Chapter Text
Victor's been staring at the Arrivals and Departures board for ten minutes and the information hasn't changed. No matter how much Yakov keeps yelling about it.
“What do you mean your flight was delayed?” Victor can practically see spittle flying through the phone.
(This is the reason he always carries a handkerchief.)
“Well, when there’s—I believe the phrase is inclement weather—planes get grounded and can’t leave on time. Of course, time in general keeps moving forward so—" Victor’s bubbling with glee. This is the most he's felt anything in months.
He’s cut off by the sound of a dial tone on the other end. That’s one way to finish a conversation. Victor wonders if Yakov’s shedding hair like a snake does its’ old skin. His bald spot’s been looking extra lustrous lately. Victor makes a note to buy some baby oil, Yakov should really emphasize his assets.
Sliding his phone back in his pocket, Victor glances up at the electronic Arrivals and Departures board. His eyes, dry from hours of recycled airplane oxygen and overly air-conditioned terminals, sting at the sight of the the blinking royal blue electronic eyesores of Charles de Gaulle's Flight Information Tables. The flight from New York was the worst; too short for a good sleep, and longer than he wanted to stay awake. Prada's Fall Collection was urgent business, no matter what Yakov said. He always decreased his training just before competitions anyways. He'll be fine.
Worlds is in—he can’t even do the mental math at this point. It’s soon. And he’s stuck in Charles de Gaulle, waiting for a flight that might not leave in time, and checking his phone every few minutes—the way he has for the past four months—waiting for Yuuri Katsuki to text him.
(Why hasn’t he texted? Victor’s sent some variation of that question to every person in his contacts list—at least three times. Half of them have blocked him at this point.)
(He’s already created four Pinterest boards for their inevitable wedding. The fifth is a work in progress, he's thinking lilac and silver for their colors, but he'll need Yuuri's opinion first. The silence is just rude at this point. But Victor will forgive him, like the magnanimous human being he is.)
baldspotwatch2k16 [3:34] Vitya if you spend the next four hours shopping I will downgrade your suite in Malmö.
little ball of rage [3:46]: you’re not even here and you’re making my life hell. forget skating, this is your true calling.
Victor can’t help himself. He takes a selfie and posts it to Instagram.
[photo: picture of Victor with an exaggerated frown lounging on a pile of Louis Vuitton luggage.]
v-nikiforov: #stranded #we’llalwayshaveparis #yakovsbaldspotwatch #savevictor
149,326 likes, 5,021 comments
comments:
y-plisetsky: if your sell your luggage you could probably afford another flight
y-plisetsky: maybe if you miss worlds @christophe-gc will finally get a gold medal
christophe-gc: @y-plisetsky then victor could finally come second
v-nikiforov: @christophe-gc rude. at least i’ve never soaked the ice
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His phone vibrates in his palm, two incoming texts from Yakov (in addition to the five he hasn’t opened), two from Yuri, three from Mila, and one from Georgi. Thirteen texts and none of them from the person he wants to hear from. Victor sighs, and starts to walk back to the gate.
( What would it be like to miss Worlds? He can’t fully deny the nagging sense of relief at the idea of sitting this year out—of having that choice taken away from him and separating himself from four-soon-to-be-five-time World Champion Victor Nikiforov so he can just be Victor. But missing Worlds means he won’t see Yuuri. Unacceptable.)
A slight form—a man?—swaddled in a sweater and a scarf, plows into him, sending his boarding pass soaring through the air. The flurry of paper, fluttering to the ground like a storm of snowflakes, all but ignored as Victor lays eyes on his would-be assailant—improbably, Yuuri Katsuki. Victor imagines a bottle of champagne, just to make sure he hasn’t suddenly developed summoning powers. No, this is real. And the best thing to happen all year.
“Yuuri!”
_____________________
Yuuri knew there had to be some sort of cosmic retribution for the insane fact he’d somehow managed to make it to Worlds after self-immolating at the Grand Prix Final.
“Scandinavian Airlines flight 1225 has been delayed due to inclement weather. Please stand by for more details.”
And there it is. He glances at his boarding pass—flight 1225 to Malmö. After wearing glasses his whole life, he’s always questioned his eyes, so he flees to the nearest flight information board to double check.
