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gays on ink: an epic love story

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“Yuuri,” Yuuko says warningly, very slowly, her voice going low as she creeps a little closer, “Don’t panic, but Victor is coming towards us.”

 

His eyes widen, and he can feel his cheeks get red, “H-here?” he squeaks out, fingers tightening around the straps of his bag, swallowing and trying not to run away. His hands are sweaty.

 

“He’s gonna blow,” Takeshi mutters, from where he’s leaning against the wall of school lockers, arms crossed over his chest, looking down at the floor, shuffling his feet, “And I bet he’s gonna blow Victor’s d -”

 

“Takeshi!” Yuuko hisses, whacking him with one of her history books, and he winces, rubbing at his shoulder, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like “you know it’s true”. Yuuko looks like she’s about to scold him again, brow furrowed, her pink lips pursed as she looks at him, but then she startles when they all hear a deep, way too familiar voice.

 

“Hello, Yuuri.”

 

He can feel every muscle in his body tense at once, as if by command, and he shuts his eyes. God, can Victor hear his breathing? Probably, if it’s as half as loud as it sounds to him. Shit. His eyes snap open again. Is he wearing his “I heart Nikiforov” badge? If there is mercy in this world, he’s left it at home, he has to have left him at home -

 

“I love the badge, by the way.”

 

There is no god.

 

“You should probably turn around, Katsuki,” Takeshi offers cheerfully, now giving them his full attention, looking like he’s enjoying himself completely. Yuuko glares at him, sends Yuuri a sympathetic smile, and grabs her boyfriend by the arm, pulling him away, ignoring his half-choked protests.

 

As terrifying as it sounds, Takeshi is actually right for once. So Yuuri turns on his heels, hoping his blush has gone down slightl, and then he’s facing Victor Nikiforov, right there in front of him, for the first time since he was ten.

 

Unfortunately, Victor is still unfairly and breathtakingly beautiful.

 

His hair looks a bit darker than when he was fourteen (and Yuuri totally doesn’t have a chart in his rooms that’s titled “the variation of pigment in Victor Nikiforov’s hair affected by time and meteorological phenomena”, and Mari never found it. It never happened.), but it somehow works, as if he’s aged (like a fine wine, Minako would say, winking and elbow jab included) in every way possible. Victor remains the tallest person Yuuri has ever known, easily towering over him, lithe and slim, with an almost irritatingly perfect nose (but nothing about Victor could ever be irritating) and endless blue eyes.

 

“Yuuri,” Victor smiles, looking pure and angelic and too much , “There’s usually two people in a conversation, you know.”

 

He startles, looking down at his feet and blushing again, because god , he’s so embarrassing. “Y-yeah, sorry. What did you want to say?”

 

Victor takes a step forward. Just a tiny one, about as big as his self-confidence, but it still feels like he’s crowding Yuuri, because damn it, he’s not used to this. Every person in this planet should get an adjustment period to Victor Nikiforov before getting to see him at less than two meters away.

 

“Well, I wanted to ask if we could work together for our end of the year project,” Victor cocks his head, smiling again, his hair falling into place as he leans closer to Yuuri, his school uniform jacket, slightly open, giving him a glimpse of his collarbones.

 

“Our p-project?” Yuuri squeaks. He sounds like a mouse being tortured.

 

“Yeah,” Victor smiles, “I want to paint you. I could be the model for you, too, if you wanted.”

 

Yuuri can see the headlines: High School Student Deceased After Deadly Encounter With Dangerous Local Playboy. His mother gives a statement in page 3.

 

“You want to paint me,” Yuuri repeats, not sure he’s hearing right.

 

“That’s right,” Victor beams, cheeks a bit pink, “I think you’re beautiful!”

 

“You think I’m b-beautiful,” Yuuri isn’t sure this isn’t another one of his weird dreams Mari likes to tease him about. Well. They end with fewer heart attacks and more ridiculously sappy hand holding.

