “I think the doctors are worried about pneumonia.”

“Oh,” says Victor. He’s about to ask more questions when there’s a knock at the door and the nurse comes in, apparently having overheard their voices. She kicks Yakov off the bed to take Victor’s vital signs, check his IV line, and go through a series of questions, apparently checking to see if Victor has suffered any sort of cognitive impairment from his ordeal. Victor goes along with everything obediently, waiting until she seems to be done before he asks any more questions.

“Do you think I might be able to leave today?” he asks, hopeful.

The nurse—a no-nonsense woman in her thirties with close-cropped red hair—glances at him, and then softens just a touch. “Well, it’s not my call,” she says, “but I doubt it. If you wanted to be healthy enough to compete, you shouldn’t have gone running into the sea on the coldest day of the year.” With that, she vanishes.

“You’re not competing,” Yakov says, from his perch in the chair at the side of the room. Victor turns towards him, startled, opening his mouth to protest on instinct, but Yakov holds up a hand. “I don’t want you collapsing on the ice and being rushed back to the hospital. I’ve already notified the officials.”

Victor stares at his coach for a moment, feeling himself bristle like a startled porcupine, and then he just deflates. “You’re right,” he says. “It’s not safe. I don’t feel up to it, honestly.”

Yakov already had his mouth open, no doubt ready with another argument, but he snaps it shut in frank astonishment at Victor’s agreement. “Well,” he says after a few moments, “well—good.” He blows his air out and crosses his arms over his chest, as though Victor failing to argue with him has put him out of sorts somehow.

“I was just hoping I would get to watch Yuri and Mila and everyone compete,” Victor says wistfully. “They’ve worked so hard to get here, I hate to miss it.”

Yakov grunts at this but says nothing. He does, however, get Victor his phone. Victor sends a mass text to all his friends, letting them know he’s awake and more or less intact, and then a second one that’s just addressed to Yuuri. This one says, I’m awake. It’s a new day. I can’t believe it. Thank you for saving me.

He’s not expecting anyone to respond for another couple of hours—it’s too early—but he hasn’t even lain back down again before his phone just explodes.

Oh my god, you’re alive!!!! You scared the crap out of me!! Mila uses too many exclamation points, a bad habit Yuri has picked up. She doesn’t have his flair for curse words, though: YOU STUPID FUCK, ARE YOU SENILE ALREADY? WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING, YOU IDIOT OLD MAN!

Christophe calls him a half-dozen unkind names and then informs him that he’ll be very angry if he doesn’t get to beat Victor fair and square this year. Several others repeat this sentiment, including JJ, which Victor finds weirdly endearing. But it’s Yuuri’s message that makes Victor want to simultaneously hide under his covers and go running down the hall yelling for joy.

I can’t believe what you did, but I’m so glad you’re alright, it says. Is it okay to come see you?

After he gets ahold of himself, Victor sends a shaky message back: Yes, please come see me!

“You look awfully happy for someone who was hospitalized for hypothermia,” Yakov comments. He sounds disgusted, but Victor knows better.

“I can’t help it,” Victor says. He smiles at his coach, settling back down into bed and pulling the covers up to his shoulders. “I’m a lucky man.”

The morning passes in fits and starts. Victor drifts off again for a little while, until a breakfast tray arrives for him, reminding him that he’s actually ravenous. He’s almost done eating a half-decent attempt at pancakes and sausage when the doctors come in to evaluate his condition. Their verdict is swift, and unanimous.

“So far you seem to have no complications from your experience,” says the attending physician, a Ukrainian man in his mid-fifties with the bushiest mustache Victor has ever seen in his life. “But we’re going to keep you another twenty-four hours for observation and make sure you’re recovering fully before we discharge you. And under no circumstances should you consider competing tomorrow—it could cause a relapse, and we don’t want you back here.”

Victor’s face falls a little, but he nods. He’ll have to content himself with watching his friends compete on his computer, like much of the rest of the world. “Thank you for taking care of me,” he says.

“Just make sure you come back next year to make Russia proud,” says one of the junior doctors. Victor smiles.

He decides to get up and shower after that, and goes out for a walk around the unit, making sure to thank the nurses he recognizes who’ve been in his room caring for him. He’s still tired, though, and has every intention of laying back down for another nap, a plan which is immediately blown out of the water by the fleet of ice skaters who show up at his room, armed with flowers and stuffed animals. Virtually everyone who came out to practice the day before is there, save for the one Victor wants to see most of all.

“This is what happens when you try to skate on outdoor rinks, you amateur,” Chris says very seriously. He’s brought Victor a bottle of wine, with a “Get Well Soon” card and a strict warning that he’s not allowed to open the booze till after he’s out of the hospital.

“You’re competing tomorrow, right?” demands JJ.

It would be easy to duck responsibility for this, to foist off the blame on Yakov or the doctors for forbidding him. But Victor shakes his head, earning a round of disappointed noises. “I am very sorry,” he says, and finds that he means it. “I have been explicitly told I am to rest for at least a week, if not longer. It’s my own fault.”

“Stupid old man,” Yuri says with a scowl. Mila wraps her arm around his face and neck in what could either be considered a hug or a KGB death-grip.

“It won’t be the same without you,” Mila says, while Yuri makes rude noises against her forearm.

“I wanted to beat you fair and square,” Chris adds.

“I know,” says Victor, then adds with a smile, “I promise to wipe the floor with you at Worlds.”

“Says the man with poor enough self-control to chase a dog into the Black Sea in the middle of winter,” Yuri says. Yakov stirs at this, narrowing his eyes across the room at his student. Yuri pointedly pretends not to notice, but he does shut up.

“Sometimes something more important than a competition happens,” Victor says mildly. “I don’t recommend the Black Sea for swimming, but I’d do it again.”

The nurse reappears soon after, shooing Victor’s visitors out, then returns to the bedside to take another set of vital signs. She makes a point to listen to Victor’s lungs and to check the color and pulses of his extremities. “Everything looks good,” she says in satisfaction. Victor thinks about asking her again if he might be able to leave today, but decides not to push his luck.

After she leaves, Victor lies down, letting out a long sigh. He glances over at Yakov, and finds his coach watching him with an inscrutable expression. “What?” asks Victor.

Yakov purses his lips. “You’ve changed,” he says after a moment. “I’m just trying to figure out how I missed it.”

Victor gives Yakov a rueful smile. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” he says, which is at least true. “Maybe I just needed a wake-up call.”

“For what?”

“For not taking people for granted,” Victor says softly.

Eventually, Yakov leaves; he has other students he needs to support, after all, and Victor is no longer competing. Victor dozes, a half-assed sort of nap that he wakes from several times. The nurse keeps coming in to deliver more presents—letters, get well cards, flowers, boxes of candy. Victor stares at the pile of things in shock, maybe a little embarrassment.

Many of the cards are from people he helped yesterday, and these Victor feels most uncomfortable with for reasons he can’t quite put his finger on. He reads each card, fingers trembling a little bit. I didn’t realize who you were till I saw your face on the news, reads one—it’s from Marta, the girl who nearly got hit by a bus. You were my guardian angel yesterday, so please get better quickly!

When I saw you were in the hospital I knew I had to write you, reads the card from Dinah, the waitress struggling to pay her infant son’s medical bills. You saved Alexei’s life with your gift to us. Thank you so much. Please get better quickly.