Unfortunately, he overshoots his target and skids into a tall man—is that silver hair? is he hallucinating now?—staring at the departures screen.
They collide in a burst of paper, Yuuri drops to his knees and scrambles for all bureaucratic confetti laying at his feet. He manages to re-arrange them into a barely presentable pile and thrust them towards the stranger just as an all too familiar voice—ingrained into his very soul from hours of interviews and press conferences—bubbles out a delighted,“Yuuri!”
Just like that Yuuri’s face to face with Victor Nikiforov. He pinches himself. It hurts. A few of the papers he’s carefully collected flutter back to the ground, matte against the shiny, slightly scuffed linoleum beneath their feet. Victor’s far too close—Yuuri can make out a ring of dark gold around the edge of his irises. That never showed up in publicity photos or any of his seventeen posters.
“I have a poster where you're wearing that jacket.” Why does he let his mouth make words?
Victor-Nikiforov-in-the-flesh presses a finger to his lips and tilts his head, eyes drifting to the side in thought, “I think that was an ad, not a poster. Burberry Fall 2012.”
“….right. Not a poster. Definitely not a poster. Absolutely not something I would have made into a poster.” Who needs a shovel to dig your own grave? Not Yuuri.
Then he remembers the pile of papers on the floor. “Oh god. I’m so sorry, let me just—" he crouches down again to gather the papers. If he just gives them back to Victor, hides in the bathroom, and avoids Victor at Worlds it’ll be fine. He doesn’t expect Victor to follow him down onto the floor.
“Just the person I was hoping to see!” Victor says, at the exact same time. Yuuri has to stop himself from accidentally tearing Victor’s boarding pass.
“I—what?”
“I’ve been waiting for you to text me for months Yuuri, how could you be so cruel?” Victor’s pouting. Oh, now he’s winking. Everything’s moving in slow motion.
“What?” it comes out as more of a shriek than a question. Yuuri’s pretty sure he’s close to breaking the sound barrier. Victor snatches up the last of the papers, hooks his arm through Yuuri’s and pulls him upright.
“I thought I’d have to wait until Worlds! This is the best day!” Victor looks over at Yuuri, smile blinding, “are you on the Scandinavian Airlines flight as well?” Victor’s leading them…somewhere. Yuuri’s still stuck on the fact that Victor Nikiforov is pulling him to some unknown destination, wants to spend time with him, and apparently has been waiting for a text Yuuri never knew he was supposed to send.
They’ve never even talked outside of the “commemorative photo?” embarrassment that somehow managed to make the list of Yuuri's top three most mortifying moments of the Sochi Grand Prix Final—right below Yuuri's actual skating ("commemorative photo" juuuuust missed gold by fraction of a point, the only time Victor's missed gold in five years) and immediately above Yuri Plisetsky’s bathroom ambush. There was a lot more competition to make the podium on Yuuri's list than there had been for the actual medals at the Grand Prix Final.
Yuuri struggles to match his stride with Victor’s, stumbling over his feet a couple of times—which only causes Victor to move the arm intertwined with his so that it’s draped around his waist. Oh god, Victor’s still talking. Yuuri desperately hopes he hasn’t missed any questions tossed in his direction but with his luck it’s basically a pre-determined “yes."
“—at Nationals. Your Salchow still needs some work but your step sequences and spins were much closer to how they were at Skate Canada and—"
“You watched me?”
“Of course I did! Like I would miss watching my favorite competitor!” Victor looks deeply offended. Yuuri has no idea why. There’s no reason for Victor to watch Japanese Nationals, it’s not like Yuuri’s going to offer hard competition at Worlds—at this point he’s hoping to make the cut for the Free Skate.
“Favorite competitor,” Yuuri mouths the words, unwilling to put sounds to syllables as though it would destroy a rare delicacy.
“Yuuri if we’re going to do this, I need to know everything about you,” he pauses, smile all teeth—white and even—the blinding flash of fresh ice before a skate, “and I do mean everything.”
Yuuri’s mind’s screaming “do what?” while Victor’s hand draws gentle circles on the small of his back. Yuuri cannot be held responsible for whatever comes out of his mouth.
“I had my first wet dream about you.” They must sell ninja swords somewhere in Charles de Gaulle. If they have four hundred euro scarves they’re practically required to sell ninja swords. Yuuri’s absolutely sure that’s how luxury shopping works.
