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He never fails to surprise me.
Ever since I first saw his skating, it’s been an unending chain of surprises.
Yuuri comes in from shoveling snow, sweating under his coat, only to be immediately bowled over by a giant, elderly poodle. Approximately 26 highly disorganized thoughts tumble through his brain at once, comprised mostly of floor hard, ow; dog!!; Vicchan??; and wait a second…!
“Oh yes, he came in with a handsome foreign man earlier today!” Yuuri’s father materializes with a tray of tea and a slightly absent smile on his face.
It slots together in a sudden flash of panic and the disorganized thoughts become giant, elderly poodle = not Vicchan (Makkachin) + handsome foreign stranger = Viktor Nikiforov. Before he can even catch up to his own body, Yuuri is shoving Makkachin off his chest and scrambling to his feet, racing towards the hot springs because this whole thing feels like an out-of-body experience; there’s no possible way Viktor Nikiforov can be here, in Japan, at Yuuri’s family’s onsen .
As he skids gracelessly on the wet stones of the outdoor spring, Yuuri’s glasses fog with the sudden temperature change right as his heart leaps into his throat and his jaw drops. The man, the myth, the legend, the Russian skating god, is lounging in the onsen. In person. For real. In my onsen.
“Vi—Victor… why are you here?” Yuuri stammers—damn it, that’s not what I wanted to say!—but Viktor is standing, grinning brilliantly like a thousand watts, extending a hand imperiously towards Yuuri. Yuuri can’t help that his eyes flicker up and down the length of Viktor’s body before locking anxiously on his face.
“Yuuri! Starting today, I’m your new coach!” Viktor proclaims. His voice is slightly higher than Yuuri remembers it being on TV—that’s strange—but when Yuuri’s eyes take another forbidden dive down the lithe lines of Viktor’s body, it makes sudden sense like a slap in the face.
Viktor has breasts. Viktor has no dick. Viktor’s like me.
“You’re like me,” Yuuri breathes. Viktor winks devastatingly.
The first three days of Viktor living at Yu-topia Katsuki are a wash of surreal hero-worshipping anxiety.
As Viktor and Makkachin settle in, Yuuri goes through something akin to the stages of grief, except in various shades of holy shit. disbelief and holy shit! elation, before finally arriving at a tenuous sort of acceptance. Viktor’s boxes arrive on the third day, and after spending two grueling hours hauling them all into his room, Yuuri is caught alone with Viktor. Sweaty and nervous and all-too-aware of his body’s shameful softness in the light of Viktor’s unreal lean muscle, he’s face-to-face with his idol whilst kneeling very unceremoniously on the worn tatami mat.
“I think,” Viktor murmurs, drawing frighteningly close, “we should get to know each other better. Build some trust in this relationship.” He strokes down Yuuri’s arm, gently gathering Yuuri’s hand into his own.
It takes every scrap of willpower Yuuri possesses not to run screaming right then and there. Instead, his mouth bypasses his brain entirely and blurts,
“You’re transgender too.”
Viktor’s eyes widen and fear spears Yuuri’s heart—that was the wrong thing to say! But Viktor just laughs, pulling Yuuri’s hand to his chest. “Боже мой! Yes, I am. I take it little Yuuri here,” Viktor squeezes Yuuri’s hand, “is an FtM.”
Yuuri’s heart falters with the sudden burst of adrenaline in his system. Talking about his transness had never been high on his list of things he likes—add in his stomach wringing itself into knots around his childhood idol and celebrity crush, and Yuuri is already lightheaded and grappling to maintain composure. Yet Viktor’s warm hand around his own and the strangely fond look in his eyes grounds Yuuri in place, just grounding enough to compel him to speak.
“Well, yes, mostly,” he stammers, not sure of how much American gender politics Viktor might understand. Viktor cocks his head like a curious dog, and Yuuri breathes deeply before carrying cautiously on. “Not really. I’m not exactly a man. I feel feminine too, like a woman sometimes. But I don’t ever want my breasts back,” he confesses, shocked at his own words. “Genderfluid. The American word for it. X-gender here; in Japan.”
“I see,” Viktor smiles softly. “Then I too am X-gender here; in Japan,” he repeats. “In Russia they would call me FtM transgender as well, though I am F-to-nothing in my head. The Americans have so many quaint little pigeonholes for transgender people. I suppose I would be ‘agender’ to them, from what I’ve read.”
“How did—?” Yuuri starts, only peripherally aware of the horribly unfriendly trans environment in Russia.
“By being very quiet about it,” Viktor answers Yuuri’s unspoken question. “It was an impulsive decision to go by Viktor before entering the competitive skating world. I had to beg Yakov to keep me out of the women’s junior division as Viktoria. He was concerned I wouldn’t be able to manage against bigger, stronger opponents. I promised him I would grow taller and get stronger and beat everyone.” He gives a wry smile.
A million questions Yuuri knows are inappropriate for this particular situation flood his head. After a moment, he finally says, “I guess you got lucky then,” with a sharp exhale that could maybe be passed off as a laugh. Viktor laughs again.