 

“Who wouldn’t?” Victor gives him a teasing smirk, gesturing with his hands at him, and Yuuri turns away a little, coughing to hide the strangled sound in his throat.

 

“So?” Victor gets even closer to him, almost cornering him against the lockers, and Yuuri holds his bag up to shield himself, only remembering belatedly he still has the “I heart Nikiforov” badge on it, and decides that he’s going to burn it when he gets home.

 

Or maybe. Maybe he’ll just leave it in his box, with the other...stuff.

 

“Would you be alright with being my inspiration, Yuuri?” Victor asks, hushed and warm, looking at him with such intensity that it burns.

 

And Yuuri...well, he’s never been good at running away from danger.

 

 

“So let me get this straight,” Yuuko starts again.

 

“There’s nothing straight about these two,” Takeshi mutters from Yuuko’s bed, reading his economy textbook. She throws a pen at him, and he pouts. Yuuri worries about their relationship, sometimes.

 

Moving on ,” Yuuko says pointedly, “Victor asked you to be his model for his art project, and for him to be yours, and you accepted.”

 

Yuuri nods, holding Yuuko’s puppy patterned blanket up so he can cover the most of his face, wiggling his feet into the mattress. He hums.

 

“But Yuuri…” she looks a little lost, “You aren’t even taking Art this year!”

 

“I do projects for Minako. How hard can it be?” he tries, desperately wanting her to be less reasonable about this than he knows she’ll be.

 

“Oh, I bet Victor’s gonna be very hard -”

 

“Takeshi, I will kill you.”

 

 

When Yuuri was ten, and he was a chubby ball of excitement and collected pictures of puppies he saw on the street, he decided he was in love with Victor Nikiforov, and promptly confessed to him. In the middle of class. History class, while they were studying the concept of homosexuality in ancient Greece.

 

He turned around and saw Victor sitting there on the desk across from him, doodling lazily on his notebook and huffing, his long, beautiful hair falling down his shoulders, and told him, with a big smile on his face, “I love you, Victor!”

 

To this day, he has and will never forget the frozen look on the other boy’s face, paralyzed, as if he was on completely uneven ground, the giggles from all his classmates, who laughed and pointed and teased, and the frown on his teacher’s face.

 

A few days later, he was “the fag” and “a sissy”, and he went home and cried his eyes out, until Vicchan was whining because he didn’t get why Yuuri was so upset. His school phoned his mother, and two weeks later, Yuuri Katsuki changed class, to sit beside Yuuko, who smiled at him sweetly and offered him a gummy bear, and never spoke to Victor again.

 

 

Yuuri has Victor’s number, and he’s panicking.

 

Victor gave it to him shortly after he agreed to partner up for the project together, holding out a piece of paper and scribbling on it before handing it to Yuuri, still smiling.

 

“Call me, will you?” he said, as if it wasn’t the most groundbreaking thing Yuri ever heard, “We need to meet up to talk about our...project.”

 

And then he winked . He actually winked . At Yuuri .

 

Yuuri saved it in his phone as “Victor”, no last name, and he can see his profile picture, just a selfie of him with his poodle, laughing and posing almost unconsciously. His status reads “Victor, globally known painter and Nutella enthusiast. Follow me on twitter, tumblr or everywhere, if you’re a stalker!”.

 

It feels personal.

 

He’s staring at his phone screen, biting his lip and trying to work up the nerve to actually press on the call button, when his door flies open.

 

“Yuuri,” Mari sighs, walking into his bedroom, “Where did you put the -?”

 

She notices the phone, and because having and older sister is one of the most trying things in Yuuri’s life, of course she notices the picture.

 

“Wait,” Mari freezes, lips curling into a smirk, “How did you get Nikiforov’s number? Was it on his webpage? Did you steal his phone during break?”

 

“No!” Yuuri scowls at her, quickly hiding the phone beneath his pillow and glowering at her, “I’m not a stalker, Mari!”

 

“Sure you aren’t,” she says sweetly, rolling her eyes, “Then how come you’ve got your beloved’s contact?”

