For Victor, living with Yuuri was… awful.
Victor hated it. Couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t take it. Couldn’t go on with it.
Because Yuuri was so… frustrating.
All his habits, the way he chose his words, how he moved. Victor had not noticed it so much when living with Yuuri in Hasetsu, because there were always other people around to take the focus off how every little thing that Yuuri did could drive Victor to the edge of insanity.
But now there was no one else around and Victor noticed.
Noticed how dangerously distracting Yuuri was.
And it was painful. Quite literally.
Like the first morning after Yuuri had moved in.
The overnight chill of St. Petersburg had crept past the double-paned windows of Victor’s apartment and he wanted to personally write a thank you letter to the weather, because Yuuri was flush against him.
In the middle of the night or perhaps early in the morning or whenever because what did it matter when it actually happened, Yuuri had shifted almost fully on top of Victor, body turned into the Russian’s side. The weight of Yuuri’s chest on Victor’s ribcage was wonderful and the side of Yuuri’s face rested under Victor’s collarbone. Each steady breath that Yuuri released graced his skin, tickling sweetly at the crook of his neck, and Victor existed only in bliss.
One of Yuuri’s legs was hooked around Victor’s, hips pushed into Victor’s outer thigh. Their first morning had yet to dawn and Victor was already being driven mad.
He was afraid to move, to breathe. He wanted to lay exactly like that forever. Practice be damned, he and Yuuri could retire early because no medal would ever hope to compare to this.
Because Yuuri was perfect.
The black of his bed-messed hair contrasted the paleness of Victor’s skin, his full lips parted and inviting Victor to greet them good morning, bare skin as soft and warm as the affection radiating from Victor.
And then Victor realized, by the sunlight threatening to break through the cracks in the curtains, that at any moment, his heathen of an alarm might ring and tear his angelically dozing Yuuri away from him.
As carefully as he could, Victor reached out to his side, grasping blindly at the bedside table and the phone that should be somewhere on it. He did not dare turn, especially when Yuuri sighed against him and nuzzled his face into the top of Victor’s pectoral muscle, right above his heart.
If there ever were a better time to die of happiness…
Victor’s fingertips glimpsed the edge of his phone and, as a result, pushed it further away.
Biting back a curse of frustration in order not to disturb Yuuri, Victor very carefully shifted closer to the edge of the bed, convincing himself that he would just tug Yuuri closer against him once he assured the alarm was silenced.
He twisted at the waist a few degrees, the new angle giving him a little bit more reach to grab for his phone and where was that fucking thing because if it went off right before he got to it then it would become very well acquainted with a wall—ah yes, almost there. His fingers wrapped around it just as the edge of the mattress gave out beneath him and Victor tumbled promptly out of bed.
Yuuri, however, simply rolled over and nuzzled into Makkachin’s fur instead, the poodle spread out across half their mattress on the other side.
Rubbing at a sore spot on his hip, Victor sat up, trying not to laugh at himself, glad that Yuuri had not been awake to witness it, and then the alarm blared right into his ear.
Because how was Victor supposed to concentrate on anything regarding step sequences or which edge of his skate any jump was supposed to start off on and who even cared about the number of rotations when there was Yuuri.
Yuuri who looked lost in his own little world at the far end of the rink (which was way too far from Victor), earbuds in as he skated to the music he had selected for his new short program. Victor could not hear it, but again he could see every note floating off Yuuri as he moved to it, his hips swaying each time that he shifted his weight.
Yuuri who stunned everyone with newfound confidence that he brought onto the ice ever since he had arrived in St. Petersburg.
Yuuri who was the whole reason that Victor himself was back at the rink, not just as his coach but also as a fellow competitor.
How was Victor even supposed to think about skating against Yuuri when all he wanted to do was skate with Yuuri?
“Vitya, pay attention!” Yakov’s gruff voice registered on some level and Victor reluctantly drew his eyes away from his gracefully skating Yuuri. He listened to some lecture about jump placement and point calculations and with a complacent nod, Victor pushed off the rink wall to do the half-run that Yakov wanted.
It was fine until Victor went into the build up for a salchow, leaning into the back inside of his skate, ready to push off, and he caught Yuuri’s eyes. Yuuri who had stopped, moved to the wall, and was watching him intensely. Then Yuuri smiled, smiled, so brilliantly and encouraging and delighted, and Victor ate ice.
