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He ends the phone call abruptly, because he doesn’t want to hear the sympathy in her voice, and worse, he doesn’t want her to hear the pain in his. He’s crying anyway, though he tries to stop it—he clamps one hand over his mouth to stifle the sobs and fists the other one in the edge of his jacket, clenched so tight that his knuckles are pale. All he can think about is failure—how he failed her, them, every single person in Hasetsu who was foolish enough to believe in him, and himself. Maybe that’s it. Maybe he won’t skate anymore, because he doesn’t deserve to share the ice with Victor Nikiforov, and he can’t even pull himself together long enough to go out and see Victor’s triumph. It’ll be the first time he’s missed that. It’s probably over by now. And all Yuuri can think is that he worked so hard his whole life for nothing.
Thinking about Victor—his inspiration, his drive, his everything—just makes it worse. So Yuuri scrunches his eyes shut and focuses on other pains, like the fluffy, adorable little Victor he used to have at home, that would come with him on runs and sit by him during ruts, loving him right through his weaknesses and failures. And now that’s gone too. Yuuri pushes his glasses up to scrub at his eyes, but the tears keep coming.
Then he hears the distinctive scrape of a door beyond that of his stall. He tries to shut up, because the only thing more pathetic than breaking down in the men’s room would be getting caught. He listens, instead, to the voices that trail in, and then some loud clattering, and a familiar Swiss accent assuring someone: “There, that should work to bar the door for a bit.”
“Chris,” another voice whines, and that accent Yuuri would know anywhere, because it’s the same one he hears in all his best dreams. Even twisted around a ragged whimper, he knows that voice. It’s such a shock that it delays his next realization: a wave of hot, gut wrenching pheromones that nearly pulls Yuuri’s whole body right out of the stall.
He tightens his hand around his mouth, reeling, while feet shuffle towards the next stall, and the door bangs open and shut for them—something heavy hits the floor, and Yuuri wills himself not to look, but he sees it in his peripherals anyway. Someone in red pants is sprawled out down there, another someone standing between spread thighs. Christophe Giacometti’s voice croons, “There, just sit for a moment, and you’ll be fine. Deep breaths, yeah? Or deeper kisses, maybe...”
The other voice moans. And it does horrible things to Yuuri’s body for a multitude of reasons. His tears have stopped falling, but his body’s still tense. He knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that in the next stall over, so close that Yuuri can smell him, Victor Nikiforov is moaning.
Yuuri can see Victor arching off the floor. Or maybe he’s just imagining it. He hears something wet, sloppy, and all he can picture is Chris’ tongue in Victor’s mouth. Or maybe it’s something else. Victor lets out another lewd whine, and Yuuri can see Chris’ hands wandering right down the tile, skimming Victor’s taut thighs. Victor must be clinging to him. Victor smells like a broiling, delicious fire...
“Do you want me to take you, baby?” Chris purrs in all but a whisper. For a fleeting moment, Yuuri feels guilty for listening—but they’re the ones doing this in a public washroom. Victor says something unintelligible. Yuuri restrains himself from pressing against the thin divider to listen harder.
Then Victor manages louder, stronger, “Alpha...”
“I wish I were for you,” Chris answers lightly, clicking his tongue. “But I’m afraid little old beta me will have to do.”
“No,” Victor mutters, “I... I can smell one...”
Yuuri goes so tense that he can barely feel his limbs. He’s numb. And he’d leap up and run if he wasn’t, but he is.
Chris just chuckles, teasing, “I’m not enough for you?”
Victor makes a noise somewhere between a fond sigh and an exasperated plea. “Chris, want him...”
There’s a short pause, and when Chris talks again, he sounds suddenly serious. “Are you sure that’s a good idea, Victor? If you came out properly and let everyone know, you’d have them lining up around the corner to have you. But when you wait until it’s... like this.... Well, you always think you want one. But the last time Jean-Jacques came up, you threw a pillow at him.”
“Want this one,” Victor insists, though his voice sounds just as animal as human. Yuuri’s mind is working overtime to figure out if any other alphas came in after him but before Chris messed with the door. But he knows it’s just him. And Victor Nikiforov is an omega. Victor Nikiforov is smelling him, calling for him—
Yuuri nearly blacks out for a moment. When he’s tugged back to reality, it’s by a knock on the door of his stall. He’s too busy freaking out to be grateful that his pants are up and he only came in here to cry.
Chris says too casually, “You may as well come out, Mr. Alpha. This is the only other stall taken, and don’t try to tell me you don’t smell the ripe omega nearly in heat over here.”