“Да, I did.” He transfers his attention to Yuuri’s captive hand, carefully spreading all his fingers and tracing the tendons on the back of his hand with one idle finger as he mulls over something. The gesture is incredibly intimate, and Yuuri’s face flushes with mortification as he realizes his palms must be dripping with nervous sweat. Viktor flips Yuuri’s hand over almost as if he’s reading the lines of Yuuri’s palm, apparently unperturbed by its dampness. Yuuri fights the urge to fist his hand against the ticklish sensation of Viktor’s fingertips on his own. Gently, Viktor folds Yuuri’s fingers in one by one, and looks up to meet his gaze again.
“How did you manage?”
“Uh,” Yuuri sputters, spinning his wheels for a decent summary of his messy, whirlwind coming out and transition. “I went to school in Detroit for five years, and I met some people there like me who opened my eyes to the possibilities. I was such a nobody in Japanese women’s skating that I never qualified for Nationals or got to international competitions. Nobody noticed when I withdrew. I managed to find a coach who would take me after I explained to them and Celestino, he—he was initially hesitant. But took me on. He told me to stop binding for skating. My friend, Phichit, told me about top surgery—it’s really common for people to travel to Thailand for the surgeries, so he knew. He told me where to go to get it. So I got it. Double mastectomy.” Yuuri’s eyes flicker nervously from Viktor’s intense stare to the boxes to the floor, as unsteady as his voice. “I can’t believe—” he breathes, cutting himself off. “It felt better to have a body that agreed with my mind; I improved in my skating. Celestino encouraged me to re-register in the men’s division, and I was lucky nobody asked any questions.” He sighs, trembling and lightheaded. “I said too much.”
“No, no, not at all,” Viktor reassures him. “I have no story, I want to hear yours.”
“You have no story?” Yuuri looks back up at Viktor, who shakes his head.
“My body has always agreed with my mind, and I was fortunate enough to have one that naturally confuses people. My gender has always been illegible, but I wear a masculine persona to fit into the men’s division so nobody challenges me on it.”
“Oh,” Yuuri breathes, and the three-year-old scars on his chest seem to tighten like a constrictor. “I need—I’ve got to go to sleep. We have practice tomorrow morning.” He jerks his hand away from Viktor, staggering up and backing out of the room as fast as he can without being entirely rude. He gives a cursory bow and catches a glimpse of Viktor’s crestfallen face before running down the hallway to his room and slamming the door.
A belated panic attack crashes over Yuuri like a furious breaker and he slides down the door, choking back sobs, trying to force himself to stop hyperventilating. Wave after wave or irrational panic drenches Yuuri in fear and the need to run away! Get up and run away! His vision narrows down to a tunnel, the whole room goes black around him, the air sucks itself out of his lungs and he chokes. Gagging and rocking back and forth, Yuuri tries to convince himself it’s fine, Viktor can keep your secret because he kept his, he doesn’t think you’re gross for being trans, he doesn’t think you’re stupid and confused, but his brain won’t listen.
His brain chases itself in tighter and tighter circles, wrapping him up in a cocoon of his own fried nerves, until it wears itself out and shuts off. The panic leaves a dark void which is almost worse. Dripping with the dregs of the attack—dry eyes, rough throat, aching back, tingling hands and face—Yuuri hauls himself up off the floor and barely manages to make it to his bed before he collapses and passes out.
He never even hears Viktor knocking on his door, asking if he is okay.
“おはよう, Yuuri,” Viktor says cheerily the next morning, standing in the courtyard with Makkachin and a bicycle. The smile he gives Yuuri is very gentle, and Yuuri just about dies on the spot when he realizes Viktor must have heard his panic attack last night.
“おはようございます, Viktor,” Yuuri mumbles back, looking anywhere but at Viktor, fighting the shameful blush rising in his cheeks.
“We’re going to do physical conditioning this week to get your weight back to where you were at the last Grand Prix Finals! You gain weight in your hips and thighs, which makes you look quite womanly—have you ever been on testosterone?”
“I—no—yes—Viktor,” Yuuri stumbles over his own words, trying furiously to organize his thoughts. “Don’t ask me about that. Unless I say anything, please don’t ask me about that.”
Embarrassment flits across Viktor’s face before he fixes his smile back in place. “Sure thing. We’ll get you back into competing shape in no time.”
Once Viktor stops asking Yuuri about his gender and body, Yuuri can let go of some of his anxiety and start enjoying the workouts (as much as he can enjoy any workout, that is). Every day, he pushes himself under Viktor’s tutelage and every day he falls into bed exhausted in a good way, asleep before he even hits the sheets. He smiles around Viktor, his heart pounding in a way unrelated to the miles he runs, and realizes he’s happy. He’s the happiest he’s ever been, and though there’s still a tinge of disbelief about the whole situation, Yuuri loves it. There’s not too much to think about; it feels like all the thoughts have been exercised out of his head—until Viktor starts questioning him on his romantic life.
