Stooping, Yuuri fumbles for the taps on the sink, one-handed and blind. His fingers graze the smooth metal, and he turns the knob before leaning in closer to rinse the soap from his face. His eyes are still screwed shut, palms swiping at the hinge of his jaw to make sure he got it all, when he feels two fingers graze the waistband of his pajama pants.
Yuuri sighs, and the fingers dip below the cloth, finding the curve of a hipbone. A soft terrycloth towel touches his hands, and Yuuri accepts it, dabbing at his face.
“You shouldn’t be up yet,” he mumbles into the towel. “You should go back to bed and sleep in now that you can.”
“Bed’s no fun once you’re not in it,” Victor says. Wrapping an arm around Yuuri’s waist, he tucks himself against his husband’s back and nuzzles into the join of his shoulder. The bare skin of Victor’s chest is smouldering, still warm from the flannel sheets on their bed. Victor’s other hand joins the first, one pressed into the flat muscle of Yuuri’s stomach and the other drifting below his waistband to trace his hips again.
Yuuri relaxes into the touch. This part of their morning routine used to take place in the bed—a few private moments together before they both needed to get moving, and the best possible way to wake up—but this morning Yuuri woke alone at the alarm and slipped out of the bed quietly, trying not to wake his sleeping husband.
He had been missing this.
Victor’s hands forge a new path in warmth and tender touches, then Yuuri yelps.
“Whoops,” Victor says. “Was that too hard?” His tone is all innocence but his eyes are sparkling, reflected in the bathroom mirror as he peers over Yuuri’s shoulder.
“I wasn’t expecting you to pinch me,” Yuuri grouses. He means to sound annoyed, but the pink he can see on his own cheeks undermines the effort.
“I was moved. I saw your butt, and I simply had to…” Victor punctuates his sentence with another pinch, lighter this time. “I love your butt. It’s so round and firm and—” he breaks off on a sigh, running his hand over the globes as if fondly stroking a pet.
“I’m going to miss this,” he murmurs into Yuuri’s neck, his breath stirring up little shivers and prickling Yuuri’s skin. “Will you still love me when my ass is flat?”
Yuuri catches the hand still on his stomach, squeezing Victor’s fingers. “You’ve been retired for three days. You’re not going to fall apart overnight.” He has to drop his gaze to the sink and avoid even his own eyes for the next sentence. “Besides, you have much more to worry about. Once I retire I’ll start to slowly morph into my father.”
“Yeah.” Victor bites Yuuri’s shoulder lightly. “I can’t wait.”
“That’s… sweet, but also kind of gross.” The worst part of it is that Victor’s hand hasn’t strayed from his ass. From a gentle caress, Victor is now tracing Yuuri’s tailbone with a single finger, tickling that sensitive flat space just above his crack. It’s making him feel warm and more than that—hot. Victor’s fingers slip beneath his waistband again, finding that downy patch of skin, and Yuuri’s next breath shudders.
The hand vanishes, and Yuuri expects Victor to pull away to the shower or reach past him for a toothbrush, but instead Victor wraps both arms around his waist. Pulling Yuuri back, Victor buries his face in the nape of his neck. He rocks his hips, pressing the bulge of his cock into the cleft of Yuuri’s ass.
Yuuri pushes back on instinct, and one of Victor’s hands wanders up to his chest, finding a nipple. This is beyond where their morning closeness would usually stop, mindful of the time and a long day still ahead. Yuuri arches back into the touch anyway.
“Yakov is waiting. We— We’ll be late,” he gasps, in case Victor forgot it’s not a rest day.
“No,” Victor murmurs, gentle teeth pressed to the knob at the top of Yuuri’s spine. “You’ll be late. I’m retired, remember?”
Right. They’d agreed he’d try for one last Grand Prix Final. In the press conference after winning bronze, he’d officially announced it. Now, although he’s still up at this unholy hour of morning, there’s nowhere he needs to be.
At the moment, it feels like he needs to be here. Yuuri lets his head fall back onto Victor’s shoulder as his hand drifts down over the soft cotton of Yuuri’s sleep pants to cup the bulge quickly making itself known.
“If Yakov yells at me, I’m going to blame you.”
“Please don’t talk about Yakov when my hand is on your penis.”
Yuuri ought to protest this more, be more conscious of the time, but the press of Victor’s skin against his own is addictive. The last thing he wants is to pry himself away, and the feeling of Victor’s hands on his chest, drifting down, fingers tracing the outline of his cock—it’s quickly eroding any interest he may have had in leaving this room.
Looking up, Yuuri gets caught in the image reflected by the bathroom mirror. Victor looks gorgeous with his hair still rumpled from sleep. There’s a bit of flush staining the bridge of his nose pink, and his eyes glimpsed from beneath sweeping silver lashes are vivid blue.
As Yuuri watches him, not once does Victor lift his own gaze to the mirror. He has a singular focus on Yuuri’s body, as if it’s a puzzle he’s committed to solve. His chin rests on Yuuri’s shoulder, his face tilted down to observe the progress of his own hands and the reactions they leave burning in their wake.
I love you, Yuuri thinks, with a desperation that might be more suited to someone whose love is unrequited, but Victor still makes him feel that way. Fleetingly, a voice whispers that he doesn’t deserve this. Yuuri steps on it.
There’s a tug at the back of Yuuri’s waistband, a questing finger ghosting along the valleys above the cleft of his ass, and Victor’s eyes finally raise to meet Yuuri’s in the mirror, questioning.
Yuuri hesitates. Yes, but— “I have jump drills today.”