There’s no letter with the bottle of expensive vodka Kontstantin sends, just a small card that reads, Get better & win more gold medals - Konstantin. Oksana is by far the sweetest and most embarrassing—she’s sent Victor a long, rambling note full of stumbling apologies that rescuing her dog landed Victor in the hospital, mixed in with profuse thanks and a thorough description of how ecstatic everyone was at the impromptu skate party they’d held. Victor has to actually fold it up and hide his face in his hands, he feels so unworthy.

And that’s really it. Victor can’t shake the feeling that he just doesn’t deserve any of the presents or thank yous he’s received. It should not have taken him hundreds—thousands—of repeats of one specific day to become aware of the effect he can have on other people, of the opportunity to simply do something worthwhile. It feels like being given an award for not looking the other way when someone starts to bleed to death in the street in front of him.

But thinking about it is making his head hurt, and he’s so very tired today. Turns out nearly freezing to death on a beach will take it out of you, he thinks ruefully. And so Victor curls up under the eighteen or so blankets still piled on his bed, and drifts off again.

He wakes a few hours later to someone wriggling around on the bed next to him. “Ah, no, get down from there!” says Yuuri’s voice in dismay. Victor’s heart lifts before he’s even fully awake; he’s already trying to sit up, but it’s hard when you have a lap full of excited poodle.

“Maccachin,” sighs Yuuri, from where he stands at the foot of the bed.

“You came!” Victor laughs as Maccachin all but smothers him, licking his face and wagging his tail so hard it’s a wonder it doesn’t fall off. Victor hugs his poodle, burying his face in Maccachin’s neck. “Thank you for saving me,” he whispers against one of Maccachin’s downy ears.

He feels the bed dip, and when Victor pulls back it’s to see Yuuri sitting on the edge of the mattress, watching him. Victor feels his throat tighten again; maybe he should just give today up as a bad job and accept that he’s going to be a mess no matter what. He manages a shaky smile, and reaches out to take one of Yuuri’s hands. “Thank you for coming,” he says.

Yuuri squeezes his hand, and Victor squeezes back. “Sorry for not coming earlier, but I wanted to get you alone,” he says. “And—I thought I’d watch the livestream of the competition today with you. I brought my computer.”

Victor’s eyes widen. “You’re not going to go watch?”

Yuuri flushes a little, dropping his gaze. “Well, you can’t go,” he says. “And… I t-thought it’d be hard for you, since this is your first new day in awhile. Right?”

Victor has to swallow past the knot in his throat. “Right,” he says weakly.

It takes some wrangling, because hospital beds are neither large nor comfortable, but eventually Yuuri is curled up next to Victor, Maccachin settled at their feet, Yuuri’s laptop shut on the bed in front of them. “Is this okay?” Yuuri asks.

“I think so,” Victor says. He can’t stop staring at Yuuri, whose brown eyes are extremely distracting from this close up. “I still don’t know how you got a dog past the nurses.”

The corners of Yuuri’s eyes crinkle as he breaks into a sheepish smile. “I told them he was your dog,” he says, and hesitates before adding, “and—and that you had texted me saying you were sad you couldn’t compete, so I was bringing him to you to make you feel better.”

Victor’s jaw drops open. Yuuri turns red and tries to hunch into his own shoulders, like some rare species of Japanese Box Turtle. Victor kisses him before he can manage it, though, and after a few shocked moments Yuuri kisses him back. Yuuri breaks off after a few moments, hiding his face against Victor’s neck. “What?” Victor asks, alarmed.

“It’s nothing bad, it’s just—“ Yuuri exhales, his warm breath against Victor’s neck making him break out in goosebumps. “Yesterday was… a lot to swallow,” he says. “I’m still not used to the idea of kissing you.”

Victor pulls back slightly, searching Yuuri’s face as though he’ll find the right words there. “I’m still not used to the fact that you remember me now,” he says very softly.

Yuuri’s expression softens, some of his self-consciousness leaving; he studies Victor’s face, reaching up to push some of Victor’s messy hair out of his eyes. “Well, I do,” he murmurs, in Japanese. “And I will tomorrow, and the day after that, too.”

Victor finds that he’s smiling, even as his eyes sting treacherously. “And I will be grateful every single day,” he says. This time Yuuri’s the one who kisses him first.

They watch the day’s performances on the livestream, still curled up in bed together. The nurse comes in to check on Victor at one point, and to reconnect his IV to another drip, but if she’s bothered by either Yuuri’s or Maccachin’s presence, she doesn’t bother to say so.

Victor cheers when Yuri wins in his division, grabbing up his phone to send his fellow skater a congratulatory text, with a promise to take him out to celebrate as soon as they get a chance. Despite being not physically present, Victor finds he’s even more invested in the others’ routines than before.

“Victor,” Yuuri says presently. Something in his voice isn’t quite right. Victor looks up from the feed where the medalists wave from the stand, the roar of the crowd drowning out nearly everything the announcers are saying.

“Yes, Yuuri?”

Yuuri looks at him, chewing his lower lip for a moment before answering. “…Did you ever figure out why you were stuck in that …loop? I mean. What’s changed?”

Victor takes a deep breath. Yuuri must be able to read something in Victor’s face, because he shuts the computer and pushes it down the bed, out of the way. Victor has to fight the urge to make a dumb joke or arch comment, to avert his gaze and deflect. Yuuri’s hand creeps into one of Victor’s, thumb gently stroking Victor’s palm, and Victor finds it’s enough to let him breathe a little easier.

“I’ve changed, for one thing,” Victor says, slowly. “Before, I… At some point I became so focused on my career and my skating that I stopped even seeing anything else. I took people for granted. And—and I wasn’t happy, and I refused to admit it to myself.”

Yuuri nods. “What about now?” he asks, when Victor has gone silent for several seconds. “Will you keep skating?”

Victor gazes at him. “I’m going to finish the season, at least, but after that I honestly don’t know,” he says at last. “I don’t really know what else I would do with myself, for one thing.”

“You could be a coach, or a choreographer,” Yuuri says. “I’d hate to see you stop competing, but… You’ve always been amazing at coming up with routines, and you were great with the skate club last night.”

Victor smiles at this, twining his and Yuuri’s fingers together absently. “I think I’d like that,” he says. “But who would want me as their coach when they could have someone like Yakov, or Celestino?”

“Are you kidding?” Yuuri demands. “Anyone would be lucky to have you. You’re the greatest skater alive right now, you—“ He breaks off, eyes widening a little as he seems to realize what he’s said.

Victor laughs. “Ah, such sweet flattery,” he says, teasing a little, digging his fingers into Yuuri’s ribs. Yuuri yelps and gives him an elbow in the stomach for his trouble, not that Victor minds. “But being a good skater doesn’t necessarily translate to being a good coach.”

Yuuri smiles a little, holding Victor’s gaze only for a moment before it drops to their lap again. “I still think you’d be great at it,” is all he says.

Victor wraps his arm around Yuuri’s shoulder and pulls him in close, pressing his face to Yuuri’s soft hair. “Thank you, Yuuri,” he murmurs. It’s something to think about, at least.

Eventually, Yuuri has to leave, because he has to compete tomorrow and sleeping in a cramped hospital chair beforehand is not going to do him any favors. He takes Maccachin with him—apparently Victor’s dog spent the previous night with Yuuri, an idea that brings Victor almost as much joy as it does guilt. Guilt because he knows the loss of Vicchan is still fresh in Yuuri’s heart, but joy at the idea of the two lives he treasures most in the world curled up in a bed together.

