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Victor knows his competition. He wouldn’t be where he is without it. For a top athlete, it is of the utmost importance to possess the ability to assess the strengths and weaknesses not only of himself, but also of all the other skaters vying for gold. He must make himself continuously aware of which artistic references have been exhausted, which concepts are up for the taking, which records need to be shattered, which conventions are simply begging to be subverted; and above all, he needs to be ahead of all of them, the brightest star shining spectacular and inimitable.
As such, he knows Katsuki.
Or rather, he knows the athlete Katsuki.
Katsuki carries within himself the potential to give Victor some serious trouble, but he never quite seems to blossom.
At times, he has this look about him, usually at regional qualifiers or lesser championships, where he appears to almost be a prince at the beginning of his quest. He is young and strong and smart and brave and cunning, and he has risen to all the initial challenges the fairytale has presented him with. Adorning him is a shining coat of armor and his glimmering sword, and the benevolence of some supernatural being or another guides him through the labyrinths of the story. But he has yet to attain the ultimate prize. His eyes are still fixated on the princess, his arms are still quivering to slay the dragon. Here, Katsuki dazzles: for all his flaws, the full range of his potential is on display. He jumps powerfully, though his landings can be unsteady and he occasionally bails. He spins on rhythm, in positions brimming with delicate grace yet at speeds belying unmistakable masculine power.
And his step sequences, oh, his step sequences! If figure skating consisted only of step sequences, Victor’s neck would surely only ever be looped with silver. Even where the choreography is uninspired and the music is lackluster, Yuuri’s body sings and the movements it generates electrify the arena.
Then, there are the other times. The other face of the athlete Katsuki.
Victor supposes it to be a case of nerves. It is a common affliction among skaters, and to Katsuki’s misfortune, he appears most plagued by the disease when the stakes are highest. His step sequences still mesmerize, but the cracks reveal themselves all too early in the illusion. The prince’s armor splinters and his sword breaks in half despite his quest having only just begun.
Such is the case now, too, in Sochi. Victor regrets it. One can have too much even of a good thing. It is almost always himself who wins gold; and when and when he doesn’t, it is not because of a stellar performance from someone else but because Victor himself falls short in some regard. Whether it was due to a barely-healed spine fracture limiting his movements or an ankle sprained mid-competition when botching a new jump, his missed opportunities for gold have never actually been the result of a competitor rising so far beyond his usual abilities that Victor is forcibly knocked off his pedestal.
Katsuki has the potential to dethrone him. Giacometti has it too, as did Bin, as did Meyer. But they never actually beat him. Who is now left to challenge Victor? Who is to push him to new horizons? Will he really age out of this sport without a good fight? Is there really not going to be anyone to put him in his place, to really make him struggle for victory?
Victor may know the athlete Katsuki, but he doesn’t know Katsuki, the man .
At least, not until that man tosses back sixteen glasses of champagne at the Grand Prix Final banquet and challenges Yuri Plisetsky to a dance-off, which really, Plisetsky probably did something to prompt. The kid can be just awful. And to Victor’s immense delight, the competition ends with the young Russian hurling obscenities without regard for the presence of his sponsors.
(And what luck Yuri is so brilliant! What could otherwise have tanked his career appears to make the businessmen chuckle.)
And Victor has himself had a few drinks to alleviate his boredom and loosen up, and, well, who is he to stop himself from getting excited at such a splendid diversion? He dances alongside Katsuki, then with him, then gets treated to the sight of this handsome man spinning scantily clad on a stripper pole, and through all of this, Katsuki turns into Yuuri, Yuuri whose name is so soft upon Victor’s tongue.
Whose tongue is later so firm upon Victor’s tongue.
Normally, Victor is not a particular fan of getting romantically involved with his colleagues, what with all the potential for scandal and the general unpleasantness likely to result in eventually breaking up; nevertheless, he can’t help the surge of arousal deep in the pit of his stomach. He used to be way worse at this thing when he was younger and less well-known, prone to hooking up with strangers without even exchanging names. That, too, has soured into boredom by now.