Yuuri frantically tries to tell himself that Chris isn’t talking to him. But that’s insane. Then he tells himself it’s better to stay put and ride it out, because if he opens the door, Chris is either going to be horribly disappointed, or he’s not even going to remember who Yuuri is.
It’s Victor’s little groan that finally makes Yuuri jerk stiffly to life. He gets to his feet and slides the lock back, shaking with trepidation, and pulls it open to face Chris with his head hung.
Chris gives him a soft look. Yuuri can’t really read it. Then Chris gestures him over, and Yuuri, with feet that may as well be weighed down by bricks, turns the corner.
The other stall is thrown open. Victor Nikiforov is indeed kneeling there, legs spread and jacket open, silver hair tossed over one eye and the other so thickly dilated that it’s almost all black. His cheeks are flushed, he’s breathing hard, and he’s already stolen Yuuri’s breath away.
Yuuri’s only really seen Victor in real life a handful of times. Hardly ever up close. Victor’s just as beautiful as he is in all the posters that hang above Yuuri’s bed. All of the fantasies that Yuuri ever had about Victor being a complimentary designation seemed so wildly unlikely that he rarely even entertained them. He still did, of course. There were still times where he’d watch Victor dance across the ice and be unable to think of anything but holding him, being with him, satiating him the way only an alpha could an omega. He always figured Victor was an alpha like him. Or maybe a beta. Something on suppressants. A lot of skaters in the spotlight don’t want the media latching onto that. Yuuri would’ve taken suppressants too, if he knew he reeked enough to alert an omega going into heat.
“It’s not really full heat,” Chris says somewhere beside him—Yuuri can’t turn to look, because he couldn’t look away from Victor if he wanted to. “He just gets into these little fits after the competitions sometimes.” With a fond chuckle, Chris adds, “I do what I can, but Russia’s best is such a handful.”
Victor doesn’t look at Chris either. His gaze is locked with Yuuri’s, and then he melts into a gorgeous, dizzying smile, and he opens his arms. He mumbles almost brokenly, “Yuuri Katsuki,” and Yuuri’s so flattered that Victor even knows his name that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. It sounds so wonderful in Victor’s perfect voice, even strained through the thick accent and near-heat.
Chris gently says, “Just hold him. He’ll settle down soon enough.” Yuuri nods without really listening.
He sinks down to his feet and lets himself fall into Victor’s arms, like falling into a dream. Victor instantly latches onto him. Victor puffs molten-hot breath over his shoulder and buries a burning nose into his neck, nuzzling into him everywhere possible. Victor’s silk-soft hair tickles his chin. Yuuri just sort of holds Victor back, focusing every bone in his body on doing only that.
He’s rock hard. He couldn’t not be. He’s never smelled an omega this good. He’s never wanted one so much. And Victor starts mouthing aimlessly at his throat and shallowly humping him, lean and lithe and a little taller and just so damn good.
Yuri still doesn’t do anything else. Even when Victor coos, “You smell so perfect, Yuuri,” and slurs out his name again. It’s so much weirder and better than all of Yuuri’s fantasies.
Victor even moans, “Fuck me.”
But Yuuri mumbles, “I... don’t want to take advantage.”
And Victor whines, but Chris makes an approving noise. Yuri almost forgot Chris existed. All that matters right now is Victor Nikiforov, warm and real in his arms, while everything else fades away.
And it lasts for quite awhile, through two rounds of angry pounding on the washroom door and Chris handling it while Yuuri just basks in Victor’s company. Victor noses into him and rubs against him and makes the most sensual sounds Yuuri’s ever heard. But Yuuri’s too in shock to do anything about his interest anyway. So it just keeps going.
Until, eventually, Victor’s head nods to the side, and his breathing evens out, and Yuuri realizes that he’s sleeping.
Chris whistles and whispers, “Impressive. I was just going to ride him until he tired himself out, but looks like even the littlest touch from an alpha soothed him right down.”
Yuuri doesn’t know if the touch was that little. It’s enough that his body’s prickling everywhere with unresolved want, but that’s not worth ruining this over. He just asks, “What now?”
“We take him back to the hotel,” Chris says, like he does this all the time. Maybe he does. Maybe there are a lucky few who know what Victor really is, and they get to be there for him and see him like this at all of his many victories. And Yuuri would give anything to be one of those people.
He says as sternly as he can manage, “I’ll carry him.” He’s secretly delighted when Chris doesn’t protest.
With a bit of awkward maneuvering, he scoops Victor into his arms, up under Victor’s knees and back. He’s heavy, but worth it. So worth it. Yuuri hikes him up and turns to Chris, with Victor peacefully resting against his chest.
Chris just smiles and nods for the door.