 

He hesitates. “He...asked me to call him,” he admits, in a tiny whisper.

 

His sister’s eyes widen, and she the teasing look fades from her eyes, “Really?” when he nods, she lets out an incredulous whistle, “They say to follow your dreams, and you did it, kiddo.”

 

Yuuri flushes, looking down and pressing his arm tighter on his pillow to keep his phone safe, “It’s not like that. It’s...for a project.”

 

“If that boy doesn’t know you’re crazy for him, then I reckon he’s a bit braindead, Yuuri.”

 

“Yeah,” Yuuri sighs, turning away, “Whatever.”

 

“Yuuri?” a muffled voice comes from beneath his pillow, and both he and Mari jump, staring at it, “Yuuri, is that you?”

 

Yuuri stares at Mari, pleading, pointing at the phone and then at the window. Please, throw it away .

 

His sister narrows her eyes and gestures at him to pick it up, turning to leave. She smirks and throws him a kiss over her shoulder as she leaves. Because she’s evil.

 

“Yuuri, are you there?” Victor, Victor , says again, and Yuuri scrambles for his phone, taking it into his hand and pressing it against his ear.

 

“Yeah, I’m here!” he blurts out, way too loud and way too overjoyed, “I’m sorry, I pressed the button on accident.”

 

“Oh,” Victor sounds a bit weird. Like he’s...disappointed? No. No, that can’t be. “Well, that doesn’t mean we can’t use this time to talk, Yuuri! I feel we have so many great things to discuss.”

 

“Um, yeah. I think so, too.”

 

“But we should do it in person, Yuuri,” Victor carries on cheerfully, and he can hear him moving around somewhere, objects knocking against something, probably his desk. “I feel people are so much more honest when they’re face-to-face, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

“I guess? W-where are we meeting, then?”

 

“I could just go to your house, Yuuri,” Victor offers, polite, because he’s perfect like that.

 

Yuuri looks up from where he’s wringing his hands together in his laps, nervous, heart beating way too fast, and looks at his 73 copyrighted Victor Nikiforov posters, and the framed picture by his bed, and the copies of Victor’s artwork that he’s got lying on his nightstand.

 

“Maybe it would be better somewhere else,” he chokes out, a bit strangled.

 

“Okay!” Victor agrees easily, “What about the café next to the onsen? It’s lovely!”

 

They’re going. To a café. Together.

 

Yuuri shuts his eyes and agrees weakly.

 

 

“Well, what did you want to talk about?” Yuuri manages to say once he’s got Victor in front of him, wearing a blue sweater and sipping on ridiculously overpriced coffee.

 

“I think we should dye your hair pink for the art project,” Victor announces, looking at him as if to say, Isn’t that a great idea?

 

“What?” Yuuri startles. He swallows, “No, I don’t...I don’t think I want to do that, Victor. I’m pretty sure dyed hair isn’t allowed in the dresscode.”

 

“That didn’t stop you from dying your hair my natural hair colour two years ago,” Victor says, and then cheerfully takes another sip of his coffee, ignoring the desperate, dying sounds Yuuri is making as he prays for a swift demise.

 

“Relax, I was kidding,” Victor assures him, smiling almost fondly, “I just wanted to see if you’d agree to that, too. Seems you’ve got a spine, after all.”

 

Yuuri frowns at him, confused, and he sighs, “You just say yes whenever I talk. It’s a very tiresome way to have a conversation, Yuuri.” His eyes sharpen, “And I know for a fact you’re more interesting than that.”

 

“You’ve got the highest grades in your class, even though you skipped a grade,” Victor starts, holding up his finger, as if he’s listing items on a list, “You volunteer at the animal shelter every weekend, even when it’s exam season. You have never taken Art except when it was compulsory in grade school, but you’ve won five local charcoal portrait contests. And, most importantly,” he smiles at Yuuri, “You look great without a shirt on.”

 

W-what?!

