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Chapter Text

I.

Isabella is really Phichit’s friend, but Yuuri receives an invitation (to which he doesn’t RSVP) and then Phichit asks him to be his plus one to the wedding.  In response, Yuuri buys a new suit, finds an old, but comfortable set of presentable dress shoes, and slicks his hair back.

The new suit comes with a free tie, and Phichit sounds only a little mortified when Yuuri tells him, but he still (despite his griping about the matching pocket square) lets Yuuri wear it because the material is soft and silky and infinitely better than any other tie Yuuri owns (and also because Yuuri accepts to wear contact lenses instead of his glasses).

They’re broke recent graduates, and Isabella planned a Spring wedding, so between the two them, they buy the least expensive item in the registry: A set of gourmet wooden spoons made by some famous chef obsessed with butter and prosciutto. It’s ironic, considering Isabella can’t cook, but Yuuri still remembers how sweet and gracious she had been in college and decides to splurge because it’s her day and he’s pretty sure Isabella once treated him to pizza when he was pulling an all-nighter with Phichit and he’s always felt he owed her.

(That and (Yuuri hates himself for even thinking it) she’s marrying the most annoying man in the world.

But he’s rich and loves her more than anyone, except her parents, Phichit reminds him, like that (the rich part) makes it all better.)

II. 

Viktor is not J.J.’s friend.

(He almost considers getting that stitched on a handkerchief and going around the event blowing his nose.)

But he has an invitation to J.J.’s wedding, and their parents were old business contacts, so when his mother calls him to croon ‘But Vitya,’ Viktor decides he’ll go, but he won’t like it. And, he’ll probably do his best to get drunk on vodka. Then his mother says ‘But Vitya, we already said you’d be delighted to be one of the groomsmen,’ and he almost considers faking his own kidnapping, only he’s already used that excuse to get out of the last family reunion (and go on a cross-European road trip with Chris and his expensive pink convertible), so he really doubts it’ll work again. There’s only so many times his mother will laugh indulgently and say ‘Oh darling, don’t stray too long!’ and inject a cool half million into his bank account before forcing him to get a band of bodyguards.

(He returned the money, of course. Once he wasn’t kidnapped anymore. Except then his father had said something that made Viktor almost too sure that his mother hadn’t told his father he hadn’t really been kidnapped, and his father maybe thinks Viktor consensually slutted his way off the hook (thanks to some photos that made it into a grocery store tabloid) and with money intact, even if dignity destroyed. It’s a good thing his father knows next to nothing about European male models. That, and worrying about Viktor’s public relations, he leaves to Viktor’s Uncle Yakov, much like he used to leave groundings to his Uncle Yakov’s wife (because Viktor’s parents were suckers for a wibbly bottom lip).

But at least his father had brought out the expensive $2500 bottle of triple malt scotch whiskey as they didn’t talk about the not-kidnapping and what-did-or-did-not-happen (definitely what didn’t happen), and Viktor’s father had been drunk enough to start showering him with praise and stories of his baby days and good-natured ribbing, and he had told Viktor all about his fatherly pride and trust in Viktor, because Viktor is “a good man” (even if Viktor thinks he’s not). It’s a good reminder of why Viktor loves his father.

His father loves him so unconditionally, even when he does stupid things. No one else, except his mother, loves him so perfectly.)

Apparently, J.J. didn’t have anyone other than his parents’ friends’ children to fill in as his groomsmen, so Viktor’s youngest sibling Yuri gets pulled into the act, too. His sister Mila doesn’t have to participate in the wedding, but she (for some reason, or because she likes J.J. as a person) still decides to go.

III.

Yuri complains the entire time.

(Really, the entire time.)

Viktor doesn’t blame him. He’d probably complain, too, if he had to have all the formality and none of the fun, but Yuri is too young to drink, much less go through the strange protocol of J.J.’s stag party (or parties). But, again, this is J.J., so Viktor reminds his brother that none of this will be fun for anyone, least of all Chris, whose been made best man (only because Viktor refused and gave J.J. his best ice-queen-glare on top of an already almost insulting resting-bitch-face to get his point across).  

(To be fair, Viktor had already accepted to give a toast to J.J. and Isabella’s happiness while wearing his finest Armani in black. J.J. can’t ask for more. That’d just be greedy. But he does ask for more, which leads to Viktor and J.J.’s other groomsmen to put together a groom’s dance for the reception.)

Yuri’s complaining only lasts until the Altin family arrives at the resort J.J.’s family has rented for the week to welcome all their guests and introduce them to Isabella. It’s a strange affair because they all grew up going to the same country club. That’s how Isabella met J.J. But J.J.’s parents are slightly oblivious, albeit sweet, and Isabella’s family has less money than they do, so they naturally assume that she had spent most summers living in the smaller houses on the far side of the lake, or a different world from the Leroys.

Isabella’s guests, though, don’t all come from the country club. She has actual friends and they, like normal people, are coming just a day before the wedding. There’s no pretense or strange expectation from Isabella’s family that people that have never spent more than a dinner discussing potential investments should suddenly spend an entire week rubbing elbows at the pool while drinking funny colored cocktails. Viktor instantly loves them and spends all his time with them as opposed to the Leroys.

Yuuri, naturally, spends all his time with his friend – a teen DJ spinning records in Europe while his parents keep piling on the cash in Kazakhstan. Strangely enough, Yuri and Otabek, the Altin boy, don’t talk, not with their mouths; instead, Viktor is almost certain they text each other for everything. They sit together by the pool, shades on their faces under the comfort of a large umbrella as they type on tiny phone screens. Sometimes they’ll chuckle and look up, and then return to their phones. It’s a cacophony of pings.  

“Viktor, are you listening?” Chris kicks some water his way, and he shakes his head, pushing his platinum hair back.

“Yeah, sure,” he lies, “We’ll pick up J.J. at eight, pop open a bottle of Cristal, or whatever is in the limo, and keep him out until midnight or something.”