“Are you almost done?” Yuuri peeked into the kitchen. Victor saw his nose crinkle as Yuuri smelled the air and the little smile which curled the corners of his lips sent ripples of relief through Victor.
“Yeah, give me ten-fifteen minutes? I just need to boil the pasta and throw it in,” Victor replied. He had promised Yuuri a traditional Russian dish for dinner that night. Mila had texted him the recipe for stroganoff, including a note that even he could not mess it up.
“Try to throw it into the pan, okay?” Yuuri teased and then he was at Victor’s side, tilting up on his toes as he pressed his lips to the corner of Victor’s mouth. “I’m going to take out Makkachin.”
Victor buzzed with Yuuri’s kiss and watched his fiancé go, hearing the jingle of Makkachin’s leash and the poodle’s happy bark. When the front door closed with a click behind them, Victor smiled, feeling stupidly in love.
It proved an accurate feeling when he turned back to the pan and smacked the top of this head into the open cabinet door.
The sun had long risen, but there was no pulling Yuuri away from pillows and out from under covers, so Victor let him rest. He spent the first part of morning walking the riverside with Makkachin, letting the poodle chase an occasional pigeon, and then the rest of it answering emails from the living room sofa.
It was shortly before noon that the sound of the shower indicated to Victor that his sleeping beauty was awake. Rising from the sofa, Victor went to make a fresh pot of coffee, because there was nothing much better than the hint of a smile on Yuuri’s lips after he had taken his first sip of the day.
The aroma soon flooded the room and Victor grabbed two mugs, wondering if Yuuri would want to go out that day or if he would want to rest in. They had gotten back late the previous day, having spent the afternoon on a sponsor meeting and the evening at the rink, and both collapsed onto the bed, too exhausted to talk about anything other than the exchange of good nights.
“Mmm… I smell the good coffee…”
Victor poured out a cupful and then glanced over his shoulder at Yuuri. His smile cracked.
Yuuri had wandered in barefoot, his dark hair messed from post-shower towel drying. Blue-frame glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose, he lifted a hand to cover a small yawn and then ruffled it through his still damp hair.
Victor’s eyes traveled up the seemingly endless stretch of Yuuri’s legs, the younger skater clad only in a sinful pair of black boxer-briefs and Victor’s favorite v-neck shirt. It hung loosely off one of Yuuri’s shoulders, showing off collarbone and skin, and Victor dropped the coffee mug.
>> We’re out of toothpaste. And Makkachin’s running low on biscuits.
<< kay, I’ll pick some up \(^o^\)
<< how’s class?
>> My accent is reportedly horrendous though. A bad mix of American and Japanese, she said.
<< your accent’s adorable, love. don’t worry about it. i’ll see you at home?
Victor pocketed his phone when a reply did not come straight back and picked out the last couple of things on their grocery list, along with the toothpaste and a box of dog treats. His phone vibrated once as he paid at the register and he slipped it back out, hanging the bags off his forearm as he headed toward the front of the shop.
>> Yeah, see you at home!
Another message popped up immediately after Victor finished reading that one.
>> Люблю тебя, Витюш
Victor’s heart skipped all sorts of beats and he glanced up from the message in time to crash straight into the store’s sliding glass doors, which apparently were not automatic enough.
The official story was that he had missed a step going down a flight of stairs.
The unofficial story was that Yuuri had rubbed at his own neck as they walked together and Victor noticed how his fingertips lingered on a fading bite mark just behind his ear.
If they had not been right above a landing, Victor might have lost his life right then and there.
Because the way that Yuuri flexed and reached and arched brought to mind nothing that had to do with pre-workout warm-ups and everything that had to do with the kinds of exercise they usually reserved for the bedroom (but felt adventurous enough to expand to the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, the entranceway, and once at the rink showers when they had been certain that everyone else had left).
Victor had a running mental list of which of Yuuri’s stretches he liked best. The thoracic extension stretch, for one, was quite nice. Yuuri was on his knees on the living room floor, reaching forward, fingertips straining for the edge of the carpet, his chest pushed forward the floor, spine concave, his pert ass up in the air above the soles of his feet.
Most of the ones Yuuri had carried over his ballet lessons were amongst Victor’s favorites as well. Like the standing second-position stretch, where Yuuri would raise one leg straight up into the air over his head, making a 180 degree line. They had made great use of that one a couple weeks back, against the wall in the hallway, having been too impatient to make it all the way to the bedroom.
