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Lonely Hearts Club

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When Phichit tells Yuuri that he gave Victor his number, Yuuri’s first thought is, why are you like this!!  Even when they were in competition together, Phichit was so supportive of Yuuri it was almost a detriment to himself.  Now that Yuuri’s out of the way, burying his nose in a few dozen human anatomy and physiology books, Phichit takes any chance to bend over backwards to make sure Yuuri knows how supportive Phichit is of his decision.  It would feel like pity with anyone else, but Phichit’s so nice it just comes across as genuine concern and care.  It makes Yuuri want to scream.

“You what?” Yuuri asks numbly for clarification.  

“Gave him your number!” Phichit tells him, even though they’re in a crowded press hall.  He’s still got sweat cooling on his forehead from being on the ice, silver medal heavy around his neck, and bouquet of flowers in hand.  He thwacks Yuuri gently on the shoulder with the bouquet.  “I can tell watching from the sidelines this season has been hard for you.  He’s your hero.  I thought it would cheer you up.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says.  Phichit has to move on, being pulled away by the press corps and his coach, so he waves and Yuuri shouts a confused thank you!, and congrats! at the back of Phichit’s shoulders.

Yuuri doesn’t expect anything to come of it, and leaves the arena trying not to get his hopes up.  If Victor does call, it will definitely be a sympathy thing, five minutes tops of being told to believe in himself by a man Yuuri loves, but has shown no sign of knowing who Yuuri is when they’ve run into each other at past competitions.  He doesn’t expect to end up naked on Victor’s hotel bed later that night, mouth full of Victor’s fingers as Victor fucks the virgin purity out of him in eager, hard thrusts.  But somehow, that’s exactly what happens.


Victor calls him.

Victor fucking calls him.

Victor Nikiforov fucking calls him.  

Victor Nikiforov fucking calls him, and then asks him to come over.

“Meet you?” Yuuri repeats over the phone.  “At your hotel room?”

It feels like a dream, writing down the grand suite number at the Westin Book Cadillac across town.  

“Wear your best suit,” Victor says.  Despite his clunky English accent, he’s got a voice that sounds like how dragging a spoon through melted ice cream on a summer day feels, just smooth and sweet and Yuuri wants his mouth all over it at once.  He doesn’t know why Victor wants him to wear a suit, but he doesn’t want to embarrass himself by asking.  He hangs up somewhat abruptly, and only then does it sink in that the only suits he owned fit him about fifty pounds ago when he was still in skating shape.  

“Oh my God,” he says out loud, to himself.  Maybe he’ll get into a car accident on the way to the hotel?  Maybe he’ll get shot?  There are only so many things that can save him.  

He eventually settles on an older suit he wore when he was in his late teens; he’s kept it for situations like this, when he settles back into his body’s natural weight, the weight he kept even when he was skating full time before the baby fat refused to come off.  It still fits tight across his stomach and is baggy through the thighs, but with a newer button-down shirt he looks less like a portly, bumbling butler than he would in anything else hanging in his closet.

That--combined with a recent, nice-ish jacket he bought to combat the Detroit cold that settles into his Kyushu bones even in April--makes him look somewhat presentable to meet his idol.  At least he thinks.  At least he hopes.  


It doesn’t matter.  It all ends up in a pile around Victor Nikiforov’s bed by the end of the night, but--  But.  

But Yuuri wishes the next morning it had mattered or suggested something a little bit more.


Victor’s hotel room is at least two times the size of Yuuri’s apartment.  He doesn’t mention this when Victor opens the door and leans against the threshold like an invitation to inject sex straight into his eyeballs, but he keeps thinking about it.  It’s just--he’s small fry compared to Victor in every way. Even when he was skating, when he was touring, he always wound up sharing a two-bed double room at the lowest tier price in some shady place across the city, where the mattress springs would scrape against his back.  Victor is staying in the nicest room Detroit has to offer, cream and black leather-upholstered everything decorating the space behind him, floor-to-ceiling windows at the very back.  