“Yuuri!” Victor squeals, bouncing on the balls of his feet,” that’s the sweetest, most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me!”
What.
Just who the hell has Victor been spending time with for the past twenty seven years?
(Then Yuuri remembers Victor spends at least seventy to eighty percent of his time with Yakov Feltsman and Yuri Plisetsky.)
“Second and third too,” because apparently Yuuri’s mouth is going for broke while his brain is still too paralyzed to intervene.
Victor’s nuzzling against his neck, wrapped around his back and manhandling him towards the booking agent.
Once they’re at the ticket counter Victor unwraps himself from his perch on Yuuri’s back. He shoots Yuuri a look like it’s absolutely killing him to let go. Yuuri’s seen the same look in history books, on the faces of soldiers on their way to the front lines in Alsace and Lorraine. Victor leans against the counter and if he’d still had long hair he’d be twirling it around his index finger.
“Sabrina,” Victor places their tickets—when did he get Yuuri’s?—on the counter and pouts, “please tell me you have two front row seats left in first class. Mine are in the second row, the second row, Sabrina. And my Yuuri is in Coach! It’s a tragedy.”
Sabrina is unmoved, “let me check,” she says in flat, accented English. “No more seats in available in First Class on that flight Mr….” she looks at Victor’s ticket and that’s the final insult because now Victor's pouting, “Nikiforov. If you want to sit with your boyfriend it’ll have to be in Coach.”
Yuuri's silently mouthing the word boyfriend to himself, bewildered.
“Sabrina,” Victor’s face is drawn tight, any trace of his previous pout washed clean, “do you see these legs. These legs have won five consecutive Grand Prix Finals, and four consecutive World Championships. These legs need leg room. First Class leg room. And Yuuri is the Japanese National Champion! Isn’t there a special rule for athletes?”
“Victor it’s fine I’ll just—“
“Athletes, Sabrina! We have to arrive in peak condition—which means First Class.”
Sabrina, unimpressed by Victor’s impassioned monologue, hits a few keys and replies, “we’ve got two seats together in Coach.”
“Fine,” Victor sighs, “move us to those seats. I will make this terrible sacrifice for Yuuri, and only for Yuuri.”
“I fly Coach all the time.”
Victor ignores him, “it’s a cruel fate, but at least I’ll have my Yuuri by my side.”
“What a noble sacrifice,” Yuuri can't take anything Victor's saying seriously.
“It is, Yuuri! The most noble sacrifice a man can make. Truly, it’s tragic. We get 23 inches of space and we have to share it with a tray table. A tray table!”
It’s official. Victor Nikiforov is the most ridiculous man on the planet.
Victor resumes his quest to cuddle Yuuri for the entirety of their delay, “I’ll buy us drinks so we can down our sorrows.”
_____________________
They arrive at the restaurant, an unwieldy mass of two people welded together because one of them refuses to be separated from the other, Victor. Victor lets go with a sigh and turns his attention to the hostess to ask for a table.
Freed from Victor’s iron grip, Yuuri almost feels like things have returned to normal from whatever alternate reality he’d visited over the past thirty minutes. That is, until Victor guides him to their table—hand still hot against the dip in his spine and inching lower, lower, lower—and pulls out a chair for him. Yuuri just stares at it. The alternate reality theory looks more and more likely.
“Yuuuuuri,” Victor purrs, “are you going to stand me up? Usually that happens before you show up for a date, not after.”
Yuuri plunks down on the chair with a heavy thud, so hard it shifts against the tiles with an audible screech—Yuuri’s positive the noise actually came from him. He feels one with the chair. The chair is a kindred spirit. He'd die for this chair.
(With the way things are going, he'll actually die on this chair.)
“Date?” he asks. And yet, somehow, this isn’t the strangest thing that’s happened today. The waitress deposits a glass of water on the table as Victor orders something in impeccable French before turning to Yuuri expectantly, “is champagne good?” Victor smiles like they’re sharing a private joke.
Yuuri nods, even though he really shouldn’t be drinking before a competition. He also shouldn’t be stuck in Charles de Gaulle or on a date with Victor Nikiforov so he might as well go with it.
