“Ow! Motherfucker!” Yuri stuffs his burned wrist into his mouth, oil seeping hot across his tongue. This is marginally more complicated than he anticipated.
“Yurio?” Yuuri calls from the front door. “We’re home! Is everything okay?”
And they're back early from the airport, which means that Yuri is now running late. “It's nothing,” he replies, raising his voice to be heard across the apartment. “Welcome back!”
When he turns back to the stove, the breading on the pork cutlets is alarmingly dark.
“Shit!” He lunges for the metal spatula and lifts two cutlets from the pan in one swoop, cursing vociferously as more hot oil spatters over his arms. If there's a method of frying tonkatsu that doesn't leave him with tiny burns everywhere, Yuri hasn't learned it. Hiroko’s FaceTime coaching yesterday didn't get that far.
Yuuri's surprised expression when he sees homemade victory katsudon better be worth all this, that's all Yuri’s saying.
“Yurio,” Yuuri says, “what's going on in there? That was a lot of yelling.”
“Nothing!” Yuri shouts, sliding the cutlets onto the waiting paper towel-lined plate and darting back to remove the third before it's unsalvageable. He hears footsteps approaching. “No, don't come in!”
“Relax, it's just me,” Victor says from the corner. “Oh! Are you making katsudon for Yuuri? Yura, you’re so cute!”
“I’m not cute.”
“Do you need a hand?”
Yuri glares at the pile of breaded cutlets on the plate. “No, it's fine.”
It's not fine: the breading has thin patches and outright bare spots where he couldn’t get the panko crumbs to stick, and they may not be burnt but all three cutlets are definitely toastier than he intended. Plus, the simmering dashi broth smells off somehow. Yuri has no idea how to fix it.
Victor’s gaze takes in the pork cutlets, Yuri’s haphazard ponytail, the spatula dripping a pool of oil onto the counter, the cross expression on Yuri’s face— and then Victor laughs at him. “Fine? Are you sure?”
This experiment is not going well. Yuuri is going to hate it.
The oil pops on the stove and Yuri curses again, reaching to turn off the heat. Victor beats him to it. And how did he cross the kitchen so fast? Stupid long legs, stupid quiet feet. When Victor wraps his arms around Yuri’s waist, Yuri allows himself to be captured; Victor is warm and his body has exactly the right amount of give when he folds around Yuri and Yuri hasn’t missed him at all.
“It was supposed to be a surprise,” he grouses. He’s not pouting. He’s not, no matter what sort of indulgent look Victor gives him, and he tries to cross his arms over his chest but Victor’s are in the way. Victor laughs again, right in his ear this time, and kisses his hair.
“Let me go, Vitya, I’m not done cooking.”
“But I missed you!”
“You were gone for four days. It wasn’t the end of the world.” Yuri resolutely does not wriggle deeper into Victor’s embrace.
“Four days is entirely too long a time to go without you hissing at me.” Victor squeezes him tighter for a moment and then releases him. “I’ll slice the tonkatsu if you mix the eggs.”
“It’s my surprise,” Yuri protests, but Victor, as usual, breezes on regardless.
“And now I’m helping.” He tosses his head in that flirtatious, camera-ready way that makes his hair fall neatly over one eye, then grabs a cutting board, expertly flips one cutlet onto it, and sets to slicing thin strips of pork. What an asshole. He’s fucking showboating. It’s not like Yuri needs more reasons to find him attractive, or maddening, or any of a thousand other things.
Even though Victor’s never mentioned it, the sure strokes of his knife through the pork leave Yuri certain that he got in-person katsudon training when he was living in Hasetsu. Yuri tries not to feel short-changed as he cracks eggs into a bowl with chopped green onion, watching the light catching on Victor’s ring when his hand moves.
At least Victor isn’t saying anything about how overcooked the cutlets are.
Yuri checks the broth again; it still doesn’t seem right. He almost wants to call Hiroko so she can troubleshoot for him, but that seems like admitting defeat and there’s no way in hell he’s going to do it with Victor right here.
“You forgot the mirin,” Yuuri says from the entrance to the kitchen.
For fuck’s sake. Now Yuuri knows, too, and the whole surprise is ruined. He just wanted to make katsudon for his… his Katsudon. (That’s still so weird to think about. His boyfriend? Boyfriends? His own personal live-in irritants? The two people most likely to send him into a frothing rage and also the most likely to talk him down again? There is no simple word that encapsulates what Yuuri and Victor are to him.)
“Yuuri!” Victor cries with the kind of enthusiasm that should be reserved for tearful reunions with long-lost family rather than when his fiancé walk back into the room.
“I forgot the what?” Yuri asks instead of yelling and stomping out of the kitchen because, contrary to popular opinion, Yuri does in fact know how to act like an adult. Unlike some people.
“The mirin,” Yuuri repeats, casually plastering himself to Victor’s side. “In the broth.”
“How the hell can you tell?”
“I can smell it. Do you know how long I’ve been making katsudon?” Yuuri untangles from Victor’s embrace and wanders over to the counter, tucking his chin over Yuri’s shoulder. “The egg mix looks good.”
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” Yuri tries — maybe he can still salvage this situation. Yuuri is supposed to be relaxing after his Four Continents gold, not babysitting Yuri’s terrible kitchen fuck-ups.
“Tough,” Yuuri says, all matter-of-fact like he has any goddamn say. Winning, or jet lag, has made him bold. He heads to the fridge and pulls out a bottle in the exact shade of yellow Hiroko described and which Yuri definitely forgot, then pours a splash into the pan of broth. He doesn’t even measure. Yuri fumes.
“You shouldn’t be cooking your own celebration dinner.”
“Yuuri likes cooking,” Victor says as he loops an arm over Yuri’s shoulders.
“No, I don’t,” Yuuri says, drifting into their space in front of the cutting board and inexorably squeezing them out without actually telling them to move.
Victor effortlessly course-corrects. “Okay, Yuuri likes cooking with us. ”
Yuuri turns a bit pink and remains silent as he slices more green onions, which is as good as an admission. Yuri stays quiet, too, because he isn’t sure what to say to that. Victor’s right; Yuuri used to view cooking as an unpleasant but necessary chore, as far as Yuri could tell, but since they all moved in together two months ago Yuuri’s been coming up with increasingly elaborate dinners for the three of them. He usually doesn’t let them do much more than chop things — he’s got a weird control-freak thing going on when it comes to cooking that Yuri thinks might stem from growing up with a restaurant in his house — but he always drags both Yuri and Victor into the kitchen with him for the duration.
