Chapter Text
Victor settled back in the outdoor pool, warm water rippling against his muscles, trying to relax. Even though he hadn’t competed in the Final himself, he could feel Yuuri’s stress. He sighed softly as he sunk deeper into the dark water, the faint odour of sulphur tickling his nose.
Yuuri, who was sitting across from him, looked up at the gurgling sound. Now he caught Victor’s eye and smiled. Victor wasn’t quite sure what that meant. The last time they’d bathed together like that, they had been three — it had been the night before the Onsen on Ice competition. He’d simply grabbed Yuuri then, and pulled him close, until he’d gathered him snugly by his side. He remembered how Yuuri had stiffened at first, clearly not used to close contact, but relaxed later on. Probably overwhelmed by the proximity of his idol and also by Yuri who’d been watching them like an ill tempered kitten, getting hotter with jealousy every minute.
Now, they didn’t touch, didn’t play silly games.
Yuuri seemed quite contend to soak in the water, let the tension wash out of him. Victor tried to imagine how he must have missed this — Yu-topia, the hot springs — when he had been away for training in Detroit. Sometimes he found it hard to comprehend how homesick Yuuri must have felt, he who had always lived and trained in his homeland Russia.
Victor let his head fall back until water was brushing the fine hair at his neck. He closed his eyes, glad that he was here. Here with Yuuri.
After all those weeks of training, laughing and feasting on Katsudon, Hasetsu felt almost like home. Almost. There had been that dreadful moment in Barcelona, when Yuuri had told him he was going to quit figure skating. That Victor’s expertise was no longer needed. Sitting there on the bed in the faceless hotel room, the breathtaking view of the city opening up beneath him, he’d imagined going back to Russia alone. Training day in day out for the next competition, and the next.
He had never relied much on other people. This wasn’t what you needed to get to the top. So he’d naturally thought it was over . . . all of it. He should have known that Yuuri would be different. That this was real and he’d misunderstood. Victor smiled.
When he let his hand slip out of the water, he could see his ring glittering. Yuuri was wearing his too, Victor could see. Like a married couple, but rather not. Except for that one kiss, nothing had ever happened between them. Well, there had been a lot of touching, cuddling, Victor falling asleep on top of Yuuri. But that had been playful. Good for fun and good for the sport.
But now . . . finally alone together. Victor felt like he could just look at Yuuri all night. His little prince, his husband of sorts. His virgin prince.
“Victor?”
Victor’s head shot up and he blinked, surfacing from his thoughts, as if the hot fumes had drowsed him. He looked at Yuuri, who was watching him with big eyes. Victor cracked another smile, the radiant one. It was a strange relief when Yuuri smiled right back.
“Is everything okay?”
Victor nodded, ignoring the tight feeling in his chest. On impulse he stood up and sloshed through the dark pool of water. What was going on in Yuuri’s head? Did he really want a relationship, or was he just naive? Was Victor naive? Victor had tried to ask him. Not very seriously, mind. But Yuuri had always, endearingly, seemed at a loss. And then — not so much.
He took a deep breath. With his most brilliant smile he opened his arms wide. Below the surface he was hard.
Yuuri blushed. He looked back at him with warm eyes, averted his gaze just as quickly. He tried to get up, and slipped. But Victor was already there, catching him and pulling him close, his hands slithering across slippery skin, their cocks meeting briefly.
Lust surged through Victor, unexpected and very real. As real as Yuuri standing close, only a heartbeat away, smelling a bit of mould. They would do it. Move to St. Petersburg, train together. It would be hard. But harder still . . .
Victor tightened his hold, another minute step forward and they were touching, skin to skin. He could feel Yuuri’s breath against his own. With something akin to a sob he buried his head in the damp curve between neck and shoulder. He knew that Yuuri liked it. Liked him. Even if he became embarrassed every time he got near him. His cheeks would grow hot, the flush spreading across his whole body. Yuuri at 23 still had something youthful, innocent. It was something Victor had lost long ago.
He had been doing triple jumps since he was twelve. He got his quad toe at fourteen, then the sal and the lutz. And of course the flip. Always the same spins and jumps. What looked like art, the expression of emotion, was actually nothing more or less than supreme athleticism. Acquired with monotone training every day, living life from practise to practise.
“Victor, would you kiss me please?”
Victor nodded. His heart was pounding. He flicked a stray leave out of Yuuri’s glistering black hair with trembling fingers and cradled his face with his hands. Then, without thinking, he plunged in. Yuuri’s lips were just as full and sweet as he remembered them.
The moment they touched, Yuuri gave a little yelp before he flung his arms around Victor and pressed against him. Their noses bumped briefly, but the kiss was tender and gentle . . . just like Yuuri. As they clang together, water rippling softly against their hips, Victor became increasingly aware of his own nakedness, as well as Yuuri’s. “Let’s go inside,” he breathed into opened lips, never letting go.
