Tag: viktor nikiforov

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.”

“Mama,” Viktor whispers, tugging at her soft skirt. “Why is that man kissing her hand?” He points at the television, an old movie with a prince and a girl that has ash on her face and glittering shoes on her feet.

His mother pulls him closer. As she tucks the blanket around him, she says, with eyes soft and bright in memory: “It’s what you do when someone is precious to you.”

“I thought that’s what kisses on the mouth are for.”

“That’s different.” His mother runs a hand through his hair until he’s all warm and the snow outside fades. “You only do that when you really mean something, when you want to be with them forever. When they’re worth more to you than all the gold that there is in the world.”

Twenty-four years later, a bouquet of white daffodils rests on a gravestone. In its centre, defying a thin layer of snow just so, lays a red camellia. It takes four days until the gardener removes the flower, and finds the card.

Mama, it says, I understand now. You don’t have to worry about me. He didn’t kiss my hand back, but he put the only gold I ever wanted on my finger, so that’s fine with me. 

First of All or The Definition of Beginnings (by Yuuri Katsuki)

“Congratulations or whatever,” Yuri growls. He sounds a bit like a lion cub with an upset stomach, but Yuuri is wise enough to keep that to himself.

“Thank you.”

“God, you’re so polite, it’s annoying.”

“Uh. I’m s-”

“Shut up. Listen to me. Did you honestly plan that ending?”

Yuuri bites back a smile. He’s glad that Yuri didn’t call via video chat. “Not really. It was a bit spontaneous, but I’d practiced it anyways, so why not use it.”

“Not the skating! The – the fucking kiss!”

“Oh. Well.”

“Didn’t think you were that greedy for fame that you’d sacrifice your first kiss for it.”

“Hah, first kiss. Sure. …I mean, of course. Yes.”

“Are you fucking kidding me.”

“Yuri, it’s very late, and Viktor’s waiting for me.”

“Fine. Fine. Still, your first kiss with Viktor was in public, so I have every right to call you a slut for fame.”

“Please don’t.”

“…I do have the right, don’t I? Hey. Yuuri, hey.”

“Uhm. Well, before I went on the ice, Viktor and I were in that parking lot. We talked. He uh, kind of made me cry. Said he’d leave if I failed. But I think he just tried to make me pull myself together. It sure worked.”

“And then he – he, he just?”

“Nah. I kissed him first. Thought more people would notice, uhm, I think my face was redder than his when we walked back in.”

“Oh my God.”

“I really have to go now. It was lovely talking to you!”

“You two are disgusting. Good night. Kick his ass from me.”

“What do I have to do,” the little boy asks, “to go down in history?”

We love you, they say. We will always love you. Our precious one. So tiny, so fragile. You’ll be strong one day, his father says. Successful too. You’ll be everything to be proud of. Grow strong, my son. I love you forever, his mother says.

Be careful, they say. Don’t hurt yourself. Do you want to cuddle? Here, have another bite. Your sister is home, why don’t you say hello? Ah, you fell. Shh, be brave, they whispers, I’ll put a band aid on it. There, all better. You’re so strong, we’re proud of you. Love you, little one.

You can be anything you want, they say. No, not that. That’s not a sport for boys. That’s – we don’t, I mean, your father wants you to turn out the right way.

The skating hall again? they sigh, smiling. Of course. Your father has made a sandwich. Yes, and your mother’s going to pick you up later. Be careful.

Stop this, they demand. Or I’m going to – yeah, you better flinch. A son should listen to his father. Don’t you dare cry.

Next time, they say with their arms around him, you’ll be better. Nobody’s born a master in anything. Get some sleep.

Please, she sobs into his shirt. Don’t go. He didn’t mean it. He even said you can keep skating. Just try, try to find a girlfriend? A girl? Please, a girl.

Well, she laughs, sighs then. We expected that. We’ll get used to it. Will you be happy? …okay. Okay then.

Congratulations, the letter says. Her writing has gotten smaller. Come home sometime. Below, his letters are harsh, scrawled. Not my son.

Where are you two? the text message accuses. Dinner is getting cold. Ask Viktor if he still needs his room or if he’ll stay in yours from now on?

“There are two ways,” his grandmother says. “You can be an emperor or you can be a lover.”

It’s dark outside when they’re finally alone, in front of the skating hall, no reporters or friends or anything else but the moon and the wind whispering through their clothes.

“Can I kiss you a second time?” Viktor says.

“Yes,” Yuuri says.