Sometimes when Victor stays late at the rink for extra sessions with Yakov and it’s only Yuri and Yuuri in the apartment for dinner, Yuuri stands there quartering tomatoes and watches Yuri from the corner of his eye with this pitiful longing look on his face until Yuri hoists himself up on the counter and tucks his feet into Yuuri’s pockets. And sometimes, especially on hard training days when Yuuri is tired and therefore more pigheaded than usual, he refuses to go within two meters of the stove unless Victor waltzes him there and stays tucked around him like an animate cloak.
Looking back, it’s obvious: Yuuri basks in their attention like a cat in sunlight. A feeling Yuri doesn’t really want to quantify settles over him and he’s content to stay wrapped up in Victor’s octopus limbs, admiring Yuuri’s hands. All those years of ballet show in everything he does; even the way he grips the knife is elegant.
Then Yuuri turns toward the plate of cutlets, which is one step too far.
“No,” Yuri says, breaking out of Victor’s grasp and stomping over to hip-check Yuuri. “Nope, get out. No more cooking for you. This is my job; you’ve been voted off the island.”
“But we didn’t vote!” Victor protests. “I demand a council meeting.”
“I’m vetoing any and all further marathons of old reality TV,” Yuuri says. “One season of The Last Hero was enough.”
“You'll have to take that up with Vitya,” Yuri says, ignoring Victor's dramatics. “He's the one who always wants to watch that stupid show. You already know who wins, Vitya; why do you want to see it again?”
“And yet you're the one making the references,” Yuuri muses.
“Because it’s a revolting brain fungus that can never be removed. You know what, shut up, that’s not the point. The kitchen is mine for today.” Yuri snags the knife from Yuuri’s fingers, letting his hand linger for a moment and hoping Yuuri’s not going to call him on it. “No imposter Yuris allowed.”
“It’s your damn celebration. You are not cooking. Stop arguing.”
Yuuri turns big brown eyes on Yuri — Victor has been teaching him dirty tricks, obviously, since the Yuuri from a year ago would never have thought to try that — and Yuri quashes the urge to fold like wet paper. Instead, he pecks Yuuri’s cheek and then bumps him with his hip again.
“Vitya, get this manipulative jerk out of my sight,” he demands.
“Yuuri,” Victor says, all pouting forgotten. “I need you to come cuddle me on the couch, and Makkachin requires more petting than I have hands to provide. It’s a very serious problem.”
“Shameless,” Yuuri tells Victor, but he runs one hand over Yuri’s shoulder and then follows gamely when Victor leads him by the wrist out to the living room.
Without two obnoxiously handsome distractions invading his personal space, the rest of Yuri’s cooking goes smoothly. There’s not much left to be done, anyway. He slides the cutlets into the broth (which Yuuri was right about, because it now smells exactly like what Yuri remembers from Hasetsu) and pours the egg over the top, then puts the lid on to let it steam for a bit. He fills three bowls with rice from the cooker while he waits.
Someday — someday soon, he promises himself — he’ll know how to make katsudon as well as the Katsuki parents. Then he can surprise Yuuri properly instead of needing rescuing halfway through.
Victor materializes next to him at the counter and Yuri nearly drops the rice paddle. “Sake?” he asks, brandishing an unopened bottle.
“Sure,” Yuri says, “why not? But I’m not hauling your drunk ass to bed tonight.”
“Yura, we’ve got training in the morning! I would never.”
Yuri snorts. “Don’t lie, old man, you absolutely would.”
Victor smiles unrepentantly. “You know me too well. Can I help with this part or are you going to drive me out of the kitchen again?”
The glare Yuri shoots him speaks for itself.
“Fine, fine, I’ll get out of the way of your surprise.”
“Not much of a surprise anymore, is it? You came back way too early. It was supposed to be done right as you got home.”
“Is it my fault that Aeroflot was running on time for once?”
“Yes,” Yuri hisses.
”Besides,” Victor continues as if Yuri hadn’t spoken, “neither of us could wait to see your lovely scowling face again. And even if it isn’t a surprise, Yuuri will love your katsudon anyway. Don’t worry so much, Yura, you’ll give yourself indigestion.”
Victor only grins at him and winks, too observant by half now that he’s bothering to pay attention. If Yuri knows Victor too well, then Victor knows Yuri like a favorite book: backward, forward, and inside out. It’s irritating.
“You’re an asshole,” Yuri tells him. “Get the hell out of my kitchen.”
“Your wish is my command,” Victor replies easily. He bumps their shoulders together, retrieves three sake cups from the cabinet above the sink, and heads into the dining area.
The sake set was a housewarming gift from the Katsuki family, because they are all filthy enablers. One of the cups is decorated with a tiger.
No one even had to ask. That one was Yuri’s from the moment it came out of the packaging.
When the timer goes off, Yuri transfers the egg-covered cutlets into the bowls of rice, then pours the sauce over each one. Yuuri gets extra since it’s his victory dinner, but no one (meaning Victor) had better mention Yuri’s special treatment or he’ll— fuck, he doesn’t know what, but it’ll be something unpleasant. He sprinkles the last of the green onion over the bowls.
It’s just like Victor to disappear right when Yuri could have used the extra set of hands. He’ll manage on his own, though, even if the porcelain is uncomfortably hot against the freckling of oil burns on his arm, because dammit, he’s going to do this right. Yuuri won gold. He gets katsudon. It’s like a law of physics.
“It’s ready!” Yuri yells, setting out the bowls on the table.
Makkachin, always eager for anything involving food, is the first to round the corner from the living room. Her fluffy ears bounce as she runs. Victor isn’t far behind, wearing a smile that lights up his entire face and carrying a struggling Yuuri princess-style.
“Put me down!” Yuuri yells through his laughter. He’s batting at Victor’s shoulder to no apparent effect.
“Yura! Prepare the throne for the Emperor of the Four Continents Championship!”
Yuri rolls his eyes but pulls out the chair at the head of the table. Despite himself, he finds his mouth lifting with a smile, and when Victor deposits Yuuri into the chair, Yuri bows theatrically.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” he says with great aplomb, “the royal feast is served.” (When his mind catches up with his mouth, Yuri is faintly horrified; Victor’s flair for the dramatic is catching.)
“Oh my god,” Yuuri groans into his hands, but Yuri isn't fooled. Yuuri’s grin is visible through his fingers, as bright as the glint of gold on his finger. Yuri still can’t believe that those two are so fucking clichéd as to get matching snowflake engravings on their rings. His disgust at their saccharine idiocy sticks deep between his lungs.
Victor distributes cups of sake, then raises his own. “To the amazing Yuuri Katsuki, three-time Four Continents gold medalist!”
