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The night after their first time, they are thwarted by Makkachin, who refuses to vacate her spot between them on Victor’s bed.
This isn’t the worst thing in the world. One, they did kind of ask for a clingy dog today, after locking her out of Yuuri’s room the entire night before. Two, Victor is no night owl—not like him. Here in the dark, though he’s threaded their hands together over the wall that Makkachin has become, Victor blinks heavily every few seconds. Yuuri can see when he lifts his head to peek over the poodle’s crinkly coat that Victor is halfway to tapping out.
And three…
“You’re not too disappointed?” Victor says on an exhale, squeezing Yuuri’s hand.
Yuuri shakes his head and squeezes back. Almost says out loud what had been on the tip of his tongue since they shut Victor’s door against the rest of Yu-topia: that he’d be lying if he said he weren’t a little bit sore, anyway. Not enough to stop him if things went further. Just enough to allow him to relax without bitterness into the warm pile of animal and boyfriend.
But it’s still too new. He’s just gotten over the fact that he’s allowed to imagine it. Let alone acknowledge aloud that they’ve done it, that he’s feeling it, even now.
Nothing today had implied that it was going to happen again. They’d spent the morning celebrating his birthday with his family, and then a long afternoon and evening at Ice Castle. The occupied hours had left them almost too busy to think about a repeat.
“Almost” being the key—for Yuuri at least.
For Victor, too, he hopes, but as they surrender even the possibility of arousal to the cuddle pile, he’s too shy to ask.
If only Yuuri couldn’t still feel the aftershocks running through him, almost twenty-four hours later, he might been able to ignore the longing. Sidestep it, the way he sidestepped so many other inconvenient emotions. They’ve never had much time for intimacy; and the sting of that was familiar. Yuuri almost regrets that it only started in China, and not during the long, warm summer months, when they would have had time to explore one another without the urgency of competition dictating their progress.
He doesn’t—can’t—regret it, of course. But the longing, the wanting, isn’t something he was prepared for.
Yuuri wants a repeat. A do-over, maybe; he thinks he might have let himself get carried away, thinks he would be able to do better by Victor if they did it again. If he could show him, when he isn’t clouded by fifteen hours of travel time, how much he needs him…
But the next night, they are again thwarted more by Yuuri’s nerves than by the lack of time.
He’s draped himself over Victor, his fingers toying with the waistband of Victor’s pants and Victor’s own hands working over his back underneath his shirt. They curl around him, over his ribs, pads of his fingers delicate and almost ticklish but too good to really be a nuisance. He lets himself make a small, plaintive noise into Victor’s mouth. Victor breathes hard through his nose in response, and Yuuri can feel it rush against the side of his face. Cotton slides up his chest when Victor raises his hands, his thumbs brushing purposefully over Yuuri’s nipples.
That sends absolute shock through Yuuri and two things happen almost at the same time: Yuuri’s hips snap forward on their own, and, embarrassed at his own reaction, he scrambles his arms beneath him, pushing away from the deep kiss and putting distance between their upper bodies.
Victor had pulled back immediately. Whatever he sees on Yuuri’s face must not be good, because now he looks hurt; Yuuri can’t have that, wants to kiss his entire face to make that expression stop. The hurt lasts for all of half a second—before his mouth thins over an understanding smile.
“What do you need, Yuuri?”
Victor seems to know exactly what to say, these days—and that makes Yuuri feel worse. In the cold air, he can feel the line of spit that snapped between them when he yanked himself off. He wants to wipe it away, hide the evidence—he wants to die of shame. His heart lobbing curveballs against his ribs, he answers, anyway: “A little… um, a little more time, I think.”
His boyfriend sighs quietly in answer. He offers Yuuri that tightly-controlled smile, the one Yuuri saw a lot of over the summer. He says, “You have to tell me when you’re uncomfortable, you know. It’s like with skating—sometimes when you get injured, people watching can’t always tell.”