“No strippers,” Chris repeats, dipping his feet in the pool again as he scrolls through the e-mail application in his phone. Viktor had also received a copy of the instructions written by J.J. on what he expects his stag party to be like to truly encapsulate the whole concept of J.J. Style. Viktor will never understand how people ever spend any money on any piece of clothing that has a label that reads J.J. Style, but he’s too busy designing his own brand (and modeling it) to really care.  

“Ew,” Viktor waves him off in disgust, pulling himself up to rest his arms on the edge of the pool. Water droplets cling to his muscles. “I said I would take him out, not party with him. I don’t even go to a strip club with you, and I like you. I’ve even eaten at a McDonalds for you.”

“Oh stop it, you loved every minute of stuffing your mouth with that juicy commercial meat,” Chris almost shimmies with each word. And Viktor laughs, just laughs and jumps up to grab his phone.

“Want me to take your picture?”

“If you insist,” Chris smiles, jumping back into the pool for a few more poses before they have to pretend to be groomsmen.  

IV.

Viktor sees the bride’s half of the church and feels almost second-hand embarrassment. Again, he sees actual people, the type that want to be there and made the effort out of the proverbial goodness of their friendly or familial hearts. They’re smiling vividly, drinking in every moment of the ceremony and the beauty of the bride. Isabella really is beautiful, and Viktor has to admit that the love J.J. has for her might slowly become his most redeeming quality.  

Meanwhile, Viktor tunes out the entire ordeal, eyes glazing as he bumps shoulders with Chris to stay awake.  

Next to him, Yuri has a hand stuck in his pocket. Viktor is pretty sure he’s texting Otabek – they do have a habit of texting in emoticons.

V.

Yuuri always cries at weddings.

When Yuuko got married, he cried from the moment she started walking down the aisle and only took a short break while giving a speech at the reception. He picked up again, with a box of tissues safely tucked into the crook of his arm, when it was time to wave the new Nishigori family goodbye for their honeymoon. He’d then proceeded to get blackout drunk. It was almost a tradition by now.

Phichit hands him tissues for the duration of Isabella’s ceremony. Thankfully, Isabella isn’t a close friend. He finds the tears stop after a few minutes; by then, Phichit has started on the waterworks and can’t get himself to stop.

Yururi is almost too busy to pay attention, admiring how everyone in the wedding party looks absolutely stunning in their crisp suits and long peach dresses. Standing one man away from the groom is a platinum blonde that Yuuri keeps admiring. He’s pretty sure he’s seen him in some magazine or other, just flipping through while in some doctor’s waiting room. Leave it to J.J. to have models as his groomsmen.

“Okay, everyone gather around for the first bouquet toss!” Isabella smiles brightly, calling everyone to the center area where the reception is taking place. There are these beautiful long tables organized in verticals leading the viewer’s eye towards the white stage filled with flowers.  

Yuuri is too busy trying to get lost in the shuffle to notice when someone is getting a little too close.

“Come on, Viktor, in there with the rest!” Isabella pushes one of the groomsmen, who accidentally bumps into Yuuri.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” he turns almost effortlessly, holding onto Yuuri’s arm. And Yuuri forgets how to breathe for a moment. “I didn’t step on you, did I?”

“Uh, no, it’s fine,” he replies, blinking before pulling his arm away to sneak into the center of the group. The stranger – Viktor – watches him with something akin to sympathy, like he’s just too used to people being hit in the stomach by his beauty on the regular, and who knows, maybe that’s the case. He is gorgeous.

“Okay, everyone ready?” Isabella yells out over her shoulder to the sea of people, and then the bouquet goes flying high over her head. Right into Yuuri’s hands.

Yuuri can faintly hear Phichit crowing in the background. He looks down at the bouquet in his hands, just on the edge of disbelieving.

“Yay, Yuuri!” Isabella claps, almost jumping in her heels. “Next wedding’s yours!”

When he looks up to give her a shy smile, Yuuri’s eyes fall on Viktor again. He keeps replaying the name in his head. It’s so fitting, almost aristocratic. Viktor is laughing, looking like he’s enjoying everyone’s reactions. Yuuri swears he almost hears him say: “Wow.” But for all he knows, he could be making up the sound of his voice in the whistle and buzzing excitement of the crowd all around him.

VI.

“She told me she was gonna go full Beyoncé!” Phichit jumps up and down next to Yuuri. He’s holding his phone tightly, just waiting to hit record. Yuuri tries to hold onto his arm to anchor him in place. Isabella made sure that they were in the front row, and Yuuri doesn’t want to take more space than necessary with everyone standing around doubled up in a circle. He’s surprised by how attached she has been to both of them, even asking Yuuri to help her make sure her garter was on correctly backstage.

J.J. is sitting smug on a chair in front of an empty area before the stage. He keeps flashing smiles everywhere.

Apparently, Isabella has a second bouquet because she’s using it in her dance number. Sometimes Yuuri forgets that Isabella is a trained dancer and, despite her money, she’s doing just fine working as a choreographer. Her bridesmaids are all obviously dancers, looking amazing in tan leotards with short, ruffled skirts, but Isabella – as she should, as the bride – rivals them all in a white leotard with a short skirt, all covered in expensive lace. She throws the bouquet to Phichit. There’s no pretense as to who is supposed to catch it, and Phichit squeals, holding it tight to his chest as Isabella begins her dance number – an impressive combination of Lil’ Mo’s 4ever (I been your superwoman for so long, ready to be your wife), Beyoncé’s Upgrade U (Let me upgrade you,) and End of Time (Promise not to let you go, say you’ll never let me go, say you’ll never let me go).

She dabs, shimmies, and whirls expertly, hips shaking like a pendulum the entire time. When the show is over, everyone’s clapping, watching as Isabella lifts a delicate foot and sets her six-inch heel between J.J.’s spread legs on the chair. The garter has everyone’s attention, shining with its own sparkles against the pale, shimmering stockings encasing her long legs.

J.J. wastes no time in pulling the garter off. Yuuri is grateful that he does it with his fingers. Maybe small miracles do exist. When J.J. throws it, a few of the men in the vicinity try to make a playful jump for the garter, but it misses them all and lands in someone’s hands. The whole crowd explodes into whoops and ow-ow and whistles, and Yuuri laughs when people part in waves to show J.J. and Isabella that one of the groomsmen has caught the garter.