“Hey,” Victor says.  He’s a lean, casual curve in the doorway that Yuuri could never replicate in any aspect of real life, and a genuine sex appeal that Yuuri could never even replicate on the ice.  Victor looks him up and down, and then stares him straight in the eye with the sort of expression that suggests they’re sharing a secret or joke.  “Dinner?”

Yuuri already feels like a stuffed sausage in his old suit, and it feels like maybe that’s the joke; Victor’s sized him up and is asking him out to dinner, because clearly he’s more passionate about eating than skating or whatever.  He tugs the lapels of his coat around himself tighter self-consciously and averts his gaze.

“Yeah, dinner, that sounds--” It sounds like heaven, or hell, he’s not quite sure.  It’s his dream to know and be known by Victor, and spend time with him, be his friend maybe!  But this feels like charity or something more sinister.  “That sounds amazing.”

“Perfect! I’m starving. You live here in Detroit, right?  I bet you know all the nice spots.”  Victor says with such legitimate enthusiasm that Yuuri feels his overwhelming sense of shame recede a little bit.  Victor pulls out his iPhone and opens up his Yelp! tab, which is already showing several five star restaurants that Yuuri would cross the street if he ever passed, feeling too scrubby to even look through the windows.  “I usually like to go places with at least one Michelin star when I’m traveling, but there’s none in Detroit.  I hear the place downstairs is good.  What do you think?”

“Uh,” Yuuri says as Victor wraps an arm around his shoulders and shows him the screen, quickly scrolling up and down through a series of names.  He’s certainly heard of them, but even when he was skating, he was never the type to get wined and dined anywhere classier than an Applebee’s.  “Downstairs is nice.”

He’s heard it’s nice, anyway.  

“Well, then let me escort you,” Victor says, slinging his arm around Yuuri’s to lead him back to the elevator.  Yuuri tries to tug his arm away, shyly.

“You don’t have to,” Yuuri says, but Victor smiles down on him, and it’s so disarming he finds himself being pulled along anyway.

“It’s my treat,” he says brightly before lowering his voice. “Indulge me?”

And that goes straight to Yuuri’s dick, a part of him that goes mostly neglected to the point he forgot his body’s ability to completely betray him with surprise boners since he graduated from puberty.  Until now.  God, this is it, this is hell, hell is real and he’s living it.  

Victor moves to wrap his arm around Yuuri’s shoulders when they get in the elevator, and Yuuri tries not to go even more rigid.  Victor is known to be gracious to his fans and colleagues, and he’s heard Victor been called a harmless flirt from others higher in the ranks, but does he really get this physical with everyone?  He’s not sure whether he should lean into it, or casually slump, so he just stares straight ahead and tries not to sweat through his clothes and will the half chub in his slacks to recede.  The elevator is mercifully fast, even though Victor keeps holding onto Yuuri as they head towards the restaurant.  

They’re seated immediately at a plush, half moon leather-lined booth, even though the place is packed.  Everyone is dressed much more clean cut than Yuuri, and he feels like walking in with Victor makes him look like Victor found him pushing a shopping cart down the back alley and offered to take him inside for a free meal.

“I kind of called ahead to a few different places and made reservations just in case,” Victor admits, oblivious to Yuuri’s discomfort.  He sits directly next to Yuuri and entwines his left hand with Yuuri’s right on the sleek countertop.  “So tell me about you!  Hobbies?  Are you a pop culture sort of guy, what do you like?”

“Well,” Yuuri says, looking at their hands together on the table between two empty wine glasses, trying not to completely lose his shit.  “Right now I hardly have any free time, with all the studying.”

“You’re in school?” Victor asks, and he seems so curious, so real, so authentic in his interest, just like Yuuri’s always imagined he would be.