 

“I’ve seen the photoshoot, Yuuri,” Victor smiles innocently, “It was a great magazine spread.”

 

“It was an advertisement for the onsen, oh my god!” Yuuri whines, hiding his face in his hands, “Even my mom was in the onsen! You could see nothing!”

 

“I could see enough to know I liked it.”

 

“This isn’t happening,” he whimpers, and tries not to spontaneously combust at the fact that he’s pretty sure Victor just called him ‘hot’. “It really isn’t.”

 

“I can’t see how you’re so embarrassed, giving you confessed undying love for me at the tender age of ten.”

 

And Yuuri freezes.

 

“Y-you remember that?” he chokes out, feeling all of the oxygen leave his lungs. His heart is beating quickly, and he can’t hear himself over the sound of it in his head, panicked and scared and is he going to laugh - ?

 

“Of course,” Victor says, and his voice is soft, almost tender, “No one can forget such an honest confession, Yuuri.”

His cheeks are flushed.

 

“So,” Victor still sounds tentative, hopeful. He leans away a little, and Yuuri can see that Victor’s face is slightly pink, too. “Would it- um, would it be okay to meet at the art classroom tomorrow afternoon?”

 

“D-didn’t we have to talk about what we have to do first?” Yuuri asks, unsure.

 

“No.” Victor smiles a bit, sheepish, “Models usually just sit there and look pretty, as bad as it sounds. Though it does get quite tiring, I’m told.”

 

“Oh. Then why did you invite me here?”

 

Victor looks down at his lap, and murmurs, “The coffee is good.”

 

For some reason, it makes Yuuri smile and look away, almost giddy.

 

 

did u two fuck yet

 

I hope Yuuko hits you again.

 

mean :‘(

 

did you seriously mssg her to tell her to hit me what a dick

 

:)

 

victor’s dick is what you want

 

Goodnight, Takeshi

 

 

“So...how do you want me to pose?” Yuuri asks, tugging at his sleeves self-consciously.

 

“Naked,” Victor answers immediately, without missing a beat.

 

Yuuri flushes, and he’s grateful the past days have made him realize he’s joking. Because, dear god. “Ha, ha, Victor. So funny.”

 

“I am hilarious,” Victor agrees, but he’s got a disturbingly sincere smile on his lips, which makes Yuuri’s heart beat faster. “Just sit on any chair and get comfortable. Art takes time, and you’ve got gym tomorrow.”

 

Yuuri nods, preparing to sit down, when he realizes what he’s just said. “How do you know I’ve got gym tomorrow?”

 

The tip of Victor’s ears turn suspiciously red, and he mumbles, “I took a wild guess.”

 

It seems absolutely terrifying to even think about it, like something out of parallel universes and old sci-fi films, but maybe, just maybe , Victor has noticed Yuuri, too.

 

He smiles, giddy and feeling ridiculous, wearing his dark jeans and an actually nice shirt (he wanted Victor to paint him looking somewhat decent), and sits down, leaning back slightly.

 

The seconds, and minutes, and hours pass, the art classroom’s clock changing slowly but surely, and Yuuri listens to Victor’s quiet hums and mumbles as he sketches.

 

 

Yuuri was six when he met Victor.

 

Victor was a year older, and he was so cool , and he wore pretty clothes to school every day, and didn’t care when the rest of the boys in class made fun of him. Victor liked colouring and he had his own special pencils.

 

And, most importantly, Victor smiled at him, every day.

 

He would walk into the classroom, his jacket all zipped up to his chin, burying his hands in his pockets, the tip of his nose bright red, and he’d cheerfully greet everyone in class, rubbing at his cheeks, ink on his fingers. But then he’d walk to Yuuri’s desk, which was always at least one desk away from everyone else’s, because Yuuri was weird, chubby, and a year younger; and Victor would beam at him, a full-on grin, and say, “Good morning, Yuuri.”