But Victor once again feels that tingling tonight, that itch to engage in nonsense he will regret the following day. These dreary days are finally lit up by a fickle ray of sunshine. Victor figures: if for once after so long he feels genuinely happy , he really should ride it out till the very end. Heaven knows when the next opportunity will come. Yuuri is handsome and delightful and fun and will likely toss Victor to the side once he gets bored of him, but Victor is drunk and really, why did this sort of thing ever feel like a bad idea in the first place?
Then Yuuri is suddenly back in Victor’s arms. He smells of sweat, not unpleasant but primal, fuelling the sexual haze of the moment. His forehead is beaded with sweat. He has that ugly tie of his looped around his head and his sweat- and champagne-soaked shirt is back on for now. He’s just challenged some pair skater - Victor can’t be arsed to remember who - to another dance battle but it is to Victor he has pasted himself. His lips are dewy with the champagne he has just chugged more of.
His arms lock together behind Victor. Their bodies press together, sweaty fabric against sweaty fabric. Victor can feel every detail of Yuuri’s body against his; the slim but toned muscles of his chest ripple against Victor’s own and their sweat mingles together. And oh, Victor is not alone in his lust - pressed against his thigh is Yuuri’s clearly half-hard cock. Yuuri grinds against him and every movement the two of them make is effortlessly synchronous.
Victor wants to go down on his knees right there.
But before he can make a scandal, Yuuri decides on one final plot twist to the evening: he begs Victor to become his coach.
The room abruptly goes quiet. Or maybe Victor has gone deaf. But no, the room also seems to empty out, and there is nobody else there except for Yuuri and himself, Yuuri and his offer.
He had almost forgotten in the haze of this evening: Katsuki the athlete and Yuuri the man really are one and the same. The athlete, given the coaching he deserves, might just finally give Victor a run for his money. And the man… the man is gorgeous, he lights up the room with his presence. He has already shattered Victor and rebuilt him, newer, better, livelier.
Victor blushes.
It is almost natural that they don’t part ways at the end of the festivities. It is all too clear that they are into each other: Mila catcalls them and Chris slips a strip of condoms into Victor’s pocket the first chance he gets after his defeat at pole-dancing. Without words, Victor and Yuuri decide to take their party private. Stumbling and kissing all the way, they end up in Yuuri’s room.
“ I can’t believe this,” Yuuri keeps repeating. “I can’t believe this.” Victor isn’t quite sure what Yuuri is referring to; but he can’t particularly focus on that. He feels as though the fog has finally lifted and he’s swimming in scented honey, pleasantly dazed at unexpectedly having stumbled upon paradise.
In the room, without hesitation, Yuuri begins to undress Victor. He may be confused, but he is enthusiastic. The clothes are getting torn off, and Victor can’t seem to give a damn about the expensive fabric. Yuuri is breathing heavy, fingers flying as though he were about to die and wanting to catch a glimpse of Victor’s skin before the lights go out forever. When Victor is finally naked, still leaning against the door, Yuuri freezes. He seems surprised. He is simply staring at Victor, almost confused at his presence. Victor reaches out a hand towards him and the confusion does not disappear from Yuuri’s eyes but he approaches willingly. Victor kisses him, deep, and Yuuri revives, tongue returning to plunge deep into Victor’s mouth.
His hands become grabby again. They’re sweaty and firm and determined, and they wander the expanses of Victor’s skin. Then they settle on his ass. They knead and grab and then a finger finds its way to rub against his hole.
“Are you going to fuck me?” Victor asks.
“Obviously,” says Yuuri.
It shouldn’t make Victor so hot, that Yuuri has simply decided this for him. But it does, and Victor encourages Yuuri with a groan. Yuuri brings two of his fingers up to his lips, covers them in spit, then returns them back to Victor’s ass where they both press in.
The angle is all wrong and it’s not very slippery without proper lube. But Victor can’t seem to care. His brain is too addled. His cock is rubbing up against Yuuri’s toned stomach and this beautiful man is kissing him, kissing him so deep while fingering him in preparation for his cock.
