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Yuuri has a lot of regrets in his life. The first time that Mari found his Google search history (“how to clean kiss marks off of posters”), the second time (“victor nikiforov calvin klein outtakes”), and the others before he got his own laptop. Phichit’s “Welcome to Detroit” party which involved six dozen lime jello shots and Yuuri waking up on top of the campus canon in nothing but a parka. The first through fifteenth times he’d hooked up with Chris and begged Chris to “put a baby in him” Chris had railed him so hard that Celestino made it a point to book their rooms on separate floors at every competition since.
It’s not like they were dating. Are dating. Yuuri just needs the endorphins and someone to rub gentle circles over his lower belly after sex. Chris always seemed willing to oblige. Yuuri knew Chris just felt bad for him, but at least he got sex out of it. Not great sex but still sex.
The night before the Finlandia Trophy exhibition skate, Yuuri begs off from dinner. He’s got a date with a plate of grease marinated room service french fries and the mayo he snuck into his room earlier that evening. Chris had looked at Yuuri from under his lashes and asked if Yuuri would please make dinner a little more exciting. Yuuri had already overheard Victor Nikiforov agree to attend and Yuuri couldn’t bear to face Victor after the shame of a fourth place finish just off the podium—even though Victor was only here to support a rink mate. It might be too much to hope that he hadn't seen Yuuri’s programs but Yuuri’s fervent self-denials were as sharp as his footwork.
When Yuuri opens the door for room service, the waiter just stares at him. Yes. It’s a lot of fries. And yes, he's absolutely going to eat them all. But Yuuri knows that you’re supposed to be somewhat discreet with guests—not make them feel like they’re wearing no clothing at all. This breaks some vital, unspoken agreement between hotel and guest. Yuuri feels a little violated. So, he closes the door in the waiter’s face, incredibly grateful that Europe has different rules about tipping.
He flops down on the bed, snagging his phone from beside his pillows and thumbing open his inbox. Oh. Ohnikiyousofine posted a new fic. So when he opens the tab for a T-Rated Victor Nikiforov/Reader RPF fic with the summary “one plus one equals three,” he does not expect: a surge of arousal, his fingers to type out a just this side of coherent text to Chris, a new entry in his ao3 bookmarks with the caption “fic so hot it made me text a fwb for a dick appointment.”
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Chris’ phone lights up at dinner with a message from someone whose sole identifier is three peach emojis. Which, knowing Chris, means it could be anyone from his coach to a bellboy he met in Vienna. When Chris reads the message, his eye go wide and he chokes on his wine.
Victor leaves the table for one-second to get an extra napkin and when he comes back Chris has smile so smug its like he’s beaten Victor to the top of the podium. He’s giving his phone bedroom eyes. Victor wonders which one of their competitors was worked up enough to text Chris. He’s a little put out because he brought sheet masks and pumice stones and a recording of last year’s Eurovision contest. He had plans.
He also has the room right next to Chris. Adjoining rooms.
This was a mistake. Victor’s calling it now, the Finlandia Trophy is cancelled. Everyone should just go home.
“Sorry, I have an ... emergency ... have to ... home—my room, you know?” Chris says, fooling absolutely no one. Victor’s met gravel with more game. Victor’s been the gravel with more game.
(And yet Chris is the one getting ass. There’s something so tragic about all of this.)
At the other end of the table, Seung Gil Lee rolls his eyes, “Let me guess, K—”
“Ah,” Chris interrupts, holding a finger to his lips with a wink. Victor feels like he should sue for copyright infringement. “A gentleman never kisses and tells.”
Victor mentally sorts through the skaters competing at this event for one that fits. But it’s one of the smaller, warm up competitions, which means a lot of unknown faces. Ostensibly, Victor’s only here to comfort Georgi through his latest apocalyptic break-up. Actually, he’s here to visit with Chris to make up for his general radio silence, and check out some of the up and coming senior men’s singles skaters. Three World Championships is exactly when everyone will expect him to get complacent.
“Straw man argument, I see no gentleman here,” Seung Gil says, plucking the maraschino cherry from his drink.
“How dare you cast aspersions on my character like this,” Chris asks, clutching at a string of imaginary pearls.