“Do you have a lover?” Viktor asks as Yuuri’s doing single-leg jumps on the edge of the bench and Yuuri nearly falls on his face.
“What?!” he scrambles to regain balance and ends up straddling the bench, facing Viktor; he wipes sweat out of his eyes.
“Any ex-lovers?” Viktor presses on, oblivious to Yuuri’s mounting distress. There’s no way he can talk about his sparse romantic life without bringing up his gender.
“No comment.” Yuuri flushes hard.
“Okay, then let’s talk about me! Let’s see—”
“What do you want me to do next?” Yuuri interrupts loudly, batting at Viktor’s hands to regain his attention. Viktor snatches both of Yuuri’s hands, eyes shining.
“Tell me about yourself!” Viktor smiles and leans in. “While we take a walk.”
“Uh—” Yuuri searches furiously for an out—the panic must be evident on his face; why isn’t Viktor backing off? “I’ve really got to go. I’m thirsty!” He lies, wrenching his hands away from Viktor, taking off as fast as he can back towards the hot springs.
Viktor tries valiantly for four days to get Yuuri to talk to him again, and on the dawn of the second week, Yuuri expects Viktor to be frustrated with him and leave in a huff for Russia, angry he wasted his time on this Japanese nobody.
That’s not what happens, though.
“Good morning,” Viktor says levelly, holding out a clementine towards him from his seat on the courtyard bench. “Let’s have a day off. We could head down to the beach—I promise I won’t pry.”
Yuuri sighs. He’s been running away enough.
“Okay.”
On the seawall with their feet dangling just above the sand, Yuuri and Viktor sit in silence, just watching the waves and Makkachin sniffing about the beach. Viktor looks serene. Yuuri fidgets with his fingers, kicking his legs so his heels bounce against the concrete.
“Yuuri, I’m sorry I was too forward,” Viktor finally says, and Yuuri looks over at him. He’s got a sad, remorseful smile on his face.
“I—thank you,” Yuuri starts. “It’s alright. I’ve never encountered another trans skater before; it’s really startling to know that your— you have been trans this entire time, and nobody knew. I’m still trying to process it. The greatest figure skater in history is trans like me ,” Yuuri murmurs, picking up a pebble and turning it over in his palm. Viktor is still watching him, silver bangs blowing in the salty breeze. How can one person be so devastating? “I’m an anxious person. It takes me a while to come to terms with things.”
Viktor nods, casting his gaze out towards the water again. “There aren’t many of us, are there,” he muses. “Since I’m your coach now, what do you want me to be to you?”
Yuuri looks over at Viktor, surprised. He palms the pebble while Viktor supplies some options. “A father figure? A brother?” Yuuri shakes his head, flinging the pebble as far out as he can. It makes the tiniest splash just at the edge of the lapping tide. “Your boyfriend?”
“No,” Yuuri says. “I just want you to be yourself.” He meets Viktor’s eyes, and the smile he finds there is infectious.
Viktor leans in and wraps Yuuri in a warm hug. “спасибо.”
When Viktor lets go, Yuuri pulls back to find his eyes only an inch away—they’re so blue—and his heart stops. This time, not out of fear.
Yuuri has the urge to do something stupidly impulsive, but Viktor is standing up and offering his hand to Yuuri before said stupidity can happen. Yuuri takes it, feeling lighter than he has in weeks.
When Yuri Plisestsky touches down in Hasetsu in the fifth week like a miniature blond typhoon, Yuuri is shaken. This 15-year-old storms in with talent equal to Viktor’s and an aggressive streak wider than the Chikugo River, determined to drag Viktor back to Russia. It’s impossible not to be taken aback by the sheer force of his personality, especially considering his shouting match with Yuuri just last year. Yuuri hasn’t seen him compete before, so watching Yuri Plisetsky slice up the ice of his home rink like he has a personal vendetta against it is startling, to say the least.
Even more startling is when Viktor sidles up beside Yuuri, wearing his skates and towering a good 15 cm above Yuuri’s 173 cm stature. He leans down on the barrier of the rink, chin in hands, and Yuuri has to take a deep breath, forcing down the now-familiar lurch of a crush in his stomach.
On the ice, Yuri comes out of a flying sit spin, shoots off down the center of the rink, and viciously catapults himself into a triple axel. He steps out of the landing and immediately digs a toe pick in, spinning to a stop facing away from his audience of two. Yuuri notes with concern that the boy is panting hard, struggling for breath.
“I keep telling him not to wear a binder on the ice. He’s so vain, though,” Viktor mutters, and Yuuri turns shocked-wide eyes on him.
“Yuri Plisetsky is trans too?” he hisses, trying to keep his voice low. Yuri whips around, eyes narrowing like laser beams on Yuuri Katsuki.
“What are you saying about me, piglet?” he demands, gliding over to the barrier. Yuuri puts his hands up placatingly.
“Yuuri didn’t say anything, calm down,” Viktor grins, bent down to Yuri’s height with his chin still in hand. “I was saying you should really stop wearing your binder skating. You’ll crack a rib.” He straightens up, and Yuri frowns murderously as he’s forced to crane his head up to meet Viktor’s eyes.