“Viktor!” J.J. laughs, clapping his hands.

Viktor twirls the garter on his index finger before pocketing it and taking a bow.

VII.

“Here, Yuuri!” Phichit yells as he hands Yuuri a glass of champagne. Yuuri knows Phichit is well into his third, but this will only be Yuuri’s first glass.

Isabella is sticking to them like glue, which means everyone’s eyes are on them. Yuuri downs the glass to keep his nerves low, and Phichit only whoops, grabbing another one as a waiter passes by and leaving it firmly planted in Yuuri’s hands.  

J.J.’s groomsmen have taken over the dancefloor for what everyone assumes will be the groom’s dance. The platinum-haired could-be model – Viktor, Viktor, Yuuri keeps having to remind himself to think of him as a person, instead of an abstraction, is at the helm of the group. It seems that Isabella and J.J.’s guests include a lot of people that all know each other very well.

“We all grew up at the country club,” Isabella explains, and Yuuri suddenly begins to understand why she must be standing close to them. Phichit and Yuuri are her college friends. She displays them and introduces them proudly. This is the girl that left and went to Detroit to dance. This is the girl that made friends, normal friends. Yuuri is touched whenever Isabella tells people: These are my friends, Yuuri and Phichit.

A red-head in a gorgeous, form-fitting purple dress bumps into them, reaching for Isabella’s arm as she yells: “That’s my big brother! Udachi, Viktor! Udachi!”

A bunch of other young women follow suit. Apparently, Yuuri notes as he drinks his champagne, Viktor is very popular.

Yuuri also notices that the red-head looks no older than twenty. She’s probably younger than that. A young, blonde teen joins her, scoffing as he cups his hands around his mouth and yells: “Oi, old man, don’t shame the family name! Or else, I’m not related to you anymore!”

Viktor flinches, looking almost embarrassed as he waves their way, and then falls back into formation. Yuuri is surprised when their eyes meet again, and Viktor smiles at him, giving him a playful wink. The red-head next to Isabella stretches her neck around the bride to get a good look at Yuuri, who can feel her staring. His cheeks heat up as he pretends not to notice and downs his glass.

“Hi, I’m Mila! I think my brother likes you!” she yells over the noise of the crowd as the familiar base of N*Sync’s classic It’s Tearing Up My Heart When I’m With You plays in the background, and the groomsmen break into the familiar shuffle and spin. It ends with Viktor pointing right towards J.J., who comes swaggering to stand in front of the group for a perfect rendition of the It’s Gonna Be Me, but it seems the group is far more entertained by the groomsmen. A tall green-eyed man – the best man, it seems – brings them all into a seamless transition into Pop, just oozing sex as he takes some artistic liberties to show-off (with a playful slap) his ass. The claps recommence again. People start screaming when Viktor brings the group into I Want You Back. J.J. might as well be an after-thought, and Yuuri almost feels bad, if it wasn’t because Isabella is clapping excitedly.

“Take the jacket off!” she yells, and Viktor seems more than happy to oblige, as he throws it her way. “I had the biggest crush on Viktor when I was little!” she yells at Phichit, who simply whistles his approval (saying, “I can see why!”).  

Yuuri decides maybe now’s a good time to squirrel away. It looks like the dance is coming to an end, and Mila is already trying to shuffle her way towards Yuuri. The sound of Bye Bye Bye chases him away as he goes in search of more alcohol.

(Phichit later tells him that Viktor pulled his sister to the dancefloor to dance to Uptown Funk, and Yuuri feels something soft and happy blossom in his chest because he’s a little brother himself, one who has always looked up to his big sister, probably much the way Mila seems to idolize Viktor. It’s sweet that Viktor would dance with his sister instead of pulling some pretty girl to the dancefloor. After all, there were plenty of women (and men) impressed by his moves.)

VIII.

Phichit is on the verge of drunk and Yuuri is already beginning to feel a little tipsy when Viktor finds them.

“Hey, bouquet catchers,” he smiles, bringing out the garter from his pocket. “Figured I’d introduce myself. I’m Viktor. Viktor Nikiforov.”

“I’m Phichit!” Phichit yells, practically throwing his body towards Viktor in his enthusiasm. He’s obviously had too much to drink and his shirt buttons are starting to come undone. Yuuri is beginning to suspect Phichit started losing clothing layers the moment Isabella nabbed him as a dance partner an hour ago. Viktor eyes Yuuri expectantly. It makes sense: People usually give out their names when asked. Yuuri is not people, not when he’s drunk and embarrassed. Drinking should loosen him up, but, more importantly, holding a glass gives his hands something to do and sipping keeps his mouth occupied.  

Yuuri stays quiet, pretending that he’s still sipping, until he notices that his glass is empty – only because Viktor takes it from his hand gently and grabs another one from a passing waiter.

“Thanks,” Yuuri tells him, watching him through long, dark lashes and going back to nursing his glass.

“So,” Viktor speaks to Yuuri, even as he keeps close tabs on Phichit as well. Phichit is looking closer to jumping back on the bar and stripping. (Yuuri thought they were over that phase 20 minutes ago! This had happened at the last wedding they had attended, too.) “This is an interesting dilemma because there’s two of you. Usually, the garter catcher and the bouquet catcher dance together, or, you know, spend some time together having been thoroughly embarrassed and tapped as the next to get married.”

Yuuri almost chokes.

“Not to each other,” Viktor backtracks, embarrassed, and Yuuri notices the pink dusting his cheeks. He must be on the verge of tipsy, too. Viktor curses at himself in a foreign language just as Yuuri is beginning to turn his attention back to the bar. Is that Russian? Yuuri has always heard that Russians have a greater ability to withstand their alcohol, so maybe Viktor is fine, or maybe Yuuri has his potential ancestry all wrong. “I mean, would you like to dance?”

“Dance?” Yuuri repeats now more than a little hazy.