Chris is being weirdly defensive for some guy he probably met on Grindr, Victor thinks. Then again, Chris thinks cultivating idiosyncrasies makes him aristocratically eccentric so it’s not that surprising.
Seung Gil raises a perfectly arched eyebrow.
“Okay. Yes,” Chris concedes, not at all put out. “And now, if you’ll excuse me—”
Victor opens his mouth to protest but snaps it shut before making a sound. Looks like he’ll be getting drunk and watching today’s free skates. Again.
As soon as Chris’ heel disappears around the corner, the entire table bursts out laughing. Victor laughs too—even though he’s not quite sure what the joke is.
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God Chris is loud, Victor thinks, half of his glass of vodka sloshing onto the floor as another rhythmic thump sounds against the shared wall between his and Chris’ rooms. Would the hotel allow him to change rooms so late at night? He could probably manage it no problem, but his toiletries are spread all over the bathroom and by the time he packs those up Chris and his…guest should be finished.
He’ll have to wait it out.
A moan floats through the wall. Victor’s not sure if it’s approving his plan or warning him to give up while he still can.
He pours another finger of vodka into his glass.
“You like that?” Chris asks, loud enough that the question could be directed at the floor’s other residents. Victor wants to yell No I do not please shut up because I left my noise cancelling headphones in St. Petersburg.
But Chris’ Fuck Buddy (CFB) whimpers an affirmative before Victor has a chance.
Victor fast forwards through footage of some overblown Canadian—Jorts Jacket LeForge?—into the next routine. He’s been saving the best for last. Katsuki Yuuri from Japan is Victor’s somewhat recent obsession. He has some trouble with his jumps but his beautifully fluid and expressive footwork is enchanting. And he’s very nice to look at. When it reaches the end, Victor rewinds the video to watch it again. And then again. And again.
I doubt Katsuki expected his routine would have an improvised headboard solo, Victor thinks. The wall between his and Chris’ room shudders from impact. He starts queuing videos of Katsuki’s skating into a dedicated playlist.
“Fill me up,” CFB says.
Oh god. Victor takes a long pull of vodka from his glass.
For once, Chris is quiet enough that Victor can’t hear anything beyond a murmur. And he thinks that’s that until—
“Fuck a baby into me,” Chris’ bedmate moans.
Victor chokes on his drink and starts the playlist from the top.
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Victor’s hair is still in a bit of a disarray as he makes his way into the elevator the next morning. He’ll call it “devil-may-care” if anyone asks what sort of look he’s going for. He’d convinced himself that his hair was nowhere near “hedgehog nest” on his personal Scale of Dishevelment before leaving his room for reinforcements. The continental breakfast better be worth it—Victor plans to drink enough coffee that the hotel loses money on their “all you can eat” policy.
He’d heard the shower start up on the other side of the wall and took that as his cue to leave. It was far too early in the morning for Victor to listen to a reprise of last night’s Conception Serenade in the key of F.
“Hold the doors please!” a soft, sleep-rough voice calls. Victor’s hand hovers over the lobby button as he holds out his other arm to keep the automatic doors from closing. His eyes go wide when he realizes the door shutting behind his soon-to-be-elevator-companion is the one next to his—the one to Chris’ room. CFB.
You’ve dealt with Chris’ morning afters before, Victor tells himself, you may not have known quite as much about their sexual preferences, but its fine. This is fine.
Victor flashes his best smile-on-demand at CFB before his stomach drops to his feet—racing the elevator for the bottom floor.
This is certainly not fine.
CFB is adorable, soft, messy hair that skims the top of his glasses, cozy over-large grey sweater that pools around his wrists, deep brown eyes flecked with gold, and the most delicious pink flush dusting the tops of his cheeks and ears. The flush only makes him cuter.
“Fill me up!”
I’d love to, Victor’s mind supplies oh so helpfully.
He suddenly deeply understands the appeal of those words.
Emphasis on deep, a voice in his brain chimes in. A voice that sounds suspiciously like Chris.
Stop it.
And he’s pretty sure he’s now sporting a matching flush. Shit.
Okay. Focus. You can do this. Start with “I would love for you to have my childre—”
NO.
Try again.