“To Katsudon destroying that brat Minami,” Yuri says.
“Kanpai,” Yuuri says, red-faced, and drains his cup.
The first bite of pork is— well, it’s not bad, but it’s not the Platonic ideal of katsudon Yuri was aiming for, either.
“Vkusno!” Yuuri says.
Success is sweet. Yuri sticks his tongue out at Victor. “Yuuri is my favorite now.”
“But you overcooked the pork,” Yuuri continues. “It’s too tough.”
“I lied,” Yuri amends, ignoring the sudden and irrational sting in his throat. “Vitya, I like you best. Katsudon is mean and ungrateful and he and his gold medal can sleep on the couch.”
“Aww, Yura,” Victor coos, clutching his hands to his chest, “you do still love me! You’ve been doting on Yuuri so much that I was beginning to worry.”
Yuri stares Victor down in defiance of his blush. “Yeah, well, you bring home a gold medal next time and maybe it’ll be different. This is your last chance before you retire, old man.”
“And deprive you of the glory of gold at Worlds?” Victor’s smile turns a little sharp. “Of course I will.”
After all, no matter what else they may be to each other, when it comes to the rink they’re rivals. Only one person fits at the top of the podium. Yuri’s return smile is as sharp as Victor’s.
Throughout the meal, Makkachin sits patiently by the archway that leads into the living room and exudes an aura of soul-deep, canine betrayal. She gazes mournfully at every bite Victor takes. Victor, unsurprisingly, is a fucking pushover for her big dewy eyes and breaks his own no-table-scraps rule to feed her bits of rice and egg.
Yuri laughs at his hypocrisy and triples his efforts to hide the stockpile of too-tough pork shreds he’s saving for Potya. (‘Too tough.’ Damn it.)
The three of them clear the table and start the dishes as a unit, and Yuri still can’t get over how strangely familiar it is. It’s a little like being back in Hasetsu and a little like being at Grandpa’s house and a lot like something else entirely. He likes it. The way they all move around each other is soothing and comfortable, their dance training obvious in how Yuuri sways to avoid collision as Yuri heads to the fridge, in the arc of Victor’s body around Yuuri’s back as he reaches for the cabinet where they keep the glasses. Victor wobbles occasionally, but the sake doesn’t seem to affect Yuuri except to make him even more ethereally flexible than usual.
Victor shooes Yuuri away from the sink. “The guest of honor does not wash his own dishes.”
“What he said,” Yuri says, taking over the scrubbing. He hisses when the hot water hits the largest of the spots where the hot oil got him — a welt on the inside of his wrist, less than half the size of a pea but puffed up angry red. He hadn’t noticed it before. The heat from the tap makes it throb.
“Yurio?” Yuuri asks. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Yuri lies.
“He burned himself at the altar of love,” Victor proclaims.
“Shut the fuck up,” Yuri says, trying and failing to tug his wrist away from Victor’s grasping hands. “You are an embarrassment.”
“Poor Yura!” Victor holds out Yuri’s arm toward Yuuri on the opposite side. “Look at his battle wounds! He fought hot oil for you, Yuuri. You should kiss it better.”
Of course Victor has to point out Yuri’s struggles. Of course. Yuri hates this kind of teasing, but for once he can’t seem to summon his rage, which might have something to do with the way Yuuri follows Victor’s suggestion with zero hesitation, catching Yuri’s wrist and kissing along the inside of his forearm. The other tiny red marks are hardly visible anymore, but all of a sudden Yuri feels an absurd bubble of hope that they last forever if this is the kind of reaction they earn him — Yuuri is looking at him with unguarded affection and it’s making his insides twist pleasantly.
“Brave Yurio,” Yuuri murmurs. “Taking on the oil monster just for me.”
The words loosen something that was clenched tight in Yuri’s chest.
“Hey, Victor,” Yuuri adds, his mouth hovering above the thin skin on the underside of Yuri’s wrist. “Yurio’s not scowling for once. You should take advantage of that.”
Victor makes a little considering noise, and Yuri has barely torn his eyes away from their study of Yuuri’s face when Victor swoops in to kiss him. Four days, Yuri is forcibly reminded. It’s been four days since he’s been able to kiss either of them. Victor’s lips are faintly salty from dinner and they move insistently, mesmerizingly, over Yuri’s and Yuri can’t help the blissed-out sound that escapes him when Victor presses closer, crowding him back against the edge of the sink. He weaves the hand not captured in Yuuri’s grasp into Victor’s hair and holds him there.
“Vitya,” he says, or perhaps moans — it’s a borderline case, the vowels all stretched out because Victor keeps sliding his lips across Yuri’s and verbal expression is beating a hasty retreat. Victor hums a response into Yuri’s mouth that resonates all the way down Yuri’s throat. When Victor’s lips part, Yuri follows the motion and brushes their tongues together, losing track of everything except the pleasure of Victor’s warm mouth on his.
Four days was too long. Yuri should go with them next time.
Eventually Victor rertreats, dropping his head to rest their foreheads together, and Yuri is left to rediscover the Lost Island of the Rest of Yuri’s Body. It had disappeared off the radar for a while. Yuuri assists the recovery effort by reapplying his tongue to Yuri’s wrist, sending a frisson of heat up his arm.
“I missed you, Yura,” Victor murmurs.
“Yeah,” Yuri says, still trying to even out his breathing. “Likewise. Do that again?”
Victor does so, and then Yuuri cuts in and uses his mouth to banish what little remains of Yuri’s senses. Katsudon tastes like katsudon, Yuri thinks, a bit wild, drunk on more than the three small cups of sake, and he laughs against Yuuri’s lips. Yuuri clutches his hip and pulls him in, and the only thing Yuri can think after that is how much he’s missed this, how good it feels to have Yuuri warm and firm all along his front, the fabric of his t-shirt soft under Yuri’s hands.
It’s always strange when they go away to competitions without him, and even more so since he moved in. He still feels like an interloper in this apartment. His edges don’t quite fit.
Gradually Yuuri quiets, his kisses slowing until they’re merely an excuse to rest his face against Yuri’s. Victor slides closer on his other side and noses behind his ear, and the familiar, intimate press of their bodies is so nice, so soothing, that a part of Yuri wants to curl up and luxuriate in it for the whole evening — but the rest of him is reaching the limit. There’s only so much sappiness he can tolerate.
“I’ve got things to do and you’re both gross,” he complains. “Shoo.” He shoves them both away, masking a smile.
Victor goes easily, supple with drink and danseur grace. “Yuuri! Yura called us gross!” He pretends to swoon, winking at Yuri, then redirects his attention to Yuuri. “He’s so cruel. You must kiss me, Yuuri, or I’ll never recover.”