“Look, just because some of us don’t have to worry about certain things and are hideously gifted with perfect bodies, doesn’t mean you can rail on me about it, in front of him,” Yuri jabs an angry finger at Yuuri.
“He’s one of us,” Viktor says simply, and Yuri is rounding on Yuuri with a look of disbelief. Viktor strolls off down the barrier towards the entrance to the ice.
“How!” he yells in Yuuri’s face. “You’re so fat, you’ve got to have huge—” he mimes breasts, going red.
Yuuri sputters, shocked and appalled that Viktor would out both of them so flippantly. He frowns as Viktor steps out onto the ice and takes three strokes to make it out to center ice. Yuri turns to watch Viktor as well, his face stormy.
“Hey Viktor, when you’re not busy being so shitty, maybe you could learn some respect, huh?!” he bellows, making a rude gesture.
“Oh, sorry,” Viktor calls, flashing an uncomfortable smile and a peace sign. Yuuri shakes his head and sighs. Airheaded though he is, Viktor wouldn’t out them to anybody they couldn’t trust, Yuuri hopes. Yuri Plisetsky is clenching and unclenching his fists, muttering under his breath in Russian, still very obviously upset about the outing. The only way Yuuri could rescue the situation would be to normalize it.
“I had surgery,” Yuuri says quickly, tapping a hand on the barrier to draw Yuri Plisetsky’s attention away from Viktor. “I was a terrible women’s skater with them, I’m a decent men’s skater without them.” Yuri’s eyes narrow, but he leans back, taking a deep breath.
“Okay,” he says, nodding his head suspiciously. “Okay.”
“Yuuri,” Viktor calls from the center of the ice, “get your skates on and come out here!”
“Right, right,” Yuuri mumbles, pulling on his skates as quickly as he can.
“I’ve choreographed two short programs to different arrangements of the piece On Love. They are Eros and Agape — eros is sexual love; agape is unconditional love,” Viktor explains, shooing both Yu(u)ris off to the side so he can demonstrate both routines.
When he finishes, he flips his damp bangs out of his eyes grandly, and bows. Yuuri starts clapping before he can catch himself, but stops short when he realizes Yuri Plisetsky is just staring at Viktor critically.
“I want Eros,” he says immediately. Viktor laughs.
“That’s not how it works, Yuri. You get Agape, and Yuuri gets Eros,” he says, pointedly ignoring the angry cries from Yuri and the remarkable deer-in-the-headlights impression from Yuuri. “You two will compete to the programs I assign you, and I will do whatever the winner says.” Viktor’s gaze settles heavy and expectant on Yuuri, his mouth a slight smirk.
“When I win, then, you’re coming back to Russia with me.” Yuri stamps a foot decidedly. Viktor grins, and looks back to Yuuri Katsuki.
“And what will you have me do if you win, Yuuri?” He asks suggestively, taking two lazy, gliding strides into Yuuri’s personal space.
The first thought that pops into Yuuri’s head is ravish me, which he is definitely not allowed to say. Yuuri swallows hard and gathers up the scraps of his safe-for-work thoughts, piecing them together hurriedly.
“Stand by me as my coach,” Yuuri declares, sounding much more certain than he feels. Viktor’s face lights up, and he claps excitedly like a child.
“I can’t wait to see this!” Viktor practically sings. “The competition will be in two weeks. We can call it Hot Springs on Ice!” He claps, dancing in spinning steps across the ice on his toe picks. “I’ll be here when you need me.”
Yuuri and Yuri turn to look at each other with a shared understanding of just how extra Viktor Nikiforov can be.
After Yuri Plisetsky stumbles on his third triple toe loop, Yuuri knows something is wrong. Hesitantly, he skates over to offer Yuri a hand. The Russian bats away the proffered help angrily, staggering up on his own. “Don’t need your help,” he mumbles.
“Viktor’s right, you really can’t skate well with a binder,” Yuuri says. “Do you at home?”
Yuri shakes his head jerkily.
“Why don’t you take it off here then?” Yuuri asks.
“I can’t take it off in front of you,” Yuri spits, crossing his arms and drawing himself up to his full height (which is still 10 cm shorter than Yuuri).
Yuuri sighs, understanding he won’t make any headway here.
Later that night, after dinner, Yuuri pulls out half a dozen old and unused sports bras, gathers them into his arms, and brings them to Yuri’s room. He sets them down on the floor next to where Yuri is scrolling through Instagram wordlessly, and sits cross-legged next to the bras.
“What’s this,” Yuri sneers, looking at the pile of bras.
“Sports bras,” Yuuri picks up the top one from the pile. It’s reversible black and navy blue. “Mine from when I was younger. I haven’t worn them in years. Some of them were too small for me to ever wear, so they might fit you. I had bigger—” Yuuri mimes breasts, only partly to watch Yuri go red again, “than you do.”