Victor was not quite sure what this new one was called. Yuuri’s legs were butterflied, heels of his feet pulled in all the way to the upper and innermost parts of his thighs. He leaned forward so far his chest was nearly touching the floor, forearms resting on the ground before him. His hips were pushed back and his workout sweats rested low on them. As he stretched even further forward, the back of his shirt slid up, giving Victor a glimpse of skin.
“Ahhh, Victor… can you come here? Push up against me, just a little?” Yuuri’s voice was soft, but breathy, strained with his stretch.
Victor tripped on the rug in his rush to help.
Because it was a year later and Yuuri came in from a morning jog, lips parted with each slightly elevated inhale and exhale, skin of his neck glistening with sweat, his chest heaving just a little, and then he peeled off his damp shirt as he casually walked past Victor to go shower.
Victor knocked over a lamp and broke it.
They needed a new one anyway.
Georgi had lent Victor a case of classic Russian films that had English subtitles. They had been making slow yet steady progress through the collection, although watching them often extended into two separate sessions, for one reason or another.
Victor rested his head on the arm of the sofa, neck propped up by a cushion. Yuuri had snuggled against him, spine curving into Victor’s chest, head tucked under Victor’s chin. Their legs tangled together at the ankles. Victor had never known such a sense of comfort.
That evening, the big screen television played Ivan Vasilievich Changes Profession. Victor had seen it close to twenty or thirty times growing up, having long memorized the sequences, but Yuuri seemed to be enjoying it, chuckling on occasion at the comedy of a Russian czar attempting to comprehend 1970s Moscow.
Victor periodically touched his lips to the top of Yuuri’s head, smelling their shampoo, which was always so much sweeter when the scent of it came from Yuuri’s hair. He stroked his fingers absentmindedly over an exposed portion of Yuuri’s abdomen, adoring the way Yuuri shivered and playfully slapped at his hand if Victor’s fingers tried dipping under the waistline of his jeans.
As the film launched into yet another light-hearted chase sequence, Victor’s phone buzzed on the nearby coffee table and he shifted to pluck it up. Too enamored in laying on the sofa with Yuuri to even consider sitting up, Victor held the phone overhead and typed back a short message to Chris. The Swiss had sent over a photo of him and his boyfriend at what looked like a nudist beach, if the suspiciously pink figures in the background were any indication.
“Hey Yuuri, smile,” Victor said and positioned his phone so he could frame a shot of them together. Yuuri did just that, his shyness brightening the screen, and Victor could not help but kiss the side of Yuuri’s temple as he pressed the shutter button. Yuuri blushed the second after, and the photo came out perfectly so Victor sent it back to Chris. “It’s a really good one, can I post it?”
“Yeah, go ahead.” Yuuri granted and settled back against Victor, small smile still toying his lips. “I like it.”
Victor hummed in agreement and selected a subtle filter, typing out a short caption along with a #athomedatenight, before uploading it. He then scrolled through the rest of his feed, liking a few more photos of Chris’s weekend vacation and one of Yuri feeding neighborhood cats shared by Mila.
He had reached the previous day’s photos when Yuuri turned and slid a knee between Victor’s thighs, skimming his mouth across the dip in Victor’s throat.
Victor’s fingers fumbled and his phone slipped from them, falling and hitting him straight in the face.
“Huh?” Victor glanced back at Yuri.
The blonde teen rolled his eyes and grumbled, “Why’d I even bother?”
Yuri had come over to their apartment, muttering about needing a proofreader for an assignment. He followed up the request with a glare and sharp words at Victor to “say nothing.”
Yuri wanted help with homework. How cute.
But what was cuter was the fact that in the kitchen behind them Yuuri was making the three of them lunch, prompted when the teen’s stomach had growled loudly midway through the second paragraph of his essay on classic literature.
“I said— you know what, never mind. Katsudon’s English grammar is better than yours anyway.” Yuri snatched the pages out of Victor’s hands and shoved them into Yuuri’s when the Japanese skater came by with handmade sandwiches and drinks.
Yuuri sat down next the blonde and tapped a pencil against his lips, brown eyes skimming the text. Victor had a very hard time eating, distracted by the furl of concentration in Yuuri’s brows and the movement of his mouth as he advised Yuri about run-on sentences and something about relative clauses. Maybe Victor needed some grammar lessons too.