“Y-yeah, exercise science.  I want to become an athletic physical therapist eventually,” he replies.  Even though he quit figure skating, he’s wanted to stay close to the ice and the sport, because it’s all he’s ever known.  He’s been interning at the rink he used to train at, and it’s surprisingly been a quiet comfort to be somewhat good at it, to know the athletes and the sport and the injuries well enough to feel like he isn’t fucking up, that he’s not useless.  

“Wow!” Victor says.  He leans in closer.  “Maybe I could hire you as my personal physical therapist.”

“Ha!” Yuuri belts out the most awkward, unexpected laugh of all time to deal with the fact that there’s a definite sexual undercurrent in Victor’s tone, a force Yuuri has to fight against to keep from squirming in his seat and sliding underneath the table to die immediately.  

“Why is that funny?” Victor asks seriously, squeezing Yuuri’s hand.

“I, I mean, it’s not, it’s not, you’re just you,” Yuuri says, gesturing with his free hand to all of Victor’s everything, the entire silhouette of him.  “You took gold at World’s today!  You’re, you’re the best figure skater in the game!  I would be too afraid of hurting you on accident.”

“You followed the competition?” Victor asks, sounding surprised.

“I was there!” Yuuri says, a little too loud.  

“Oh, wow!” Victor says again, thick Russian accent coming through.  He’s smiling.  “I didn’t know you were a figure skating enthusiast.”

And that’s when it hits Yuuri like a ton of bricks: he doesn’t know.  Yuuri’s been so insignificant as a competitive skater, apparently, that he never even was a blip on Victor’s radar.  Finishing last in his final Grand Prix probably didn’t help, but still, Yuuri was there for years, and it wasn’t enough to make an impression.  It hurts.  Victor has no idea who Yuuri is, probably called him because Phichit is so fucking nice that when Phichit said something probably along the lines of ‘my friend who lives here is depressed,’ that Victor’s response was ‘give me his number, I’ll cheer him up.’  He can’t believe this.  The shame is so heavy in his stomach that if someone pushed him into Lake Michigan right now, he would probably sink to the bottom like a stone.  

He tries to continue anyway, because Victor has this expectant, happy look on his face, and despite everything, Yuuri feels like he owes him something for one man pity party he’s throwing.  “I, um.  I figure skated for a long time.  But the reality sunk in that I plateaued, and was less than average.  There’s still a love for it that I have, I don’t know why.  So this was the next best thing for me to do, I guess.”  

Victor is speechless for a second.  He feigns interest in the wine menu momentarily, and Yuuri wonders if what he said was too real, or too much.  Eventually Victor says, “it’s inspiring.  You’re inspiring.  I can’t imagine--that must have been impossible to get through.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says.

“I admire you for enduring that alone,” Victor says.  It’s like watching layers of him peel away to the ultimate core of him, and Yuuri wonders who else has seen Victor this vulnerable--is this something that Victor reserves for the people he trusts the most, or the people he doesn’t know at all, with whom he has nothing to lose?  “I don’t think I would have that kind of strength.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri says, and he squeezes Victor’s hand back.  Their fingers are so tight together, fit perfectly, like laces up skates.  

“So, let’s order a bottle of something!  Let’s celebrate you,” Victor says, charm back on at full force.  “To your future.  To your success.”

“A bottle?” Yuuri repeats shakily, seeing where Victor is thumbing a selection of sparkling wines and champagnes all in triple digits.  

“A bottle,” Victor confirms. “За вас! To you!  I’m going to teach you how to drink like a Russian tonight.”

Shit, Yuuri thinks.  


Victor invites Yuuri back up to his room after a nice dinner and conversation, and maybe too much to drink.

“I get it,” Victor says when Yuuri turns down a second round of flaming b-52 shots.  “You’re a professional.”