And he’s not scolding him, not exactly, not remotely like he would if this were actually skating—but Yuuri still feels himself blushing.
“I- I know. And I’m not injured.” He feels his face get warmer, gritting the word out. “I’m still trying to figure out what I should say.”
“Just trust yourself to know when you’re ready.” Victor pulls him forward, hesitation and all, and kisses the corner of his mouth. “I trust you.”
The patience forces the sting from Yuuri’s chest to behind his eyes, so he presses his face against Victor’s neck and nods.
***
It’s late.
Late for them—after ten, maybe eleven by this point. And while Yuuri could easily put off going to bed until midnight before his off days, he knows it’s a sacrifice and a blatant display of devotion by Victor. Indulging Yuuri, he’d stayed up with him, in front of the inn’s one television, after all the guests have gone off to bed. Now, they’re absently watching the end of some American show that Phichit turned him onto when they lived in Detroit. He thinks he might be behind by a season or two, and doesn’t really remember the plot enough to know what exactly he’s missed. He’s more concerned with the nearness of his boyfriend, anyway. He barely even sees it when the commercials start to wheel by.
The last two nights have set him on edge. Made him feel that he should be even more on edge: there are scant weeks left until the Grand Prix Final, and, he thinks, he ought to fill every second of those weeks either in his skates or in Victor’s bed. Next to him on the floor, Victor’s arm is pressed along the length of his own, and it makes the rest of his body scream for Victor’s attention. He wasn’t prepared to be so distracted by how close he is, after an hour or so of this innocent kind of contact.
Wasn’t prepared to be distracted by his doubts, either. For now, he can reach across the inches and touch. And yet. He can also glance down at Victor’s hands, splayed behind him in support, and remember that even though they talked about proposals… even though he suggested a wedding present in the form of a bigger bed… There is no real promise that binds them. Nothing tangible, anyway.
Yuuri is about to offer that they go to sleep when Victor perks up at a change in the TV’s light. Yuuri turns his own head from Victor’s silhouetted profile to the screen. Snow blows over dry fountains, past blackened trees. Over the quiet orchestral music, Victor asks, “Oh, have you seen this?”
A title in a foreign language appears in scrawling letters, and then the subtitles read, “I Am Love.”
Yuuri tilts his head. “No. I don’t think I’ve heard of it, either.”
Victor smiles his “things are going exactly my way” smile, that lit-up-like-a-festival smile, and Yuuri can’t even be disappointed that they’ll probably stay to watch the movie.
“It’s really very good. Gorgeous, actually. It’s set in Italy—follows a Russian woman who married an Italian man, and her… I guess you could say mid-life crisis?”
Yuuri sets his elbow on the table and gazes fondly at him. “Does it remind you of yourself?”
Victor pouts. “Yuuri…”
Catching himself, Yuuri laughs. “No, I don’t mean her age; I mean, if she’s a Russian away from home…”
Victor gestures, tilting one hand back and forth. “Maybe. But it’s more…”
While he equivocates, Mari ducks into the room. She’s shed her Yu-topia uniform, opting for sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt.
“Oh, you’re using the TV…” she says.
She scratches at her grown-out roots, awkwardly standing in the threshold—and awkwardness looks strange on her, Yuuri has always though. But Victor beams up at her from the floor. In the clear, ever-so-slightly-slowed English he uses with Yuuri’s family, he says, “You’re welcome to join us, if you want.”
Mari glances at the television. Then at Yuuri. She grins marginally. “Am I interrupting something?” she asks, in Japanese.
Yuuri sits up very straight. “Um-”
She laughs. Not unkindly. “Will you grow up, little brother? We’re in our twenties.” And she picks her way between the tables to sit at one across and up one row from their own.
Yuuri, meanwhile, looks at Victor. It’s a foreign movie. And many foreign movies he’s seen have been… less than family friendly.