Victor turns back to the waitress, voice curling around the French syllables like a lover's caress. He reaches across the table to take Yuuri’s hand in his own, stroking his thumb across Yuuri’s palm. How is he supposed to handle this?
Yuuri starts to wonder if the waitress is extra-sensorily attuned to his distress—like some sort of high-pitched wail that serves as an anxiety Bat Signal—when she arrives with more champagne, faster than a human should be capable of moving, at that precise moment. He gulps down half a glass to prevent himself from talking.
Later, Yuuri will blame everything that follows in the next four eight hours on the rush of carbonation, the adrenaline rollercoaster of the past fourty minutes, and the undeniable fact that for the next however many hours—until they board their flight and return to the status quo—he has Victor’s attention. It’s an intoxicating combination.
(He’s lying to himself. It started the moment he ran into Victor.)
Still sipping his champagne, Yuuri slides his hand across the table, palm up, invitation open, “it’s great.” He has Victor Nikiforov’s undivided attention for the next…however long the delay lasts. Time’s grown fuzzy at the edges.
(Sober Yuuri panics underneath a layer of alcohol. Drunk Yuuri, intoxicated with expensive champagne and Victor Nikiforov bats him away.)
He chokes down another mouthful of champagne. The waitress sidles over to refill his glass and shoot Victor a smile. Victor doesn’t even acknowledge her, except to order a few dishes that Yuuri can’t quite catch as they roll of his tongue. His eyes fixed on Yuuri’s face as he grasps his hand once more, pink lips curled into the shape of a heart and his smile so bright Yuuri could use it to power all of the lights in Hasetsu.
(The thought of home sends a sharp pang through his chest and he washes it away with more champagne.)
“Yuuuuuuri,” Victor’s pulled out his phone, “why didn’t you like my photo from earlier?”
Victor shoves the phone under his nose. Yuuri stared at that photo for ten minutes, running into at least five people before he ran into Victor himself.
“I followed you on Instagram but you never followed me back. I’m wounded,” he presses his other hand to his chest, “I don’t know if I’ll ever recover.”
“I do follow you!” Yuuri’s scrambling.
“Really?” Victor arches an eyebrow and types a “k” into his search bar. Yuuri’s Instagram is the first suggestion. He hasn’t updated it in two years.
“Not that one,” Yuuri blurts. Oh god it’s happening again, his tongue is eloping with the champagne during the wake for his sense of self preservation, “I have another one, a secret one. Just for following you.”
The waitress arrives with their appetizers, just in time to hear the end of Yuuri’s confession.
(Someone please end him.)
Victor flushes, pleased, “Yuuri!” he reaches across the table and feed Yuuri a bite of…something smeared on a piece of toast the size of post-it. Then he shifts his chair closer—so close they’re on the same side of the table, thighs pressed against one another—and wraps his arm around Yuuri’s shoulder.
“Say ‘wet dream!’”
“Victor!”
The flash goes off. Victor keeps his arm around Yuuri’s shoulder as he fiddles with filters—he goes with Valencia—and uploads it to Instagram.
“Oh look, Chris already liked it!”
“Oh god.” Chris has at least forty photos of Yuuri that are far more incriminating. Now he'll probably send them to Victor.
“How do you know Chris, Yuuri?”
Some distant—sober—part of Yuuri’s brain wonders how Victor knows he and Chris are friendly. Drunk Yuuri, accidentally seductive and entirely unencumbered after a healthy dose of champagne, blurts out, “he got me drunk in juniors.”
“Really?” Victor’s expression is caught between—envy? that can’t be right—and amusement.
Buoyed on bubbles and stolen bravery, Yuuri babbles, “I woke up covered in Sharpie, glitter, and some things I'd really rather not identify. I don’t remember much after the third drink.” Yuuri doesn’t even notice the waitress has re-filled his glass—twice.
Victor’s face is positively eurphoric. “Well now l have to ask Chris for details. And photos,” Victor’s other hand picks up his phone and starts typing.
“Oh god, not right now!” Yuuri flushes. Who knows what terrible things Chris has witnessed—and that’s just including the ones where Yuuri’s been an active participant.
“And sent!”
“Victor, why?”
“Yuuuuri,” Victor whines, “you can’t just dangle that in front of me and not expect me to follow up!”
“That’s exactly what I expect,” Yuuri reaches both hands across Victor’s lap to grab at his phone.