Yuuri still seems flustered by their whole situation, quiet and a little jittery, but Victor promises to be at the rink to watch him skate, and that as much as anything else seems to bolster Yuuri’s confidence. Victor doesn’t dare to hope that Yuuri feels remotely the same way about Victor as Victor does about him, but the hope that one day he might is enough to lull him to sleep better than any lullaby.

(Victor awakens just once, in the middle of the night, strains of the Rolling Stones echoing in his ears. His panic subsides almost immediately thanks to the IV tubing still taped to his arm, and he breathes a sigh of relief as he flops back down on the thin hospital mattress.)

As promised, Victor is discharged early the next day. Yakov is there to pick him up, though they end up having to borrow a cart from the unit Victor was on just to carry all his presents, flowers, and cards down to the car that will take them back to the Citrus Hotel. They’re swamped with paparazzi as soon as the car pulls up to the front of the hotel, and though Victor tries his hardest to be gracious and full of smiles, he’s still grateful that Yakov is there to glower everyone into submission as they make their way inside.

“Bottom feeders,” Yakov mutters, as he and Victor (and the metric ton of presents) get into the elevator.

“You only have me to blame,” Victor says mildly. Yakov shoots him a glance equal parts irritation and bafflement.

Victor waits until they get to his room before he gives in to the urge to hug his coach. Yakov grimaces, but returns an awkward hug anyway. Victor waits just a few more minutes until they’ve set everything down before he tells Yakov that he’s thinking of retiring at the end of this season.

Yakov crosses his arms, sitting in the chair by the desk as Victor shares this information. “I wish I could say I was surprised,” he says. “Your skating has been as excellent as ever, but your head hasn’t been right this season.”

He narrows his eyes. “But what are you going to do once you leave?”

Victor takes a deep breath. “I was thinking I might try my hand at coaching,” he says. “And—I was hoping you might be willing to guide me, if I go down that path. I would stay in St. Petersburg,” he adds. “For awhile, anyway. I can’t just abandon Yuri.”

Yakov lets out a long, put-upon sigh. “You’re the most obnoxious student I’ve ever had,” he says, scowling. Victor smiles and starts to get up again, but Yakov holds out a hand. “Don’t,” he said. “Try to hold on to a little of your dignity, at least.”

“Only because you asked me so nicely,” says Victor, and Yakov rolls his eyes.

Yakov stays with Victor long enough to make sure that he’s firmly settled in, and then takes his leave to go check on his other students. Victor would very much rather be visiting with his friends than stuck in his room, but almost everyone is getting ready for the final round of performances today. So he contents himself with rescuing Maccachin from the pet sitter, intending to take his dog out for a nice long walk.

(Maccachin keeps them from leaving right away, due to the way he keeps barking and jumping into Victor’s arms when Victor comes to retrieve him. The pet sitter tells Victor all about how well-behaved and friendly Maccachin was for him; Victor does not bother to tell the man that Maccachin knows him very well by now, because it would only confuse him. He settles for tipping the man well and coaxing his dog out the front doors of the hotel.)

The walk, short as it is, winds him more than it should; Victor has to stop and rest on a park bench more than once. But the day is already much warmer than the previous one, and though there’s still plenty of snow everywhere, it’s melting steadily in the sunshine. Victor sits and marvels at the city around him, admiring the people—the strangers!—walking to and fro, picking their way through huge slushy puddles and past rapidly-melting snowbanks. He knows the depths of winter still lie ahead, but after the endless ice and snow he has lived through, the warm air feels like the first day of spring.

He wonders how long it’s been, since he sat outside on a day that wasn’t the bitterest midwinter. He’d almost forgotten how beautiful it could be.

Lunchtime rolls around. Victor takes Maccachin with him to the sandwich shop they both like, the one that allows pets inside. There’s a redheaded girl working behind the counter he’s never seen before; he has to resist the urge to ask her a dozen probing questions, reminding himself that he probably doesn’t have the time or ability to do a single thing for her before he leaves town. But Victor smiles and asks her how she liked the snow yesterday anyway, and is glad when he gets an answering smile back. He makes sure to wish her a lovely day and clean up his mess before he leaves.

Victor has to leave Maccachin with the doggie daycare service for a few more hours—not by choice, but the GPF organization is less forgiving on the topic of dogs inside the arena than area restaurants are. He rides over with Yakov instead of walking, mainly to avoid attention. It only kind of works because there’s still a massive press junket at the skater’s entrance, but Victor only smiles and politely waves as they head inside, keeping pace with Yakov.

“You can sit with me,” Yakov says as they come inside, before Victor’s had a chance to even ask where he should sit during the competition.

“Alright,” says Victor, gratefully.

They head to the back, on Victor’s insistence, where the competitors are stretching and doing their pre-performance routines. Victor’s first instinct is to make a beeline for Yuuri, to kiss him right there in front of everyone and tell him how eager Victor is to see him skate, but then his better nature reasserts itself and he makes a full round to greet all his peers and wish them luck.

“Just try not to hurt yourself again between now and Worlds,” says Christophe, slinging an arm around Victor’s shoulders. “Winning just doesn’t taste the same if I haven’t beaten you.” JJ and Cao Bin come over, both echoing this sentiment moments later. Victor just laughs and promises to be there for the next competition.

Michele is off in the corner with his sister Sara, but he brightens when Victor comes over to say hello and wish him luck. Victor takes a selfie with himself and both Crispinos, and then Victor is glancing around, looking for the person he’s most eager to see on the ice.

Yuuri is on the other side of the room, caught up in conversation with Celestino. Victor hangs back for a few moments, wanting to let them finish, but Yuuri catches sight of him over his coach’s shoulder and his expression changes, going hot and complicated. “Victor,” Yuuri says, and stops.

“Hi, Yuuri,” Victor says. Words stick in his throat, but he manages a smile anyway.

Celestino glances between Yuuri and Victor, eyebrows raised, and then just smiles, patting Yuuri on the shoulder. “Don’t be long,” he says, and heads over to talk to Yakov, who’s busy looking disgruntled over by the door.

“How are you feeling?” Victor asks, at the same time as Yuuri says “Are you feeling better?” They stare at each other for a moment, and then Yuuri laughs. It does something to Victor’s stomach, like he’s suddenly found himself on a rollercoaster as it bottoms out.

“I’m okay,” says Yuuri. His voice is soft, but he’s finally returning Victor’s smile. “Pretty nervous.”

“I know,” Victor says. Yuuri raises his eyebrows, and Victor wonders if he left his brain in the Black Sea or something. He switches to Japanese, hastening to add, “I mean—you’re a great skater. I know you’ll make everyone proud.”

“How are you so bad at this?” Yuuri asks, also in Japanese, but he’s still smiling. “Didn’t you just spend all this time practicing how to be better with people?”

“That’s not all I practiced,” Victor says, confirming once and for all that he froze what common sense was left to him. He stares at Yuuri, who stares back at him, and then Victor covers his face with both hands as he feels himself turn crimson. Yuuri starts laughing, and the sound is intoxicating, sweet, like the bubbles in a glass of champagne.

“I can’t believe I was too nervous to even talk to you before,” Yuuri says. Victor recovers himself enough to drop his hands, and the part of him not busy being appalled notes that Yuuri looks more relaxed now, his face warmer, more open.

“Don’t tell anyone, you’ll ruin my reputation,” Victor says after a moment.