“I don’t know if you’ll like it,” he says to Mari, preemptively—still in Japanese.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Mari asks, pulling out a cigarette from her pants pocket and lighting it. She looks to the screen again, blowing out smoke, and catches onto a name written in white letters over the snowy background. “Oh, Tilda Swinton?” She looks over her shoulder at Victor. Her English is decent, if more heavily accented than Yuuri’s, and she says, “I read that right? Is she in this?”
Victor answers, “She’s great in it. You know, she actually learned Italian and Russian for the role? I was really impressed.”
Mari barely notes this, saying, “She was in a vampire movie, right? The movie with… Ugh, how do you say this— With Loki in the comic book movie…?”
Now. Only Lovers Left Alive, Yuuri has seen. The majority of it took place in Detroit, and so it had been pretty popular there on its release. He also remembers the content. And the memory makes him looks to Victor helplessly.
Knowing, Victor looks back at him. Completely without shame, he says, “There’s a scene or two but nothing explicit.”
Mari doesn’t seem to understand, continues to enjoy her smoke.
Yuuri asks, very quietly, “How far in?”
“An hour, maybe?”
Yuuri peeks around Victor to his sister, who has made herself comfortable. She must feel his eyes on her, however, because after a moment she jerks her head toward him. Only half-peeved, she asks, “What?”
Yuuri shakes his head.
She’ll probably be tired enough for bed in fifteen minutes—let alone by the time an hour goes by. But then again, it might not matter. Mari had just told him to “grow up.” And, Yuuri knows Victor. He knows that he’s never been phased flirting with Yuuri in public—even the overtly sexual flirting, touching his lip or kissing his skate. He was under no illusion that Victor was anything other than completely open about displays of sexuality.
So they all sit together, cross-legged on the floor. Mari keeps him a few inches further away from Victor than he’d like to be, at first—their knees were barely brushing when she’d walked in, and now he can only feel the fabric shift against fabric whenever one of them adjusts. Eventually, though, they all tire; and the movie proves too peaceful, too full of decadent imagery and exotic language, to take in sitting up straight any longer.
As the main character is having a religious experience with a plate of prawns, Victor leans back, pulls Yuuri against him and his legs across his lap. It’s still relatively proper, even if Victor’s fingers aimlessly toy with his pajama bottoms where they fall over his shins.
Quietly, Victor leans his forehead against Yuuri’s temple and whispers, “You asked if this character reminded me of myself.”
Entranced by the strange visuals, the spotlit pleasure of the leading lady—the warmth of Victor’s skin and the soft brush of his hair—Yuuri nods. “Yeah.”
“She actually reminds me of you, a little bit,” Victor murmurs. And then his absently trailing fingers alight over the middle of Yuuri’s foot. “A creature of appetites. You kind of love her for it.”
Victor keeps at his ministrations, and after a few seconds, squeezes, working his thumb into the tight muscle, and Yuuri almost moans.
He catches himself—and, forgetting that he had decided to relax about Mari’s presence, he goes to turn the most vicious “my-sister-is-sitting-right-there-what-is-the-matter-with-you” look he can on Victor. But he doesn’t see it. His face is fixed forward; he’s actually paying attention to the movie—shifting his eyes over the screen as he shifts his fingers over Yuuri’s skin. Like he doesn’t notice what he’s doing. Like his affection is, really, just that absent.
And that sends a pulse of pure adoration through Yuuri.
He experiences another moment like that a few scenes later, when the mother and the daughter have a heart-to-heart. The daughter seems to be telling the mother—the main character— that she’s dating a woman, telling her that it’s not a phase. And Yuuri remembers, with sudden vividness, that the first person he’d ever told that he liked boys was Mari. It had been in high school. And while everyone knew about his obsession with Victor, that was safe; that was hypothetical. It was something entirely other, telling someone that you thought the third year kendo club captain was the prettiest person you’d ever seen in real life. Even prettier than Yuuko.