Grinning, Yuuri complies, dipping Victor over his thigh and narrowly avoiding smacking the back of Victor’s head into the counter. They’re laughing too much to kiss properly.
“You two are fucking hopeless,” Yuri says. “Don’t break yourselves.”
“Mmm, can we break you instead?” Yuuri asks with a theatrical eyebrow waggle. Victor is definitely rubbing off on him — he wasn’t always this ridiculous. Or maybe it’s the sake. On second thought, yes, it's probably the latter.
“You can try,” Yuri says. “I don’t have high hopes for your success.”
“You always underestimate me,” Yuuri says, lifting Victor back upright. “I think I’ll have to prove you wrong.”
“Later,” Yuri says firmly. “Today is supposed to be about you.” Which is true, and also Yuri is tired of thinking about his poor attempt at katsudon and he’d like to reward Yuuri in other ways. Preferably ways that include lots of naked skin. He catches Yuuri by the shirt and spins him, pressing in until Yuuri is bent backward over the counter, penned between Yuri’s arms.
No matter how much Yuuri’s confidence may have grown lately, he still gets hopelessly flustered when someone else takes charge. His cheeks flush, his eyes go wide; stunned breathless is a good look on him. A very good look. Yuri leans in further.
“Name your prize.”
“I—” Yuuri starts, then falters. “Yurio—”
Victor drapes himself over Yuri’s back, brushes Yuri’s hair out of the way, and sweeps an arc of kisses across the nape of his neck. Yuri carries the warmth of it forward when he fits his mouth to the soft place under Yuuri’s ear and sucks lightly, and the gasp he gets in response tells him his ploy was successful; Yuuri has leapt off the edge of playfulness and landed solidly in arousal.
“Anything you want,” Yuri whispers.
Victor has the knack with dirty talk, not Yuri, but he’ll do his best anyway, because Yuuri’s shell fucking shatters when Victor whispers filth in his ear and Yuri wants to break him into wanton, ardent pieces, render him gasping and debauched on the counter. He mouths at the hinge of Yuuri’s jaw.
“Tell me,” he murmurs. “I could suck you off. Do you—” Fuck. He has to swallow to force the words out, which hampers the delivery, but Yuuri’s fingers tug at his waist so Yuri soldiers on. “Do you want to put your cock in my mouth?”
A blush burns on his cheeks, but when he pulls back, there’s a look of timid desire spreading over Yuuri’s face that makes up for the embarrassment. Yuri slides in again to suck a mark into the crook of Yuuri’s neck. Yuuri may be shy now, but it won’t take much more to tip him over into eros mode; he’s been skirting along the edge all night anyway, unusually imperious.
“Or you could take me over the counter,” Yuri murmurs. This time the words come easier, goaded on by the bitten-off noises Yuuri’s breathing into Yuri’s ear.
Behind him, Victor’s hands seize Yuri’s hips; it seems Yuuri isn’t the only one affected. Yuri meets the slow rocking of Victor’s body and moves in counterpoint, enjoying the press and drag of Victor’s growing erection against his ass, then tilts forward into Yuuri.
“Or maybe you want to fuck Vitya, right here on the floor. I bet he’d like that.”
“I would,” Victor confirms, his voice gone deep. “Very much.”
“Ah, Yurio, would you…” Yuuri trails off.
Yuri’s fingers tease over Yuuri’s hip as his tongue draws lazy circles on the pulse point in Yuuri’s neck and suddenly the switch flips: Yuuri’s eyes darken, his lips turn up in a wicked little smile. Eros activated.
“I want your mouth on me.”
Yuri smirks with triumph and slips through Victor’s hands to drop to his knees. If he can't deliver perfection in katsudon for Yuuri, he'll give him the perfect blowjob instead. It’s a good compromise.
Yuri looks up.
“I didn't say where.”
Yuri shudders and has to take a moment to let his mind reboot. Yes. This is the Yuuri he was looking for: unpredictable, brazen, all his shyness burned away until he’s nothing but a blazing force of will and possessiveness wrapped up in dark hair and dark eyes and the sort of smile that promises very dirty things. Yuri leans forward to push his face into the hollow of Yuuri’s hip.
“So where do you want me?” he asks Yuuri’s thigh.
“Come back up here. I wasn't done kissing you yet.”
That’s an idea Yuri has no problem with. “Then I’m going to blow you, yeah?”
“Yesss,” Yuuri says, trailing off in a hiss as Yuri works his way back up Yuuri’s body with sloppy kisses, lifting Yuuri’s shirt as he goes. Yuuri guides him with hands in his hair, tugging gently until Yuri’s mouth is in range and then capturing his lips in something that feels less like a kiss and more like Yuuri is trying to extract Yuri’s soul with his tongue.
“Not if I get there first,” Victor murmurs in Yuri’s ear. For a moment Yuri can’t place what the words mean, too distracted by Yuuri nipping at his lower lip with his teeth, but then Victor drops his head to breathe hot over the back of Yuri’s neck and Yuri realizes that Victor intends to get his mouth on Yuuri’s dick before Yuri does, which is not fucking fair. Victor curves his arms around Yuri’s waist, keeping Yuri tucked up against his body with his elbows while his hands work to open Yuuri’s pants.
“Hey,” Yuri starts to say, twisting his shoulders against Victor’s chest in protest, but Yuuri bites his lip again, much harder this time, and Yuri gasps at the sting of it.
“You’re getting distracted, Yurio.”
“Vitya is being a shithead. I called dibs.” And Yuuri— Yuuri fucking laughs, because he is an asshole and a nuisance and Yuri has no idea why he likes him so much.
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you to share?” Yuuri asks, still laughing.
“No. One of the perks of being an only child: everything was mine.”
“But Yura,” Victor says into Yuri’s neck, “I want to congratulate him, too!”
“You got to congratulate him at the fucking competition. Let the rest of us have a cha—” Yuri breaks off with an undignified squeak when Victor’s hand squeezes between his legs. “—a chance,” he finishes in a much higher tone, far more breathy than intended.
“Mmm,” Victor says, and Yuri has no idea if that was supposed to be agreement or simply an acknowledgement that Yuri had spoken, but dammit, something is going to go his way tonight and that something is blowjobs. Victor can wait his goddamn turn. Though if Victor keeps groping him through his leggings like that, Yuri will have difficulty minding much of anything. His head falls back to rest on Victor’s shoulder entirely without his control, his fingers grasping weakly at Yuuri’s shirt.
Yuuri takes advantage of Yuri’s distraction to suck on his lower lip again. Yuri moans and wonders anew how he manages to keep his sanity living with these two shameless creatures.