“I don’t have to, you’re doing just fine,” says Yuuri.

Victor grins. He’s about to say something else when an official pokes her head into the room to call for the first competitor. “Ah,” says Victor, “I have to go. But listen, Yuuri—“

He takes a deep breath. The words leave his mouth before he can stop them, rash and too honest. “Skate for me,” he says. “Seeing you skate was all I wanted when I was—when I was stuck. So please show me how beautiful you can be.”

He wants to take it back as soon as it’s out of his mouth, cursing his own clumsiness. But Yuuri’s eyes go wide, and he nods, determination coming into his face. “Watch me,” he says.

Victor smiles. “I will.”

It’s the first time in many years that Victor sits on the sidelines to watch the men’s Senior division performances—not since he was in the Junior division has he been a spectator here. It doesn’t hurt as badly as he would once have expected, but then, Victor has changed a lot since his last Grand Prix Final.

The performances are spectacular. Victor knows exactly how hard everyone worked to get here, and this time he can focus on his friends without being distracted by his own upcoming routine in the back of his mind. He cheers and waves and applauds as loud as anyone else in the room, heedless of the cameras that keep pointing at his face.

But when Yuuri comes out, the rest of the rink ceases to exist. Victor can only stare as the man who stole away his heart emerges onto the ice and transforms. Yuuri’s performance is not perfect—even as he finds himself captivated, Victor notes a few missteps and over-rotations—but some inner fire has lit up Yuuri’s skating until he is so brilliant Victor thinks he might go blind, making his errors seem insignificant, trivial.

How many years have I waited for this, Victor wonders. How many lifetimes?

When Yuuri finally slows to a halt, his arms folded over his chest, back arched like a bow, Victor can’t even move. He stands where he is, hands over his mouth, as the rink erupts in cheering around him. Yuuri holds his ending pose for a few moments, breathing hard, and then he twists around, searching for someone or something in the crowd. His eyes fall on Victor, and Victor’s heart leaps in his chest.

He kisses his folded hands and then blows across his palms towards Yuuri. Yuuri’s eyes go wide, and he breaks into the most gorgeous smile Victor’s ever seen in his life.

You were worth it, Victor thinks. Every minute of it.

Victor takes sixth place, of course. With no free program score to add to his (admittedly impressive) short program, he’s dead last.

Christophe wins gold—something he richly deserves, in Victor’s opinion—and JJ narrowly edges out Yuuri for the silver medal. Yuuri’s magnificent free program is enough to lift him from sixth place to third, despite his fumbles in his SP. Victor cheers louder than anyone else as the champions do their lap, applauding so hard his hands hurt. He corners Christophe and JJ backstage afterwards to congratulate them again—elbowing a few paparazzi out of the way in the process, albeit gently—but after that he makes a beeline for Yuuri.

Celestino is beaming and organizing the journalists and photographers who want pictures with Yuuri. Victor hangs back this time, because he’s not sure he can contain himself once he has Yuuri’s attention. It’s actually Celestino who spots Victor first, and he grins broadly. “Watch out, Victor!” he booms, smacking Victor on the back. “We’re going to beat you for real at Worlds!”

“I’m looking forward to it,” says Victor, but he only has eyes for Yuuri. Yuuri is staring back at him, still sweaty and red in the face, but his smile outshines the medal hanging around his neck. “Congratulations, Yuuri. That was amazing.”

“Thanks,” Yuuri says. Celestino says something else, but Victor doesn’t even register it. After a moment Yuuri’s coach pats him on the back and then turns away, leaving Victor and Yuuri alone for the moment.

“What are you doing tonight?” Victor asks. He steps a little closer, dropping his voice.

Yuuri shrugs, but he doesn’t take his eyes away from Victor’s face. “I don’t have any plans, yet,” he says.

“I was hoping you’d let me help you celebrate your victory,” says Victor.

Yuuri grins; Victor is temporarily distracted by the adorable way his nose crinkles when he smiles like that. “It’s a bronze medal, not Olympic gold,” he says. “B-But um, I’d like that.”

“Wonderful,” says Victor, and beams.

They get Italian—Yuuri’s pick. Later, Victor can’t recall a single thing they talked about at dinner, can’t recall what they ordered, or even what it tasted like. He assumes it was good—he’s eaten at that restaurant countless times, now—but the only thing he can concentrate on is Yuuri.

It doesn’t matter that he’s been on hundreds of first dates with Yuuri, that he knows Yuuri grew up idolizing him, that Victor has won gold at every single competition he’s been able to complete for the past five years and could have theoretically almost anyone he wants in his bed. What matters is the way Yuuri’s hair falls in his face when he tilts his head a certain way, the softness of his skin when Victor brushes his fingertips over the back of Yuuri’s hand. His smile, the sound of his laughter, the way he switches over to Japanese whenever he can’t find the right word in English.

“You can talk to me in Japanese, if you want,” Victor says at one point.

Yuuri hesitates, reddening a little. Victor seriously considers just shoving the table out of the way to get closer to him. “Your accent is still kind of bad,” Yuuri admits after a moment. “It can be hard to understand.” Victor’s jaw drops open. Yuuri starts to laugh, and then has to cover his mouth with both hands, eyes wide, embarrassed at his own reaction. “Sorry! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—“

“I had no idea Celestino taught his students such cruelty,” Victor says mournfully. “So mean, Yuuri.” Yuuri groans.

After dinner, Victor and Yuuri return to their hotel (going in the back way to avoid more photographers). Victor accompanies Yuuri into the elevator, and then pauses, glancing over at his date. “Do you want to come join me for a little while?” Victor asks. He’s unaccountably nervous.

Yuuri gives him a small, shy smile. “I’d like that,” he says, in Japanese. Victor stares at him, feeling the idiotic smile spreading across his face and unable to stop it. After a moment Yuuri reaches out and presses the button for Victor’s floor, raising an eyebrow at Victor as he does so, just this side of insolent.

Victor has no choice but to lean over and kiss the smirk right off his face. Yuuri groans into Victor’s mouth, and Victor’s heart stutters in his chest.

They get to Victor’s room. Maccachin—dropped back off at Victor’s room by the pet sitter while he was out—starts barking even before Victor’s finished swiping his card to let them in. Immediately, Victor panics. “Ah—I’m sorry, I should have remembered—I’ll call the pet sitter right away—“

“What? No, you don’t have to do that,” Yuuri says. He sounds startled. Victor is already walking across the room towards the hotel phone. He picks up the receiver and immediately drops it, wincing as it clatters on the ground. Victor bends to pick it up, but Yuuri beats him to it.

“Victor,” Yuuri says. “Victor, calm down.”

Victor blanches. He looks up at Yuuri, trying to summon a smile, to reassure himself as much as the other man. “Are you sure? I can call the pet sitter, it’s no problem.”

“I really don’t mind,” Yuuri says. His voice is very gentle. “He slept with me the last two nights, remember? Let’s just put him in the living room.”

“Okay,” says Victor weakly. He gets up to escort his dog into the living room, and takes a few moments to crouch and bury his face in Maccachin’s soft fur once they’re there. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and hugs his dog tight.

Yuuri is waiting for him on the couch when Victor returns, shutting the door gingerly behind him. Victor comes and sinks onto the cushions next to him, trying to master himself. Yuuri’s hand sneaks into his, and Victor startles a little.