Yuuri breaks apart from their kiss. He swings Victor around to face the door. There is a kiss at the nape of Victor’s neck. Then another, and another, engraving Yuuri’s want into each vertebra of his spine. And when there is nowhere else to go, Yuuri’s lips seal on his hole. They kiss and lick and his tongue plunges inside and it makes Victor feel raw and exposed in a way that’s not the least bit unwelcome.
When after a near-eternity Yuuri’s mouth disappears, Victor glances around in a daze; Yuuri is ruffling through a sports bag that appears to have spontaneously exploded its contents upon the carpet. When he finally locates a tube of lube, he flashes a lopsided grin at Victor. Then Yuuri is eating him out again, this time with lube-coated fingers pressing deep inside. There’s nothing fancy about it, no particular technique. Yuuri is a bit rough, a bit overly to-the-point with his ministrations in a way Victor has by now come to recognize as inexperience in his partners. The fingers mostly miss his prostate; to be quite fair, Victor is actually glad for it because he fears he’d come all too soon if given more stimulation. His cock is already painful in its arousal.
Yuuri barely has three fingers within him when Victor starts whining to be fucked.
“I wanna see your face,” Yuuri says. His grip is strong as he hauls Victor over to the bed and pushes him into the sheets. He grabs Victor’s ankles and pushes them down and apart, knees bent towards his chest. Victor feels a little like the models in those porn mags he had tried to jack off to back when his homosexuality had only been a hunch in the back of his mind. Pretty and spread out, all the goods on display for someone else’s gaze.
And Yuuri does gaze. His eyes wander his face, his chest, his exposed cock and balls and the hole Victor knows is glistening beneath. They travel the length of his thighs, then jump back to his crotch, then Victor’s face, then his crotch again.
“In me,” Victor breathes, “get in me.” Broken little moans are pushed forth from him as Yuuri’s member makes space for itself within, the stretch bordering on painful. Victor strains upwards, to see where they are joined. We forgot the condom , he briefly thinks, but then Yuuri withdraws, and plunges back in. The breath gets stuck in Victor’s throat. It hurts, but it’s the hottest thing Victor has ever experienced. Yuuri is still half-dressed, that stupid necktie still around his head and boxers pulled down to his thighs and his exposed chest is flushed with booze and arousal and Victor can’t help but extend his arms to welcome Yuuri between them. Yuuri comes willingly. He pastes his mouth over Victor’s as he begins to move.
It is all over very fast for Victor; he is too excited. He tenses progressively the longer Yuuri’s cock rubs against his prostate. And his dick is trapped between their stomachs, slick with precum. Soon, he clenches down around Yuuri’s cock and spurts between their stomachs.
“Oh,” Yuuri breathes, almost shocked, stuttering in his movement as he glances between their bodies.
“Keep moving,” Victor says. Whines. He wants more. He wants Yuuri to really fuck him, even if he’s already overstimulated from orgasm. And it is indeed too much as Yuuri begins thrusting again. Victor shakes and thrashes a little, but instructs Yuuri to keep going. Perhaps reading his mind, Yuuri’s hands settle on his upper arms and hold him down while he convulses from the borderline painful sensation of too much, too long. “Yes, yes, yes,” he nevertheless keeps chanting. He wants Yuuri to take, to keep taking, now and forever, as a man and as an athlete. He wants Yuuri to keep fucking him, but also to emerge as this very man on the ice and send Victor’s world spinning.
Victor’s cock is just starting to fill out again when Yuuri’s thrusts become erratic. He finally stills, and Victor feels a warm liquid spill within himself.
Yuuri draws back, dazed. He seems almost not to believe what has happened, and looks down at Victor with shock in his eyes. He gasps as his cock pulls free from Victor’s ass. A little come dribbles out. Yuuri touches a finger to the hole with lips parted.