“I’d love to!” Phichit laughs, grabbing Yuuri’s hand to pull him into the mob of people grinding on the dancefloor.

Maybe there’s something to the idea of two bouquets. The two people that catch the bouquets can dirty dance with each other on the dancefloor, no need for a garter catcher at all.

(And that’s how Yuuri ends up grinding his way on the dancefloor against his best friend, holding hands with Phichit as they sway to the music, until Isabella finds them, and then they give her a show while she sits on a chair and watches them practically strip. Phichit more so than Yuuri, though.

At least Yuuri still had his pants and shirt on at the end. He was just a little disheveled.)

IX.

Viktor groans, looking towards Chris dejectedly. He has somehow ended up sandwiched between Phichit and his gorgeous, nameless friend, whose hips have decided to take Shakira at face value and not lie.

“You look like you’re having a little too much fun there,” Chris laughs at him, snapping a few pictures.

“I think they’re trying to kill me,” Viktor yells back, eyes almost rolling back when Yuuri’s hips grind a little harder. It’s at that moment that Phichit seems to lose interest in dancing and in groping Viktor’s ass. Phichit starts swaying on his own as he begins to put together a flower crown from his bouquet.

“Aww, that’s so pretty, Phichit,” Yuuri has turned around now, wrapping his arms around Viktor’s neck to lift himself up and clinch tightly to Viktor’s waist with his legs. Yuuri looks at his friend’s new project from the safety of Viktor’s shoulder. Soft fingers run through Viktor’s hair as warm amber eyes caress his face. He can almost feel the touch. “Oh Vicchan, you’re going to look so beautiful with a crown. You already look like a prince.”

Viktor looks over Yuuri’s head at Chris. He realizes almost too late that the only sound coming out of his mouth is a steady, dying shriek. It’s a wholly dying sound, like a trickle of noise getting lost in the background, somewhere between the song’s trumpets. Taking zero pity on Viktor’s (enjoyable) misery, Chris laughs, resting a hand on Yuuri’s lower back when he notices his thighs are about to lose the leverage they’ve gained on Viktor’s waist.

“Hm, aim a little lower,” Chris schools him. Before long, Yuuri’s thighs – all hard and lean muscle – are wrapped around Viktor’s waist, his heels locking him into position. “Well, Viktor, I must go! But enjoy the night!”

“Chris!” Viktor hisses, feeling a weight drop on his head. A flower crown. Phichit is back to hugging them both. “Chris, don’t leave me!”

 “What’s wrong, Vicchan?” Yuuri presses their foreheads together.

“What’s your name?” Viktor asks for the hundredth time. Somewhere around number forty, the stranger in his arms had laughed so prettily, he thought he heard wedding bells. By the eightieth time, he knew he was thoroughly in love. Right now, he feels on the verge of thoroughly fucked (on the dancefloor, literally).

(It had all started out so innocently, too.

Viktor really had tried to keep it classy.)

“I’m Yuuri.”

“Yuri?” Viktor blinks. “Huh. My brother’s name is Yuri.”

“Not Yuri,” Yuuri corrects him, licking his lips as he teaches him to elongate the u. Viktor stays still as he feels the gentle brush of lips against his own. “Yuuri. Yuuri. And you’re Vicchan!”

“Vicchan. I don’t know what that means, but you really seem to like calling me that, and I like that you like calling me that. You can call me whatever you want—”

“Yuuri, say it,” Yuuri lets his thumb brush over Viktor’s bottom lip.

“Yuuri,” Viktor repeats, and it seems it’s right, because the attempt earns him a lovely hip roll that almost sends him falling back. He’s grateful for Phichit’s weight against his back. “Yuuri, I think, I think I’m going to need to put you down in a moment before I potentially embarrass myself. But I really, really want to continue this, when we’re sober. Can I have your phone number?”

“Sorry, Vicchan. But I’m too drunk to rationally hand out my phone number.”

(And, just like that, Viktor thought he heard his heart smash on the floor.

Really, it was J.J., who had dropped his champagne glass in his attempt to pull Viktor away from his two dance partners to take one last photo with Isabella before it was time to bid the groom and bride farewell on their honeymoon.

“Bye Vicchan!” Yuuri waved at him with a sweet, drunk smile.

Viktor pouted, as he was pulled away by the cuff. “Bye, Yuuri…”)

X. 

A few weeks later, Yuuri is typing in his apartment’s living room when he hears things crashing in Phichit’s bedroom. It’s readily followed by Phichit jumping out of his room and rolling into the living room. He bounces excitedly on the sofa, waving his phone in front of Yuuri’s face: “Look what Isabella just set me!”

Yuuri takes the phone from Phichit, gasping when he sees the screenshot of a Facebook thread about a photo of him. He hadn’t been tagged, thankfully, but it slowly dawns on him that it’s not because the uploader was being kind. Chris Giacometti just didn’t have him as a Facebook friend.

In the picture, Yuuri is wrapped tightly around a person tagged as Viktor Nikiforov, legs fully off the ground and locked around a tapered waist. Their foreheads are pressed together. Anyone that didn’t know they had both been drunk might have mistaken the haze in their eyes for sweet, indiscriminate, gentle, almost sleepy affection.

Phichit was also in the picture, arms wrapped tightly around them both and practically dozing off against Viktor’s back.

(Art credit: sterndecorum.tumblr.com)

Chris Giacometti

We’re still looking for @Viktor Nikiforov’s Cinderella. If found, please PM.

1,050 likes

Seen by 2,450 people

Mila Nikiforov That’s my future brother-in-law!

Viktor Nikiforov That’s my future husband! Someone please tell me who is that boy(?)!! He said his name was Yuuri. Anyone with info is eligible for a monetary reward.  

Chris Giacometti IDK. I asked J.J. He said he knew the one hugging your back, but not your bae.

Mila Nikiforov Ooh let’s ask @Isabella Leroy! Izzy, Viktor is looking for this cute Japanese boy that danced with him at your wedding. Help us before someone cons my brother out of $100,000? Thanks!

Yuri Nikiforov Is that a tent in your pants? Gross! TAKE THIS DOWN!