“I know,” Victor says. “I have an idea. Trust me?”
Of course he does.
When Victor stoops to reach into the bathroom cabinet, Yuuri knows exactly what he’s looking for. It’s been a while since the lube they stashed in here got any use—there was a point when he first moved in where they had supplies hidden in nearly every room out of necessity.
There’s a click as Victor opens the cap, and then Yuuri yelps. It feels like someone just poured ice water down the crack of his ass.
“Whoops,” Victor says. “Sorry.” He sounds too cheerful to mean it, but then Yuuri’s a bit distracted by the feeling of Victor pushing his own underwear out of the way, the hard length of his cock searing in contrast with the lube as Victor teases the head up and down along the cleft.
Yuuri shivers, pushing back into the touch on instinct, bending forward to brace himself on the bathroom counter. Oh. Oh, yes. Now he can feel the full length of Victor’s cock between his cheeks, and the entire stuttering slide as Victor adjusts and then pushes forward.
In the privacy of the bathroom, the loudest sound is Victor’s breath. It gushes hot across Yuuri’s shoulder and curls in the shell of his ear as Victor moves, sparking little dots of pleasure down the line of Yuuri’s spine. In the mirror, Victor’s hair is mussed, tossed and sticking up from effort, sleep, and mindless pawing. The precious flush on his nose spills onto his cheeks and down to his chest, a secret only Yuuri gets to tell. His hands tighten on Yuuri’s hips as he drives forward, his blue eyes fixated on the curved question mark of Yuuri’s back and the place where their bodies align.
Victor looks up, and his eyes meet Yuuri’s in the mirror. “God,” Victor gasps, never pausing the steady rock of his hips or the tantalizing slide of his cock, teasing and satisfying al at once. “You look incredible like this, darling.”
No matter how often Victor says such things, it’s a shock. Yuuri’s eyes refocus, dragged from Victor’s face, and he meets the deep chocolate gaze of a man he doesn’t even recognize—Eros, perhaps? His pink lips are parted and swollen from biting down on the pleasure, his skin flushed and glistening. He arches his back and clenches down on the cock pressed between his cheeks, and when Victor moans, low and broken, the man in the mirror smiles.
“Yuuri,” Victor pants in his ear, and it pulls Yuuri back into himself. Victor covers one of his hands on the bathroom counter and pulls it free, guiding Yuuri’s hand down to wrap around his own neglected cock.
As he works himself over, Yuuri lets his head fall forward, but he keeps his eyes on the mirror, watching through the curtain of his hair as Victor closes his eyes, bites his lips, his fingers pressing bruises into Yuuri’s hips and thighs that Yuuri too will press at later, the little bursts of pain calling up the memories of his. He clenches again, thinking of it, and Victor cries out.
His orgasm gushes hot onto Yuuri’s lower back and drips, pooling and sliding down his cleft as Victor shakes with release, dropping his forehead to rest on Yuuri’s back. His softening cock is still sliding through the mess, spreading it along Yuuri’s hole, and it’s that—that primal, possessive marking, that makes Yuuri’s hand tighten on his cock.
He comes with a whimper, his eyes closed tight, and Victor presses light kisses against his shoulder blades as he shudders, whispering half-formed endearments in both of their native tongues. The words don't need to translate literally—the emotion comes through with perfect clarity.
Yuuri's more than strong enough to support them both, and he keeps his eyes closed as Victor rests against him, revelling in the comfort of his husband's arms around him, listening to the whispers of air as their breathing slows and quiets.
When he finally looks in the mirror again, Yuuri sees first their faces—hair in disarray, cheeks cooling, but still smiling and satisfied.
Then, his gaze falls to the red glowing numerals of the bathroom clock on the counter. He yelps.
"Oh god. I'm going to be late! Victor—" Yuuri struggles, pushing up against the dead weight draped across his back, and Victor straightens up, taking a step back to free him.
"And now I need to shower too," Yuuri groans. The same slick sensation he found so pleasurable a moment ago is now sticky and horrifying. Something is beginning to drip.
He rushes to turn on the taps in the shower. If he hurries, he might still make it to the rink on time. Not waiting for the water to warm up, Yuuri hops into the shower and winces as the first cold blast hits his back. He reaches out to close the shower curtain and finds an arm baring his way.
"I made the mess," Victor says cheerfully, stepping in behind him. "The least I can do is help clean up."
"No," Yuuri insists, pushing at Victor's pecs. The water is already turning from tepid to pleasant. "No no no. You're going to make me later than I already am!"
Victor's puppy dog eyes could give Makkachin a run for her money any day of the week. The water is misting Victor's neck, gathering in a pool at his collarbone before slicing down over his chest and Yuuri's hands.
When he dashes through the doors at the rink, he's cursing so colorfully under his breath that even Yurio would be impressed, assuming he understood all five of the languages Yuuri is switching between. If he can just make it to the locker room and get into his skates before Yakov notices—
"Katsuki!" Yakov's bellow cuts right through the music playing and the chatter of the other skaters. "You're fifteen minutes late!"
"I know, Coach," Yuuri says, bowing deeply and repeatedly. "I'm sorry." Bow. "It won't happen again." Bow.
"Laps," Yakov barks. "Ten outside around the rink. Start running."
"Yes, Coach," Yuuri gasps, but as he turns for the door, Yakov's voice arrests him again.
"And Yuuri—don't let that husband of yours rub off on you so much!"
Yuuri drops his duffel bag on the floor and starts running even before he reaches the door, hoping he can make it outside before anyone notices how red he turned at the thought of Victor rubbing off on him.