Of course it had been Mari, he thinks now. There isn’t anyone who understands you like your siblings.
And she hadn’t judged him at all. Hadn’t thought of him any differently. No one in their family had—none of his friends had—but Mari had given him what was to this day the best reaction he’s ever received to his orientation:
She’d stared at him for a second or two, expression flat and one eyebrow raised. “Obviously,” she’s said, as she reached into the pocket of the leather jacket she’d taken to wearing to her night classes. Pulling out the box of cigarettes, she’s offered one to Yuuri. “So do you want to date him? Or has he snubbed you and now you need me to kill him?”
He hadn’t told Mari anything else about the kendo captain, and he hadn’t taken the cigarette either, but he had managed to give her a hug around the hand she’d tried—not valiantly—to put between them.
Back in the TV room, Mari yawns widely.
“I’m too tired for subtitles,” she says, stretching as she rises.
As she leaves the room, reminding them over her shoulder of the hour, Yuuri realizes he’s having what Phichit would call an “I love everyone in this bar” moment. And he hasn’t even had anything to drink. It only gets worse when Ms. Swinton’s character gazes fondly at photos of her daughter, approvingly imagines her child and the woman she had confessed to being in love with.
All of it set to opera, of all things; what is it with Europeans and opera.
“This is…” Yuuri swallows. He feels too full, and not quite sure where to aim his affection. He settles on leaning deeper into Victor’s warm weight beside him, saying, “You were right, this is pretty good.”
In his peripheral vision, he sees Victor grin down at him. “It gets better.”
Better in some sense of the word. Three minutes later comes the heavily-suggested sex scene. The movie has switched between the forms of love so fast that Yuuri’s head is spinning, a little.
Victor hadn’t mislead him; it isn’t explicit. But… The sunlight is soft over the back of the male partner. Tasteful and delicate, even if it makes him blush. The sensuality of it goes on for long minutes, and once Yuuri thinks it might be over, the couple is making love amongst the flowers, and what even is this movie; there’s confusingly ecstatic music, and strange shots of limbs and grass and ripe fruit and-
Everything you see every day, through a different lens. Sunlight, and skin, and all the earth’s ordinary things.
Victor is plastered to him by the end of the scene. It should be silly—this is an Important Foreign Film, not… not porn, but the sensuality of it is catching. And when he transfers his attention from the skin on screen to the heat of Victor’s body against him, flesh that is smooth and real and insistent, he wonders:
There’s so much love, here. What was he waiting for, last night?
Beyond the point of propriety, Victor himself is hard and impatient against Yuuri’s lower back. If that weren’t the case, Yuuri might have been startled by the change from sensual completeness to the harsh syllables of English blaring from the TV. As it is, he barely hears them.
His mind translating vaguely in the background, in the foreground, his heartbeat thrills at the risk of what he’s about to do. Yuuri reaches back, into the robe Victor’s wearing, and when he finds what he’s looking for, rubs his thumb with purpose around the head. Victor groans, and Yuuri feels it against the top of his head, where Victor is all but cradling him.
Yuuri begins, “You want to…?”
But he trails off. Not sure whether he needs to continue. Not sure what verb he would use if he did continue.
He doesn’t get an answer in words, either. Victor shifts; he’s very close, now, pressed tightly along the whole line of his body. Noses against the hair at the back of his neck, drags his teeth over the knob at the top of his spine, and then sucks sharply at it. Yuuri gasps; and it distracts him just enough that he doesn’t fully feel Victor’s hand under his shirt until his middle finger is brushing across one nipple. Completely involuntary, his back arches and his breath wheezes out in a whine.
But it’s not embarrassing, the way it was last night.
He wonders how he stops himself from whining at the way the electric sensation rattles through his skull. He turns, slowly, until he can rest his head on one arm and look up into Victor’s face. “So you do want to.”
Victor almost laughs. His breath sounds like a laugh, anyway, when he says, “Now that we’re alone, the only thing that would stop me is a ‘no’ from you.”