“At least we got a commemorative photo this time!” Yuuri’s face flushes a shade of red he didn’t even know existed outside of Pantone swatches. His attempted robbery is a disaster; there’s champagne everywhere, Yuuri’s threadbare jeans and soft grey sweater are drenched—both already clinging to his skin with a sticky squelch.
Well, that’s it. Yuuri’s ruined his one and only chance to go on a date with Victor Nikiforov. He should be buried in these clothes. “Oh no—“
“Oh this is perfect!” Victor is beaming and if Yuuri thought his last smile was bright, this one is irrefutably nuclear.
“I’m sorr—what?” Victor pulls the neat trick of summoning and then paying for the check while Yuuri’s brain comes back online.
(Though online is relative when viewed through six glasses of champagne.)
“We’re going shopping!” Victor’s hand is laced with his once more and Yuuri has less than a second to grab his carry-on before he’s hurtling through Terminal One of Charles de Gaulle, Victor Nikiforov cutting through the crowds like his skates against the ice.
_____________________
When it comes to shopping, Victor could take another three Olympic golds. He scans the terminal and considers his options: Burberry, Gucci, Hermes, Hugo Boss…the first and last would probably be their best bets. It’s like a dream, and Victor’s finally got a shot at the other goal he’s been harbouring close to his heart for the past four months—getting rid of Yuuri’s awful tie.
(It’s a shame the sweater and jeans had to take the fall—the Yuuri sitting across from him at dinner had looked so sweet and soft; an entirely separate master of seduction from the siren swinging around a pole in Sochi.)
“Hugo Boss or Burberry?” Victor says, not waiting for a response before pulling Yuuri in to Burberry. His own face, all eight Photoshopped meters of it, smolders out at them from an advertisement as they enter.
“Victor I can’t—"
“So don’t! Let me take care of it,” he turns and presses a kiss against Yuuri’s knuckles. There’s just enough time to catch Yuuri’s answering flush—the most delectable shade of red (it’s his new favorite color)—before an clerk bustles over.
“Mr. Nikiforov! How can we assist you today?” She asks. He glances at her name tag—Elodie—before meeting her eyes with his best press smile.
“Yuuri,” he tugs Yuuri forward, “needs new clothes. I was thinking at least two suits, some casual jeans, shirts, and sweaters. Oh, and a coat. To start with.” She looks Yuuri up and down while he shrinks under her gaze.
“To start with?” Yuuri pales.
“I’ll put it on the complimentary account,” she says, dragging Yuuri off for measurements.
Yuuri shoots Victor a pleading look that wouldn’t look out of place on Makkachin. Victor merely smiles—one that actually reaches his eyes—and watches Yuuri go. What a view.
He can’t wait to see Yuuri in a proper suit. Delicious.
_____________________
The last time Yuuri endured this much poking and prodding was at his last costume fitting. This is absolutely worse.
His champagne buzz is wearing thin under the buzz of the florescent lights—even Burberry bows to airport regulations.
The next forty five minutes is a flurry of silk, wool, tweed, cashmere, denim, cotton, and Victor’s increasingly rapturous expressions. Every. Single. One. of the outfits is whisked away from him as soon as it has Victor’s approval.
(Yuuri shudders just thinking about the bill.)
They leave Burberry with a stuffed leather carry-on and repeat the routine at Hugo Boss. Victor pretends he doesn’t speak English every time Yuuri protests—which is ridiculous because they were just speaking English two minutes ago, Victor.
The longer Yuuri spends with Victor, the more he realizes that he’s petty and ridiculous and blunt and more wonderful than any flat image could capture. Victor drags him into Laduree, orders him an inappropriately expensive—but absolutely delicious—salmon dinner, and then insists on hand feeding him macarons in increasingly ridiculous flavors, each one melting on his tongue, lighter than air.
Then he makes Yuuri feed him macarons in return, finishing each one by suggestively pulling three of Yuuri’s fingers into his mouth.
Yuuri excuses himself to the bathroom. Tailored pants—(“not fitted enough,” Victor had pouted in Hugo Boss)—do absolutely nothing to hide his erection.
