Tag: victor nikiforov

Winter is in its last days, and he knows that his time has come.

There are not many preparations to make. He still takes care with every single one, performs them slowly, the tremble in his muscles not going away anymore. His strength has left him a few weeks ago. Walking hurts. The world has lost its scent. He finds himself sleeping a lot. His eyes don’t look for adventure now.

The house sleeps in silence, and so does the small poodle on the couch. She’s a shy thing, still, even after being here for almost a month. But he knows that she’ll come around. Her fur is bright, paws stumbling around clumsily, knocking over things. He isn’t worried, though: She loves them furiously already.

And they love her. That will be enough.

He drags himself to the bedroom. There’s not much light, just the moon, and his vision is weak. Climbing up the bed is hard; he manages.

There they are. There they sleep. Viktor is nuzzled deep into the blankets, eyes twitching under closed lids. He’s dreaming deeply, then. Yuuri is curled up, mouth open a bit. He’s grown a lot. There’s nobody else who would love Viktor like that, like a human does, and for as long as he lives.

They’ll be fine, Makkachin thinks as he lies down one more time, and then he thinks: Thank you for being my home, before he lets the last sleep come to him.

“And is your family here tonight?” One of the journalists asks him when he’s just about to push his way backstage.

“My grandfather is,” he decides to say when the guy doesn’t back off. “Could you let me through?”

“Yes, sure sure – is there nobody else?” The man moves, but now Yuri doesn’t. “Mr Plisetsky?”

He forces a deep breath into his lungs. “Nobody, no. Good night.”

———-

Viktor goes first. He just knocks at the door of Yuri’s hotel room, impolite as always. Before Yuri can protest, he’s already sticking his head inside, stomping in a mere moment later. “Just saw your interview.”

“So? I didn’t insult your beloved fiancé this time-”

Two arms close around him. Yuri’s heart thunders.

“Your family watched your entire performance. They were there the whole time, and if you still don’t see that, then it’s about damn time.”

Viktor leaves without a word. Yuri doesn’t mind. He couldn’t have replied anyways, not with his heart beating up into his throat, or with the first tear reaching his cheek when the door goes shut.

———-

“Do you think I’m family?”

“I need to borrow your gloves. I forgot mine. Please?”

“I asked you something.”

Yuuri looks up from where he’s tying his skates. He’s smiling and Yuri bites down on his lips, hard, so he doesn’t do something stupid like crying (again).

“Never doubt that,” Yuuri says quietly. He pushes his hand into Yuri’s hair, ruffles it like the idiot (inspiration, just never letting him know that, friend, or that, and maybe something that is stronger and thicker than all even without blood or water) that he is, and gets up. “Now let’s go.”

———-

It’s only after practice that Yuri can’t find his gloves. Turns out that it’s not a problem, because Yuko sends him a pair in her next package. And if he wears them even though blue and pink never were his favourite colours, well, that’s his business.

“Did you ever marry again, Uncle Viktor?” Yurio’s youngest one asks.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Viktor lifts his hand. It’s thin and ugly and it trembles, useless as it is, but the ring on his finger is gold as it always has been.

“I’ll tell you why, and listen carefully.”

The little girl shuffles closer. Her hair is just like her father’s, almost like Viktor’s, and nothing like someone else’s used to be.

The ring is cold when he presses his lips to it. “When someone gives you love, it’s not forever. It’s only as long as they have it, or as long as they live.”

“What are you looking at, boy?” Viktor laughs. “Did you see a bird in the sky?”

‘Take care of them,’ Vicchan whispers from above.

‘I will,’ Makkachin thinks back at him.

Yurio’s hands are trembling. He’s got them in fists by his side, the golden medal shining neatly in the middle of his chest. The audience screams, hollers, calls him by name and nickname and all the pretty titles that the media gave him.

But Yurio doesn’t listen.

“You were breathtaking,” Otabek says. His own medal is tucked into his shirt that’s slightly rumpled. When he reaches for Yurio’s wrist, it’s slow, careful. “I wanted to ask if you’d maybe, well, after all this chaos is over – “

“Yes.”

“I mean, on a date.”

“Still yes.”

“Yeah?” It’s gentle, how he echoes Yurio’s word, and not because he couldn’t hear it. “That’s good. I’m happy.”

Reporters start swarming down the stairs, to where the skaters have slid off the ice and to the sidelines. The noise is unbelievable, and its roar shivers through Yurio’s bones. He turns his wrist, and has Otabek’s hand in his fingertips with one easy motion. 

“Me too,” Yurio says softly. The smile is tiny, young, but it’s there still.

———-

“What do you think?”

“Hm?” Yuuri’s arm is a steady pressure around his waist, and Viktor only has to turn his head a few inches to hum a monosyllabic question into his hair. It’s still sweaty. It doesn’t matter. “Wha’?”

“Of them. Of Otabek asking him out.” Across the rink, Yurio is with Yakov again, but Otabek is just a few steps away. Yuuri watches as he takes a deep breath and gives Yurio’s thin back a last smile. Then he leaves, out through an exit. He doesn’t see Yurio turning over his shoulder, eyes alight, cheeks burning redder than his outfit. Then he’s gone, too.

“Well,” Viktor mumbles, sliding his fingers into Yuuri’s until their rings chink into a metallic touch. “It won’t be perfect. But it’ll be.”