It’s more like Yuuri is a complete lightweight, and Victor has his hand on Yuuri’s thigh, and if Yuuri has any more to drink he’s going to do something unforgivably stupid.  He also has to figure out how to get back to his apartment.  When Victor asks if Yuuri wants to come back upstairs, Yuuri thinks it would give him time to sober up, and how lucky he is to get to share breathing space with Victor for any amount of time, so he might as well--

And then when the light over the doorknob turns green with Victor’s keycard, Yuuri absolutely doesn’t anticipate Victor shoving him against the door and roughly kissing him while they both stumble inside.  

“Been wanting to do that all night,” Victor admits, booze breath heavy as he pulls away from the kiss.  He leans over to suck a bruise into Yuuri’s neck, tugging him off the door so they can trip over each other into the expanse of Victor’s massive suite and get more privacy.

“Huh,” Yuuri says dumbly.  

Huh,” Victor repeats, affectionate.  He lets his hands slide along the waistline of Yuuri’s trousers and dig underneath to pull his button up and undershirt out.  “I love your body, you know.  The moment I saw you, you were completely my type.”

Yuuri is just tipsy enough to push Victor away.  “You’re lying.”

“No,” Victor says, but it sounds more like a whine.  “It's true.”

“I’ve gained,” Yuuri says, taking a deep breath, looking up to the ceiling. “I’ve gained so much weight since I stopped competing.”

“I like it,” Victor says, very softly.  He comes in again, gets his hands on Yuuri’s hips, and squeezes.  “More for me to hold onto.”

When you what? Yuuri thinks, but doesn’t ask, as Victor’s mouth closes over his again for a very tender, earnest kiss.  It’s like he’s breathing Yuuri in, like he needs and craves the taste of Yuuri all at once.  Yuuri tries to kiss back, because he wants to kiss back, because it’s Victor Nikiforov, and Yuuri spent ages 14 through 19 jerking off furiously to posters of him in his room and then hating himself afterwards.  But Yuuri has kissed maybe two people in his life, and all of them were sympathy kisses, or experimental, weird, soft kisses that never lead anywhere else.  Nothing was ever like this--fluid, eager, desperate mouths sliding together, teeth getting caught on lips, Victor’s hands finding their way up Yuuri’s chest and his dick pressing hungrily against Yuuri’s own.  

“You’re so,” Victor says in between kisses, “so, so fucking hot.”

“Thanks?” Yuuri says, because what else do you say?  Victor laughs into his mouth and rubs his thumb over one of Yuuri’s nipples all at once, and it takes everything for Yuuri to not come in his pants.  He didn’t expect this, but it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t want--hasn’t wanted this for years, in some schoolboy fantasy kind of way.  

“You’re welcome,” Victor says jokingly.  He pushes himself off Yuuri and takes him in again from head to toe, sighing heavily. “Now get on the bed. I’ll be right there.”

What do you do when Victor Nikiforov asks you to get in his bed?  Yuuri stumbles through two rooms probably meant for entertaining or conferences or what-the-fuck ever, he can’t even think about it right now, until he stumbles into a massive king bedroom.  Victor is presumably right behind him, but when Yuuri settles onto the edge of the bed, he’s nowhere in sight.  Yuuri contemplates stupid things, like maybe taking his shoes off or throwing himself off the balcony right outside Victor’s bedroom window, so he can escape the actual nightmare of embarrassing himself by losing his virginity to the one man he’s always looked up to more than anyone else.

When Victor does appear in the doorway, he’s completely naked with a box of condoms in hand.  He frowns at Yuuri.  “Why aren’t you naked yet?”

Yuuri looks down at himself in his disheveled suit, then back up to Victor.  “Uh.”

“Let me undress you,” Victor says, sweet and soft.  

“O-kay,” Yuuri replies, voice definitely not cracking on the second syllable.

Victor, naked and God-like and a vision to behold, kneels before him on the bed, and starts unbuttoning Yuuri’s shirt one button at a time.  “I don’t get on my knees for just anyone, you know.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says uncomfortably.  “I mean, I can--”

“Ssh, no,” Victor says, pressing his thumb against Yuuri’s lips to shut him up.  He replaces the thumb with his mouth briefly for a chaste kiss and then returns to finish undoing the rest of the buttons on Yuuri’s shirt.  “I like it.  