Yuuri shivered in his arms, his expression so very serious. Victor’s first impulse was to kiss him again. Instead he took him by the hand and lead him gently through the water.
They walked hand in hand across the wooden floor, bathrobes quickly thrown on. After their first tentative kiss in the pool it seemed essential to go on, to not lose momentum, or so Victor thought, before the courage left them. Once outside the bathhouse, Yuuri had suddenly taken charge. He was holding tightly onto Victor’s hand, his eyes fixed ahead, and Victor couldn’t help but follow him through the moonlit hallways.
Past Victor’s room they went and further on to the narrow corridor with the paper screens leading to Yuuri’s old bedroom. Victor suddenly felt awkward, and not just because of the embarrassing memory of the night when Yuuri wouldn’t let him in. They never spent time together here. With its narrow bed, the writing desk full of school things complete with an old globe, it looked very much like a child’s room. Yuuri had abandoned it when he was 18 after all.
“Victor?” Yuuri’s gaze flitted back to him. A mixture of anxiety and resolve filled his eyes.
Too late Victor realised that he had let go of Yuuri’s hand when he’d stopped at the threshold. Instinctively he put a smile on his face. Yuuri nodded curtly. He went down on his knees and leaned forward, pulling a loose stack of papers out from under his bed.
“What’s that . . .?” Victor stepped nearer, intrigued despite himself. These were posters . . . figure skating posters. Lots of them, in a heap hastily stacked up. Victor leaned in to have a closer look. A dashing young man with silver hair was gazing back at him.
Victor stiffened. They were all of him.
Meanwhile, Yuuri was busy spreading out posters on the floor: Victor winning junior worlds, pictures from the beginning of his senior career, Victor at his home rink in simple training gear, and even the over the top photo depicting him on a throne like stool after he won his first world title. The journey in pictures through Victor’s figure skating life ended abruptly 5 years ago.
“Yuuri?” Victor sort of deflated as he viewed himself displayed like this, and his erection died likewise. He knew he had fans. It became obvious at big competitions and on the rare occasions he visited figure skating forums. But that? Yuuri was an elite skater too. You didn’t hang your rivals on the wall. Or your friends.
At the sound of his name, Yuuri glanced up at him. His breath was going shallowly and a blush was forming at the bridge of his nose. He seemed at a total loss how to go on.
Feeling a bit off balance himself, Victor crouched down next to him, their shoulders bumping softly. He took the nearest poster in hand, the one with him walking through St.-Petersburg. “I remember that one,” he said. “It was a fashion shoot, taken at 5 in the morning. I hadn’t been out for a walk in weeks. My housekeeper walks Makkachin most of the time,” he added ruefully.
“Oh.” Yuuri looked at the poster as if seeing it for the first time. “I didn’t know that.” And then, impulsively, he gripped the sleeve of Victor’s bathrobe. “Victor, I realise that I didn’t know you then. Not really . . . like I do now. But you’ve always been a part of my life.”
“See, here, this was at the Cup of Russia,” Victor continued, feeling a weird compulsion to explain himself. “I had a bad cold then. And my right ankle had been hurting all season. I really don’t know how I made it through that competition.”
“No, I loved the performance.” Yuuri didn’t let go of Victor’s arm. “It wasn’t perfect. But it was only the second time you showed that program in competition. I stayed up late just to watch you, even though I had practise in the morning.” Yuuri stopped, took a deep breath.
He looked at Victor imploringly, eyes wide and dark. “And if we . . . if we are going to be together, I don’t want to hide this from you. I’ve always looked up to you. It was you who showed me the love for skating.” He faltered.
Victor felt a lump in his throat, like always when Yuuri said things like that. So earnest, making himself vulnerable in a way Victor would never allow. He glanced sideways, at the mop of dark hair, little droplets of water trickling down, some of them grazing his long lashes. Carefully he put an arm around Yuuri’s shoulder, and leaned in, seeking his warmth.
He regarded the faded posters more closely, trying to see them through Yuuri’s eyes. The silver haired man, shimmering in the moonlight. The graceful lines of his jaw and neck. It was strange to watch himself like this. Being somebody else’s childhood dream.
People always thought that Victor was vain. And he loved standing in the limelight mind. But what they didn’t know was that when the season was over, competition won, he felt nothing much at all. Nothing but pain and the weight of hard work lying ahead of him and the fear that he couldn’t pull it off again . . . surprise people. That this time had been his last.
Victor stared at the images Yuuri had collected over the years, couldn’t pull himself away. Gently he reached out and traced the perfect line of his body with his finger. Yuuri was right. There was beauty in there.
“Thank you,” he whispered into the dark, not really knowing what he was thanking for. He flung his arms around Yuuri and held on tight, until they were sitting together in silence, huddled against each other on the tatami floor.