“Nnn, Yuuri,” he slurs around Yuuri’s tongue, “I want… ah, want to suck your cock. Can I—” Yuri inhales a half-formed curse when Victor nibbles at his earlobe. Then Victor looks at him, really looks at him, with warm eyes and a barely-there smile, and even through the lust dimming his vision Yuri can tell that he just won the blowjob race — not through any fair competition, but because Victor is forfeiting in favor of allowing Yuri’s claim.
“I saw the way you flinched at the table,” Victor whispers into his ear. “You can’t let it go, can you, Yura? Always the perfectionist.”
Yuri attempts a glare, but it fits poorly on his face when he’s too busy panting at the humid pressure of Yuuri’s mouth on his neck. Victor’s fingers tighten their grip on Yuri’s cock and Yuri grinds helplessly into his hand.
Almost silent, breathed against Yuri’s temple, Victor says, “Go on. Show him how proud you are of his gold medal, since it seems you can’t just say it.”
“Screw you,” Yuri snaps, dizzy. Yuuri makes an inquisitive sound but doesn’t lift his tongue from where it’s lapping at Yuri’s throat.
“Please?” Victor says, a little giddy, his eyes dancing. Then he nestles his face into the curve of Yuri's neck and continues in a nonchalant tone. “And save his come for me, will you? I want to taste it on your tongue. I can teach you the joys of sharing.”
Fuck, Yuuri’s not the only one who shatters at the filth that comes out of Victor’s mouth. Yuuri moans and Yuri gasps, and then Yuri is clawing at Yuuri’s shirt with frantic intent while Victor chuckles into their shoulders and winds his impossibly long arms around Yuri’s chest. Once Yuuri is free of the offensive fabric — and it is offensive, nothing should be hiding his skin from their touch — Yuri sinks to his knees, by slow degrees this time so he can glide lips and tongue over Yuuri’s sternum, scrape teeth over his left nipple, drink in the increasingly wild noises he makes. He clutches Yuuri’s unbuttoned waistband and drags it down and his boxers with it, lifting the elastic away from his body to release his hard cock.
It's a very nice cock, large and heavy where it hangs between his legs, flushed a rosy hue with his arousal. A moment ago Yuri was desperate to get his mouth on it, but now that he's here, he wants to savor the anticipation. He sits back on his heels and watches Yuuri with hooded eyes, waiting for him to make a move.
“Ah, Yurio, you,” Yuuri starts to say, and that’s Yuri’s cue; he presses his open mouth to the curls at the base and exhales. Yuuri loses track of the rest of his sentence in a full-body shiver.
Yuri raises a hand to gently cup Yuuri's balls, tilts them side to side to feel the weight shift in his palm, then runs his tongue along the middle. The skin tightens in response and Yuuri makes a startled, wanting noise, his hand landing in Yuri’s hair and gripping. Pleased, Yuri follows the line up the underside of Yuuri's cock with his mouth. He glides wet, messy kisses along the flesh, points the tip of his tongue and traces the seam on the underside of the head, then licks up to the slit.
“Nnn, yes,” Yuuri hisses, fingers tight in Yuri’s hair.
Behind him, Yuri hears the zip of Victor’s slacks, a rustle of fabric, and a low groan. Yuri smiles to himself.
“Yura,” Victor says from above. When Yuri angles his gaze up to look, he finds that Victor has leaned over him, cheek pressed to Yuuri’s, watching. Victor strokes himself lazily. “Let me see.”
A dark, hot feeling thrills through Yuri. If Victor wants a show, Yuri will give them a show. He leans his head back and stretches out his tongue, forming a perfect resting place for the head of Yuuri’s cock. They’re both studying him intently, Yuuri’s dark eyes and Victor’s blue, and he can feel their scrutiny on his skin. Even fully clothed, like this he’s spread open, on display, and it lights his nerves on fire. His eyes drift half-closed as he moves forward, fingers wrapped around the base of Yuuri’s cock. He takes the head between his lips and sucks, then glides back slow and wet to lick the tip, stretches his mouth around it and slides the flat of his tongue down the length.
Yuuri’s gaze sharpens as he watches his cock disappear into Yuri’s mouth, his breathing fast and harsh. Seeing the red swell of Yuuri’s parted lips, hearing the sound of Victor’s hand speeding its strokes, fills Yuri with a heady rush of power. He's greedy for their reactions.
“Ah, Yurio, suck—” but Yuri is already moving before Yuuri can finish, sealing his lips around the shaft and hollowing his cheeks, working his tongue under the head. “Oh—”
Yuri slides down until his lips meet his fingers, enjoying the pressure on the roof of his mouth and the appreciative noises Yuuri’s making, and pumps his hand. Yuuri interrupts his own moan with a gasp and picks up again half an octave higher.
“Wow, Yura,” Victor says, awed. “Whatever you're doing, Yuuri really likes it. His face is amazing.”
Yuri tries to say “Of course he fucking likes it,” but it comes out as a series of garbled noises in his throat, distorted around Yuuri's cock. He's not going to pull off simply to respond in intelligible words.
“It's— ah! It's impolite,” Yuuri chides, his voice hitching with a combination of desire and mirth, “to talk with your mouth full.”
“When has Yura ever been polite?” Victor asks.
If Yuuri can still form complete sentences, then Yuri isn't doing his job well enough. Annoyed, he glares up at Yuuri, relaxes his throat, and takes him as deep as he can. Then he swallows.
Yuuri’s head jerks forward onto Victor's shoulder.
Yuri can’t do this for long — no amount of practice will ever make it comfortable to have something that far down his throat — but the dazed bliss on Yuuri’s face is worth the effort. He swallows again. Yuuri moans, his grip on Yuri’s hair barely this side of painful, and thrusts shallowly between Yuri’s lips.
After that, things get messy. Yuri withdraws just far enough that he can get a rhythm going, working his hand on Yuuri’s cock and bobbing his mouth over the head, countering his thrusts.
“Yurio, that’s— good, that’s so good, ah—” Yuuri’s voice cuts off with a wet sound. Yuri looks up to see that they’re kissing above him, Yuuri too worked up to do more than pant into Victor’s mouth and paw at him with the hand not hanging onto Yuri’s hair. They can’t even put their lips together properly. Yuri can see their tongues, can watch as Victor bites Yuuri’s lower lip and tugs, as Yuuri moans.
“Make him come, Yura,” Victor says. “He’s close.” His voice is tight, like he’s the one with his cock in Yuri’s mouth. Yuri has talent. Blowjob by proxy; he’s so good that Victor feels it even when Yuri isn’t touching him at all. He pumps his hand faster and opens his mouth to lick over the head again, steadying himself on Yuuri’s hip.
