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Victor was jolted out of a sweet dream by the blaring of his alarm clock. Usually, he liked waking up to the sound of Yuuri’s freeskate music. Usually, he woke up with a clear mind and a full tank of energy.
Today he blindly swatted for his phone until the music stopped and pressed his face deeper into his pillow. Sleep hung over him like a thick fog, making his eyes heavy and his thoughts sluggish.
He was halfway unconscious when fingers brushed through his fringe, but he found it in himself to nuzzle into them and shuffle a little closer to the warm body in his bed. He wasn’t awake enough to know if it was Yuuri or Makkachin or both; it wasn’t worth opening his eyes to check.
“Vitya?” That, Victor was pretty sure, was Yuuri. “Do you want coffee?”
Victor’s mind snagged on the only important word: Coffee.
Coffee would burn away the sleep fog.
“Please,” he mumbled into his pillow. “Coffee.”
The next time Victor’s alarm went off, he woke easier, more gently. He lay in bed for a moment, listening to the sweet music filling his bedroom. Their bedroom, now that Yuuri had officially moved in.
It was the realization of the bedroom’s emptiness that drove Victor out of the warm and comfortable bed. It was less warm without Yuuri and Makkachin in it.
He turned off his alarm, pulled on warm socks, and followed the sounds of life toward the kitchen.
When Makkachin saw him, her fluffy tail began to wag, thumping the couch cushion behind her with every movement. Naturally, Victor had to pause on his route to give Makkachin a few good morning scratches.
From near the couch, Victor could easily see into most of the kitchen. Yuuri was at the counter, scantily dressed in only a pair of pajama pants and one of Viktor’s sweaters that hung too big on him. The early morning sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window gave him an angelic glow, messy hair and ill-fitting clothes be damned.
He hadn’t noticed Victor yet, distracted by preparing two mugs of coffee, one with more milk and sugar than the other. Even doing such a mundane task, his body moved like it was making music.
Victor was entranced, but not so much that he couldn’t rush over and meld himself to Yuuri’s back, nuzzling his nose into Yuuri’s neck where he could smell the sweat of his skin and the apple-scented shampoo he favored.
Yuuri stiffened the way he always did immediately after Victor initiated physical contact, regardless of how frequently he did it.
“Yuuri,” Victor whined against the little notch at the top of Yuuri’s spine, waiting for the tension to leave his body. “You abandoned me.”
As Yuuri relaxed into the embrace, his hands found Victor’s, folding warmly around them and spinning Victor’s ring slowly around his finger. “O-only to make the coffee you asked for.”
Victor made a sound of indignation, trying to remember if that had happened.
“You did,” Yuuri insisted, and Victor decided to believe him.
When he really strained, he found the faintest recollection that his brain couldn’t quite parse as dream or memory. He couldn’t even remember if he’d requested coffee in English or Japanese — at least both languages used similar words for it. Even if his tired brain had reduced him purely to Russian, Yuuri would’ve understood kofi.
“My sweet Yuuri,” Victor crooned as Yuuri turned to face him. He tugged his little pork cutlet bowl closer to kiss each of his cheeks. “Spasibo. Arigatou.”
“Pozhaluysta,” Yuuri murmured, his pronunciation better than Victor would have expected from someone new to the language. He opened his mouth like he was going to say more, but the coffee machine beeped and they were drawn into their morning routine.
For a long time, before Victor had met Yuuri and rekindled his love for skating, Makkachin had been the only thing in his life that made him happy. She curled against him when he cried and got him out of the house when all he wanted to do was stay in bed. Even on the hottest and coldest days, it was a relief to walk with her, watching her tag wagging behind her as she stopped to sniff everything they passed. Her happiness was contagious.
Those walks were even more enjoyable now that Yuuri accompanied them.
Victor spent them rambling, telling Yuuri stories about the local architecture and community and where he’d grown up. In turn, Yuuri offered insights and tales from his own life, opening up in ways Victor knew he wasn’t used to.
These conversations were often sidetracked by Victor, or Yuuri, pointing out every cute dog they passed.
Today, it was Yuuri that noticed the puppy first. “Victor, look.”
Victor followed Yuuri’s gaze to a tiny puppy staring at Makkachin with big blue eyes, tongue lolling from its mouth as it panted.
“So cute,” Yuuri murmured, quiet enough that the owner wouldn’t hear, his eyes practically turning into hearts.
Victor waved to the woman at the other end of the puppy’s leash. “Good morning,” he greeted in Russian. “Can my dog say hi?”
“Please!” She brought the puppy closer as it strained excitedly at the end of its leash, tail circling like the blades of a windmill.
Makkachin sniffed the small creature as it whined and licked and rolled around him.
“Say hi to your new friend, Makka,” Victor encouraged when Makkachin gave him a ‘what am I supposed to do with this’ look. “What is her name?”
“Katya.”
Yuuri crouched to let Katya sniff his hand, and she immediately climbed into his lap, trying to lick his chin. Yuuri giggled. “How old is she?”
His glasses slipped a little down his nose as he looked up at the owner, and Victor’s fingers itched to push them back in place. “Six months. And yours?”
Victor was so distracted by Katya jumping on him as he joined Yuuri on the sidewalk that he didn’t even notice Yuuri had asked the question in Russian.
It wasn’t until they reached the end of the street after saying goodbyes that Victor’s brain fully processed what had just happened. The entire conversation with Katya’s owner had taken place in Russian.