(And that seems to be literal—it doesn’t look like anything’s going to stop him from bedding Yuuri right there on the tatami, until Yuuri pulls him up off it.)
Yuuri doesn’t remember how they make it to Victor’s room. It’s seemed like one long jolt up the stairs and down the hall—and it can’t have been comfortable for Victor to walk that far, or that fast, in his state and all, but he’s certainly making himself comfortable between Yuuri’s thighs now. Between them they’ve managed to kick his bottoms off and down to the foot of the bed, and they’re both more comfortable without the restriction. Victor rests against him, parting his legs. He slips one hand between them and wraps it around Yuuri through his boxers, fingers deft and precise, pulling a rhythm and a needy moan out of him.
Quieting himself, only now does Yuuri thinks about the hour. It’s not as late as it was the first time they did this. Maybe there are guests, even his parents, still awake? Makkachin, at least, is cooperating; she did follow them into Victor’s bedroom, but she’s curled contently on the floor. For now.
“Yuuri?”
He shakes his head, catches the frayed edges of his thoughts. Makes himself be present again.
He blinks up at Victor and smiles encouragingly. “I’m here.”
It sounds stupid the second it’s out, but Victor seems pleased by it. Robe falling off his shoulders, he’s this tightly-wound, effusive thing over him. Different in form but not in substance from the Victor that had been charming fans (and Yuuri himself) for over a decade. And he’s so beautiful, Yuuri has to reach into the space that robe opens up, has to run his hands over Victor’s sides and his back just to ground himself in the sight of him, the feel of him, solid and warm and here, of all places.
Responding to Yuuri’s touch, Victor digs his fingers underneath Yuuri’s sweater, flicking his fingers lightly over sensitive nipples as he draws the fabric upward.
“You seemed to like that, last night,” he murmurs.
In answer, Yuuri shivers and raises his arms—helpfully, he hopes—and Victor pulls it and the t-shirt under it over his head. Knocks his glasses askew when he does it.
Yuuri laughs, and pulls the frames from his face, goes to fold them up and lean toward one of the tables beside Victor’s bed. But Victor presses his palm against the center of Yuuri’s chest, holding him in place. His eyes are a darker but still definitely, defiantly blue, a blue that pierces even in the darkness.
“Please don’t go anywhere.”
Huffing another quiet laugh, Yuuri asks, “Not even to-”
“No.”
Victor plucks the frames from between Yuuri’s fingers and god knows what happens to them after that—all he can hope is that they don’t end up broken—because Victor’s fingers are right back over his chest, fluttering up the overheated skin, almost tickling, then flitting light across hardened nubs. When Yuuri throws his head back at the ghost of sensation, Victor pinches.
Another second and he’s biting the center of Yuuri’s chest, just over his sternum. Jarring against his senses, the softer treatment versus the harsh—and the stunning contrast of it makes him dizzy for- for that. For everything.
Light-headed with longing, he anchors himself in the sensation of Victor’s cock, resting hard and bare against his inner thigh. He feels some corner of his mind ask, “When did he take off his pants? He’s still wearing the robe…” but he rocks himself against it nevertheless—partly to silence the intrusive thoughts, more than partly to distract himself from what Victor is apparently capable of doing to his upper body.
“We don’t have to-” Victor starts, muttering against Yuuri’s collarbone. He cuts himself off as he looks up into Yuuri’s face. Yuuri doesn’t know exactly what expression he’s managed, but he knows his eyebrows are raised, and he’s panting.
Feeling like he owes Victor an answer, still, he says, “You told me to trust myself, right?”
Yuuri trusts; he trusts that every cell in his body is vibrating with one thought: that if Victor does not get himself inside Yuuri in the next five minutes-
“Okay, okay,” Victor smiles the words against Yuuri’s skin. It’s half hesitation, half smugness; and Yuuri will never be sure how he manages that.