“Harder,” Yuuri whines, “Yuri— ohh—”
Yuri seals his lips right behind the head and sucks sharply, jerking Yuuri’s cock in his fist. Yuuri gasps, his mouth working without sound, and then bitter heat floods Yuri’s mouth as he comes, moaning, his cock throbbing.
Yuri carefully doesn’t swallow.
He holds Yuuri's release sharp and salty on his tongue as Yuuri drifts back to reality. Then, when Yuuri’s hand loosens in his hair, he stands and brings the mess up to Victor, passing it into his waiting mouth — and Victor makes a production of it, catching Yuri’s jaw in his hands, sliding his tongue along Yuri’s, searching out every last drop of come like he’s starving for it. Yuri is happy to let him lick away the bitter flavor. He winds his arms around Victor’s hips and gives himself over to the kiss, leaning into the pressure of Victor grinding his naked cock against his stomach.
When Yuri shifts his gaze to Yuuri, it’s to find him staring avidly at the interplay of their mouths. The attention sets Yuri's blood racing. Victor lets a drop of come dribble from the corner of his mouth and Yuuri’s cock twitches, already stiffening again where it hangs above his open fly.
“That really gets you going, doesn’t it?” Yuri teases. Victor chases the spill with his tongue, but he let it get too far and now he can’t reach.
Murmuring agreement, Yuuri says, “It’s… my mark on you. I like it.” He pauses, his gaze heated. “You shouldn’t let him get so messy, though, Yurio. Cleanliness is important.”
Yuri licks the drip from Victor’s chin for the sole purpose of seeing the wide-eyed hunger on Yuuri’s face, though the sultry look Victor gives him is a nice bonus. Victor finally swallows his mouthful and says, “Haven’t you noticed? Our Yuuri is very possessive.”
Our Yuuri. Yuri likes the sound of that; it’s a reminder that they really do want him here, that Yuri isn't the only one invested. Hell, they've all been living together for two months and Yuri still has trouble believing that they want him as much as he wants them. He turns in Victor's arms to snare Yuuri around the waist and burrow his face into his neck, then licks the dip above his collarbone while Victor kneads his hip bones and rolls their bodies together slow and easy.
Yuuri catches his chin and draws him up for a proper kiss, hunting the last lingering traces of his own come in Yuri’s mouth and transmuting Yuri’s spine to quivering gelatin while he’s at it. Victor bites a line down his shoulder.
Fuck, Yuri missed them. He’s so happy to have them both here. Home.
He stills between them.
That’s what this feeling is: home. Where Yuri can make subpar katsudon and his two— his two people , his two favorite crazy people will still kiss him in the kitchen and make needy little noises against his cheek when he gets distracted by mushy thoughts and doesn’t kiss back hard enough.
Mine, he thinks. He must say it aloud, too, because Yuuri clasps him in a tight embrace and then Victor winds around them both like very friendly ivy, trapping them against the edge of the counter, rooting them in place.
“You’re possessive, too, aren’t you, Yura?” Victor murmurs. “Of course we’re yours.”
Yuri lets the reassurance trickle over him for a long moment, clinging to Yuuri and reaching back to catch a fistful of Victor’s shirt. They’re so fucking sappy, it’s disgusting. (He loves it.) Yuuri pets his hair, and his eyes sparkle behind his glasses when Yuri pulls back enough to look at him.
Yuri has to kiss him again. It’s non-negotiable. Yuuri squeaks in the back of his throat when Yuri collapses forward into his lips, intent on achieving the highest honor in all of kiss-dom: making Yuuri weak-kneed, getting him so drunk on Yuri’s mouth that he has to catch himself on the counter under the assault. It’s working, too, Yuuri making pleased little noises as he pitches backward. Yuri follows until there’s no more room to move, until Yuuri’s whole body describes an elegant curve where he’s melted onto the counter.
With great satisfaction, Yuri straightens and surveys his handiwork. The look of slack-jawed desire on Yuuri’s face feels like every gold medal he’s ever won.
“I am being criminally neglected,” Victor laments behind him. When Yuri turns, he finds Victor stroking his cock with a forlorn expression.
“Stop that, you needy little shit. We can’t leave you alone for two minutes.”
Yuri knocks Victor’s hand away and replaces it with his own, and Victor’s entire face is overcome with delight. He’s a goddamn drama queen. Yuri tightens his grip and smirks when Victor's eyes fall shut in bliss.
Then Yuuri slithers up against him and reaches around to trace the outline of Yuri’s cock through his leggings, and Yuri sucks in a shocked breath as he's abruptly reminded of how hard he is. Yuuri snickers at his reaction. Yuri might want to smack him for it if the touch of his hand didn't feel so good.
Yuuri dips his fingers under Yuri's waistband and touches him in earnest, and Yuri is willing to forgive a lot more than snickering as a sleeper wave of pent-up arousal crashes down on him. He muffles his cry in Victor’s shoulder, bucking into Yuuri’s hand.
“Let me touch you, Yura,” Victor says, serious again as he murmurs into Yuri’s hair. “Let us both— we’ll make you feel so good. I want to put my hands on you. We'll wind you up until you can't think.”
“—Ah. Too late for that.”
“You're still talking; no, it isn't. I'll press on that spot you like, right under the head, and keep rubbing it until you’re dripping with precome. Yura, oh, I want to wrap my fingers around your cock and make you come all over me, and I want to kiss you while you do.”
There are more words, but they get lost in everything else happening to Yuri: Victor wrenching Yuri's leggings down, adding his fingers to Yuuri’s while Yuri clings to his arm, Yuri's own hand on Victor's hard length all but forgotten in the dizzying wash of sensation. Victor seizes him by the hips and drives their cocks together, and Yuri is subsumed in heat and friction, too dry but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t fucking care because Yuuri encircles the both of them in one spit-slick hand and Yuri thinks his brain might liquefy. He grasps at anything he can reach — Yuuri’s hair, the lax waistband of Victor’s slacks, empty air — trying to ground himself and failing.
“Yura,” Victor whispers right before he kisses Yuri, deep and messy. It’s somehow even more intimate than when Victor was licking Yuuri’s come out of his mouth. Yuri moans and Victor swallows the sound from his lips, skates one hand along Yuri’s ribs and then buries it in Yuri’s hair, shifts against Yuri’s sharp hipbones and hauls him closer.