“He’s offering $100,000 to find you?” Phichit gasped, “Oh my god! Isabella says he’s totally for reals. Yuuri! Yuuri, you have to talk to him!”

Yuuri simply squeaked, turning a bright shade of red as he took the phone back and stared at the picture. He had a feeling this was only going to snowball if he didn’t take control of the situation and fast.

TBC? – Maybe if there’s interest.  

Chapter Text

XI. 

J.J. stretched on the bed, rolling on his side to press lazy kisses against his wife’s bare shoulder. The very idea that it was his wife he was marking with his lips made him feel more than a little dizzy. Isabella barely stirred as he nipped at her neck. “Your phone keeps ringing,” he groaned, eyeing the flashing fading blue light of the cellphone in question, “pick it up already.”

Isabella peered at him from other a mountain of pillows over her head, shoving him off with a violent kick, “not mine this time, babe. Yours.”

J.J. frowned, reaching blindly over her back for the phone. He rested an elbow on her back (earning himself an angry ‘J.J., you’re heavy! Fuck off!’) as he read the caller ID. It took him a few seconds to blink blearily and realize it was Viktor.

“It’s Viktor!” he yelled (and was promptly shoved off the bed, as Isabella pushed up on her elbows with a ‘That’s it!’), making sure to keep the phone held high as he rolled to the ground. Viktor Nikiforov hadn’t called J.J. since they were children and Viktor had found out J.J.’s family poodle had given birth to a set of precious puppies that J.J. refused to give up.

(Isabella knows the story well, but she listens attentively anyway.

J.J.’s parents had known even then that their son had an abnormal hero-worship complex when it came to Viktor. And Viktor, of course, had had both motive and reward to push him – if he convinced J.J. to give up the puppies, then he would, of course, have first pick.

She cringes (feeling immeasurably sorry for her husband and angry at Viktor) when she hears J.J. muse out loud (so vulnerable) whether Viktor would call him more if he didn’t bring up the fact that their dogs are related.)

“Yup, he probably hasn’t called you since because you don’t let him forget your dogs are related,” Isabella scoffed (because J.J.’s brain had come to a screeching halt right at the precipice of a verbal dam now overflooding with stories about Viktor), staring down at him from the bed. “He probably doesn’t call because you’re so embarrassing. You didn’t even realize you said that last part about the dogs out loud, did you? – Damn it, J.J. It’s still ringing. He must need something. Either pick up, or shut it off, but stop staring at it. I’m trying to sleep.”

She dropped back down onto the bed, snuggling against the blankets.

J.J. finally pressed the phone to his ear, not quite certain what greeting he’d use until it’s prime time: “Uh, he—ah, Viktor, hey man, what’s going on?”

Isabella rolled her eyes at her husband’s penchant for turning brainless the moment Viktor Nikiforov was involved. It was all thanks to an embarrassing man-crush that has crushed J.J. one too many times, including when, some years ago, the only way J.J. made it into the list for Viktor’s birthday party in the Netherlands was as Isabella’s plus one.

“No, no, no worries. You call any time,” he rested his back against the side of the bed. “Any time. Uh-huh, yeah, yeah, man, that was some party! – Izzy? Oh, you want to talk to Isabella…”

(“That’s a little too much emphasis on your availability, honey,” she whispers angrily at him, crawling on her arms to the edge of the bed. She plucks the phone from his hand: “Viktor, I already told Chris I’m not handing out Yuuri’s information. I’m not even going to confirm if he has a social media page or not.” She rubs at her temples, flopping on her back to stare at the ceiling. “I told him you wanted to connect already. He didn’t get back to me. Viktor, I’m not going to even entertain that question as serious and if I hear from Mila that you’re playing around in a hospital, I will personally tell Yuuri that you’re psychotic—will you stop crying? I know you’re faking it. I’m going back to sleep. Stop calling. I’m on my honeymoon…! Oh, yes, we did get the champagne. It was super thoughtful, thanks, honey. Yes, but now, really, leave us alone. At least for the week.”)

XII.

Phichit was convinced Yuuri was a sadist. How else could he not cave and call Viktor Nikiforov already?

“Are you really going to wear a facemask in the summer?” Phichit asked, flipping through his phone as he watched his friend attempt, once again, to cover up before going out into the world of people (with cellphones and access to Facebook and Twitter) who had very likely already seen Yuuri’s face in any of the countless memes floating through the Internet (including Phichit’s favorite, which had Yuuri photoshopped from one of Viktor’s posted Instagram photos from the reception and relocated to countless ridiculous locations, including the moon and even ‘@ViktorNikiforov look! Yuuri was on stage with Rihanna last night!’). Taking control of the situation for Yuuri Katsuki had devolved from ignoring everything and shutting down his Facebook and unused Instagram to wearing disguises in public. Phichit wasn’t sure what part of that gave Yuuri any feeling of control.

“How else am I gonna stop people from recognizing me?” Yuuri huffed, lacing up his sneakers so tightly, Phichit was sure he’d give his feet bruises. “It’s only until I get to Minako’s for class.”

“I don’t know how you’re managing to keep your students from telling on you.”

Yuuri blushed, “it’s really not that hard. Most working people don’t want to announce on social media that they’re taking pole dancing classes. Or that they’re spending discretionary income on classes with a professional.”

“Ah! So that’s why Minako wanted me to cover your hip hop class,” Phichit nodded, feeling proud now that he was slowly unraveling Yuuri’s strategy, especially because it was going to get only more difficult once (if, really,) Yuuri decided to go get that ‘grown-up’ job at that consulting firm that had been trying to recruit him since the start to their last year in school. (In a way, Viktor’s decision to hound Yuuri on every social media channel available to a hot, rich, young model was keeping Yuuri tied to his first love – dance – and that, on its own, was wonderful, even if the rest verged on the ridiculous.)  “But what are you going to do once ballet lessons start up again?”

“They’re children, Phichit,” Yuuri whispered, reaching for his duffel bag, “I doubt eight-year-olds have phones or know what memes are...”