The completely uncalled for image of holding CFB from behind while caressing the gentle swell of his belly, CFB arching his back to push his ass closer to Victor’s—
Fuck.
Victor eyes the floor numbers just above the door, watching the light jumping from 11 down to 10, and has a moment of pure panic. He hasn’t managed to make conversation because conversation requires one of them to actually say something.
“Good morning?” Victor asks. The question mark is entirely unintentional but both Victor’s inner and outer voices have gone rogue. He can’t stop thinking about CFB laying beneath him, flushed and wanting, eyes begging Victor to—
CFB groans, back a “good morning,” voice rough and scratchy as though someone had fucked it out of him. His blush burns a brighter shade of red and none of this is helping.
Victor clears his throat and affects his most casual tone of voice. “It sounded like you had a good night,” he says.
The elevator jerks as it hits the ground floor and the doors slide open. CFB outright flees towards the hotel restaurant.
Victor does his best to follow but he’s waylaid by Josef naively asking where Chris is so he loses track of CFB. By the time he’s finally free, he beelines for a cup of coffee and is considering constructing a wall of consolation croissants when he spots CFB waiting in the omelette line.
And that’s that.
He snags the spot in line behind CFB. “We meet again,” he says the very picture of casual.
He does not jog a tiny bit just to catch up to CFB’s side. “I guess that’s one way to fill up,” he says, before adding “I’m sure you could use the energy,” because Victor has as many feet to shove in his mouth as he does toes. His brain is the absolute worst.
(He definitely wouldn’t mind having CFB’s feet in his mouth. But that’s more of a second date conversation. And he’s still angling for date number one.)
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It’s official. There is no God. Yuuri thinks. Otherwise there’s no reason Victor Nikiforov would keep trying to have this conversation.
“Um, yes. I guess we both felt like omelets,” Yuuri says. He wants to curl up into his sweater and become one with the fabric. After he gets his omelet though. He stares at the broad shoulders in front of him, trying to guess all the people they could belong to so he can avoid staring at Victor Nikiforov’s reflection face in the plexiglass divider in front of the omelet station. He takes a sip of coffee. Maybe this is just a hallucination and caffeine will make it go away.
"I hope you two used condoms, you wouldn't want a surprise pregnancy,” Victor Nikiforov says punctuating it with a wink for good measure.
Yuuri spits out his coffee.
“Next!” the chef calls out. Yuuri speeds forward like he’s just spotted a life raft.
Then, Victor leans over Yuuri’s shoulder, finger tapping against his lips, ”you should get some more ham on that, you might be eating for two soon, after all."
Yuuri drops his plate. “You—oh god. What? Why?” That last one is directed at the universe as a whole. It has a lot of explaining to do. At the very least, Chris could have told Yuuri that his room was close to Victor's. Yuuri would have tried to be quiet.
As it is, he’s reduced to begging, and it feels a whole lot less fun than last night. “Please—”
“Don’t worry, it can be our secret.” Victor’s brow knits together as though reconsidering, “and Chris's too. I guess.” He crosses his arms over his chest even as his smile goes up about a thousand watts.
There’s no way Chris will let this go once he finds out. And he will. With the way this morning’s gone, it’s a foregone conclusion. Yuuri sighs and takes off his glasses, he can’t bear to see the world clearly anymore. He scrubs a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his forehead, acutely aware that he’d snuck out that morning without taking a shower. Of course.
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Victor’s internal screaming is loud enough to shatter the sound barrier.
Oh God. This is Katsuki Yuuri, the Japanese skater with the beautiful triple axel.
The second he took of his glasses and pushed back his hair Victor knew exactly who he was. He’d spent long enough drooling over his programs last night while imagining Katsuki Yuuri’s disapproval for what turned out to be Katsuki Yuuri’s own sex noises.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, Victor yells internally. He involuntarily reaches out a hand to clasp Katsuki Yuuri’s shoulder but stops himself short. It hovers in the air, impotent.
“Are you okay to .... skate .... tonight?
Katsuki cringes. “It’s just the gala ...it'll be fine….”
Victor summons all seventeen years of press training to aid the illusion he didn’t get a more than a little hard watching YouTube videos of Katsuki’s gala program. He leans down to grab the plat off the floor. “Well, Chris should have been more gentle with you.” I would have been more gentle with you, he does not add.