Impatient, Yuuri starts to reach for the bedside table again. But Victor reaches above him, beneath the pillow, and when he rocks upward he’s brandishing a plastic tube.
Then his eyes dart to the side and he bites his lip. “Shoot, the condoms.”
The words make the skin under Yuuri’s hairline go hot. And he’s a little frustrated that for all Victor’s forethought, all his insistence that they don’t separate for even a moment, Victor still has to shift away from him so he can dig through the drawer, and Yuuri still has to fold awkwardly to take of his own underwear. But as soon as Victor leans back toward him, foil wrapper from the bedside drawer in hand, Yuuri affection rises like boiling water. This showing of Victor’s habitual absentmindedness makes him want to pull the man down to him, into a very tender kiss. Makes him want to say he loves him with words as well as with that gentle pressure of lips. But that- that’s too real, for the moment, so Yuuri bounds across the space to suck that bitten lower lip into his mouth—slipping the robe from Victor’s shoulders as he does.
He lets himself be laid back, and Victor alternates between kissing him and asking, “Did it do it for you, when you were on your back before? Was it good?” This gets a nod from him, and Yuuri maneuvers them around a little so Yuuri ends up with a pillow under his hips. He probably doesn’t need it—Yuuri feels so ready and compliant already he kind of wants Victor, who knows how flexible he is, to take advantage of it. Someday, Yuuri will show him exactly what that means: how he can grip the headboard with both hands, throw his ankles under his wrists to keep himself open that way. But he’s only tried that during drunken self-exploration; he’s certainly never done it in front of anyone else, and he wants to make sure he’s got the basics down before he tempts fate.
He would have a hard time explaining that kind of injury to the JSF.
Yuuri isn’t sure who dealt with the condom last time—probably Victor, since he himself was too busy gripping sanity in the rush of give and take. So this time when Victor goes for the lubricant, Yuuri grabs for the protection.
Victor valiantly tries not to be affected by Yuuri taking even this much initiative. Yuuri can tell, as Victor pauses in unscrewing the cap, that he’s pretending with everything he’s got that he’s keeping it together, as Yuuri rolls the latex over him, pretends that Yuuri taking that step doesn’t make him weak. That all it makes him want to do is hiss impatiently through his teeth.
“I wondered,” Victor does say, head still lolling a little even though his tone is flippant. “When you started keeping stuff like that in your room. You surprised me, the other night.”
Yuuri definitely doesn’t want to tell him that he already had the lube, but that he bought the condoms at a convenience store on their way back from China. Because he was mortified at the idea of having to buy them in Hasetsu, from someone he would probably know.
To divert that train of thought, he lays back down, makes himself comfortable and asks, “Are you complaining?”
Victor’s smile looks involuntary: not like the practiced, charming grin, but a little lopsided, pulled across his face by the haughty note in Yuuri’s voice. “Definitely not.”
It seems a lifetime after Victor starts to stretch him out before they get anywhere else. Yuuri tries to tell him, he’s used to this part—he’s done this himself so many goddamn times; he does tell him, after each digit, that it’s enough. But Victor keeps shaking his head. Yuuri is both exasperated and grateful, and impatient and nervous and a dozen other things people probably are when they’re this intimate with the person who is likely the love of their life—Yuuri hopes people are like this, anyway, he’s never really thought about it until now.
All he was, last time, was this side of overwhelmed. Letting his body dictate his actions.
And then it’s doing that again. His world narrows down to fingers sliding free of him and to Victor pressing the head of his cock lightly against his opening.
“Look at me,” Victor says.
Yuuri thinks it will be too overwhelming, but he does it. His breath speeds up, his hands coming to grip Victor’s biceps. The soft sound he makes on being penetrated gets broken—“a- ah”—and then magnified, too loud in his own ears, when the head of Victor’s cock slips fully in, stretches him past what he thinks he can bear.
