Chapter Text
Yuuri loves Victor. Yuuri is also sure that Victor can be a terrible person when he really puts his mind to it.
(And Victor Nikiforov does not do things halfway.)
There are at least three waiters following Yuuri around the Barcelona Grand Prix Final banquet, sliding trays of champagne flutes under his nose at every turn. Victor’s cat-post-canary grin assures Yuuri exactly who’s responsible.
(When had he even found time between the pairs skate and the banquet? It might be a bigger mystery than how the hell Victor’s going to pull two routines out of his (“extremely well formed, Yuuri!) ass before Russian Nationals. )
“Yuuuuuri, the champagne is even better this year,” Victor’s arms are wrapped around Yuuri’s waist, his head hooked over Yuuri’s shoulder.
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t remember last year.”
“So cruel.”
“Yes, honesty is a terrible thing to force on a fiancee.”
“I’m glad we agree.”
“What—?”
Yakov appears out of nowhere, claps Yuuri on the shoulder. Yuuri spills his champagne. Victor lets out a noise somewhere between a yelp and a moan.
(He might have just made Victor cry again.)
“You’re moving to Saint Petersburg.” It’s not a question.
“Yes—“
“Do not let Victor drive you anywhere.”
“What—“
(No one wants Yuuri to finish his sentences tonight. Only his champagne.)
“Yakov! I am an incredible driver. Rude.” Victor’s pouting.
“Incredibly awful. You conveniently left out the second half of that statement.” Where did Yurio come from?
“I’m suing for slander,” Victor presses the second button on his speed dial.
“You won’t have a case once they take a look at your insurance premiums,” Yakov says.
Phichit sidles up alongside Yuuri, entirely too amused. Terror instantly floods Yuuri’s body.
(This is the same look Phichit had when he convinced Yuuri to try LSD in Detroit. Yuuri’s never looked at mops the same again.)
“I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Everyone in the circle turns to look at him. Everyone except Yuuri who’s buried his face in his hands.
“Please don’t.”
Phichit ignores him.
“One of us never paid for a coffee in college. Guess who.” This is also not a question.
Victor raises his hand like he’s in class. Katsuki Yuuri is the only class Victor’s ever tried to ace.
(Yuuri refuses to say this out loud because Victor will make a terrible pun about the “ace of Japan”.)
“One of us,” Phichit points at himself and then at Yuuri, “also never had to pay a library fine. Or cover at a frat party. Or locker rental fees at the DSC.”
Victor is riveted.
(Strangely so is Yurio?)
“Yuuri’s also never paid a parking ticket.”
“I am the luckiest man alive.”
“Oh god my ears,” Victor’s head is still resting on Yuuri’s shoulder and no one’s ever convinced Victor to use his inside voice.
Detroit, three years earlier
“IS THAT A SIREN?”
It is.
Phichit pulls the car over to the side of the road and hisses, “Yuuri, switch with me.” Phichit has half a learner’s permit. Which means he’s taken three questions in the online DMV course.
(“Yuuri, I know enough about America to know I should never step foot in a DMV.”)
They switch. Phichit kicks Yuuri in the face. Yuuri elbows Phichit right in the balls.
“I’m so glad I’m already sitting down,” Phichit wheezes, “now push your hair back.”
“I don’t—“
Phichit grabs a tube of lube from the glove compartment and slicks Yuuri’s hair back.
“Oh my god.”
(Yuuri is taking six showers when they get back to the apartment.)
(He does not want to know why Phichit keeps that in his ( “our!”) car. They’ve already heard enough of each other’s noises through the entirely too thin walls of their apartment to last twelve lifetimes.)
“Phichit what the hell?”
“Just lie back and think of England, Yuuri.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Just—pretend you’re on the ice. And when we get home I’m prioritizing your cultural education.” He plucks Yuuri’s glasses off his face.
“License and registration,” the officer stands at the side of the car. Yuuri turns around. The officer drops his notepad.
They escape with a warning. The officer—“please call me Liam”—escorts them back to their apartment. Please-call-me-Liam stays at their kitchen table for two hours, slides no less than eleven business cards across the table to Yuuri, and brushes his foot against Yuuri’s ankle five times before Yuuri apologizes again, scoots his chair back from the table, and retreats to his room. Please-call-me-Liam stays another hour, shooting forlorn looks at Yuuri’s door.
Phichit can practically hear the commentator’s voices discussing Victor’s latest free skate through the closed door. Yuuri is so predictable.
Please-call-me-Liam leaves with an overzealous petition that Yuuri “call him any time. Day or night. Especially late at night.”
present
“I hate all of you.”