“I’ve just never, you know,” Yuuri admits. He thinks Victor should know.  He should give Victor any and all opportunities to back out of this, he should save himself the humiliation.  

“You’ve never what?”  Victor asks, sliding Yuuri’s jacket off with the button up, and helping him pull the tee underneath off.  

“You, me, this,” Yuuri says, gesturing between them.  “I’ve never.   This is my first time.”

“Oh,” Victor says, and something criminal and wanton crosses his face, something impossible to hide.  “You’re saying this is your first time?  And you want me to take you?”

“If,” Yuuri says, breathing deeply, “if you’ll have me.”

“Of course,” Victor tells him, rubbing his hands up and down Yuuri’s side again, thumbs rubbing up the soft of his stomach toward his ribs and then palms sliding down the pear shaped length of his sides.  “Of course I want to.  I want this so bad.”

He pushes Yuuri back on the bed and runs a hand up Yuuri’s thigh while he does so, gripping Yuuri where he’s hard and needy.  Yuuri gasps like he’s had the air knocked out of him. Victor touches him with the same delicate precision that he skates with; fingers tracing the underside of his dick through his slacks teasingly, experimentally.  

“How does that feel?”

“So good,” Yuuri tells him, aching already and thrusting up into his palm.  

“Wanna feel how tight your virgin ass feels,” Victor slurs, biting again into Yuuri’s chest, right above his nipple where he’s sure to leave a bruise.  “Will you let me?”

“Fuck me?” Yuuri asks.  Everything feels like an out of body experience at this point, like he’s watching himself writhe underneath Victor, like he’s listening to his own awful moans as Victor undoes him completely.  Victor nods, and he throws his head back.  “Yeah.  Fuck me.”

“I came prepared!” Victor announces, sliding off of him and dashing out of the room again.  He returns a few seconds later with a thing of lube, but stalls in the doorway when he sees Yuuri.  “If you really want this to happen, you have to take off your pants."

“Sorry,” Yuuri says, hands moving to shove his pants down as fast as he can.  His shoes are still on too, and he struggles to kick them off at as his slacks get caught around his ankles.  

Victor laughs and gets on his knees again to help him.  He slides Yuuri’s oxfords off one at a time and places them at his side, before sliding Yuuri’s slacks off past his ankles and throwing them to the floor.  “It’s okay.  I like it.”

He crawls back over Yuuri, now fully naked except for the briefs he wore, which don’t do anything to hide his erection, his cock head peeking out at the elastic band and leaking onto his stomach.  

He’s not as big as Victor, but he’s not terrible.  In the international figure skating world, there are rumors regarding just about everyone based on the country they’re from; people say Japanese skaters have three-inch dicks that just take a thumb and forefinger to jerk off, and Russians are the size of actual passenger trains.  Both he and Victor reside in the somewhat average in between as far as dicks go instead, with Victor being regular length but surprisingly thick, and Yuuri being long and curvy enough that he knows he’s not terrible compared to the other guys he’s shared a locker room with.

“You want me to play with your ass?” Victor asks, and Yuuri tries not to be shocked by it, tries to let the words roll over him.  “You want me to open you up?”

“Please,” Yuuri says, and he covers his eyes with his forearms and lets Victor maneuver him so his legs are over Victor’s shoulders and his ass is in the air and exposed.  Victor pops the cap of the lube and gets his fingers slick and wet with it.  

“You know what I’m going to do?” Victor asks him.  He still sounds so gentle, even like this.

“Tell me,” Yuuri says, because he expects, but he’s not sure, and he wants to know.

“I’m going to stretch you out so I can fit this dick inside you,” Victor says, rubbing himself against the back of Yuuri's thigh.  “You want that?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri breathes out, looking up at him.  He’s gorgeous without his clothes on, and he wonders who else has been lucky enough to see this.

