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it's you I want to go on seeing

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Of everything I have seen,
it's you I want to go on seeing;
of everything I've touched,
it's your flesh I want to go on touching.
I love your orange laughter.
I am moved by the sight of you sleeping.

Pablo Neruda


They’re tucked away at the end of the long basement hallway, in a dressing room that’s barely larger than a closet. Still, it’s privacy, and as Victor closes the door behind him, garment bag in hand, Yuri’s world abruptly narrows down to this small space, nothing more than a chair, a mirror, and Victor. 

There’s hardly any need for words now. 

Victor gestures gracefully with one black-gloved hand and Yuri feels something settle deep within his chest. Slowly, licking his chapped lips, Yuri tugs out of his warmups, feeling his skin ripple with gooseflesh as the cold air washes over him. The jacket falls into a puddle on the floor between their feet. 

Victor tilts his head, expectant. 

Yuri swallows and skins out of his sweatpants, watching the way Victor watches him, blue-green eyes tracing over the lines of his body. The sweatpants join his jacket on the floor, followed by his shoes and socks. 

He looks up at Victor’s face from over the rims of his glasses, waiting. 

There is a faint rustle as Victor places the garment bag over the back of the chair, and then pulls off his gloves, revealing long, slender fingers that look almost delicate against the black of his suit, his golden ring glittering with captured sunlight. 

The sound of the garment bag being zipped open echoes loudly in the room, punctuated by the rattle of Yuri’s unsteady breath. The costume spills into Victor’s bare hands like liquid darkness, studded with crystals that catch the light and dapple its reflection across Victor’s face. 

Victor had been dazzling when he’d worn this, the pale ribbon of his hair swirling around him as he’d danced across the ice. He’d moved like flowing silk, like grace personified, mesmerizing in ways that Yuri’s twelve year-old self was only starting to comprehend. 

Even now, under the harsh fluorescence of the lone overhead light, Victor is beautiful, as though his every line and curve was a labour of love by a master artist. 

Victor holds out his arms, costume draped over them like a bride, and Yuri slides his own arms alongside Victor’s to receive the garment. Their eyes meet, just for a moment, before Yuri sits down on the chair, and Victor sinks down to his knees. 

Yuri closes his eyes and tries to breathe. He feels a light touch to his left foot, and he raises it obediently, pointing his toes to allow Victor to ease a gel sleeve onto his ankle. The other foot follows, and then the thin socks that go up to his calves. Victor’s hands are steady as they slide up and down his legs, his touch methodical and unhurried. Broad palms cup his heels, and gentle fingers run along the length of his soles, skimming over the arches and closing, carefully, over his toes. 

Yuri opens his eyes and looks down. Victor smiles, slow and easy, and presses a kiss to the big toe of his right foot. 

Heat blooms across Yuri’s cheeks, and he swallows, throat suddenly dry. 

Victor leans back into a crouch, keeping one hand looped around Yuri’s right ankle in a loose grip. He’s still smiling, shadows softening the edges of his jaw and chasing the fringe of his hair. Yuri’s mouth can’t help but curve back in affectionate echo, the tip of his tongue darting out to wet his upper lip. 

Victor’s hold tightens, just a touch, before he releases Yuri’s ankle. 

Yuri lets the costume pool freely in his lap, unzipping the side and back zippers. The mesh sleeve catches the ring on his finger as he runs his hands over the fabric, smoothing out the wrinkles. He looks up, and meets Victor’s gaze steadily. It’s time. 

There’s a fleeting bit of warmth as their hands graze, the costume passing from his grasp back to Victor’s. Victor accepts it gravely, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. He bends forward, the top of his head nearly touching Yuri’s knees, his shoulders filling the expanse of Yuri’s vision. 

Yuri watches as Victor scrunches the legs of the costume and slips it over his feet. The familiar fabric clings like a second skin as it slithers past the gel sleeves on his ankles. Yuri can feel the heat of Victor’s hands radiating through the cloth, the faint tickle of his fringe on Yuri’s skin, and the lightest pressure of his mouth on the bend of Yuri’s knee. 

Yuri breathes, and Victor repeats the kiss on his other knee, before he finishes sliding the costume up and over Yuri’s legs, pausing occasionally to re-align the seams. His hands finally come to a rest on Yuri’s thighs, and he rocks back onto his heels. Yuri braces against Victor’s shoulders and rises from his seat, feeling the flex of muscle as Victor drags the fabric over his hips. Victor’s face is mere centimeters away, so close that Yuri can feel the hot huffs of Victor’s breath -- quick and shallow -- against his skin. 

Victor leans forward again, one hand slipping under the asymmetrical skirt as he reaches back to cup Yuri’s rear, smoothing his palms firmly over the curve, and tracing his fingertips gently down the center seam. Yuri’s back arches, closing the scant distance between them and brushing his bare stomach against Victor’s jaw. A day’s worth of stubble scrapes against the soft, tender skin there, sending sensation sparking like live current through his body. He gasps, ragged and startlingly loud in the quiet space, his fingers digging into the material of Victor’s jacket. 

Victor withdraws, looks up. His eyes are dark with intent, and his lower lip is red, like he’s been biting it. A faint blush is visible across the tops of his cheeks, and something in Yuri glows at the knowledge that he’s not the only one affected by this, the only one who feels like his skin is stretched too tight to accommodate the want swelling inside him. 

There’s a tap on Yuri’s arm. He makes his fingers release their grip on Victor’s shoulders, but keeps their gazes locked as Victor rises to his feet. With Yuri out of his skates, Victor is taller than him, broad shoulders made even broader by the cut of the jacket. Victor should look intimidating like this; it wasn’t long ago that he thought Victor looked intimidating even when asleep and in an old jinbei, but here, now, he just looks… solid. Unwavering, immovable. 