Will you give me the chance to be more gentle with you, he also does not add.
“Your exhibition skate has a pretty different tone this year.”
Katsuki stares at the pan with his omelet. “It was my rinkmate’s idea.”
“I’ll have to thank them,” Victor says.
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Yuuri is going to kill Phichit.
“Did they help with the choreography?”
Wait. What?
“I noticed you used the y-spiral into a triple lutz triple toe loop combo from my ‘Orgie de brigands’ program,” Victor says.
New rule, Yuuri thinks, knees more than a little weak, no one allows Victor Nikiforov to speak French ever again because the side effects include actual swooning.
Victor reaches out to steady Yuuri by his elbow and Yuuri’s brain shuts down. Seemingly unaware of Yuuri’s mental malfunction, Victor keeps going “I took the spread eagle entries and exits for my Free Skate’s triple axle from your ‘Pygmalion’ program, did your recognize it?”
Yuuri runs through the engraved mental tape. Sure enough there’s a match.
“You watched my programs?”
“Of course I’ve watched all your programs!” Victor says. “I watch everyones programs, of course,” Yuuri feels himself deflating, "but yours are the only ones I’ve watched multiple times.”
“Until I moved to America, I used your programs to teach myself new moves,” Yuuri says. And it’s a mark of how the last twenty-four hours have gone that this doesn’t even make his “Top Ten Most Embarrassing Statements.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about my skating,” Victor says, smiling. It’s like the soft glow of candlelight compared to his earlier mega-watt grin—gentle and intimate. ”Have breakfast with me? You shouldn't stay on your feet too long anyways.”
All that does is remind Yuuri how this utter mess of a conversation started. He flushes but forces out a “yes.”
Victor hand brushes the small of his back as he guides Yuuri over to an empty table for two at a window in a far corner.
After they’ve taken their seats, Victor asks a passing waiter for more coffee before turning his full attention to Yuuri. It’s a little intoxicating and a lot terrifying. Yuuri’s phone buzzes in his lap. Mari’s just sent a picture of Vicchan sleeping in their dad’s lap while he watches television. While Yuuri’s having breakfast with his namesake.
“So you’re self taught?”
Oh god, Yuuri thinks, I have to talk about myself?
“Um. Yes. I’m from a small town and there weren’t a whole lot of resources.” Or money, Yuuri doesn’t say.
“But you didn’t try to train elsewhere?”
Yuuri bites his lip, “there were other things. A ballet studio. All hours rink access,” Yuuri pauses and his phone buzzes again in his lap. “My dog.”
Victor lights up, “you have a dog? I have a dog.”
Yes! I know!
Victor whips out his phone and is already thumbing through his camera roll. “Her name is Makkachin and she’s—”
“A standard poodle. I know. I have a poodle too,” Yuuri says, because he has no sense of self preservation.
“Well then I need to see photos. Immediately. It’s an international emergency—of cuteness.”
Yuuri smiles and opens his phone to his lovingly curated album of Vicchan photos and hands holds out his phone so Victor can see.
They spend the rest of breakfast like that, exchanging dog photos in between Victor’s never ending stream of questions about Hasetsu and Detroit. And Mari.
In between, Yuuri catches glimpses of Victor’s life filtered through his reactions to Yuuri’s stories and Victor’s photos of Makkachin. It doesn’t seem all that different from Yuuri’s own long hours of practice and travel.
“I have to ask…your exhibition song—”
“Oh god,” Yuuri says, sinking into his seat.
“So ‘Bootylicious’ wasn’t your idea then?”
Yuuri methodically shreds the paper napkin in his lap. “No. I mean…that was my roommate’s idea. And Celestino said I should try something different without any pressure so…” Yuuri shrugs. He’s hoping Victor ignores the end of that sentence, and Yuuri inadvertently revealing his soft, fleshy underbelly.
Victor leans closer. “Roommate? Just a roommate?” he asks. His tone is a little frantic.
Yuuri frowns. “Yes? Why does that—oh god.” He’s blushed so much this morning that he wouldn’t be surprised if his capillaries got stuck in a state of permanent dilation.
“And Chris?”