“I thought I was supposed to be the nervous one,” Yuuri says in a low voice. He squeezes Victor’s hand, and Victor’s chest eases enough for him to squeeze back. “Is something wrong?”

Victor lets out a shaky breath. “No, nothing’s wrong,” he says. He lifts his eyes, staring at Yuuri’s face, and the kindness there makes something inside of him ache. “I just—“ Victor takes a deep breath. “If I screw things up with you tonight, I don’t get a do-over in the morning.”

Yuuri’s expression softens. “Well,” he says, “if it doesn’t go quite right, then… we’ll just have to do better next time.” He blushes as he says this, but he keeps hold of Victor’s hand and doesn’t drop his eyes.

Victor finds it suddenly difficult to breathe. “Okay,” he says with an effort, and smiles. When Yuuri leans in, Victor meets him there, kissing him slow and soft.

It takes him a few minutes longer to get past his nerves, but Yuuri is a wonderful distraction. Victor takes his time, slowly peeling Yuuri’s clothes off him and stopping in between items to kiss as much of the newly-exposed skin as Yuuri lets him get away with. They move to the bed, and soon Yuuri is squirming on the sheets beneath Victor as Victor licks and nips his way down Yuuri’s lean frame. He stops long enough to pay special attention to Yuuri’s nipples, teasing them between his lips until they harden into red little pebbles against his tongue. Yuuri’s tight, shaky little breaths go straight to Victor’s cock, the heat burning through much of his remaining nervousness.

“Agh, stop grabbing that!” Yuuri tries to shove Victor’s hands away from the scant remaining pudge he carries at his waist, a whine creeping into his voice. Victor smirks, grabbing Yuuri’s hands and pinning them at his sides as he straddles Yuuri’s hips. He bends down to capture Yuuri’s mouth in a long, heated kiss, and Yuuri moans, shuddering underneath him.

“You’re gorgeous,” Victor says. Gravel has crept into his voice, hoarse in his own ears; he watches the flush as it spreads from Yuuri’s cheeks down his throat, into his chest. “Every single part of you.”

Yuuri mutters something unintelligible in Japanese, but gives Victor a helpless sort of smile anyway. Victor bends down to return to kissing his chest, only to discover Yuuri’s leg shoving him back again. “Stop holding me down,” Yuuri says, though his voice is fond. “I want to touch you, too.”

Victor pouts melodramatically, lower lip stuck out like a child, until Yuuri starts laughing. Only then does Victor let go of his wrists, allowing Yuuri to roll him onto his side, Yuuri’s hands slipping to Victor’s stomach, under Victor’s shirt.

A few minutes later they’re both naked, Victor on his back with Yuuri on top of him. Victor couldn’t be more thrilled to see this boldness from Yuuri, especially considering how shy and withdrawn he so often was that first day together. Yuuri pushes Victor down on the bed, then crawls down his body, settling between his thighs. Victor props himself up on his elbows, spreading his legs apart a little to give Yuuri more room, groaning as Yuuri wraps a warm hand around Victor’s cock.

“Yuuuuri,” Victor sighs, hips lifting slightly. Yuuri peers up at him, messy hair falling in his face; he set his glasses aside at some point, and his eyes are huge and dark without them, too gorgeous to be legal.

Victor’s cock is hard, red, leaking a little pre-come from the tip. Yuuri strokes him lightly, and Victor shudders, his cock twitching against Yuuri’s palm. Yuuri leans forward, pulling Victor’s foreskin back and exhaling hot breath against sensitive skin, making him groan. That’s all the warning Victor gets before Yuuri wraps his lips around his cock head, suckling noisily.

“Ffggghhhh,” says Victor, hissing out a few choice curses. Yuuri shuts his eyes, and Victor has just enough brains left to notice the expression of bliss on Yuuri’s face as he slowly starts to take more of Victor into his mouth.

Victor would be able to guess, even if he didn’t know already, that Yuuri doesn’t have much experience at oral sex. He also could not possibly care less, because the clumsy way Yuuri blows him is so hot it melts what remaining braincells Victor has. It’s messy, Yuuri unable to keep from drooling on Victor and himself; he keeps going a little too deep and gagging around Victor’s prick, making his eyes water. Every time he makes that rough little noise, Victor wants to grab his head and fuck Yuuri’s face until he’s crying, until he’s hoarse from having Victor’s cock down his throat. Instead, Victor grabs the blanket and bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste copper.

Yuuri pulls off to take a breath, shoving his hair out of his face. “I used to daydream about doing this when I was jerking off,” he says.

Victor nearly chokes on his tongue. “Yuuri,” he groans, and gasps as Yuuri swallows him down again. “Stop, stop, stop—“

“Mmnnnph?” Yuuri manages to sound put out around a mouthful of cock, and Victor has to sit up, holding on to his self-control by the thinnest of threads.

“You can’t just say that and expect me to survive,” Victor says, strained. “Stop, please, I don’t want to come yet—“

Yuuri does pull off then; his expression is sulky and a little wicked, and it makes Victor weak. “But I want you to,” he says.

This boy is going to be the death of him. Victor will die happy, at least. “I want to, too,” he says after a moment. “But I was hoping to do it somewhere else.”

Yuuri stares at him for a moment, and then his eyes widen adorably. “Oh,” he says, and lets Victor drag him up his body for another searing kiss.

Turnabout is fair play, however, and soon Victor has Yuuri on his back, Yuuri’s legs draped over Victor’s shoulder as Victor buries his face between Yuuri’s thighs. He kisses his way down Yuuri’s beautiful legs, unable to keep from leaving a few bruising marks on those muscular thighs (and oh, the desperate little noises Yuuri makes as Victor sinks teeth into him are gorgeous). Then he licks a hot stripe from Yuuri’s hole up to the base of his cock, reveling in the shaky cry it earns him.

“Victor!”

“Just lay back,” Victor tells him, and leans down again, silencing further protests by pressing his mouth to Yuuri’s pucker. Yuuri whimpers and sobs, slipping into Japanese as Victor eats him open. Victor loves doing this, loves how messy and lewd it is, how it destroys Yuuri’s ability to talk; he can feel Yuuri’s thighs shaking against his hands where he’s pushed Yuuri’s legs open. He shuts his eyes, thrusting his tongue deeper into Yuuri’s ass, feeling spit drip down his chin, his jaw starting to ache as he coaxes Yuuri’s muscles into relaxing.

It’s the most satisfying feeling in the world when Yuuri’s hips lift and he chokes on a cry, an orgasm taking him hard and by surprise. Victor sits up, wiping his arm across his mouth and grinning wolfishly at Yuuri. Yuuri looks wrecked: mouth open, face and chest splotchy red, his eyes glassy, his beautiful cock leaking against his abdomen, his everything in sweaty disarray. Victor’s own cock twitches as he takes in the sight, and he can’t help but think how grateful he is that he can undo Yuuri the way that Yuuri undoes him just by existing.

“I’m going to brush my teeth, and get a washcloth,” Victor says, running his hands up Yuuri’s flanks, like soothing a startled horse. “Do you want a glass of water?”

Yuuri exhales hard. “Yes please,” he says; his voice is shaky. God, he’s so beautiful. Victor drops a kiss on Yuuri’s jaw, and vanishes into the bathroom briefly. When Victor returns, Yuuri has collected himself somewhat, enough to sit up and pull Victor in for a kiss.