(Phichit didn’t have the heart to remind Yuuri that Yuuko’s girls were five and already had the capability and knowledge to upload things to the Internet. But, Yuuri was sort of right. The girls had tablets, which they used to regularly Skype Yuuri. Tablets, not phones, but close enough.)

Phichit shrugged, reaching for his phone again to retweet a picture of Yuuri photoshopped twerking – well, more like grinding with Miley Cyrus.

XIII.

Mila was convinced her brother was slowly losing his mind (or a step closer to it), and was no closer to finding Yuuri than when they had started their social media campaign.

Viktor Nikiforov lounged on a chaise in his favorite Desmond Merrion slate gray suit (chosen perfectly to match the faded, brittle pale white and pink peonies and roses on the dying flower crown resting on his head), one leg haphazardly thrown to a side to match lazy arm grazing the floor with a half-empty bottle of expensive vodka.

With his free hand, he flipped though his phone and searched both Instagram and Twitter, squinting behind the tinted lenses of his Raybans in the darkness of his bedroom (kept even darker thanks to the thick muslin curtains he’d had installed because ‘Only the shadows can understand the void in my heart, Mila!’) to avoid missing any potential tips left in the #Looking4Yuuri stream. He had Blame It on the Alcohol (And now I’m knowin’ she tipsy, she put her body on me, and she keeps staring me right in my eyes,) playing on loop, sometimes pausing his search to half-sob particularly emotionally stirring set of lyrics (No tellin’ what I’m gon’ do, baby, I would rather show you, what you been missin’ in your life when I get inside).  

Yuri Nikiforov cringed, but kept filming before turning the phone camera on himself: “Welcome to day forty-five of #Searching4Yuuri. (Vitya, stop. Mila, sing with me: Shawty, I ain’t trippin’, I jus’ wanna please ya.) My stupid brother has, once again, decided to betray his age by playing an old ass song about getting drunk and trying to get laid, as inspired by his own pathetic love life, which has brought us a new hashtag: #Help4Vitya.”

“If you looking like a model, when them broke fellas holla, tell ‘em, bye! Tell them bye, Yuuri, I’ll buy you all the drinks and a boat with a cooler to keep all your drinks,” Viktor moaned and it was such a heartbreaking sound that Mila stood from her spot reading by the fireplace to usher her little brother away.

“Wait, why a boat? Why not just buy him a cooler with drinks, or take him to dinner?” Mila asked (and almost wished she hadn’t when Viktor replied, “Because if we live on a boat, he’ll have to wear shorts. Have you not seen his thighs?”). (And Mila had to admit that she had, in fact, seen Yuuri’s thighs flex under the poorly tailored suit. At least there was logic to the train wreck in her brother’s lovesick brain.) But the question alone betrayed how she should have cut-off Viktor somewhere around play number thirty. He was completely intoxicated by the music, considering he hadn’t had a drop of the vodka. The bottle was more decorative than useful (though she was starting to consider slamming it over Viktor’s head). “Okay, Yuri, that’s enough. Can’t you see Vitya is hurting? Turn it off.”

“Okay,” Yuri shrugged, pocketing his phone. “But it’s the only way to keep the hashtag trending.”

“Don’t pretend you’re trying to be helpful,” Mila glared at him, rolling her eyes, “You just want to embarrass Vitya.”

“Vicchan,” he reminded them. “I’m Vicchan!”

Yuri arched an eyebrow (mostly because he wasn’t even filming anymore), “Oh yeah, hag, because he needs me for that. Okay, Vicchan, why don’t you tell Mila what you’d prefer: I can either post this video and keep people looking for your stupid pig, or I can delete it and let the hashtag die without new content.”

Viktor scrambled to sit, dropping the bottle as he took off his glasses to give his brother a pointed (almost threatening) glare: “You know what you need to do. I didn’t just spend the last five minutes acting a fool while wearing dead flowers on my head for you not to post it. My suit now reeks of old bath water. Remember the mission.”

Mila gasped (albeit partly in relief), “Vitya! I thought you were really suffering.”

“I am, but if I’ve learned anything in the last forty-five days is that the normal tactics aren’t working. I need to up the ante, catch Yuuri’s attention and draw on his feelings of guilt to attract him away from the shadows and into the light, Mila.” Viktor sighed, running a hand through his hair (only to cringe when he belatedly realized that he had, finally, managed to destroy the flower crown as petals rained over his shoulders). “Trust me, this is the only way.”

“Oh-kay?” Mila worried at her bottom lip, studying him carefully and wondering if it was time to ask her parents to have him committed (in a hospital, not in a relationship). “I don’t know who either of you are anymore,” she pointed at them both. “Poor Yuuri. No wonder he doesn’t want to come out of hiding. I’d be terrified of you two, too! – I’m going to message Izzy and tell her to really not to tell you anything. To think I was trying to help…”

“Wait, wait, Mila, think carefully about what you’re about to do to your dorogoy starshiy brat.”

“My dear older brother? – I don’t even know who you are anymore. Fake crying to tasteless American club music, wasting vodka, and even trying to buy a boat. That last one, Vitya.” She looked almost hurt, but Viktor knew well that she was mostly disappointed. Her bottom lip wibbled. “You know you have very unattractive knees and the sailor look clashes with your hair, white on white on white… Do you not remember the Family Portrait of 2006?”

Viktor looked mildly remorseful.

(That had been a terrible year for Family Portraits.

Of course, Ana Nikiforova would never throw away a photo with her babies, but simply perished at the thought of showcasing it in the family gallery wall (leading only too many guests to curiously question the empty slot for 2006, which Ana tended to dismiss with a nervous laugh and a (rather unintentional) shot of champagne). That was the boat-themed year. And after the photo session, everyone agreed Viktor’s pale head of hair should never be photographed right under the noon sun for fear of blinding spectators. Not that his hair had been the only one to blame.

Really, no one knew how a sailing session in the family yacht had ended in such tragedy.

But Viktor had been 14-years-old then, and the owner of a rather frightening and sudden growth spurt. Taking fashion risks had been more than a necessity with how few clothes had still fit him that summer. Apparently, a pristine, Navy-white inspired ensemble had been catastrophic.)