Yuuri panics. Flails for his earlier eagerness. He can’t—he doesn’t—he almost tells Victor it’s too fast. Too much—can’t he understands that he needs a minute-
That is until Victor looks at him like he’s the one who’s about to fly apart at the seams.
Then Yuuri doesn’t need a minute. Not even a second.
“Shh,” Victor manages to say. “You’re okay, I’ve got you.”
Yuuri wants to laugh, wants to reassure him that he doesn’t have to try and sound so strong. Lets go of his death grip with one hand so he can reach out, clasp the side of Victor’s neck. Uses that leverage to pull himself up and press a kiss to those lips.
“I know,” he murmurs against them.
Then he groans, high-pitched and wrecked and feeling like a hypocrite as Victor’s dick slips further into him. He can put on bravado for Victor’s sake, but he’s not quite ready to give over completely. Doesn’t know how.
“Hold onto me,” Victor asks—pleads, really—and Yuuri does, wholeheartedly and with both hands around his back, now.
It’s happening so slowly that he feels the slide in minute detail. Victor tracks his adjustment, coming in even deeper as Yuuri relaxes around him. “Yes love, just like that,” Victor purrs, more confident now that Yuuri’s noises sound less like bewilderment and more like encouragement. Leaning down to press his lips below Yuuri’s ear, he scrapes his teeth long and wet over the tendon there—probably trying to distract him as he presses in another inch. It doesn’t work, but Yuuri adores him for it, and for the watery shiver that the added sensation sends through him.
Victor starts to move backward before burying himself inside again, then again, deeper every time, thrusting against still-tight muscle. Yuuri can feel the way it pushes and pulls at his rim, and it makes his whole face go bright red.
Yuuri wants to look away. Pride tells him he has to look away. But Victor smiles, a bit of a tease, just enough that Yuuri knows it’s meant to make him feel like this is normal, just another part of their dynamic. And now it’s a challenge. And if Victor asked him to keep looking at him because thought he was going to be the one to watch Yuuri break? He was wrong.
He’s still trying to think of how exactly he’s going to prove that to him when Victor deepens his rhythm. Whatever sound he makes now compels Victor to pull away, trailing “shhhh” again across the heat of his skin. Slowly, every movement soothing, he touches Yuuri’s face.
And Yuuri isn’t crying—there is pain, but it’s so secondary as to be an afterthought—but Victor’s fingers are so gentle it makes Yuuri want to cry for an entirely different reason. “Take a deep breath, Yuuri.”
He does—Victor’s voice, tone part coaching, part desperate, makes it so Yuuri can do nothing but exactly as Victors asks—and Victor shoves those last centimeters, bottoming out. Stays pressed close against his ass for a long moment. Yuuri tries to take another breath but feels like there’s just not any more room inside him, even for air. The effort makes his chest hitch, and his body follows, jerking upward against the fullness, the pressure.
Pure sensation. From the soles of his feet, up through his thighs, to his dick trapped in the slick, tight space between their bodies, up into his ribs.
Victor reacts to his wriggling, pulling out halfway, then sliding back into him with urgency. Unintentional; he doesn’t mean to seem that eager, to act on it, Yuuri can tell, can hear the effort in his breathing. And that sends both Yuuri’s hands to Victor’s shoulder blades, rubbing soothing circles.
Victor is panting against his neck, and Yuuri is looking upward, at the wood beams of the ceiling. Trying to process.
It’s as surreal as those flitting images on the TV screen downstairs, the cuts from sunlight to skin. Random images, of limbs, sweating and tangled. The sheets against his back and the way Victor feels above him, the way he smells like the spring, which is ridiculous, because he should smell like the rink, like… like ice and sweat and why is he thinking about this now, he should at least try to hone in on what is happening.