 

Yuuri confessed in front of his class when he was ten years old, confused and only used to listening to his parents’ stories about love and affection,and how, sometimes, just a quiet gesture from someone could brighten up a person’s day, turn them around and nudge them gently into place. But, if he was honest, he was probably lost when he met Victor in the first place.

 

 

Victor invites him to coffee again to “discuss the way different coloured light affects portrait techniques”. And then to “reflect on the various styles of poses for amateur portraits”. And again, a week later, to “ponder on the evolution in the history of personal portraits”.

 

“You know,” Yuuri dares to say, after the fifth “study session” he’s been invited to, in which they do nothing but sip at their drinks while looking away from each other and awkwardly commenting on the weather, “You could just. Um. Invite me for a coffee, next time. You don’t have to say it’s for the project.”

He shuts his eyes. If he’s read this wrong, he will launch himself into the Sun and escape this hell. And possibly take his merchandise with him, to have some mementos in the afterlife.

 

“Oh,” Victor squeaks, so uncharacteristic and adorable that Yuuri thinks he’s going to pop an artery, “Well, yes, of course. That would...I will do that, from now on. If that is...okay.”

 

“It is,” he says quickly, too eager to be embarrassed.

 

“I’m glad,” Victor mumbles, and finally looks at him, blue eyes shiny and happy, “I’m really glad.” He pauses, “But I will, of course, still quiz you about art history. I hope you took notes.”

 

“No, you won’t,” Yuuri snorts, feeling his cheeks flush, “You’re such a dork.”

 

“E-excuse me?!”

 

“Victor Nikiforov, most famous painter in the world, is a huge art dork, and he drinks shitty coffee,” he tells him, barely managing to keep himself from giggling.

 

“That’s not true!” Victor whines, pouting and leaning closer to him, over the table, “Lies! All lies!”

 

Yuuri’s breath catches. Victor’s so close , his eyes so devastatingly blue, and he can count the number of eyelashes he has, can feel a hint of his warm breath against his face, can feel his own heartbeat skyrocket.

 

Victor seems to realize just where he is, just out of reach, and his cheeks flush immediately after. He quickly goes back to his seat, looking away once more.

 

“Lies,” he mutters again, his neck red, “I am not a dork.”

 

 

Hanging out with Victor means Yuuri meets Yuri, after a while, and it’s an extremely overwhelming situation.

 

Victor and he are ‘just chilling’ at the park, sitting on a wooden bench, because Victor insists that it helps his ‘creative aura’, whatever that means, and Yuuri’s trying as hard as he can not to think about how close they are, about the way Victor’s kind-of leaning closer to him, their ankles almost touching. If he moves, he could brush Victor’s parka.

 

He sets his lips in a firm line, and tries harder. Come on, Yuuri, control your gay .

 

“Victor?” calls out an incredulous, haughty voice, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

 

A blond kid, about a year younger than Yuuri, is walking up to  them, hands stuck in the pockets of his red and blue hoodie. He looks like an angry kitten who decided he wants to fight.

 

“Oohhh, Yuri!” Victor exclaims happily, and turns to Yuuri, brushing their arms together in the process and making him shiver involuntarily, “Yuuri, meet Yuri Plisetsky.”

 

“Wait,” Yuuri freezes, “ You ’re Yuri Plisetsky?! The best watercolour artist in like, forever ?”

 

Yuri Plisetsky (holy shit ) looks at Victor, frowning, “What’s wrong with this guy?”

 

“He likes to fanboy,” Victor says, and he almost sounds fond , “Yuri is what some people call, ‘my protegé’. What that means is he paints, he yells at me until I tell him what I think about it, and then he redoes it without actually following any of my advice.”

 

Yuri huffs, lifting his chin up, “Whatever, Nikiforov. I only go to you because Yakov makes me, not ‘cause you’re talented.”

 

“Yakov?” Yuuri breathes, eyes wide, turning to stare at Victor and lunging himself at him, grabbing him by the front of his jacket, “ You meet with Yakov, who is like, the Da Vinci of the twenty-first century and you didn’t tell me ?

