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It is perhaps fate that Yuuri first set eyes on Victor at his first Grand Prix Final. Their assignments had just never lined up beforehand, and though Yuuri supposes he could have shelled out some money to go see a performance live, a superstitious part of himself wanted to first meet his idol as a genuine competitor.
To see the man in the flesh for the first time was a bit surreal. Like a dream. In the hotel lobby in Sochi, tired and restless and sweaty after fourteen hours in economy class, Yuuri’s heart had suddenly started hammering. He’d turned to parse his surroundings and there Victor had been, more than a dozen yards away, waiting for the elevator with Plisetsky and Popovich.
Yuuri had felt breathless.
There it all was: the tall, slender figure, the glossy hair, the mannerisms so lovingly memorized after a decade of adoration. For the first time in his life, Yuuri was not separated by a screen from Victor’s humanity. He could just make out the rise and fall of chest as he breathed, make out the space he occupied within that group, see that Victor was real, solid, and alive. And though Victor never even turned his way, Yuuri knew that something had changed.
Victor may have swiftly been carted off by the elevator, but Yuuri then saw him again and again. Where there had been nothing, there was now something: the awareness of Victor as a fellow human.
The first evening, when Instagram had notified him of Mila posting a selfie with Victor, he’d opened and liked it with the knowledge that he’d himself been down in the hotel restaurant and witnessed it getting taken.
The first morning, when Yuuri had just returned from his breakfast and was in the process of opening his door, at the end of the hallway, Victor’s own door swung open and the man himself ambled out in full training gear. Though Yuuri escaped into his room with the speed of light, he now knew what Victor looked like first thing in the morning, even if only from afar.
The first practice, Victor was cheerful when entering the changing rooms. Yuuri looked into his eyes for the first time, ever. He turned away, though, when Victor then immediately proceeded to shuck down his trousers. But Victor was real, real, real . It was the laughter of a man that rang out after Christophe had told a joke, and it was a man’s heat that radiated towards Yuuri as Victor passed by him on the way to the washroom. Muscles rippled under his skin, freckles dotted his shoulders and a light stubble tinted Victor’s chin faintly purple. He smelled of aftershave and sweat. This was now something Yuuri knew . Victor was real, this was real. He’d finally skate on the same ice as Victor.
In the end, though, the shining beacon of Victor was eclipsed by Vicchan’s death and Yuuri spiraled.
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A teenaged Yuuri would laugh in his current self’s face if he was ever told that Victor Nikiforov, idol of over a decade, would go on to become his husband and coach.
Saint Petersburg: a bustling city on the bank of the Neva, where Yuuri and Victor now share each other’s space. The hazy dream of the celebrity has long since collapsed, but Victor doesn’t seem less . Yuuri has seen him up close a million times, seen the pores of his nose, smelled his sweat after forgetting to put on deodorant before heading out for groceries, wiped away the blood bubbling up when Victor distractedly cut himself while shaving. He’s heard Victor snore after a drunken night out and belch after dinner and has caught him red-handed, frantically trying to unclog the toilet; and he’d also seen him cry of joy, seen him silently hug Makkachin for hours on end, seen him fall asleep on the couch, book in hand.
Victor is startlingly real, and it is better than anything Yuuri could possibly have imagined.
Victor is also retired, now. He’d made his comeback, just for one last hurrah, then, with a Worlds’ silver on his chest, had returned to coaching. Yuuri is still in the game. Ballet practice with Lilia, tonight. Overtime work. It is the twilight of his competitive years, he is preparing his swan song for real this time. But the day is nearing its end, too, and he is now taking the steps two at a time so as to get home just that tiny bit faster.
The lights are off in the apartment. It truly is late. Victor sleeps early. His formerly erratic sleeping schedule has normalized itself. They still hang out late at night, sometimes, and go clubbing on occasion, but two decades of early mornings have belatedly set Victor’s wake-up time in stone and he’s just a bit too comfortable now to nap around at random, and a bit too old to forego sleep without complaint. By ten, he is rarely awake. Yuuri makes sure to be quiet.