He can’t help but question his perception, though. Even if it’s a distant question. Like maybe it’s not actually him who’s asking his body’s senses whether it’s true, whether he really is having sex, again, and with Victor Nikiforov of all people. Some rational part of himself that doesn’t seem to live inside this animal existence, that doesn’t quite participate but does observes. Doubts the reality of the man hot and bold and devastating inside him.
So Yuuri grounds himself in that devastation, takes the time, lets the weirdness of it wash over him. Decision made, the surrender makes Yuuri notice things, details that had escaped him in the rush of sensation the first time. The sounds, for one thing. He’d been led to believe that most of the noise of sex was vocal, but… It’s not even the little grunt Victor gives every few thrusts, when he grinds against his ass, it’s not even that sound, or his own awkward breathing, that makes his face go hotter. That would be the sound of skin on skin, the wet slide, the shift of the bedding, even. He can hear where they’re connected, can hear the way they move together; it’d be impossible for that to be quiet, with Victor’s thrusts getting stronger and his own rolling response shifting his weight over the mattress.
Open-mouthed and groaning, Victor presses against the middle of Yuuri’s chest. The vibration combines with the next snap of Victor’s hips, sending a deep shudder through Yuuri. And he realizes with that movement that in his disbelief, he has been responding more than anything else, laying there like a starfish, albeit a clingy one. And that’s not the kind of partner he wants to be.
So he burrows his nails against Victor’s shoulders, and uses the momentum of the next thrust to dig his heels into the backs of Victor’s thighs. This breaks Victor’s rhythm, and around his own sharp cry, he thinks he manages the edge of a smile.
“Not fair, Yuuri…” Victor breaths against the hollow of his throat.
Yuuri’s toes curl at the next, deep grind of Victor’s length inside him, and he makes it a point to get to the bottom of Victor’s understanding of “fair” as soon as he can speak again. For now, he’s too caught up in the impossible slide, the friction, each insistent snap of Victor’s hips. He’s trying to meet each of them, all the while working around the froth that Victor’s dick has made of his inner self, from the base of his spine and on up through his brain.
All skepticism over the idea that sex could be “mind-blowing” is forcibly removed from him. If his brain were a fusebox, he’d have to be in there digging around with a flashlight at this point, to get things working properly again. Victor removes all doubt from him, with his lips against the underside of Yuuri’s jaw, with his hands poised between holding his own weight up and sliding into Yuuri’s hair, with his cock pounding almost perfect against that spot inside him-
When he’s started to shake apart, thighs trembling, toes curling and heels digging into the sheet, Victor encourages him without filter—he never has one, not really, but here it’s so absent that he switches freely between languages, telling him, “That’s right, sweetheart,” in English—“continue comme ça,” which he’s pretty sure is French, before he breaks and a slow groan of some Russian epithet that Yuuri recognizes but can’t pronounce gives the soundtrack to his release. His orgasm sends him clenching around Victor—so tight that in that far distant corner of his mind, the quiet observer that is still watching himself do this, whether or not he’s hurting him.
When he feels his head tilt back, spent, he’s brought back to himself by Victor’s lips against his chest, smearing kisses and Yuuri’s name against the flushed skin. They travel upward, over his throat, until that tongue finds his and Victor moans into his mouth. The vibration, and the distinct pulse of Victor’s climax inside him, sets his own dick twitching even though he’s certain he won’t need to come ever again.
As it turns out he does, and sooner than he or Victor anticipated. Turns out twenty-four year old stamina is different than twenty-seven year old stamina, but not by very much. All he has to do, once he’s impatiently sliding his sweat-slicked skin against Victor’s again, is ask whether Victor ever plans to make love to him in the grass to get the Russian first to stare stupidly, adorably—lips parted, cheeks going pink with surprise—and then to comply with Yuuri’s renewed need.
The physical is not everything, of course. But they are creatures of the body, athletes, and their skin and sinew and bone speak a shared language, a deeper language than any they can say out loud.
And in that language, Victor tells him that he isn’t going anywhere. It tells him:
“Yours, yours, yours.”