_____________________
Porn Star!!! on Ice [6:32]: victor i'mma get you a can of fresca bc you so thirsty
parched like a desert in a heat wave [6:34]: JUST LOOK AT HIM CHRIS I’M DYING
Porn Star!!! on Ice [6:35]: dehydration is dangerous, trust me i’m a doctor
parched like a desert in a heat wave [6:36]: role play isn’t the same as a phd. even i know that
Porn Star!!! on Ice [6:46]: won’t stop you from trying it with yuuri though
parched like a desert in a heat wave [6:47]: i will not dignify that with a response
Porn Star!!! on Ice [6:47]: so,,,, yes
_____________________
“Yuuri!” Phichit’s voice hits an entirely new, completely undiscovered frequency. Yuuri must be part dog to be able to hear it.
“Phichit,” Yuuri hisses, “be quiet.” As though Victor can somehow hear them from the table, over thirty meters away.
“I am deeply offended that you failed to text me the very minute you ran into Victor Nikiforov, subject of your teenage and not-so-teenaged fantasies, bane of my existence, and the reason the wall between our rooms has an indent shaped like a fist.” Phichit actually gets louder.
“How—” Yuuri get to finish the sentence.
“There’s like 50 new photos of you on Victor’s Instagram.”
“Just...shut up for a second!” Yuuri pulls the phone away from his ear. He can still hear Phichit screeching, “don’t ignore me! I raised you!”
Yuuri ignores him. Phichit’s avalanche of laughter echoes against the dingy tile.
He pulls up Victor’s Instagram, his own face staring back at him. He scrolls down, through at least twenty photos. Yuuri doesn’t even remember Victor taking seventy five percent of these.
“Yuuri! Stop masturbating, we have to go!” Victor is officially the worst.
“Yeah, Yuuri!” Of course Phichit heard that, “Why masturbate when the object of your fantasies is right there and apparently also won an Olympic gold in thirst.”
“I’m hanging up on you.”
“Yuuuuuuuri,” Victor whines, just outside the stall, “I need a new set of luggage, our flight’s been cancelled. Apparently there a strike?”
What fresh hell.
_____________________
They’re running through the terminal, hand in hand, a cart full of Victor’s ridiculous luggage jostling behind them. Apparently the strike had started hours ago and Victor had never bothered to tell him.
(“We were having so much fun! And the restaurant workers belong to a different union anyways so I thought, why ruin it?”
“There won’t be anymore fun when you’re dead. Because Yakov killed you. And you’re dead.”
“Yakov can’t kill me, I’m a national treasure.")
Yakov’s yelling at them through Victor’s phone. The tinny speaker does nothing to muffle his rage.
“The only ways to get to Malmö now are car or train—"
“Perfect! We’ll take a road trip through Germany! I wonder if the rental company has a Porsche—"
“Victor. I’m not letting you kill Katsuki. If he gets in a car with you, he won’t make it to Worlds.”
“I would never sabotage a fellow competitor like that, how dare you, Yakov. It’s like you don’t know me at all!” Victor’s pouting. Yuuri’s amazed Yakov has any hair left at all now that he’s experienced Hurricane Nikiforov first hand.
“You’re taking the 7:55 am train tomorrow. The earlier ones were booked. Pick up your tickets at Gare du Nord, or print them out tonight in the hotel business center.”
Victor visibly perks up at the word “hotel”.
“Yuuuuuri,” he’s attached himself to Yuuri’s back again, “sleep with me tonight?”
“I did not hear this,” Yakov says, then he hangs up.
Victor’s hands are already flying over his phone screen, “oh good, Hôtel de NELL has a King available—is that alright?” For the first time all day—no since he was 12—Yuuri sees a flash of uncertainty pass across Victor’s face.
Hurricane Nikiforov has been upgraded to Category Five. Yuuri’s powerless to resist.
“Okay,” he says. Victor beams. Yuuri wonders if he’s actually a piece of art someone’s liberated from the Louvre.
They make their way to the taxi stand. Victor’s arm’s wrapped around Yuuri’s waist and he’s babbling a constant stream of places they “just have to visit next time, when we come back together. You’ll love it Yuuri.”
In the cab Victor laces their hands together and keeps them like that all the way to the hotel. Yuuri leans his head against Victor’s shoulder, a magnet powerless against the opposing polar pull.
No matter what happens in the next forty eight hours, they’ll always have Paris.
(Or at least Paris’ airport.)