 

Victor stammers, looking at anywhere but Yuuri’s face, cheeks red, “U-um, yeah. I am, after all, extremely famous. C-could you let go of me now?”

 

“Oh,” Yuuri immediately releases him, mortified that he actually did that, pretty sure his cheeks are burning too, “I’m, uh, I’m sorry.”

 

Yuri snorts and rolls his eyes, “Gay.”

 

Yuri!

 

 

Victor brings him four signed Yakov pieces, after two days of pouting and huffing irritably, and Yuuri forgives him, because he’s weak like that.

 

...



Yuuko smiles at him sweetly from where she’s sitting in front of him, resting her head on her crossed arms on the library table, “So, did you get ‘coffee’ with Victor again?”

 

“And by coffee,” Takeshi adds, not even looking up from his history textbook, “she means the d-”

 

“He knows what I mean!”

 

Yuuri buries his face in his hands, “I hate you both so much.”

 

His friend huffs, looking at him, a more restrained smile on her lips, “I’m really happy for you, Yuuri.”

 

He flushes, looking down and scratching the back of his neck, nervous, “I don’t...we’re not...it’s not…”

 

“Katsuki,” Takeshi says, startling him, “Make sure he isn’t using you, alright? I know you worship the guy, but some people take advantage of that, and I don’t want to see you getting hurt, you feel me?”

 

Both he and Yuuko stare at Takeshi, dumbfounded. Yuuri’s pretty sure his jaw is touching the floor, and Yuuko’s eyes are wide.

 

He seems to notice their reaction, and his neck goes red. He mutters something about “fuck you both” and hunches his shoulders, hiding behind the textbook, grumbling. It’s oddly endearing, and Yuuri can kind of see why Yuuko likes him so much, even if he wouldn’t touch that with a ten foot pole.

 

“Thanks, Takeshi,” he murmurs, touched. He thinks of Victor, paying for the coffee every time they go out, saying he’s ‘going to the toilet’ and then pulling Yuuri along with him when he gets out of the café, a sheepish grin on his face, dodging Yuuri’s attempts to go back and pay. He thinks of the way Victor knows where the onsen is, and how he memorized Yuuri’s schedule, and asked him about Yuuko and Takeshi the first week they started hanging out, despite the fact that he’d never mentioned them. He thinks of the way Victor’s cheek flush when Yuuri takes his jacket off to start posing, and the quiver in his voice when Yuuri asks if he’s okay. He thinks of how unsure he feels, sometimes, when he doesn’t know if Victor really likes him, or if he’s just his pet project, something to pass the time with. And he remembers the way Victor smiles at him now, after a while of being, tentatively, friends, the same way he smiled when he was seven years old, all bright and unguarded, like he’s another person, nothing he’s ever seen on pictures or his posters. And he says, feeling his heart skip a beat, “But I don’t think you should be worried about that.”

 

 

After two weeks of posing and nine days of Victor whining and pouting because “I hate art so much, oh my god why are lines so haaaard, and they take so looong , Yuuri” (and Yuuri trying not to die at hearing that sentence), Victor decides that he’s finished his piece.

 

“It’s not very good,” he mutters, standing in front of Yuuri in the art classroom, fidgeting and not looking at him, “I always get your smile wrong.”

 

“Victor,” Yuuri raises an eyebrow, feeling way too fond of Victor’s strange habits, “You’re literally the best artist in the portrait scene at the moment. And you’re seventeen . I’m pretty sure this will just be some more amazing work.”

 

Victor flushes, a bit, like he always does when he gets praised by Yuuri (which confuses him; shouldn’t Victor be used to praise already? He is world famous…), mumbling and running his fingers through his glorious, silky, soft to the touch , hair. He turns and searches for the carton with the drawing in his bag (he’s got a leopard patterned bag, for some reason, even though Victor snorts when Yuuri asks him if he really likes animal patterns that much and just says, “It’s all Yuri’s fault.”), taking it out and cautiously handing it to Yuuri.