Victor does not let him freak out. He hugs him, and kisses him, and pulls Yuuri down next to himself. They kiss, and the kisses slowly become more and more relaxed. At some point Yuuri falls asleep; Victor does suppose the understandable exhaustion was not helped by the champagne. He is tired himself, but decides to clean them both up. He wipes Yuuri down and pulls his boxers back up and unties that stupid tie from his head.
After having come down from his high, Victor finds it a little ridiculous that he had been so worked up about a guy with an ugly tie on his head. His ass aches, and he can already feel that his muscles are going to be sore the next day from the vigorous fucking he got. But gazing upon Yuuri’s sleeping form, the memories of their evening come flooding back, the entire laughter and euphoria of it all. He traces the lines of Yuuri’s face, the brows furrowed in sleep, the plump lips parted. He places a kiss upon them.
Here’s the thing: Victor is a tad addicted to his phone. He’d love to lay down next to Yuuri but no matter where he looks, his phone is just – gone. He has a vague inkling that he’d left it on some table while taking a breather, forgetting to put it back into his pocket. And, well, to be quite fair, Victor could do without the social media. Especially if the incentive is sleeping next to such a beauty as Yuuri. But he knows he has alarms for tomorrow, and texts waiting, not just plain chatty texts, but texts from Yakov, who will rip his legs off if he is unaccounted for, and texts from Chris and Mila and other friends, wondering if he has choked in a puddle of his own puke. He needs to face the truth: the phone needs to be retrieved.
There is a pen and paper on the small desk in the corner, and Victor scrawls his phone number on it. He gives one last kiss to Yuuri, then hurries off back to the banquet hall.
*****************************************
It has been years now since that fateful night. What was once a steamy one-night stand is now a full-fledged marriage, and every morning Victor gets to wake up to the sight of his beautiful husband’s sleeping face caressed by the sunlight of a soft Saint Petersburg dawn. Every morning, Victor presses a kiss to Yuuri’s slack lips, as gentle and excited as the last one on that night so long ago.
It had all turned out to be a series of coincidences and misunderstandings. Yuuri, as it happens, goes completely off the rails when truly drunk, and reliably forgets absolutely everything . He also suffers from poor decision-making at these times: before Victor, Yuuri’s only sexual experiences had been two equally spontaneous and alcohol-fuelled hookups. Waking up in Sochi, Yuuri, miserable and hungover, had simply decided not to acknowledge the mysteries of his previous evening and had crumpled and tossed the paper with Victor’s number.
Although, Victor reckons in hindsight, it might have been a bit presumptuous not to write his name next to his number. Similarly presumptuous as, say, appearing with his dick out in the house of a man that had ostensibly ghosted him.
But it had all worked out in the end.
Him and Yuuri are still intertwined. Yuuri the man and Yuuri the athlete have merged into simply Yuuri , someone Victor adores. Yuuri had once broken his heart. But he’d not only fixed it, he’d strengthened it and melded it with his own. Victor supposes the two of them could no longer be torn apart. They’d bleed out if they ever were to be separated.
They’ve shaped and molded themselves to fit around each other and coexistence is now so easy . In the end, Victor’s final season in figure skating had been his best. Well, correction – medal-wise, it hadn’t nearly been as spectacular as the previous ones. He’d been getting older, the years upon the ice making themselves felt in his joints. But he’d felt invigorated , and it showed. Victor was being challenged, finally. He and Yuuri, Yuuri and him, circling each other for one glorious year, challenges issued and accepted, soaring to new heights together.
That is all now history. Yuuri himself is retiring in a year. It’s a delightful career that Yuuri has had, and Victor knows that however the last circuit plays out, Yuuri will have been Asia’s most decorated figure skater ever. (Victor still holds the overall world title, after all. He isn’t particularly sorry about it.)
And now Yuuri, who’s spooned up behind Victor, is starting to breathe faster. Victor cranes his neck to see as Yuuri’s lashes begin to flutter and his eyes blink open, still cloudy with sleep.
“Victor,” Yuuri whispers, and his face immediately lights up with a smile.
Victor falls in love all over again.