“Is a friend. A friend who encourages me to make a lot of suspect decisions. But just a friend.” And by suspect he means terrible.
“Good. Otherwise I'd have to talk to you about breaking people's hearts,” Victor says, tracing a finger around the lip of his coffee cup.
“Chris’s?” Yuuri frowns. The only thing he might have broken was Chris’s dick, and that was entirely consensual.
“Oh. Yes. Chris….” Victor says, before adding under his breath, “Definitely not someone who's sitting at this table.”
Yuuri’s still stuck on the idea of dating Phichit. “Phichit’s like my brother. Even though he insists on calling me his son.”
“That must be nice, though. I’m an only child,” Victor says, his expression a little wistful before it takes a sudden detour to devious, “so I always thought I would have kids—a big family. And I’d feel slightly guilty asking out a man who might be carrying a friend's child—”
(Apparently Yuuri also has a humiliation kink because he’s both incredibly turned on and incredibly embarrassed.)
“—but now I have to chance to make sure it's mine.”
(Scratch that, turned on is winning in a landslide.)
"I'm so glad this is complimentary so we don't have to wait for a check,” Yuuri says. There’s no salvaging his dignity at this point, no dipping his toe in the water—this is a full on cannon ball.” His chair screeches as he pushes it back from the table. “Coming?”
Victor does.
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Sadly, a broom closet isn’t the worst place Yuuri’s hooked up with someone. It’s not even the worst place he’s hooked up with someone at a skating competition. It’s definitely the best company, though.
Victor’s arms are wrapped around him from behind, one draped low across the bottom of his belly, where Yuuri imagines—if things go the way he hopes the will tonight—it would start to swell in a couple of months. When Victor’s hands slip under Yuuri’s shirt and his fingers trace nonsense patterns across Yuuri’s skin, each one of them feel like it leave a mark.
“I've heard the best time to conceive is after an exhibition skate,” Victor says, grinding against Yuuri’s ass. His breath tickles the side of Yuuri’s neck and Yuuri whimpers as Victor sucks another mark into the soft skin just below his jaw.
And Yuuri hates himself because he shouldn't find that sexy but oh god he does; because this is the man who made him want to feel his belly swell with their impossible child in the first place. He should care that Victor’s going to leave marks, but he doesn’t because he feels claimed, and wanted, and desired. And in the haze of yespleasemore all he knows is that neither one of them is getting any sleep tonight.
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Yuuri studiously avoids everyone else’s eyes in the locker room as Victor fixes his hair and makes a perfunctory attempt to cover up the fresh blooming love bites on both of their necks.
It’s worth it.
(The noise complaints they get that night are worth it too. )
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“As a proponent of love in all its forms—and especially this beautiful union—I would like everyone gathered here today to know the true reason these two are together—my dick,” Chris says.
Having this bachelor party on the ground was a tragic oversight because now there aren’t any windows to jump out of, Yuuri thinks, cursing his lack of foresight.
“To celebrate this momentous occasion with the gravity it deserves, I pursued the only poetic option—I had my dick ordained. I even had a cock ring made that looks like a little priest collar. Sadly, Yuuri and Victor, the traitors, vetoed that option for tomorrow’s ceremony.”
Definitely should have held our bachelor party on top of Hasetsu Castle. Or the Empire State Building. Anywhere with a vertical exit option.
“Alas, my stallion days are over so I’ll never know what path my life might have taken if I’d added clergy kink to my Grindr profile. I’m sure in some alternate timeline “Father” Chris is having a wonderful time. But it says a lot about these two that even that alternate future can’t compare we’ll witness tomorrow, at the wedding.
“Thank you for that, Chris. And I’d like to add that while it might be impossible to get my husband pregnant but we'll have a lot of fun trying,” Victor says, shooting Yuuri a wink.
“I can't believe I’m marrying you,” Yuuri says, rubbing his temples. He doesn’t want to think about how much of that his parents understood. Any is already too much.
Victor leans over to drop a kiss on his cheek. “I can’t believe it either, sometimes,” and just as Yuuri feels a surge of affection strong enough to drown out the remnants of Chris’s speech, Victor whispers, “try to breathe, darling, stress is bad for the baby.”