Yuri has to break away to gasp for air and Yuuri takes advantage, swooping in to steal Victor’s mouth for himself. They kiss like they might never get the chance again, hungry, demanding, like they haven’t spent the last four days sharing a hotel room. How are they so hot? It’s unfair. Yuuri’s body pushes Yuri forward into Victor’s chest, his hand works in concert with Victor's between them, jerking over their cocks, his tongue slides against Victor’s in this sloppy, open-mouthed kiss that Yuri won front-row seats to, and Yuri can’t control the thrust of his hips, into Victor, into Yuuri’s fist, into anything that will get him off. He’s chasing orgasm like a river chases the falls, overeager to leap and spill. It won’t take much.
Yuuri moans into Victor’s mouth and and thrusts against the bare curve of Yuri’s ass and that’s it, Yuri’s done for: his balls tighten, his lips tingle, and then he’s coming, staining the tails of Victor’s button-down shirt while the room grays at the edges. Yuuri’s still stroking them, still kissing Victor and rutting against Yuri’s backside, and then Victor’s cock pulses against Yuri’s as he comes, too, with a helpless noise and his hand clenching in Yuri’s hair.
At some point, Yuri must have dropped his head back against Yuuri’s shoulder; he only notices when his vision swims back into focus and gives him a view of the kitchen ceiling. Yuuri makes a nice pillow.
Awareness of his own body and the room beyond it returns slowly.
Victor, taller than either of them, is slumped over Yuri onto Yuuri’s other shoulder, breathing gustily, and their combined weight has Yuuri leaning back, braced on the edge of the counter. Yuri is squished vice-like between their bodies. He pats numbly at Victor, his hands clumsy with the receding flood of endorphins, and twists his head so he can kiss the underside of Yuuri’s jaw, though what he manages is not so much a kiss as an open-mouthed press of tongue and hot breath. He hopes Yuuri understands his intent, because he’s still slack with release. Words are probably beyond him right now.
“Good?” Yuuri asks with a chuckle. Yuri groans pointedly at him.
There’s a wet smear low on his back that makes him think Yuuri must have come again, somewhere in the stretch of lost time. Good. The more orgasms for Yuuri, the better.
“Ahh, Yuuri,” Victor murmurs from the other side of Yuuri’s head, and then Yuri hears wet noises that make him think Victor is also attempting to kiss Yuuri’s neck and not finding much more success than Yuri has.
“Mmm, vuh.” Yuri thumps nerveless fingers on Victor’s bicep. “Vitya.” Yuri can’t even lift his head, because Victor’s shoulder is taking up the space where he needs to put his chin. “Vitya, move.”
Yuuri jostles the shoulder Victor’s resting on. “Come on, Victor, Yurio needs space.” His voice is so soft with love that it makes Yuri ache.
“Yura,” Victor replies, equally soft, “needs to stay right here and get cuddled. Don’t you, Yura?”
That's their Yuuri-and-Victor tone, the adoring one that used to make Yuri boil with jealousy, and they're using it on him. Yuri can’t speak; his throat is too tight.
“Hmm, that’s a good point. Sorry, Yurio, we’re not moving.” Yuuri doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds playful, affectionate. His arm cinches around Yuri, palm flat under his navel, holding him close and nuzzling his hair. Victor increases his own personal gravity where he’s draped heavily over Yuri’s chest with his arms slung around them both.
Yuri ignores the dampness on his eyelashes and lets himself be held.
Eventually, once his heartbeat has steadied and the come on his shirt has started to feel uncomfortably cold and wet, Yuri squeezes Victor’s arm.
“Come on, move now. We still have to finish cleaning up.”
“I don’t want to move. I like it here.” Victor has his face pressed into Yuuri’s cheek, peppering it with tickling kisses that make Yuuri muffle laughter in Yuri’s hair. He’s a petulant child at the best of times, but he is utterly recalcitrant post-orgasm, a fact Yuri has learned well in the last two months.
“Vitya, you’re a nuisance.”
“Your nuisance, I should hope,” Victor mumbles. “You said so. You don’t get to take it back.”
…Damn, they’re all needy messes. Maybe that’s why it works. Yuri secures his arms around Victor’s waist and hugs.
“Hey,” he says. “Kiss me.”
“But I’m kissing Yuuri.”
“He just got a fucking stellar blowjob. He can wait for more kisses.”
“No, I can’t,” Yuuri argues. “In fact, you should be kissing me, too. Then everyone will be happy.” His fingertips press low on Yuri’s belly, then creep even lower, and it startles a laugh out of Yuri.
“Am I supposed to believe you’re being altruistic with that shit?” Yuri asks, shifting in Victor’s grasp enough that he can turn to face Yuuri. Yuuri smiles at him and the expression is stupidly soft and it hits him like a punch in the gut, forcing his head down; as he tucks himself into the space under Yuuri's chin, the nervousness that’s been crouching in the back of his mind spills from his mouth.
“Was it… better than the katsudon?” he asks Yuuri’s collarbone, quiet.
“The—” Yuuri begins, then laughs. “Wow, you were still worried about that?”
“Yura is always worried,” Victor interjects helpfully.
“Assholes, both of you. I hate you.”
“Yurio,” Yuuri says, and his voice is fond. “You’re very sweet.”
“What the fuck.” Yuri rears back to glare at him. “I literally just called you an asshole, how am I sweet?”
“That is sweet, for you.” Yuuri smiles. “Thank you, Yurio, for the katsudon and for…” He blushes and makes a vague gesture. “Um.”
Yuri snorts. This guy has no problem telling Yuri to mind his come-swallowing manners, but try to talk about sex after the fact and he freezes up. “What, you can’t say ‘blowjob’? Katsudon, you’re ridiculous.”
Yuuri swats at him, laughing.
“You have to ignore what Yura says,” Victor says with a knowing look at Yuuri, bringing his face to Yuri’s cheek, “and pay attention to what he does.”
“What the hell do you mean by—” but Yuri can’t finish because Victor’s lips are stealing the words from him, fitting over his own with an insistence Yuri can't deny, can't escape and doesn't want to. He forgets entirely what they were talking about.
After he's rendered Yuri boneless, Victor twists to drop a kiss on Yuuri’s upturned mouth, then another, a third, until he’s tasting Yuuri as thoroughly as he did Yuri. With a last, lingering embrace and a shameless grope of Yuri's ass, he pulls away. (He probably groped Yuuri, too, but Yuuri's so used to it that he doesn't even react anymore. Yuri, meanwhile, still squawks and jumps every time, which only seems to encourage him.)
“You cooked,” Victor says to Yuri. “I’ll finish up in here. Go relax.”