Victor’s long, slender fingers wrap around Yuri’s wrists, his thumb tracing small circles against the delicate veins spidering beneath Yuri’s skin. His hair falls in his eyes as he raises Yuri’s arms to inspect them closely, heaving a quiet, unhappy sigh at the half-healed abrasions from the fall Yuri had taken trying to perfect the quad salchow after the Cup of China, and the yellowing bruises marring the inside of Yuri’s elbow from a particularly bad landing on the quad flip. 

Victor lets go of Yuri’s left arm, picks up the mesh sleeve with his newly freed hand, and presses a delicate kiss to Yuri’s wrist, before sliding the mesh over it. He rains gentle kisses on each ugly scrape, each bruise, the caress of his lips sending shivers down Yuri’s spine. Victor kisses all the way up the length of Yuri’s arm, until his mouth is on the stuttering beat of Yuri’s carotid, nosing the soft, flushed skin of Yuri’s throat, and Yuri’s right arm is wrapped in sheer mesh. The left arm follows, and when Victor reaches his neck for the second time, Yuri’s starting to feel a little lightheaded. 

Two fingers slide under his chin and tip his head up, until their eyes meet once more. Victor looks at Yuri, and Yuri lets him look, lets Victor see his red-stained cheeks, his wanton and wanting mouth. Victor’s eyes darken; his gaze flickers down to Yuri’s lips, and his next exhale trembles as it leaves his lungs. His fingers are still on Yuri’s face. Yuri takes hold of them, guides them down to his left hip, and closes them around the open zipper. 

There’s a low hiss as Victor glides the zipper up his side, and the costume envelops him like an embrace, familiar and beloved. Victor’s hands follow, molding against the curves and planes of his body, like a sculptor working beauty out of marble or clay. The warmth of Victor’s touch sinks into his skin, pooling low and urgent in his belly, making him tremble. Yuri’s breath is loud and rasping in his ear. 

Somewhere, distantly, Yuri registers a slight pressure against his shoulders, and his body moves instinctively, shifting to turn away from Victor. Warm fingers trace along the bare skin of Yuri's back, lightly ghosting over his bare shoulders and coming to a gentle rest just above the end of the second zipper on his costume. 

A huff of hot breath and a brush of soft lips are his only warning, before he feels the wet, searing touch of Victor’s tongue. Yuri’s whole body jerks, a cry slipping from his throat before he can bite it back, as Victor presses a trail of languid, open-mouthed kisses up the column of Yuri’s spine. The zipper follows the path of Victor’s mouth, covering each kiss as if it’s tucking away a secret. Yuri is panting for air by the time Victor reaches the nape of his neck, like he’s just done a Short Program and a Free Skate back to back. 

Victor’s tongue draws two diagonal strokes on the left side of Yuri’s neck, then moves on to the right side. 

Yuri shudders, moaning helplessly. His neck is sensitive as is, even without Victor’s tongue painting his initials onto Yuri’s skin, like an artist signing a masterpiece. Yuri’s lips stutter over the first syllable of Victor’s name, knees buckling. Victor’s arms are around him in an instant, pulling him close. Yuri lets himself sag against Victor’s firm chest, knowing that Victor can easily support his weight. He tips his face into the collar of Victor’s shirt, and inhales deeply, taking in the clean, wintry scent of Victor’s cologne.

“Yuri,” Victor says, breaking the quiet for the first time. 

Yuri lifts his head from soft wool and fine cotton. Victor’s fingers catch his cheek, turns his face towards the full length mirror that Yuri’s forgotten was even there. Victor’s eyes meet Yuri’s in the reflection for a brief moment, heavy-lidded and brimming with covetous heat. And then, slowly and deliberately, he draws his gaze down the length of Yuri’s body. 

“Look,” he murmurs, hot against the curve of Yuri’s ear. “You’re so beautiful.” 

The naked desire in Victor’s voice is intoxicating. Yuri shivers, letting his eyelids flutter shut for a moment, before opening them again. His reflection looks back at him, dark eyes fringed with darker lashes, set in startling contrast against the cream of his skin. His cheeks are flushed a delicate pink, and his red, parted lips look like he’s just been kissed -- or that he wants to be. The costume molds perfectly to the contours of his body, the sleek lines of the left half melding effortlessly with the sinuous curves of the right. Against the inky black of Yuri’s hair and costume, Victor’s pale coloring seems to glow, making him look almost angelic. His larger frame brackets Yuri’s silhouette, his arms curving like soft parentheses. 

They look good together. They look right

Something of that must show on Yuri’s face, because Victor’s lips curve into a pleased, proud smile. “You see,” he says, and it’s not a question. 

Yuri smiles back, first at Victor’s reflection, and then at the real Victor behind him. He turns in the circle of Victor’s arms, takes off his glasses, and slides them into the inside pocket of Victor’s jacket, before he reaches up, grabs hold of Victor’s necktie, and pulls. Victor comes willingly, eagerly, eyes closed, trusting Yuri to slot their mouths together. Yuri kisses him slowly, focusing first on Victor’s upper lip, then his lower, until he moans and opens his mouth for Yuri’s tongue. 

Yuri breaks the kiss with an audible smack, relishing the way Victor chases after his mouth for a final touch of his lips. He pulls back, and waits for Victor to open his eyes again before he says, softly but firmly, “Watch me.” 

Victor beams, and places a reverent kiss to the skin-warmed gold on Yuri’s finger. “Always.”