The kick to his shin was quite unexpected and Victor gasped at the sudden sear of pain, glaring at Yuri as he rubbed the sensitive spot. “What?!”
“You’ve got half a sandwich in your lap, old man, stop drooling.”
Yuri was right on all accounts.
Forgoing a loofah or washcloth, Yuuri spread body wash all over Victor’s chest with his hands, fingertips playing over each muscle, and then slid them down, coating Victor’s abdomen and his upper thighs before he twisted his fingers over Victor’s already hard cock.
Once he finished his prep work, Yuuri turned around, pressing his back to Victor’s chest as Victor wound his arms around Yuuri’s waist. The sensation of Yuuri’s skin slipping so sleekly against his own was strange and electric, and Victor moaned into the nape of Yuuri’s neck as he pushed his cock between Yuuri’s body wash slicked thighs, stroking the other off at the same time.
Yuuri’s quiet mewls were barely audible over the sound of the shower water, but the way that he trembled against Victor was telling enough.
Then Yuuri leaned forward, planting his palms against the tile walls. He arched his back and spread his legs, gazing over his shoulder at Victor with half-lidded eyes. “Vitya, will you fuck me gently, so I can still skate today?”
Victor almost slipped. Almost.
Yuuri shrugged as he and Phichit made their way out of the locker rooms together, after the conclusion of the Rostelecom Cup. “It might have come up in conversation.”
“How about that five time Grand Prix champion deal though?” The Thai skater teasing, nudging at Yuuri’s side with his elbow.
“We compromised.” Yuuri smiled.
“Two Grand Prix and two Worlds titles? Doesn’t completely add up.”
Yuuri blushed. It was hard to believe it at times, but Victor made sure he was reminded of it daily, with the elegant glass case he had set up off to the side of their living room, housing both their medals together. “Well, between those, a handful of nationals, and the Olympics, we’re both happy enough.”
“Ahh, how sad, it’s an end of an era. At least I’ll have more of a shot at the title myself then.” Phichit clapped Yuuri on the back in reassurance, his warm smile as dazzling as always. “So, hey, are we doing that group dinner or what? I want selfies with you, me, and Yurio. Hashtag podium triplets.”
“Yeah, I think so, I gotta check—” Halfway down the short hall, Yuuri spotted Victor. The Russian was in profile, chatting animatedly with two reporters. Neither had mikes nor recorders, visibly engaged in simple and friendly conversation. Victor raised his hands, palms up as he said something, causing all three of them to laugh. Yuuri recognized Hisashi but did not bother to search the face of the other reporter. He was too taken by the sight of Victor’s wide and heart-like smile, how his silvery bangs fell over his face, the sharpness of his jawline and the pressed lines of his now signature coach’s suit.
Yuuri’s heart summersaulted inside his chest, and then he walked right into Phichit’s side, hard enough that he caused Phichit to stumble, not having noticed that his friend had stopped.
Quickly, Yuuri stammered out an apology but Phichit caught the blush on his face and burst into laughter. “Oh my god, did you just smack into me because you were checking out your husband?!”
Yuuri blushed deeper and tried to shove his palm up against Phichit’s mouth to keep his volume down. “Shhh! You can’t tell him, he’ll never let me live it down!”
Phichit only laughed louder, shrugging Yuuri off. “I’ll let you tell him yourself,” he nodded and Yuuri heard his name be called with that eternally sweet ring to it.
Victor was beside them the next second, his skin slightly flushed and his right hand settling naturally on the small of Yuuri’s back. “Hey, Phichit, congrats again.”
“Thanks!” Phichit flashed Victor a peace sign and a smile that shone far brighter than his bronze. “You too, Coach of Gold.”
“I’m mostly moral support at this point,” Victor chuckled, gazing down at Yuuri with affection.
“Wow, getting humble on us? So unlike you,” Phichit countered and winked at Yuuri, who did not see it because his eyes were up, focusing on Victor. “Oi, Yuuri!”
“Sorry!” Yuuri snapped back around to look at his friend, cheeks growing redder again. “Did you want to—”
“Nah, don’t worry about it, I’ll see you love birds later. Text me about tonight, okay?” Phichit waved as he walked off, chuckling to himself. Yuuri had not seen it, but Phichit had totally noticed Victor tripping over his own feet as he had turned to run over to Yuuri’s side, as if they had not seen each other hardly ten minutes prior.
Phichit wondered how they managed not to injure themselves during all their years together, constantly falling over each other in love.