“I won’t argue with that if you won’t,” Yuuri says, catching Yuri’s hand and leading him out of the kitchen to the couch. “Clean fast!” he calls over his shoulder.
It doesn’t take Victor long at all, possibly due to the fact that Yuuri calmly strips Yuri's come-stained shirt off and keeps putting his mouth on him, making no effort to be quiet about it. Yuri couldn’t be quiet if he tried; all his volume control was extracted from him by two very talented people and is currently lying in ruin on the kitchen floor. He can’t be held responsible for the noises he makes when Yuuri sucks lazily at his throat.
“Yuuri!” Victor says as he enters the living room, dropping like a lead blanket over them and forcing all the air from Yuri’s lungs. He's shucked his shirt as well and his bare skin is very warm under Yuri’s hands. “Kiss me, too! I want to find out firsthand what’s making Yura sound like that.”
“Fuck, Vitya, get off,” Yuri wheezes. “I can’t breathe.”
Victor pouts at him but climbs back to his feet. Yuri rearranges Yuuri and himself so that Victor can sit at one end of the couch, then leans back against him once he’s settled, drawing Yuuri with him so they’re both slumped sideways into Victor’s space. The dig of Victor’s hip bone in the small of Yuri’s back is a negligible price to pay for the feeling of being secured between them.
It still blindsides Yuri sometimes, that this is something he’s allowed to have. Yuuri covers him, stretching up to kiss Victor languidly, and Victor is solid behind him, stroking his hair; Potya purrs from her sprawl on the top of the couch while Makkachin lazes by their feet with Yuuri’s toes drifting through her fur and there’s nowhere in the world Yuri would rather be.
When Yuuri finally releases Victor’s lips, he resettles himself in Yuri’s lap and inspects the tiny burns on the inside of his arm.
“They'll be gone by tomorrow,” Yuri says.
“This one won't.” Yuuri brushes careful fingers over the largest welt. “Really, though, you didn't have to make me katsudon.”
“I wanted to. And you won gold. You can’t break tradition.”
Yuuri looks sheepish. “We were going to get takeout from the place across the bridge, like last time.”
“…Oh my god, fuck you,” Yuri says, aiming for an indignant tone and landing in soft exasperation. “That's why your mother kept laughing at me. I'm hiring Yuuko as translator next time. You fuckers, I hate you.”
“You love us,” Victor insists.
Yuri stops short. “I—”
He moved in with them. Is it really going to change anything if he admits out loud what they all know is true?
Which doesn’t mean it’s easy. He ducks his head.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “I really do.”
Victor’s arms lock around him and Yuuri buries him in kisses and, wow, maybe Yuri should say that sort of thing more often.
After, when Yuri has been cuddled from half-hearted protest through to quiescence, Victor queues up reruns of The Last Hero for them to ignore on the television (and Yuuri is a negligent emperor — he supposedly banned this show, yet here they are, an hour or two later, and what are they watching? Old reality TV. Yuri was tiny when this show originally aired. Victor has terrible taste.)
Floating on a slow wave of languor, Yuri lets the rise and fall of Victor’s chest beneath his ear and Yuuri’s blanketing warmth lull him to sleep.
By the time the next Grand Prix Final rolls around, Yuri’s katsudon-making skills have vastly improved, largely helped by one-on-one coaching at Yutopia during the off-season. He’s not yet at Hiroko and Toshiya’s level of expertise, but they’ve given him the Katsuki seal of approval — and a brand new sake set, this one decked out in leopard print.
It’s his favorite gift ever. He uses it whenever he has even the slightest excuse.
Yuuri winning gold at the GPF is definitely an excuse. Yuri makes katsudon again, for Yuuri and for his own silver, which he’s trying not to be bitter about. He’s still got many years left in his competitive career. Victor has only retired to full-time coaching as of this season, and he’ll be turning 31 next week. No way will Yuri not beat that record — he’ll keep skating past Victor’s age, even if purely out of spite. He’ll have plenty of other chances to win gold, plenty of chances to crush Yuuri in competition. Plenty of chances to make victory katsudon for all of them.
Two bottles of sake disappear down their throats by way of leopard-print porcelain. Yuri feels exceptionally pliable.
After dinner, they sprawl all over each other on the couch, only halfway upright. It's a post-competition tradition now and somehow Victor always ends up at the bottom of the pile. Yuri thinks he has a fetish for being crushed.
“Okay, let me see it,” Yuri says.
“I already hung it on the wall, Yurio.”
Yuri doesn’t mean the gold medal. “Shut up, Katsudon, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Vitya, let me see it.”
The two of them disappeared in downtown Prague for hours on Sunday after the gala; they missed the banquet entirely. Yuri has deep suspicions about what they were up to.
Victor, thankfully, knows exactly what he's hinting at, because they’re both fluent in the same dialect of vague implication. He lifts his right hand. The band on his finger is still the same gold one from before they left.
“You didn’t…?” Yuri trails off, bewildered. “And how many gold medals has Yuuri won now?”
“Oh, Yurio,” Yuuri says with dawning understanding. “Of course we didn’t. Not without you.” Every time Yuuri says something like that, Yuri’s heart speeds up like he’s about to skate in competition, excited with a touch of nervousness — plus an added layer of disbelief he’s never felt about skating. He belongs on the ice. He’s never been quite sure of the same when it comes to being here. “But we did get something else.”
Victor squirms under Yuri, reaching in his pocket with a huge grin. The bottom drops out of Yuri’s stomach.
“No. You didn’t.”
“Yes,” Victor says, “we did.”
Victor produces a tiny box and hands it to Yuuri. Yuuri turns it to face Yuri, then opens it.
It’s a ring.
Of fucking course it’s a ring. It matches theirs, all the way down to the cheesy snowflake engraving he’s teased them for so mercilessly.
“We thought it was long past time to make it official,” Yuuri says.
“So what do you say?” Victor asks. He looks more openly vulnerable than Yuri has ever seen him. “Will you wear it?”
Yuri’s eyes are spilling over. It’s— it’s really dry in here. There’s something wrong with his tear ducts. He snatches the box and Yuuri’s hands along with it and cradles the whole jumble of fingers and box and sparkling gold band to his chest for a moment, then rips the ring from its plush casing and shoves it on his finger. He suddenly understands every clichéd photo of the newly-engaged gazing adoringly at their own hands, because all he wants to do is stare at the band of gold.
He’s trying not to smile, trying not to cry, and not succeeding at either. He tugs Yuuri closer and turns his head to bury his face in Victor’s shoulder, and if Victor ends up with tear stains on his fancy designer shirt, it’ll be his own damn fault. Yuri’s voice is thick when he speaks.
“Do you even have to ask?”