Yuri gets up from where he was lying on his stomach, crossing his legs beneath him and his arms tightly over his chest. He reaches a cautious hand out, as if expecting the bras to bite him, and pulls out the black-and-grey leopard print bra Mari had gotten Yuuri as a birthday present maybe eight years ago.
“They won’t flatten you out like a binder does, but it’ll be easier to breathe.” Yuuri looks at the microexpression of happiness that darts across Yuri’s features and softens. He considers saying something more heartfelt, but decides against it—Yuri Plisetsky isn’t one for spoken sentiment.
Yuuri gathers up the rest of the bras and leaves, pausing slightly in the doorway to hear Yuri mumble, “thanks,” under his breath.
Viktor is cold. Cool. Maybe Yuuri’s hot. He’s probably hot. Yeah. A bead of sweat slides down his temple as he clutches his bouquet. He’s shaking, unsteady in his skates on the winner’s podium. Viktor’s arms are cool where they wrap around his waist. What’s he saying into the microphone? Love? Viktor? Oh god, I can’t believe I said that.
As soon as he gets off the ice, Viktor practically drags him into the locker room, crushes him to his chest, and kisses him. It’s desperate and fast and emotional. Yuuri pulls back and looks straight into Viktor’s eyes. With Yuuri in skates and Viktor flatfooted, they’re the same height.
“Viktor,” Yuuri breathes. Viktor’s eyes flutter and he groans quietly, leaning to kiss Yuuri again. Viktor, Viktor, Viktor. Yuuri presses hard into the kiss, pushing Viktor back against the row of lockers. His bouquet falls forgotten to the ground. His hands are in Viktor’s silky-soft hair, his tongue running across Viktor’s bottom lip. Viktor melts into him.
Yuuri grips Viktor’s hair, nipping at his lip, and Viktor groans like he’s coming undone. To keep Viktor from collapsing suddenly, Yuuri wraps an arm around Viktor’s slim waist and holds him tight, cupping the back of his head with his other hand. Viktor cradles Yuuri’s face with both his hands, breaking the kiss only to angle his head the other way and meet Yuuri’s tongue with his own. Yuuri pulls back for a half second, only to touch his lips to Viktor’s once, twice, three times, before finally managing to tear himself away. Every inch of his body feels like it’s on fire and his brain is reeling, breath coming heavy.
Viktor looks distinctly disheveled—cheeks bright pink, lips red and shiny, hair and clothes ruffled. He’s fighting to get his breathing back under control when Yuuri gently takes his hands and pulls him to the bench in the center of the room.
“Help me with my skates?” he whispers in Viktor’s ear, and Viktor shivers before taking a knee to unlace Yuuri’s skates. Yuuri leans back on his hands, staring at the ceiling in disbelief. Where did that come from? But it doesn’t matter much, because Viktor seemed very into it. It’s a high from the performance, Yuuri reassures himself. Though when Viktor reaches up and grabs his chin, pulling him into another kiss, it’s an entirely different kind of high. A heady, drunken high that rushes to his groin.
“I could—” Viktor gasps in between kisses—“take you right here—right now—if you’d let me—Боже мой—”
“My family is on the other side of that door!” Yuuri hisses, pressing his hands to Viktor’s chest.
“Same thing at home,” Viktor growls, going in for another kiss, but Yuuri stops him with a finger on his lips.
“I don’t want my first time with you to be in a locker room!”
Viktor looks surprised, then takes Yuuri’s finger into his mouth and sucks on it. Yuuri goes weak, barely meeting Viktor’s lust-glazed eyes with his own heavily lidded gaze. He rallies enough to pull his finger out of Viktor’s hot, wet mouth—oh, that is obscene—and push him back.
“No, I want you to throw me on your bed and suck me off when we get home, not here ,” Yuuri says firmly, making Viktor swoon again.
“Of course,” Viktor breathes, pushing himself upright with some difficulty and flipping his hair back into place. He primps a bit, collecting himself, but nearly falls apart again when he looks back at Yuuri. They nod at each other and Yuuri hikes his duffel bag up onto his shoulder before they exit the locker room together into a modest swarm of reporters angling for good coverage of the Hot Springs on Ice competition. Yuuri casts his gaze about for Yuri Plisetsky, unable to locate his ash-blond head like he should be able to in the sea of black-haired people. Yuuko is standing off to the side, trying to keep her triplets out from underfoot as much as possible as reporters rush at Viktor.
“Yuuko,” Yuuri calls over the noise, “have you seen Yuri?”
“He left,” she says almost sadly. Yuuri frowns. Why would he leave before knowing the resu—oh, that’s why. He already knew the result.
Part of Yuuri twinges with guilt, but he isn’t given any time to mull over that feeling by the insistent hand of Viktor Nikiforov on his elbow, dragging him into the center of the press. He figures out why immediately: the reporters are firing off questions in Japanese. Gamely, Yuuri translates all the questions and answers he can before bowing out and taking Viktor with him.