“You really think I can’t pull off that much white now? – I’m not as pale as I was then. I tan now.”

“You’d blind him out there,” Mila collected her books, hugging them close to her chest. She pushed a strand of hair to curl around her ear. “There’s a reason Mama always bought you blacks, greys, and blues. You’re a winter, Vitya. As in, you might as well be snow under the sun with the way light reflects off you.”

“Okay, scratch the boat idea. Yuri, we have to film it again,” Viktor dropped dramatically over the chaise again, this time resting a dead arm over his eyes – Raybans completely forgotten by the bottle of vodka. (And even Mila had to admit the dry flower petals were working for him, adding a certain quality to an already heartbreaking scene. She was almost sure #RIPFlowerCrown would trend next.) “Yuri?”

“Sorry, I’m just trying to think about how much bleach I’m going to need to get over you singing the words fill another cup up, feelin’ on yo butt, what. This is too sick to capture on video again, even for me. And I hate you.”

Viktor blinked, sitting up to arch a fine eyebrow at his little brother, “I didn’t sing that verse. But I love it!”

“I know, but I throw up a little in my mouth whenever I hear get inside now,” Yuri gagged almost immediately after spitting out the words, and Mila believed him (and had to give him an A for effort). “Maybe some variety would be nice. I hate myself for suggesting it.”

“Yes, right,” Viktor waved him off, pining on the chaise again.

(And even Mila had to admit that her brother had a lovely profile.)

Mila shook her head, deciding it was a good moment to exit the room. “You two are terrible people. Poor Yuuri.”

XIV.

#RIPFlowerCrown was trending, and Phichit was starting to get (almost as) desperate (as the Nikiforov clan).

“Can you please send him a Facebook message? Tweet? A smoke signal? – Something, anything!” he dropped to his knees, throwing his arms around Yuuri’s legs to anchor him in place. “Yuuri, baby, please have some compassion! He’s drunkenly singing old Jamie Foxx songs!”

(And killing it. But Phichit was sure that didn’t need to get mentioned.

Yuuri was only human, and Phichit knew better than to poke fun at his friend for his ‘secret’ stash of Viktor magazine cut-outs. It wasn’t Phichit’s fault the hamsters had escaped the cage and gone rummaging for a new nest under Yuuri’s bed. Phichit’s hamsters had good taste; it was only natural they’d choose to cuddle up with shreds of Viktor’s chiseled nose and high-cheekbones. It made it easier to find them thereafter.)

Phichit practically had this conversation with Yuuri daily, usually with Isabella on the phone complaining that the Nikiforovs were blowing up her phone again (and could Yuuri at least call Viktor to tell him he wasn’t interested?). But sometimes talking to Yuuri Katsuki was like talking to a wall, and not because his thighs and butt were hard and thick as brick.

(As best friend, Phichit was allowed to notice and make such comments, much like he was allowed to tell Yuuri to stop wearing jeggings because, really, regular jeans got the message across just fine. Anything tighter was just cruel and greedy. Except for tights. Tights were acceptable because Yuuri was a dancer.

There were rules. As a fellow dancer, Phichit knew first-hand.)

Yuuri tried to shake one of his legs to brush Phichit off. Unsuccessful, he punched a few more shirts into his bag, getting ready for a work trip (to work with an undisclosed superstar, which Phichit already knew was Leo de la Iglesia, thanks to his daily calls with Isabella): “No. He’s ridiculous.”

“That’s a little harsh,” Phichit worried at his bottom lip. “He’s in love.”

“He doesn’t even know me!”

“Technically the whole world sort of knows you now? – You’re a meme! Or memes!”

Yuuri rolled his eyes, zipping up his bag.

“Not helping, Phichit. That’s his fault, too. Do you know how embarrassing it is to have my mother ask why there’s a photoshopped picture of me dressed like Carmen Sandiego? Apparently, that’s not a joke that translates well into Japanese without background information so now my parents know I got drunk at a party and almost gave a stranger a lap dance and that now I’m in hiding.”

“To be fair, you gave Isabella, your friend, a lap dance, but you technically dry humped Viktor. So, really, you dry humped a stranger and gave him an erection that has its own hashtag!”

Yuuri frowned, “again, not helping.”

(Phichit snorted, trying to feign innocence. He hadn’t been able to help himself, though.

That Where in the World is Yuuri? meme had earned him a good handful of hundreds of Tumblr followers.)

Phichit squeezed tighter, “Yuuri, please? – Think of Vicchan the poodle, that adorable tiny dog now on his way from Japan to Detroit and in need of a father figure that can buy him a doggie treats company!”

“You’re asking me to date Viktor because of my dog? How exactly does that make any sense?” Yuuri groaned, dragging Phichit towards the living room as he tried to hop his way out. “Let go already.”

“You didn’t see Viktor’s video from four days ago? You remember, it was the one Chris G. sent me after he found my Instagram and Facebook. Viktor was introducing you to Makkachin, only the second cutest poodle in the world. Apparently, that dog has his own dog food brand. Seems that entire family has some kind of side hustle,” Phichit tapped his chin, releasing his friend. He stumbled to stand and follow Yuuri into the living room. (Vicchan the poodle only had home court advantage in cuteness, but Phichit was a pretty good judge of cute and tiny dogs were cuter by default.) “He’s puppy daddy material, Yuuri! Don’t you want someone that will walk your dog in the winter?”

Yuuri laughed, “seriously? Is that even a thing?”

“It was trending four days ago, so I’m gonna say yes,” Phichit sat down on the sofa, “Did you e-mail me the care instructions like you said you would? – I can’t find ‘em.”

“Oh, right,” Yuuri sighed, pulling out his cellphone. “Thanks again for picking him up and taking care of him these first few days. I wouldn’t have even taken this job with Vicchan’s move, but Leo called (Ha! Phichit knew it!) and this whole thing with Viktor is really cutting into my income and I really need money now that there’s going to be pet fees added to my portion of the rent. I’m really hoping he’ll call it quits sometime soon, or else I’m going to have a really hard time applying for jobs.”