Could you write something for drunk Yuuri please?

“That Japanese boy is drunk as hell.” Chris has put his clothes back on and is now holding a luxuriously full glass of champagne in every hand. He lifts one toward Viktor. “Want some?”

“I’m good.” Viktor stares. He’s been doing that for the past five minutes. “How is he so beautiful, Chris?”

“Wow. You have it bad.” Chris downs both glasses in a few gulps before lifting a brow at Viktor. The lecherous grin on his lips doesn’t promise anything good. “This is your chance then. He’s drunk. You know what that means.”

It takes Viktor embarrassingly long. “I. Oh.”

“Exactly,” Chris nods, his head bobbing like the gorgeous boy’s floppy hair. “If you ask him out now, he’s going to say y-”

“He’s drunk enough for anything.”

“Wh- hey hold up, that’s not what I said. Just because he’s drunk doesn’t mean-”

But Viktor is off within a second, vanishing in the crowd.

———-

Yuuri Katsuki never finds the note under his pillow.

In fact, he doesn’t find out anything at first. He doesn’t remember a soft touch to his shoulder after even more alcohol than he thought his body could bear with. He doesn’t remember fingers lacing up with his own, a warm grip around his waist as he’s guided into an elevator and up up up into the sky of the city.

Yuuri Katsuki doesn’t know about the voice with a heavy accent, thick and dark like the chocolate dessert he’d eaten that night, talking to him while someone goes through his pockets for keys.

And above all things, Yuuri Katsuki doesn’t remember how he got into bed, and why he woke up alone with nothing but a sour taste on his tongue and the same clothes as last night sticking to his skin.

———-

(”You were the one who…?”

“Yes,” Viktor simply says. He’s busy pressing his lips to Yuuri’s ring, even now as they’re walking home with the rest. Phichit is just behind them, babbling about marriage, engagement, and Yuuri honestly tunes out because this, this is far more important.

“But,” he says slowly. It’s hard to ignore Viktor’s mouth when it’s warm on his knuckles. “You fell for me that night. And you brought me to my room, you could have – you just tucked me in, who does that?”

Viktor grasps his hand. He stops walking, too. It makes Yuuri stumble a little, Phichit almost crashing into them, but Viktor waits patiently until everyone is ahead of them.

And he’s doing it again, Yuuri thinks, looking at me like I’m a bit of an idiot and a bit of starlight at the same time.

“You were drunk, zolotse. You would have done anything.”

“Yeah! I threw myself into your arms! You could have-”

Viktor’s lips brush his. It’s barely a kiss, and as shy as Yuuri has never had it before. His eyes are still wide in wonder when Viktor moves away a little to look at him.

“Yes. But I didn’t, because I hoped that you’d do it again while you had a clear mind and a night of sleep.”

“That’s… you’re quite the gentleman about this.”

Viktor shakes his head so harshly that Yuuri almost jumps. “No.” And before Yuuri can say anything else, Viktor’s taken his hand and gently tugs him along, back toward the others. “It’s nothing special, waiting for your sober decision, it’s the respect you deserve, that everyone deserves.”

“I love you,” Yuuri says quietly. “I love you so much.”

“And I you,” Viktor kisses his hair. “Let’s go.”)

“Uncle?” His nephew tugs at the leg of his pants. “Who is that man?”

Yuuri looks down. He pushes his glasses up a little, tries a smile. “Which one,” he asks. It doesn’t matter that he knows what the boy means.

His nephew points to the other room. “The one on your nightstand.”

A slow breath. The smile isn’t working for him. “Someone who used to love me.”

“…used to?” It takes a moment. Then, his nephew claps a hand over his small mouth. “Did he break up with you?”

Yuuri closes his eyes. “No. I broke up with him.”

A tentative hand slides over his own. “Why?” His wonderful, perfect little nephew asks. He says it like Yuuri could break any moment.

He doesn’t bother to uphold the smile anymore.

“Because I’m the guilty one now.”

“Mr Plisetsky,” the journalist yells, “one last question, please. Would you ever date a fan? And, indulge us a bit, are you the romantic kind of man?”

Yuri stills.

“Come on,” Yakov urges. He’s holding the car door open, motioning for Yuri to get inside. “Let’s go.”

He really shouldn’t. “One second,” Yuri tells him in Russian. Yakov lifts a brow.

Yuri turns to the journalist and takes a slow breath. Notepads come out of pockets, the crowd pushing closer. A microphone almost touches his cheek.

“What do you mean by romantic?”

The journalist from before seems to be vibrating in his place. “Well, love at first sight, the one and only love, staying together forever. That sort of thing!”

Oh. Well. “Absolutely. Good night.”

It is silent for barely a heart beat. Then, the crowd bursts into a myriad of questions, only a few of which reach Yuri’s ear: “How come? Would you date a fan? Why does the ice tiger of Russia believe in true love?”

Annoying, Yuri thinks. His cheeks feel hot when he juts his chin forward and stares back at them.

“I don’t believe in it, you idiots. I’ve seen it. And,” he whirls around, letting Yakov guide him into the car, grinning a little bit to himself when his phone chimes with another skype call from one of those two accounts. 

“If something seems impossible, and still happens with all of the world against it, then there’s definitely some truth to it.”