 

“If you hate it,” Victor warns him, “you better lie convincingly.”

 

God, he’s adorable.

 

Yuuri takes off the carton, and woah .

 

Victor told him to pose however he was comfortable, so Yuuri just kind of sat in his chair, trying to sit as straight as he could (which is a complicated endeavour for someone sitting in front of his big gay crush), chin held high. But after about half an hour, he gave up, hurting everywhere, and relaxed, slumping a bit in his chair and trying to distract himself looking out the window, concentrating on not looking very dumb.

 

Victor’s drawn him the way he sat the third or fourth day, when he was exhausted after a two hour class with Minako, who shouted at him because “What type of charcoal artist forgets that ink stains, Yuuri ?!”, sitting backwards, with his arms crossed over the back of the chair, resting his chin and looking at Victor, glasses falling down the bridge of his nose, hair rumpled. He remembers asking Victor if it was okay for him to do that, and Victor’s strangled, “Um, i-it’s fine.”. What he doesn’t remember, though, is the way the shadows that Victor painted flicked across his face, the strange light in his eyes, the odd quirk of his mouth, as if undecided between a smile and a smirk, or the window in the background, letting the sunlight in just enough for himself to be visible, shadows surrounding him. The room is coloured in dark greys, greens and browns, almost smudged, as is Victor’s characteristic ‘elegant fingerpainting’ style, and  Yuuri looks like a mixture of darkness and light in the centre, the chair copper beneath his arms. He actually...he looks beautiful , somehow.

 

“...Oh,” he says, and his voice shakes.

 

“I knew it,” Victor moans, covering his face with his hand, “You hate it, don’t you? Just- let me- I can change it -”

 

“No,” Yuuri holds the drawing close to his chest, strangely protective, as if just taking it away would be a crime, “No, I love it. But you draw me way too pretty , Victor. Artistic license doesn’t go that far.”

 

“I just...I draw what I see,” Victor murmurs, and his eyes are impossibly blue again. There’s no air Yuuri’s lungs.

 

“W-wait a second,” he blurts out, slowly giving back the drawing and turning to his own backpack, taking his books out until he finds his art folder. He carefully takes off the protective paper, careful not to smudge anything, and closes his eyes, holding his arm out, his drawing in front of you, “Here.”

 

“What?”

 

“It’s my drawing. Of you.”

 

“But,” Victor looks confused, “But I haven’t posed for you yet.”

 

“I draw from memory,” Yuuri gives a self-deprecating shrug, a bit sheepish, “And, uh, I don’t know if you notice, but I spend a lot of time watching you. Not in a creepy way,” he adds hastily.

 

Victor giggles, a little, hiding his mouth with his hands and looking at the folder with wide eyes, “I noticed, Yuuri. It’s a bit hard not to.”

 

“Oh, shut up,” he reddens, “Just look at the drawing, okay?”

 

Victor does, and his eyes widen a bit more, fingers touching his lips. Yuuri blushes even harder, ducking his head, “It’s, uh, it’s what I first noticed about you. I know it’s very...simplistic, and it’s charcoal, so it doesn’t have much colour by nature. But I...I  really wanted to draw it. It really sucks, sorry. I know I can’t compare it to yours.”

 

He’s drawn Victor smiling, the way that makes his heart skip a beat, in that natural radiance that he gives out like he’s swimming in it. It’s just him smiling, and the drawing only shows his head and neck, a dark background behind his face, but somehow, Yuuri feels like it’s one of the most important drawing he’s ever done. Minako had been ridiculously proud when he’d shown it to her.

 

“Yuuri…” Victor whispers, low and half-breathed, like he’s not saying completely consciously. He’s biting his lip, anxious. He isn’t really sure how Victor will take the drawing. What if he just ruined everything? What if Victor thinks he’s a stalker, like Mari says? What if -?

 

He stops thinking, because Victor’s kissing him.