There is a late-night snack waiting for him on the kitchen counter. Pumpernickel crackers, peanut butter, sliced banana, cinnamon. Protein, fat, fiber. Yuuri wolfs it down. He puts the kettle on to boil, too.
There isn’t really that much left for him to do. He’d taken a shower right after ballet, so once the tea is ready, he just ambles around the apartment, warming his chilled hands on the mug. In the half-light, he can just make out the book abandoned on the sofa and the chew toys littered around on the carpet: the subtle signs of life that the place would feel empty without, now that Yuuri lives here and it’s not merely a bunch of photographs in Architectural Digest.
He loves this place.
Slowly, it has become something akin to a home.
He sips his tea, enjoying the notes of mint in the herbal medley they’ve come to enjoy at bedtime.
A kind of peace has settled over him. Sleepy, slow, oozing like honey. Comfort. He could potentially fire up the PlayStation and see if somebody’s still awake, but the thought of sleep entices him. He could easily drift off tonight without first exhausting himself shooting at zombies.
Tea finished, he brushes his teeth and strips down to his boxers: he’s taken on this habit of Victor’s, sleeping so scantily clad.
His husband is sprawled out on the right side of the bed, covers almost entirely kicked off. Just a little corner of their blanket is thrown over his thighs, and Victor is curled into Makkachin, snoring softly, hands clutching the soft fur. The full moon illuminates the pair. Yuuri sits and watches them, just a little bit, etching the scene into his memory. Makka is old now, older than most dogs live to be, and he knows Victor tries to savor every moment he has left together with his faithful companion.
Almost unconsciously, Yuuri reaches out to stroke Victor’s side. Victor shudders, mumbling something and hugging Makkachin tighter to himself. Yuuri smiles. He lays down behind his husband, strokes his hand along his side again and, this time sensing the heat, Victor snuggles back against him, pulling Makkachin along. There is even less need for the covers now: Victor is comfortably sandwiched between two heat sources, and he hums in contentment.
Yuuri hugs his husband tight, arm curling across his waist and hand coming to rest against the flat planes of his stomach. Victor shudders and wiggles up against Yuuri. Were Makkachin not in their company, Yuuri might consider waking his husband while letting his hand trail even lower; but today, it is enough to have him in his embrace, have their bodies lined up against each other from head to foot.
Yuuri knows that he is far more physically affectionate than most Japanese people. Victor is a good fit for him, in this regard, and in many more. If Phichit helped him get used to casual hugs and foolish selfies, Victor has turned him into a master of sneaking a kiss rinkside or touching their hands together as they skate past. He knows how to embrace Victor, and he knows how to be embraced, how to mold their bodies together for optimal comfort in whatever situation imaginable: couch, airplane seat, corner sofa at a nightclub.
They fit: the embrace is natural, comfortable. They can sleep the entire night through, curled together this way.
Yuuri noses Victor’s hair, breathing in the scent of his shampoo. The silky strands tickle his nose. He places a kiss against them.
Victor’s sleeping body, it’s slow, measured breathing, the heat it radiates: it holds no more secrets from Yuuri. He finds Victor beautiful, now more so than ever before. The thinning hair, the freckles, the crinkles in the corners of his eyes when he laughs. Him, as a person. As a skater, but also simply as a man, as his husband. He is so strong, and yet so fragile in Yuuri’s arms.
Somewhere, off in the distance, a church bell strikes eleven. Yuuri is warm now. He cradles Victor even closer against himself, as if they could become one. He once swore to have Victor and to hold him, and Victor swore the same. They will carry each other in the palm of their hands until the day they die. It is a responsibility Yuuri welcomes: not one he is certain he can live up to, but that he is fully prepared to accept. He just hopes that he will get to stay by Victor’s side for years and years to come, until they are both weary with age and only their eyes seek each other, still young.
He is drifting off to sleep. His breathing evens out. The thoughts scatter. Warmth. He is home.
His final perception is of one of Victor’s hands taking his own, the one around his waist. Their fingers lock together. Their thumbs caress. Makkachin shuffles; their hands go back around the dog’s body, this time together, to hug her close.
Yuuri sleeps.