“I’m gonna need you to take these off,” Victor tells him, running his thumb under the elastic band of Yuuri’s briefs again and snapping them playfully.  

Yuuri wriggles underneath him, dick springing out greedily, hungry for Victor’s touch as he slides his own underwear up his thighs toward Victor, and Victor maneuvers his feet over one shoulder so he can kick them off behind them.  He laughs when he’s finally free, when he’s fully vulnerable and naked in front of the man he’s grown up trying to emulate, and Victor returns the favor by sliding the palm of his hand under Yuuri’s balls and tracing down to find his hole.  

“There?” Victor says, when Yuuri moans at the contact of Victor circling the rim of him and dipping a finger inside him like a test.  

“Yeah,” Yuuri says.  “Yes, please.”

“God,” Victor says, finger sinking deeper into Yuuri.  “You’re so tight.  How are you so, so fucking tight?  You’re unreal.”

He adds a second finger almost immediately, and continues to curl them both in and out of Yuuri like he’s inviting Yuuri to get somehow closer than he already is.  Yuuri pushes himself up on his elbows to kiss Victor sloppily, confident on wine and praise and desperation.  It feels good to be penetrated like this, deeper than Yuuri’s ever been brave enough to go when he’s fucked himself jacking off in the shower.  Victor Nikiforov is an experience he never wants to end.  

“I don’t want to break you,” Victor says, his free hand running up Yuuri’s torso to play with a nipple again.  He kisses Yuuri’s heel and looks down on him like Yuuri should be the one giving instructions.

“Break me,” Yuuri says easily.  He’s trying not to sound desperate, but he’s failing. “I want it.  Just--please.”

“Baby.”  Victor pauses for just a second, like he knows.  He’s searching Yuuri’s face for approval while his fingers are knuckle deep inside him, curling against a spot that makes Yuuri want to come and come and come until he fucking dies, a sensation that he’s using all of his leftover willpower to fight against.

“Do it,” Yuuri says, and Victor smiles, and he does.  He withdraws his fingers and rubs the hand up Yuuri’s leg to the knee, kissing right above it.

“Give me a second,” he says, and he lets go of Yuuri’s legs to find the box of condoms he abandoned earlier at the side of the bed.  He fumbles with the top to open it, and manages to tear a foil packet open with his teeth, never taking his eyes off of Yuuri.  “Help me get this on?”

Yuuri climbs to the end of the bed.  He remembers this part of sex ed; find the tip, pinch it, roll it down.  Victor closes his eyes when he does it, gasping at the sensation.

“Gonna, gonna fuck your virgin ass raw,” Victor says to the ceiling.  Anyone else and it would sound like a threat, but coming from Victor’s mouth, it sounds like a promise that Yuuri expects him to keep.  

“Okay,” Yuuri says, leaning back onto his elbows, waiting.  Victor opens his eyes and drinks him in again, rolling his hand over the condom experimentally.  

“So casual,” Victor says, crawling back between Yuuri’s thighs to position his dick against Yuuri’s hole, thighs spread wide pressing against his elbows.  “With your tight ass, Jesus, you’re the real fucking deal alright.”

He presses in and it’s like a thousand pin pricks from Yuuri’s ass to the backs of his eyes, a pain he can’t imagine.  He cries out sharply with the stretch of Victor inside of him, and Victor stops immediately.  

“You okay?” He says.  “Do you need--”

“No,” Yuuri cuts him off.  He wants this so bad, even if it’s just this once, even if it’s charity.  He’s not going to lose this.  “I’m just--can you go slow?”

“I can go slow,” Victor says, sweeping down to kiss Yuuri again.  “I’ll take you apart inch by inch.”

“Is that a promise?”  Yuuri asks, because he’s already here, he wants it, he wants it so badly.  