“You have to skate tomorrow,” Victor murmurs, in between kisses. He sets the water glass on the bedside table, then crawls onto the bed next to Yuuri, willingly letting the other man draw him closer. Victor takes the washcloth and starts to clean Yuuri’s stomach and thighs. “Are you sure you’re okay to keep going?”

“Yes,” Yuuri says, firmly. “I want to. My exhibition skate’s not that difficult.”

Victor wants to argue with him more, wants to put Yuuri’s well-being first, but Yuuri cuts him off with another kiss, sliding his fingers through Victor’s hair. The sensuous press of his fingers sends a shiver down Victor’s spine, and with it goes the last of his objections. “Okay,” he breathes, and seals his mouth to Yuuri’s, kissing him hard.

He retrieves lube and condoms from the bedside table while Yuuri drinks his water, and they settle in again, Yuuri stretching out on his side with one leg propped up, Victor laying behind him. Victor nuzzles Yuuri’s neck and ear, whispering soft, stupid things into his ear as he slowly works Yuuri open.

“Touch yourself for me?” he wheedles. Yuuri is shy about some things, and Victor knows it, but he can’t resist asking. Yuuri mutters something deprecating in Japanese but obliges anyway, stroking himself and moaning as Victor grazes teeth along his neck. Victor takes his time, but Yuuri is already sensitive and looser from his first orgasm. Soon Victor has three fingers inside of Yuuri, twisting teasingly as he finds the bundle of nerves that make him gasp and tremble against Victor like a plucked string. He’s so, so beautiful, so captivating that Victor could look at him and nothing else for the rest of his life and be totally satisfied.

“Vic—tor—“ Yuuri’s breath hitches as Victor twists his fingers, and he whines, pushing back against Victor’s hand. “P-please, I’m ready—“

The please is like a match to gasoline. Victor’s breath leaves him in a whoosh, and he buries his face in Yuuri’s neck for a moment, trying to collect himself. “You’re too much,” he mumbles.

“Victor, please…”

“Alright, alright,” Victor says, because if Yuuri keeps begging him Victor will just keel over and die. He tilts Yuuri’s face towards him, kissing him thoroughly, and then pulls his fingers out. Victor helps Yuuri lay on his back, a pillow under his hips as Victor settles between his thighs, gently pushing Yuuri’s legs apart and back. Yuuri smiles up at him, and for a few seconds Victor is struck dumb, just staring.

“Victorrrrr…” Yuuri wiggles his hips, raising his eyebrows.

“S-Sorry!” Victor bends over Yuuri, stealing another kiss and stroking Yuuri’s cock a few times, making him gasp into Victor’s mouth. Then he slides the condom on with fingers that are just a little unsteady, and positions himself at Yuuri’s hole, pushing in slow and careful. Victor pays close attention to every shudder, every sharp gulp of breath that Yuuri makes, pausing several times to give Yuuri time to adjust.

Finally he’s all the way in. Yuuri is so hot and tight around him, he feels fucking amazing, but Victor is mesmerized by the expressions Yuuri makes, by the way pleasure looks on Yuuri’s beautiful face. “Yuuri,” he whispers, dazed. He leans down, brushing his lips against Yuuri’s, and Yuuri sighs into his mouth, wrapping his arms around Victor’s shoulders.

They start slow, Victor taking his time and using plenty of slick to make sure nothing hurts, that all Yuuri feels is pleasure. But soon they have a rhythm, and Yuuri is moaning into his ear, pressing fingertips harder into Victor’s back and shoulders, and Victor loses track of everything that isn’t his lover. Outside the world could drown in icy winter again for all Victor knows; this could be their first time or their thousandth time together, and he wouldn’t be any less drunk, any less in love.

But Yuuri, Victor knows from experience, has much more stamina than Victor does, and would have the advantage even if he didn’t make Victor so weak to start with—to say nothing of already being one climax up. Victor finds himself braced on his forearms, Yuuri bent in two as Victor fucks him steadily into the bed. By now Yuuri is gasping and sobbing into Victor’s ear, clinging to him in desperation; Victor can feel the sting of nails on his back and feels a flash of lust and delight at knowing he’ll have marks there later.

“Yuuri,” Victor pants. “Ah—I’m—I’m close—“ He groans, pressing his face into Yuuri’s neck, resting for just a moment in order to reach down and grab himself at the base of his prick, his cock throbbing painfully in protest. He’s going to lose it soon, no matter what he does, but he’s determined to see Yuuri come again before he lets himself go.

Yuuri grabs his face, kissing him hard, and there’s more teeth now than before, Yuuri’s desperation feeding Victor’s own. Victor lets go of his own cock and palms Yuuri’s instead, earning a gasp as Yuuri’s hips jerk against him. “You’re so beautiful,” Victor murmurs, in Japanese. Yuuri’s eyelids flutter, his mouth hanging open as he pants.

Victor starts to thrust again, bracing on just one hand now. Yuuri moans and writhes beneath him on the bed as Victor strokes him in time with his thrusts, and Victor watches as Yuuri comes apart, his second orgasm finally crashing over him—his whole body tenses, mouth falling open as he gasps for air, clenching hard around Victor’s cock as he spurts across his stomach. The sight by itself is enough to destroy the fragments of Victor’s self-control, and he thrusts hard into Yuuri, eliciting a wrecked cry. Victor comes perhaps thirty seconds later, face buried in Yuuri’s chest and his cock in Yuuri’s ass, blacking out his sight.

They lay for a few minutes together, until Victor realizes he’s probably crushing his partner and wiggles off him to lay alongside him instead. He manages to tie off the condom and toss it in the bin, and then drags himself off the bed to go get another washcloth.

When he gets back, Yuuri stirs slightly, blinking up at him with a sweet, contented expression that does awful things to Victor’s lovesick heart. “That was amazing,” Yuuri says, and stretches.

Victor grins, sitting next to him on the bed and setting about cleaning Yuuri up, keeping his touch soothing and gentle. “You’re amazing,” Victor says.

Yuuri laughs. “I think I get to be the one saying that,” he says. “All I ever wanted was to skate on the same ice as you, and somehow I ended up with you as my first time.”

Victor’s hand stills where he’s still cleaning Yuuri’s hip. He looks up at Yuuri, his stomach doing a scary little backflip. Yuuri blinks at him, sensing a change. “What?”

“That was your first time?” It comes out almost squeaky, which would be embarrassing if Victor wasn’t so busy being flabbergasted. “Yuuri! Your first time?”

“Well—!” Yuuri flushes. “I-I mean, I’ve messed around a little bit before, b-but that was my first time doing—that. All the way.” Victor buries his face in his hands. “Victor, what’s wrong?”

“You never told me that!” Victor doesn’t know whether to cheer or laugh or cry. All this time, so many days of coaxing Yuuri into his bed, now Yuuri is finally here for real, and Victor had no idea. “Yuuuuriiiii….!”

“Don’t tell me you regret it.” The anxiety in Yuuri’s voice brings Victor up sharp. He sits up, reaching for Yuuri and hugging him close.

“Never,” he breathes. “I just—I would have been more careful—“

“Stop that,” Yuuri cuts in. He cups Victor’s face in both hands, Victor left staring helplessly back at him. “I loved it. It was perfect. It was exactly what I wanted.”

Victor lets out a shaky breath, and then smiles; Yuuri smiles back, and it’s enough. More than enough—it’s everything. Victor kisses him softly. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay.”