 

Yuuri lets out a humiliating squeak when he feels Victor’s soft, so soft , lips on his, pressing with full force. Victor’s crowding him against the teacher’s table in the art classroom, and his hands are wandering, touching Yuuri’s cheeks softly, almost revering, fingers shaking slightly. Yuuri closes his eyes, because maybe he can keep dreaming for a little longer if he doesn’t see reality. Victor’s applying more pressure now, until Yuuri gasps, opening his mouth, and he slids his tongue inside, hot and slippery and god, Yuuri’s going to die. He’s making tiny, embarrassing noises, hands coiled into a fist on the desk, trying not to fall on top of it, and he can’t believe this is happening. Victor licks into the inside of his mouth, just taking it, and he fights not to squirm,  shivering. It only gets worse when he licks his neck , pressing fluttering kisses against Yuuri’s skin, and he arches his back just a little, feeling his heart beating fast and his skin warm, trembling.

 

“V-Victor, s-stop,” he manages to breathe after a few minutes of whimpering and trying not bury his face into Victor’s collarbone. He does, immediately, looking up with feverish blue eyes, lips red and god . “I n-need to know, what is this? P-please don’t do this if you don’t-  if you don’t mean it, Victor, I couldn’t take it -”

 

“I do mean it, Yuuri Katsuki,” Victor murmurs, voice low, sending shivers down his spine, “You...I don’t think you understand just how obsessed I am with you, Yuuri.”

 

“W-what do you mean?”

 

“You said you loved me,” Victor whispers against his skin, hands burying themselves in Yuuri’s t-shirt, “When I was eleven. I hadn’t even painted anything good yet. I dressed weird, and I had a Russian accent, and you declared your love for me in front of a class of kids.” His eyes fall shut, “And then you kept being kind , and shy around me, and you bought all my paintings, but you also asked about me when I was sick, and I know you were the one who made Natasha bring me soup that one time. I barely managed to ask you about my art project. You just… you’re too lovely for anyone not to want to worship you, Yuuri.”

 

“W-what?” he chokes out, feeling like his heart is about to burst out of his chest, “I’m not- I don’t- me ?”

 

“Who else, Yuuri?” Victor laughs, tickling his neck, giving him a playful kiss on the cheek, “You’re a dork, too, you know.” He pauses, looking unsure, “I-is it okay if I keep going? I, um, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

 

“God, please do,” Yuuri urges him, and Victor laughs again, actively tickling Yuuri now with his tongue, making him wiggle in his arms and whine, and then shutting his whining off with dizzying kisses.

 

 

“So, Victor,” Takeshi starts, grinning, and Yuuri narrows his eyes, putting his hand over Victor’s mouth so he doesn’t say anything.

 

“Shut up, Takeshi, I know what’s coming.”

 

“Oh, I know who ’s coming tonight,” his friend teases, waggling his eyebrows, and Yuuri groans.

 

Yuuko sighs and hits him with her pencil case, making Takeshi pout and glare at Yuuri. Victor, for his part, looks like he’s contemplating Takeshi’s words.

 

Which, um. Maybe now isn’t the best time to think about that holy shit.

 

“You have interesting friends, Yuuri,” Victor says, after a few seconds, and Yuri, from where he’s playing games on his phone, snorts.

 

“That’s gay.”

 

How is that gay, Yuri?!”

 

Yuuri snorts, leaning against Victor’s chest and continuing to read the novel he’s supposed to finish for his literature class tomorrow. He wants to sleep, curled up with Victor in the park, his friends  chatting idly, Victor’s poodle (that he cried two hours about when he met him, sniffling and sobbing “He’s j-just s-so cute, Victor,” while his boyfriend looked panicked and tried to comfort him) running circles around them.

 

Well. He could always doze off for a few minutes.

 

“Wake me up in ten minutes, will you?” he mumbles, clinging to Victor, “I need to read.”

 

“Of course I will,” Victor lies shamelessly, and Yuuri closes his eyes, a fond smile on his lips.