“Promise,” Victor says.  He thrusts shallowly against Yuuri again, getting a little past the head this time, and Yuuri gasps.  “Are you fucking kidding me?  Slowly fucking into you, just, just getting the sensation of being inside you slowly.  You’re the one who’s going to destroy me before I can even fit fully inside you.”

Yuuri’s felt destroyed for years by Victor.  He’s watched him skate, master the impossible, age in a way that’s both beautiful and untouchable.  He lets Victor sink into him, inch by thick, devastating inch, until he’s all the way inside.  Victor can bury himself inside his ass forever, he thinks, he hopes, he dreams.  

“You take it so good,” Victor says.  “Fuck.  You’re doing so good.  Can’t believe--God, can’t believe you’re letting me do this.  Can’t believe you can tease me like this.”

“Ruin me for anyone else,” Yuuri says, and he surprises himself when he says it.  He doesn’t mean for it to come out, but it’s in his head and his heart.  Victor smiles at him, knowing and defiant and lovingly when he says it too, and Yuuri feels a brief ache for what they could be.  They fit together perfectly.  He’s never going to be interesting enough to hold Victor’s attention for more than a night, but right now, this second, this sensation feels like the kind of win he never received as a professional; it feels like what he imagines being loved feels like, even if it’s for all the wrong things.

Victor groans and starts fucking him for real when he’s made it up to the hilt, bending Yuuri in half and gripping his thighs like a lifeline.  Every time he slides fully inside it punches a gasp out of Yuuri, or a cry that he can’t control, stars under his lids when he closes his eyes.  It’s an awful sort of intoxicating that makes Yuuri want to pull Victor closer and closer, fill him up as much as possible, break him in two.  

“You’re just,” Victor tries to say, shakes his head and presses it into Yuuri’s sweaty collarbone.  “Fuck.  How fast will you come if I jerk you off?”

“Immediately,” Yuuri tells him, because he’s struggling not to get off on the sensation of being penetrated alone, and the way Victor seems to know him innately, knows how to piston his hips to rub over and over the most sensitive part of him.  “God.”  

“I can’t believe you,” Victor says, but he reaches between the two of them to grab Yuuri’s dick anyway and jerk him off sloppily.

“Oh,” Yuuri gasps, clumsily coming ropes all over Victor’s fist and chest.  It’s too soon and unexpected and embarrassing, but Victor is short to follow, burying his head in the curve of Yuuri’s shoulder and neck, gasping desperately.  

“God!” he says, muffled against Yuuri’s sweat-soaked skin.  Yuuri can feel the way his dick throbs inside him, despite the condom, and it makes his body nearly project to the astral plane with pleasure, it feels so amazing and stupid and Yuuri wishes he never knew how good it was, so he wouldn’t have the desire to seek it out again.  Because this, being buried in the arms and kissed in the throes of climax by the man who’s attention he’s always sought out, will always and forever be the defining moment of his life, whether he wants it or not.  “You were amazing.  Are amazing.  Jesus, that was--”

Even Victor is at a loss for words.  Yuuri wants to pretend it doesn’t have anything to do with him drinking at least half a bottle of champagne, but whatever.  He’ll take this.  He’ll treasure this weird, wonderful evening against his chest like a vulnerable flame for the rest of his life, knowing nothing will ever be better.  And that’s okay.  It’s okay, he tells himself over and over again with the way Victor breathes in and out, pressing their chests together post-orgasm.  

“Yeah,” he tries.  He still can’t believe the reality of the situation.  It might take him days to process--maybe months, or years.  There’s no precedent for bedding your real life idol, as far as he knows.  

When Victor pulls out, it feels like a loss.  He watches Victor roll the condom off and toss it in the trash, unsure of the next courteous thing to do in situations like this, but Victor just crawls back on top of him and kisses him from his chest to his mouth senselessly.

“Stay?” Victor asks.  “Stay the night with me.”

“Yeah,” he says, hand reaching up around to the place between Victor’s shoulder blades and boldly pressing the two of them together.  “I’ll stay.”