Once out of sight of the prying glass eyes of news cameras, Viktor retrieves his bicycle from the rack below the Ice Castle and mounts it, patting the handlebars while fixing Yuuri with an expectant look. Yuuri tilts his head, and Viktor pats the handlebars more insistently.
“You’ve never ridden on the handlebars?” he asks incredulously, and all Yuuri can do is shake his head. “Just, come on! Sit on the handlebars and tell me where I’m going.”
Viktor says this as if it’s the easiest thing ever and not dangerous in the slightest. Yuuri hesitates a second longer but then Viktor pouts, this grown adult pouts at Yuuri, and he can’t help but give in.
Perched hazardously on the handlebars of Viktor’s bright yellow bicycle as he pedals away, Yuuri is overcome by second thoughts and his hands go white-knuckle on the bars next to Viktor’s.
“You know, you do have to tell me where I’m going!” Viktor says. “I do have a beautiful view, but it’s not very good for navigation.” He laughs as Yuuri throws an incredulous, beet-red look over his shoulder, but he flirts back, determined to make Viktor blush by wiggling his hips right in Viktor’s face as he calls out turns.
Yuuri catches some double-takes from neighbors who can’t believe their eyes—reserved Katsuki Yuuri, flying down the street laughing, riding the handlebars of a foreign man’s bike with not a care in the world. He gives them little waves, grinning like a fool and laughing as Viktor continues to flirt with him, even daring to take a hand off the handlebars to flick Yuuri’s butt in retaliation for all the wiggling.
Definitely high from winning, Yuuri decides.
And, just as Yuuri told him, when they beat the rest of Yuuri’s family back to Yu-Topia Katsuki, Viktor carries Yuuri inside and tosses him down on the bed, kicking his shoes and coat off before diving on top of him. Viktor immediately wraps his arms around Yuuri’s chest, burying his face in his neck, and growling something in Russian that makes Yuuri far wetter than it should. He follows it up with a shower of kisses that turn into bites and Yuuri squeals and tries to escape, shoving Viktor’s head away from him. He wriggles free and rolls into the headboard, shedding his warm-up jacket and staring down Viktor with a grin.
“I have the size advantage,” Viktor crows, lunging at Yuuri, who manages to tuck and roll underneath him and plant his feet on Viktor’s ribs, lifting him up into the air with his legs when he straightens them.
“And I have the strength advantage,” Yuuri smirks at Viktor’s dumbfounded look. “I’m taking low-dose testosterone,” he says, flexing one arm and kissing the bicep. Viktor wolf-whistles, and Yuuri bends his knees to his chest to let Viktor down between his legs. Yuuri licks his lips, heart rate skyrocketing as he realizes his knees are pressed nearly to his shoulders, legs wide open, Viktor’s hips pressing into his inner thighs. Viktor leans in agonizingly slow, his eyes fluttering shut, and barely brushes his lips over Yuuri’s.
“What do you want me to do?” he whispers, and Yuuri feels the words on his lips more than he hears them.
“Go all the way. I want to feel you inside me,” he breathes. Viktor’s not his first, but he will be the first Yuuri actually cares for. “What can I do to you?”
“Be my first,” Viktor responds, crushes his lips firmly to Yuuri’s. Yuuri gasps into the kiss and Viktor presses his advantage, licking at Yuuri’s teeth, playing with his tongue. Yuuri kisses and sucks at Viktor’s bottom lip, allowing his hands to roam Viktor’s hips and untuck his shirt. His fingers dance up Viktor’s spine and he shivers, holding himself with one hand, gingerly flattening his other hand across Yuuri’s chest. His slender fingers span nearly the width between Yuuri’s nipples, and the sight of his elegant hand so possessively across Yuuri’s heart only makes him wetter.
“Is this…?” Viktor whispers. Yuuri nods.
“Don’t touch the scars.”
Yuuri withdraws his hands from Viktor’s shirt and raises his arms so that Viktor can strip his shirt off over his head. Viktor sits back on his heels, taking in Yuuri’s shirtless chest with hungry eyes. He ghosts his fingers across Yuuri’s chest, circling his nipples teasingly, carefully skirting the thick, ropey, U-shaped scars across his ribs, tracing his obliques down to his waistband, barely pressing his thumbs into the slight softness that lies stubbornly at his lower belly and refuses to go away even with countless crunches. Viktor is awestruck and hopelessly, desperately, devastatingly in love. Yuuri is trusting him with the most precious thing he could imagine.
“Yuuri,” he breathes. “You’re the most gorgeous—”
Yuuri’s cheeks flush and his eyes go dark, dark, dark as his pupils blow. He pushes his hips up and locks his legs around Viktor, pulling him back down. “Kiss me,” he says even as Viktor is crushing their lips together. Yuuri grasps at the hem of Viktor’s shirt, trying to drag it off over his head. Viktor pushes Yuuri’s hands away to unbutton the collar and wrench it off, disarraying his hair wildly. Yuuri fists his hands in the spun moonlight strands, breathing in Viktor’s scent between heavy kisses. Viktor runs a cool hand up Yuuri’s side, skipping his scar, and grazes his nipple with a finger. Yuuri holds Viktor tighter, arching his chest slightly off the bed. Viktor takes the hint and rubs Yuuri’s nipple with two fingers. Yuuri gasps a quiet “oh yes,” and nuzzles under Viktor’s jaw, laying a trail of feather-light kisses from earlobe to throat to collarbone.