Yuuri stays the night. Victor wakes up several times, and each time there’s a moment of panic and resignation, expecting to find a snowstorm raging outside and his bed empty save for his dog. The sight of Yuuri’s peaceful, sleeping face is sweet relief every time. Victor wraps around Yuuri, inhaling the smell of his hair and skin, quietly reveling in the ache it causes in his chest.

He didn’t have the nerve to ask if he could be Yuuri’s coach before they went to sleep. He wants it desperately—could think of nothing else since Yuuri suggested coaching as a vocation, actually—but after watching how beautifully Yuuri skated during his free program, Victor is reluctant to try to steer him down a different path. He contemplates offering to go to Hasetsu, so that Yuuri wouldn’t have to change so much, but the idea of abandoning Yuri Plisetsky and his other obligations turns his stomach.

What Victor wants, more than anything, is to be allowed to watch over Yuuri, to take care of him and guide him and help him blossom into everything he wants to be, but he doesn’t know if that desire is reasonable, or just selfish.

And the very last thing Victor wants is to be selfish. He can’t go back to that life—and especially not where Yuuri is concerned. At least Yuuri is here, in his arms, he thinks to himself; he can have this much, can ask Yuuri to let Victor love him this way. It might be hard, especially if Yuuri trains elsewhere, but it’s a thousand times better than nothing.

Despite Victor’s best efforts, the next day goes by in a blur.

He wants to spend every waking minute with Yuuri, of course, but there’s too much to do. Victor may not have completed the free skate portion of the GPF, but he’s still a skating celebrity, and still plans to compete in the rest of the season, so there are interviews to do—both him and the other skaters. Victor resigns himself to being shepherded around by Yakov, and to smiling and posing graciously for everyone who wants a photo or a moment of his time.

He gets just a brief respite before the exhibition skate and the other fanfare following the end of the GPF, and he spends it by stealing Yuuri to go walking with him and Maccachin along Sochi’s beach. It’s fairly empty today, despite the improved weather, for which Victor is grateful. Other people being present wouldn’t stop him from taking Yuuri’s hand, but he’s still reluctant to push Yuuri much—though he’s running out of time to ask.

Victor declines to participate in the exhibition skate, despite a surprising number of people who pressure him to do so. Yuuri and Yakov are both vocally supportive of him refraining, for which Victor is grateful. “You have to be fully healed for Worlds,” Yakov says, expression dark as a mountain troll. “No need for showing off when you didn’t even earn a medal.”

“You’re still recovering,” Yuuri tells him. They’re backstage before the exhibition, just briefly, because Victor is at loose ends and dislikes being in the audience when all he can do is wait.

Yuuri touches Victor’s arm gently, and Victor sort of forgets to pay attention to the topic at hand because he’s busy being distracted by Yuuri’s face. When will I see you again after tonight, Victor wonders.

Yuuri asks him something, and Victor startles guiltily. “Victor? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” he says, and reaches for Yuuri’s hand. Yuuri’s expression softens a little, and he laces their fingers together. “I’ll see you after the exhibition, okay?”

“Please watch me,” Yuuri says. His cheeks pinken, but his voice doesn’t shake and he holds Victor’s gaze steadily.

“I will,” says Victor. “I can’t wait to see you skate again.” He does not add that it’s the only thing he wants to do. Not in front of their coaches.

The exhibition, like the final free skates, is magnificent. Victor watches everyone perform and thinks about how long he spent wanting more than anything else in the world to be the man all eyes were on, down in the spotlights. He wonders whether that feeling had already started to wane by the time he got sucked into the blizzard, or if he only realized it when forced to confront himself. Either way, he finds he’s not particularly sad to have lost that drive, the need to be the best.

Yuuri, though—Yuuri manages to be even more radiant than he was during his free skate. Victor thinks he can tell a few times that Yuuri is sore in places that are Victor’s fault, but as Yuuri said, his exhibition program isn’t nearly as technical as his competitive skating, and he doesn’t over-rotate or miss a single step. The insecurity Victor knows all too well is totally absent, leaving only a magnetism that’s apparent in every single jump, every flip and spin, every aching glance he throws over his shoulder.

He’s perfect, and beautiful, and so talented. He has areas to improve in, but—but he doesn’t need Victor to do it. Victor claps hard, cheering as loud as anyone else, and if his eyes are too bright, at least no one is looking at him right now to see.

The banquet is … frustrating, until it’s not.

It’s incredibly crowded in the banquet hall. All the professional skaters are here, obviously, as well as their coaches and family and loved ones, and in addition there’s a panoply of judges, important personages who scored VIP passes to the banquet, and other people that Victor strongly suspects did something like hide in the bathroom and then sneak past security. (At least those people are fun to talk to.)

What this means for Victor is that although he tries his damnedest to stay with Yuuri, to give Yuuri all of his attention, they keep getting separated. Rival skaters, rival coaches, ISU judges, members of the press, even his own rink-mates keep interrupting them. And if they aren’t there to talk to Victor, they’re there to steal Yuuri’s attention, which Victor actually finds worse. He can’t blame anyone who finds Yuuri compelling, but the jealousy that twists through his stomach like a cramp every time someone comes over to Yuuri and presses a drink into his hands in congratulations makes Victor feel a little like he’s losing his mind.

Victor knows that’s the whole point of the banquet, to mingle and have a good time, but what little pleasure he’s taken in the event in years past is currently gone. His only comfort is that each time he manages to excuse himself and slip off in the crowd to find Yuuri, Yuuri looks as relieved to see Victor show up as Victor is to find him.

He’s is in the middle of telling Yuuri a story from when Maccachin was just a puppy, involving the destruction of one of Yakov’s most expensive pairs of shoes, when he gets accosted by one of the ISU officials. The man is vaguely familiar, and more than a little insistent, wanting to know how Victor is feeling now that he’s a few days out of the hospital.

“Well,” Victor says, trying valiantly to find a few scraps of patience. “I’m taking it slow, on my doctor’s and coach’s orders, but I really feel very good. I’m hoping to have no trouble returning to skating practice—“

“Do you think you’re going to be able to continue to recover from this kind of thing at your age?” asks the official, very earnestly. Victor thinks he can detect the faint but unmistakable smell of whiskey on the man’s breath, and he sighs inwardly. Oh boy, this should be fun.

“I feel good,” he repeats. “I can only do my best, and I’m honored to continue to be able to participate at this level of the sport.”

The official starts to drone on then, about all of Victor’s many accomplishments, and try as he might Victor can feel himself starting to zone out. He just can’t bear this much attention on his past accomplishments right now, not when he feels so disconnected from it, when he wants so badly to be able to head in a new direction.

He glances automatically to the side, instinctively looking for Yuuri, but Yuuri isn’t there. Victor keeps turning, twisting around until he catches sight of Yuuri on the other side of the room, with Christophe. He’s laughing at something Christophe has said, another glass of champagne in hand, body language looser and more relaxed than Victor has seen him almost all night.

And he’s not even looking at Victor. Victor’s heart sinks, dropping down into his shoes; for a few moments his chest hurts too badly to even draw breath.

He masters himself with an effort, turning back to the man he was so rudely ignoring—and nearly drops his glass at the sight of the black-haired woman standing in front of him, arms crossed. “о боже,” Victor blurts, before he can stop himself.