He wants to be surprised when he wakes up and Victor isn’t there, but he’s not.  He is surprised by the unpleasant headache, and also more importantly, by Yakov sitting in the corner of the room waiting for him to wake up.

It’s impossible not to recognize Yakov; he’s been a visible, infamous force to be reckoned with in figure skating since the Soviet Union was still a thing.  He’s trained and managed every Russian figure skater that’s made headlines internationally for at least two decades, and Yuuri grew up terrified of running into him at the rink.  And now he’s here, smoking a pipe in a non-smoking room, while Yuuri is naked and Victor is nowhere in sight.  

“I suppose you wonder what I’m doing here,” he says, accent even thicker than Victor’s, the second he sees Yuuri stirring.  “Don’t pretend to be asleep.  I know you’re awake.”

Yuuri sits up slowly in bed, and Yakov takes another match to his pipe before fanning it out and placing it in an empty cup.  

“I ran through this contract through your employer when first seeking out your services, however, I like to be thorough,” Yakov continues.  He gets up slowly from his chair, one hand at a time, pipe clenched between his teeth.  He picks up a thick stack of papers on the same table as the glass he ashed into, and brings it over to Yuuri, throwing it down into his lap.  

“What is this?” Yuuri asks.

“A non-disclosure agreement,” Yakov says.  “I need to ensure that, on payment, you won’t be telling the press that the current world number one figure skater is seeking the services of a male escort program.”

“A--a male escort program?” Yuuri repeats, wide-eyed.  

“Listen,” Yakov says, leaning in and blowing out a plume of smoke into Yuuri’s face.  “The world doesn’t need to know about Victor’s… predilection for men.  I was told by your employer that you would go over this contract and sign it before contacting and engaging in sexual activity with Victor, but when I failed to be notified that this verification took place, I came here immediately.  Unless you’re part of an independent service that Victor pursued?”

He sounds dangerous and angry at the thought that Victor went around his back to hire what Yuuri assumes is a male prostitute--and suddenly all of the bizarre things about the previous night come into focus; the close contact, the sexual urgency, the fact that Victor expected him to be oblivious to figure skating or have any investment in it or activities outside of it-- the fact that he was a virgin, and Victor must have thought it was some kind of roleplay instead of the truth.  

“No, I’m, I’m happy to resign the contract,” he says, because Yakov looks ready to kill, and he doesn’t want to be found naked and dead in a hotel room covered in Victor’s jizz and sweat.  “I’m just tired.”

“Good,” Yakov says.  “Just as a refresher: it’s a non disclosure agreement that says you’re not allowed to acknowledge your interactions or association with Victor Nikiforov.  By signing this document, you admit that you have never met or conducted any sort of business with Mr. Nikiforov, explicit or otherwise. Do you understand?”

And what a thing to wake up to.  Even if Victor didn’t recognize him as a skater, Yuuri thought he had maybe recognized Yuuri as a kindred spirit, or at least had some genuine attraction for him.  Now he knows that the entire time, Victor had been engaging with him with the expectation that, for whatever reason, he was some high class hooker.  When he takes the pen to sign the paperwork, it’s shaky in his hand.  

Hours later, when he makes it back to his small apartment, he feels emptier and more pathetic than ever before.  He gets into the shower immediately and cries for at least ten minutes.  Whatever miscommunication happened last night, he didn’t want or deserve.  It’s been the hardest in a series of kicks to the face, and he scrubs at his body trying to forget the way Victor had touched him so desperate and earnestly. Victor had felt real in a way Yuuri never expected to know anyone, and he aches both with the feeling of betrayal but also knowing his own naivete could have contributed to the misunderstanding.  

He’s toweling off his hair, rubbing up his own legs and shuddering as he reaches his thighs when he hears the familiar ringtone of his phone out in the living room.  He quickly scrubs at himself before rushing out to the see who it is, and nearly drops the phone a second after picking it up.

It’s Victor.