“Yuuri,” he said, tapping his pointer finger to his lip before asking in Russian, “Do you speak Russian?”
It should have been an easy question to answer. There was no reason for Yuuri to go pink and fidget with his sleeves as if Victor had asked him something about his first sexual experience. Looking back on it, Yuuri had actually answered that question with less blushing.
Victor would never stop being captivated by Yuuri’s strange reactions to the most mundane things.
“Yuuri?” He pressed.
Yuuri shifted, shoulders wiggling, and said something so quiet Victor couldn’t even tell which language he’d used.
He tried again. “Yuusha?”
“Ten years.”
“Wow!” Victor had never even considered that Yuuri might speak his native language. “Why did you tell me?”
Yuuri’s eyes caught on something across the street. “Victor, look, another dog!”
Victor didn’t bring the topic up again until they were in bed. Yuuri’s earlier distraction had worked embarrassingly well — it wasn’t Victor’s fault the dog was so cute — until they’d returned home.
Instead of immediately pestering him about it, Victor had bided his time. He knew Yuuri well enough to know when he was avoiding something. And, slowly, Victor was learning how to get Yuuri to open up.
He spoke most freely when he was comfortable, when it was just the two of them: in an ice rink, at home, in their bed. Nothing made his tongue loosen faster than alcohol, but he was usually relatively uncensored when he was sleepy from a long day or still foggy from a good night’s rest.
Yuuri looked comfortable now, legs covered by the duvet, one hand scrolling on his phone, the other distractedly stroking Makkachin’s head. His glasses had been set on the nightstand, but when Victor entered, he glanced up to give him a little smile before returning to scrolling.
Perfect.
Victor, still damp from his shower, went to Yuuri’s side of the bed and dropped onto his lap.
Yuuri’s phone slipped out of his hand and hit the mattress.
Victor rooted himself with one knee on either side of Yuuri’s hips, determined not to be dislodged if Yuuri startled. But aside from one little squeak, Yuuri reacted rather smoothly. His hands curled around Victor’s waist, gently holding him in place. “Vitya?”
“Yuuri,” Victor answered, slow and sweet, enjoying the name on his lips. Enjoying Yuuri beneath him.
Yuuri frowned. “Your hair is still wet. You’ll catch a cold.”
“Dry it for me?”
With a small smile devoid of any mockery, Yuuri used the towel around Victor’s shoulders to begin drying his hair. Victor lowered his head so Yuuri would have better reach, even though it meant he wouldn’t be able to see Yuuri’s face.
“You didn’t tell me you know Russian,” Victor said, reverting to his native language.
Yuuri’s hands stalled, and Victor panicked that he’d been too forward — subtlety had never been his strong suit.
When Yuuri spoke, it wasn’t in Russian, but Japanese. “It’s embarrassing."
Victor looked up, moving only his eyes, until he could see Yuuri’s face. He was blushing again.
“Knowing a third language is embarrassing?"
“Nyet.” Then, still in Russian, “Are you going to ask why I learned?”
Victor’s first impulse was ‘yes, of course’. He wanted to know everything about Yuuri. But there had to be a reason Yuuri was acting so cagey about this.
Yuuri finished drying Victor’s hair and tossed the towel aside — his Yuuri was really so messy. Lunging forward, Victor threw his arms around Yuuri with enough force to knock him back against the bed.
“Victor!”
Victor poked one of Yuuri’s cheeks, soft skin dimpling under his finger. “Will you tell me?”
Yuuri hid behind his hands, gold ring glinting in the light. “You know I always looked up to you.”
That wasn’t a surprise. Yuuri had admitted it before and, honestly, most younger skaters had looked up to Victor at some point.
He rested his cheek against Yuuri’s chest where he could hear the steady beat of his heart.
“You learned Russian for me?” Victor suddenly felt too big for his body, a strange, but not unpleasant, sensation that Yuuri had a knack for evoking.
“Before you entered seniors, most of your interviews weren’t translated, and a lot of the articles about you were in Cryllic.”
Victor rolled onto his stomach, putting his hands under his chin, to stare up at Yuuri.
Yuuri wasn’t covering his face anymore, but there was a lingering flush in his cheeks. “I had to study on my own until college, there weren’t any Russian classes in Hasetsu.”
“Wow.”
“What?”
Victor beamed. “I have such devoted fans!”
“You already knew that,” Yuuri said. It was a tamer reaction that Victor had been hoping for, but then he’s petting Victor’s hair and saying, “You should’ve known I was a fan when you saw me skate your routine.”
“I thought you were flirting!”
Yuuri laughed, a soft, brilliant little sound that made Makkachin raise her head to stare at them. Victor freed one of his hands to pet his beloved dog.
“I’m not that brave.”
Victor darted up to kiss Yuuri, a quick press of lips immediately followed with, “You’re the bravest person I know.”
“I—”
Instead of letting Yuuri self-deprecate, Victor chose to kiss him again, slower and longer this time. Yuuri exhaled through his nose like he knew exactly what Victor was doing, but returned as good as he got, kissing Victor until his lips were numb and his head was fuzzy.
“Yuuri,” he said against Yuuri’s reddened lips. “Will you understand if I speak dirty to you in Russian?”
Yuuri’s answer, delivered in slightly-accented Russian, was so bold that even Victor Nikiforov, five time world champion and living legend, had to blush.