“Suck my nipples,” Yuuri demands, wrestling a knee between Viktor’s legs even as he shoves his head down. Viktor is forced to readjust so that Yuuri’s knee pushes against his groin, moaning under his breath at the friction. As Viktor swirls his tongue around each of Yuuri’s nipples, Yuuri lets his hands roam and mind drift away on waves of pleasure, mapping out the planes and contours of Viktor’s body by touch alone. The yielding ridges of each muscle in Viktor’s back versus the hard ridges of his ribs, the soft swell of his breasts, the tight pertness of each nipple, the divot of his belly button.
“Yura,” Viktor breathes, cheek pressed against Yuuri’s chest as he looks up at him. “Please.”
Yuuri’s eyes flash.
He lunges up and pushes Viktor down on the bed, diving in to suck on Viktor’s earlobe, one hand on his breast, thumbing the nipple. Viktor arches into the touch, breath coming heavy and edged with moans, turning his head to the side so that Yuuri can suck a mark into the join of his neck and shoulder. It almost hurts, almost, but Yuuri is making him his. Yuuri owns him with this mark. His arousal flares brighter; he holds on to Yuuri’s muscular shoulders to keep from floating away.
The second Yuuri’s tongue touches Viktor’s nipple, he cries out. Pleasure, intense and intoxicating like vodka, blooms in roses behind his eyes. His hips buck of their own accord, seeking some sort of anything. Yuuri pins him to the bed with a knee on his hip, but that’s not what Viktor wants and he keens needily even as Yuuri’s tongue laves over his nipple.
“Yes, yes, oh god, yes,” Viktor chants mindlessly, holding Yuuri’s head to his chest, riding so high on the feeling he could almost come, he just needs a little more.
“You have to tell me what you want, Viktor ,” Yuuri says to Viktor’s breastbone as he pinches a nipple. Every coherent thought flies out of Viktor’s head. He moans wordlessly, trying to push Yuuri’s head back down to where it was making him feel so good, and feebly fights against Yuuri’s restraining knee.
“Viktor,” Yuuri croons, reaching up to take hold of his chin and make him look down. Yuuri teasingly flicks a nipple with his tongue and Viktor cries; there’s no way Yuuri can’t know how incredible it sounds to hear his name like that.
“I want,” Viktor breathes, concentrating on English, “I want you to touch me.”
“Where?”
He can hear the smirk in Yuuri’s voice and he groans, pushing Yuuri’s head up away from him, grabbing both his hands, and pressing them into his groin.
“Touch. Me,” he growls. Yuuri bites back a smile, lowers Viktor back down to the bed with one warm hand, pacifies him with a slow kiss that mirrors the feather-light teasing touches Viktor can only barely feel through his slacks.
“That’s not enough,” Viktor says into the kiss. Yuuri gives him a peck.
“You’re right; I’m sorry,” he whispers, not sounding remotely apologetic. Deftly, Yuuri undoes Viktor’s belt, button, and fly, then looks up at Viktor, waiting. Viktor nods yesyesyes rapidly, and Yuuri edges his slacks down off his hips, then all the way off with some assistance.
With gentle hands beneath each knee, Yuuri opens Viktor’s legs and kneels between them, gazing down at him with open wonder and love written across his face.
“Yuuri,” Viktor almost begs, “please touch me.”
“How?” Yuuri slowly rubs his hands up and down the outside of Viktor’s thighs.
“With your hands. I… I don’t want oral. Don’t look at me too closely,” Viktor gestures self-consciously to his black boxer-briefs.
“Of course,” Yuuri nods, leaning down to cover Viktor’s body with his own. He slots his wider hips between Viktor’s legs and blesses Viktor’s cheeks, nose, eyelids, forehead, lips with kisses; he rocks his hips against Viktor’s and Viktor gasps, arching up into Yuuri. He’s directly on Viktor’s clit and it sends waves of hot pleasure up his stomach and down his legs. The pace is slow and tender and it’s fine for a minute, but Viktor needs more.
He wraps his legs around Yuuri’s waist, pushing back against him with every thrust and it’s suddenly delicious. Yuuri ruts against him increasingly roughly, toying with his nipples as he bruises Viktor’s neck over and over with his mouth and teeth. Yes, yes, yes.
“I need you in me,” Viktor moans; Yuuri responds with a bite and a hand dancing down across Viktor’s belly. He slips two fingers under the waistband of Viktor’s underwear, snapping it against the V of his hips. Viktor whines. He stretches up and bites Yuuri back, grabbing Yuuri’s hair to hold him down. His other hand presses flat against Yuuri’s belly.
“May I?” he breathes in Yuuri’s ear, sucking his earlobe. He feels Yuuri nod against his shoulder.