“I didn’t take you for this much of a fool,” says the witch. “Have you really come so far and learned nothing?” Narrowing her eyes, she raises a finger, and the sounds of the room around them fade, like volume being turned down. She’s clad in something the Romanovs would have been glad to wear, more elegant and fine than any dress Victor’s ever seen. Her hair is swept back from her face and pinned in an intricate pile atop her head with silver sticks; jeweled rings adorn her fingers. She’s speaking Russian, or—or maybe she’s not speaking at all, he really has no way of knowing.

Victor swallows hard. He doesn’t bother to ask what she means. “I don’t want him to change his whole life just for me,” he says. “I can’t do that to him, he—he deserves better.”

“Have you asked him what he wants?” The witch raises her eyebrows. Her expression is calm, almost serene, but there’s a sharpness beneath that puts Victor in mind of midwinter cold, of sharp knives and black grudges. He has to try not to shiver, or look away; he doesn’t want to be disrespectful.

“I haven’t,” Victor admits after a moment. “I…”

“This is the last lesson I will give you, Victor Nikiforov, so listen closely,” says the witch. Her eyes glitter darkly. “It is just as selfish and blind to assume you know what’s best for others as it is to focus only on your own wants.”

Victor stares at her, stricken. The witch stares back, her expression unreadable. Then she smiles, ever so faintly, and puts her finger by her nose. She gives Victor a wink—and the sound all comes back at once, almost deafening after the quiet. Victor startles despite himself, wincing, and when he looks up, she’s gone.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out. The ISU official is staring at him expectantly, having clearly asked Victor a question, although Victor hasn’t the foggiest idea what it was. “I’m so sorry,” Victor says. “But I really have to go. If you’ll excuse me.” Without waiting for an answer, he turns and makes his way through the crowd, his heart in his throat.

Christophe is up ahead, but Yuuri is no longer there. Victor glances around, the stupid but still frantic idea occurring to him that maybe Yuuri has decided to leave the banquet early—that maybe he’s already gone—

“Victor!”

Victor turns at the sound of his name and sees Yuuri has come up behind him. “Yuuri,” he breathes, his chest easing; he takes in the sight of his lover, Yuuri’s eyes too bright, face flushed in such a way that puts Victor in mind of things not safe for public eyes. “Yuuri, I need to ask you—“

“—I have something to tell you,” Yuuri blurts, at the same time, and then stops. Victor’s eyes widen.

“You go first,” he says, after a moment. Yuuri blanches a little bit, somehow unsteady on his feet, but when Victor reaches out to take his hand, he calms a little bit. Yuuri looks down at their joined hands, then back up at Victor, and the softness in his face is worth a thousand years of waiting.

Yuuri takes a deep breath. “Please be my coach,” he says, too quickly. “I—If you decide to coach, then—“

“Please come to St. Petersburg,” Victor says. He stumbles over his words, suddenly finding that his hands are trembling. “That’s what I wanted to ask you. Please—come train with me. I can’t leave Russia right away, I have responsibilities to see to, but I, I want that too, Yuuri.”

Yuuri’s eyes go wide, his whole face lighting up. “Really?”

“Really,” says Victor, and gasps as he finds himself with his arms full of a laughing Japanese boy, Yuuri throwing his arms around Victor’s neck to hug him tight. “Yuuri!”

“Dance with me, Victor!” Yuuri cries, in Japanese. That’s when Victor realizes Yuuri is kind of drunk.

“Okay, Yuuri,” he says, grinning. People are staring, and Victor—

Victor doesn’t care. “Let’s dance,” he says, and lets Yuuri drag him towards where Christophe is waiting at the other end of the room with a wicked look on his face.

If you were looking for a way to take people’s attention off your trip to the hospital, you succeeded, says the text from Christophe. Victor smiles, and types back. It takes a minute, because he’s typing one-handed.

It just kind of happened, he types, and hits enter.

No kidding, comes the response, almost immediately. Also, congrats, I think. I’m kind of surprised, though. Since when are you so into that Katsuki kid? Is he okay?

Victor glances over at the figure wrapped around him in bed, Yuuri’s face shoved into Victor’s armpit, his expression blissfully serene. He’s drooling on Victor a little bit. Okay, more than a little. He’ll have a headache when he wakes up, certainly, but Victor’s going to let him sleep as long as he wants to.

He’s fine, Victor sends. We’re both fine.

Somewhere in the woods, a bird cries.

Victor slows, glancing around. “Maccachin!” he calls. His dog comes bounding back to him from where he’d disappeared into the underbrush, bouncing on his paws as though he were a dog of two years, instead of twelve. “Hey there,” says Victor softly, crouching to scratch his dog’s ears. “We’re almost there, so stay close, okay?”

He doesn’t have a particular place in mind, exactly, but he is here on a specific errand. He’ll know what he’s looking for when he sees it, he hopes.

And it was quite the trip to get here. He’s a two-hour drive outside St. Petersburg to get to a nature reserve, and he’s been walking for close to forty minutes already. Victor wants to get as deep into the wilderness as possible, where no one will disturb him, or what he’s here to do. The reserve is verdant with spring’s fresh growth, winter—the longest winter of his life—finally receding as the summer approaches, and it has been no hardship to go hiking out here. But Victor is careful not to leave the path, half-eroded as it is.

Victor walks a bit further down the half-there dirt trail before he turns a corner and stops. Ahead of him is a small clearing in the woods, with soft green grasses and a sweet expanse of white flowers surrounding the base of a very old tree. It would take three grown men linking their arms to encircle the goliath’s mossy trunk; Victor thinks it must have been here for centuries, at least.

He lets out a slow breath, and then crouches, reaching into the bag slung over his shoulder to retrieve the items he’s brought with him, adding them to what he carried in his arms. Victor arranges them one by one at the base of the tree, pleasantly distracted by the scent of the flowers. They’re so inviting, the wind a soft voice in the tree branches that whispers how easy it would be to lie down here, how pleasant to nap in the quiet woods.

Victor knows better, now.

Finally, he’s done. He sits back, examining his arrangement. In the middle is a gold medal, his most recent win at the Worlds championship. Next to it is a framed picture of himself with Yuuri, one they took at Yuuri’s family’s onsen back in Japan. Victor looks happier in that picture than in almost any other one ever taken of him in his life; he and Yuuri have their arms around each other, and Yuuri is wearing one of Victor’s sweatshirts. Yuuri is smiling, leaning into Victor, and he’s wearing a silver medal from Japanese Nationals around his neck.

The next item is a metal flask, one that’s been in Victor’s family for a long time, full of high-quality vodka. The last is a bouquet of flowers: bluebells, hydrangeas, and irises, with a silk yellow ribbon wrapped around the stalks. Victor crouches in front of his pile of gifts for a moment, quietly contemplating the scene. Then he stands up.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. There is no answer from the woods, no voice in the wind, but Victor doesn’t mind.

He gets up, straightening his jacket. “Maccachin!” he calls. “Time to head back!” His dog comes bounding out of the woods towards him again, answering his call with a happy bark. Victor grins down at him. “We have to get to the airport to meet Yuuri,” he says, scratching Maccachin’s head. “He’ll be so happy to see you.” Maccachin barks.

As he turns back down the path, Victor starts to hum. Maccachin runs along beside him, bounding back and forth across the path, chasing the scents of animals and who knows what else. Victor lifts his head, glancing at the sky; it’s almost noon, and Yuuri lands in St. Petersburg at three. He smiles to himself. Plenty of time to get back, and at least a week to show Yuuri around the city, get him moved into their apartment and settled in before training officially starts.

Victor knows, now, how precious each day is. He won’t waste any more.