Yuuri pushes his hand into Viktor’s underwear, combing his fingers through Viktor’s bush, sliding a single finger between Viktor’s wet lips. He sighs shakily.
Viktor glides his hand into Yuuri’s spandex shorts, cupping his pussy, feeling hot wetness against his fingers.
He pushes a finger in.
Yuuri keens.
Yuuri’s finger is circling his clit, driving him wild. He bucks his hips up and Yuuri’s teasing finger slips into him.
Viktor moans, deep and heady.
Yuuri goes in all the way, rocking in and crooking his finger. Deep inside him, lilac pleasure blooms. He thrusts his hips, fucking into Yuuri at the same time. Yuuri moans so low and Viktor’s pussy clenches involuntarily.
“More,” he begs, mouthing Yuuri’s neck sloppily, “more, please, more.”
Yuuri hums, glossing a second finger over Viktor’s clit, pushing it home. Viktor cries out, full-throated. Full, so full, better.
“God, just fuck me, Yuuri!” he cries. With a groan, Yuuri eagerly fucks him, pistoning his fingers in and out, rubbing his thumb on Viktor’s clit with each stroke. Viktor keens, voice slipping out of its trained register into something higher and uncontrolled. He wiggles his finger inside Yuuri and Yuuri almost melts, his rhythm stuttering for a second before he thrusts in time with his hips. He grabs Viktor’s knee and hikes it back up over his hip from where it fell as Yuuri penetrated him.
“Give me—give—give me three,” Viktor moans, clutching at Yuuri’s back.
“So greedy,” Yuuri groans in his ear, nipping it. He obliges Viktor and Viktor falls apart.
“Clit, please, I'm going to—!” Viktor cries as Yuuri moans,
“Another.”
They obey each other at the same time. Viktor nearly screams, voice high and raw. His thighs clench around Yuuri’s body, orgasm building.
“Harder!” he screams.
Yuuri groans, “fuck, fuck, Viktor, ” and Viktor comes hard. White-hot pleasure courses through him. He throws back his head and moans so loudly, clenching frantically around Yuuri’s fingers. Yuuri fucks him through his orgasm. Viktor falls bonelessly to the bed, chest heaving, and he blinks up at Yuuri.
“Oh god, Viktor, ” Yuuri murmurs, pulling out, careful not to touch his oversensitive clit. “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Viktor’s stomach surges and he grins giddily, pulling Yuuri flush to his chest.
“That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever felt,” he says fervently, like a prayer. “Could I give you one?”
Yuuri nods, biting his lip.
Viktor rolls them over so Yuuri is on his back and Viktor is on his side, cuddled up against Yuuri with his head on Yuuri’s shoulder. Gently, Viktor slides his hand back into Yuuri’s spandex.
He circles one finger around Yuuri’s clit the way he personally likes it, the way Yuuri had done to him. Yuuri sighs and tips his head back. Viktor leans down and mouths one of Yuuri’s nipples softly. Yuuri barely moans.
“Up and down,” he says, reaching one hand to fist in Viktor’s hair and the other in the sheets. Viktor flicks his finger up and down across Yuuri’s clit, through the silky-smooth wet folds of his lower lips.
Yuuri moans in earnest, biting his lip as he hums, “mmm, yes.” Viktor mirrors the movement of his fingers with his tongue, reaching his other hand over to Yuuri’s other nipple.
“Yes, yes, yes, like that, harder, ” Yuuri cries, voice growing louder. “Oh god, faster, don’t stop, don’t stop!”
Yuuri comes in an instant, his whole body spasming with the force of his pleasure. His mouth is open silently, his fist tight in Viktor’s hair and the sheets. Viktor works him through his orgasm until Yuuri pants, “ok, it’s ok, stop.”
He lies with his eyes closed, breathing hard, for a moment. When he turns to Viktor, the smile that dawns on his face is angelic and glowing. Viktor pounces on him, kissing him deeply, squeezing Yuuri to him. The balloon of joy in his chest is threatening to burst; Viktor clings to Yuuri like he’s the only thing keeping him from floating away.
“I think I love you,” Yuuri whispers in his ear. The balloon bursts, filling Viktor with lighter-than-air euphoria that floods his eyes with tears.
“I think I love you, too,” Viktor whispers back, brushing a kiss to Yuuri’s ear.
The two hold each other for a long while, coming out of the afterglow together. Yuuri is the first to slither out of bed and collect both of their clothes. He sets Viktor’s shirt and pants on the bed; they’re only a little wrinkled from sitting on the floor for two and a half hours. Viktor instead changes into a T-shirt, pullover, and sweatpants. Yuuri pads down the hall to his room to change too.
They meet outside Viktor’s room, listening to the sounds of Yuuri’s family and guests moving about and chatting in the common areas just down the hall. Viktor offers a sheepish grin. Yuuri returns it fondly, lacing his fingers with Viktor’s.
“Katsudon?” Viktor asks, still grinning. Yuuri’s smile brightens and he squeezes his hand.
“You know I’d love to.”