“Don’t even worry about it. He’ll have a blast. I have doggie playdates set-up with all the dogs in the building and one dog-friendly cat. And, I’ll facetime you as soon as he gets in so he has a familiar face waiting at his new home,” Phichit smiled. It would be good for Yuuri to finally be reunited with his dog after so many years. “Don’t stress! Just think, Minako will take him and the hamsters after about couple of weeks, and then I’ll meet you in New York for the best work vacation ever!”

“You’re right. It’s only three weeks. Vicchan will be fine,” Yuuri took off his glasses to clean them with the hem of his shirt. “I should be more worried about me, really. It’s only a matter of time before you jump on the meme bandwagon, and then who can I trust?”

Phichit hid his phone, feeling more than a little guilty.

XV.

“I think we should give up,” Yuri Nikiforov plopped down on an armchair, legs splayed out in front of him as he scrolled through the #Help4Vitya tag. It was now filled with memes of the pig hugging all sorts of random items, including a sandwich and a very intimidating shoulder massager. “We’re no closer to finding the fatso than we were when we started and Isabella has no interest in telling us anything.”

“Stop calling him fat!” Viktor rolled on his side, still holding tight to his phone as he rested his head on Chris’ lap and sobbed into his poodle’s fur. Makkachin didn’t even bat an eyelash or shake his tail in surprise. This was certainly the new normal. “He’s not fat. H—he’s curvy. And beautiful!”

“You’re in denial,” Yuri rolled his eyes, deciding to flip back to his WhatsApp conversation with Otabek.

“Whatever you say can’t hurt me because,” Viktor thrust his phone in the air, the loud guitar riffs of Kelly Clarkson’s Stronger (You tried to break me, but you see, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger) making Makkachin bark in duet. Chris nodded approvingly, patting Viktor’s head to get him to lay back down (and provide, in his infinite wisdom, some harsh truth, “Yes, yes, Viktor, now why don’t you take the song’s advice and try moving on?”)

 Yuri smiled triumphantly.

“Oh Vitya,” Ana Nikiforova crooned as she glided into the parlor, making a beeline for the sofa. She waved Chris (and Makkachin) away, taking her son’s head to lay it on her lap. The dog returned almost instantly to crawl into an empty corner by Viktor’s feet. She ran long fingers through her son’s platinum hair, watching the strands disappear between her knuckles. “Are you still sad about not finding your Yuuri?”

Chris sighed, “sad is an understatement. He’s desperate, Ana. We really are nowhere near close to finding Yuuri. You’d think 100,000 American dollars would inspire a little more creativity than funny Internet pictures. Maybe it is time to give up.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Ana hummed gently, “it’s like I always say, if 100,000 won’t do it…?”

Viktor remained listless and non-responsive, sighing forlorn as he stared at the screen of his phone (until he jumped at the pinch his mother gave him.)

“You double it?” Viktor tried, arching a curious eyebrow as he looked up at his mother.

“… yes, you double it!” Ana finished with a happy chirp, heart-shaped smile looking more than a little dangerous when added to the shiny glint in her eye. (Yuri looked up, thoroughly confused.) And Chris, for once, wasn’t surprised (though he wasn’t exactly sure how throwing more money at the Internet would help them any more than it had to date).

“You double it? What kind of stupid idea is that?” Yuri exploded, almost dropping his phone.

“You’re right,” Ana nodded sagely, steepling her fingers to press the tips against her bright, red lips (with a fresh layer of Chanel, of course). “We should triple it!”

“No. That’d be tacky and scream desperate, which I am, but I don’t want him to know that,” Viktor worried at his bottom lip. “Oh! A quarter million. Now, quarters are classy. Saying a quarter of a million dollars has a certain flow that three-hundred thousand dollars just doesn’t have.”

“That’s the spirit!” Ana beamed, happy to see her son in brighter spirits. She brushed Viktor’s hair back, frowning, “has your forehead always been this big, honey? – Maybe we should take you to see our stylist. I’m sure André could do something about a receding hairline.”

Viktor’s arms wrapped around his head: “Mama!”

She hugged him tightly, “oh, honey, don’t worry. You’re still the most handsome boy in the world. (“Hey!” Yuri griped.) And so is our baby Yura. And we’re going to find your Yuuri, especially now that you’ve decided to let your Mama help.”

Viktor frowned, “what, I’m not, Mama, no. Mama, just no.”

“But Mila said,” his mother pouted, and Viktor turned to find his sister trying to hide behind some heavy curtains.

“Mila! I can do it on my, Mama,” he sighed, sitting to take his mother’s hands and bring them close to his chest, “It’s not that you’re not wonderful, but we’ve got it handled. Really. Promise.”

Mila whined, peeking out from her hiding spot, “Mama, just show him the video.”

Ana looked the epitome of hurt: “But he says he doesn’t need me to help, kisa. I wouldn’t want to impose. I’ll just have to stand by and watch my Vitya hurt.”

(And Chris had to acknowledge, then, that Viktor was his mother’s son. At forty-something with three kids, Ana was a fox (and extra as hell) – tall and statuesque with legs for days, bright red, heart-shaped lips, and long, side-swept blonde hair kept either in a ponytail or comfortable, but stylish braid, the type she’d imposed on Viktor until he was eighteen.

She was also an impressive force of nature, almost a tornado in her ability to uproot any obstacle in her way.

There were plenty of pictures celebrating Ana as matriarch, having been responsible for carefully curating the spectacular careers of her three (still young) children after a successful run as a media mogul herself. She had a model in Viktor, a designer in Mila, and an athlete in Yuri, the baby of the family. Even Makkachin had been incorporated into a family business with dog food and training manuals: The Happy Poodle Regimen. If anybody could find Yuuri, it would be Ana (former investigative journalist turned Russia’s Oprah).

Chris had a feeling she hadn’t disappointed this time, either.

Though he also understood his friend’s apprehension.

Ana wouldn’t just find Yuuri. She would probably crush him with love. If the poor boy was already terrified of Viktor, he’d barely survive Ana, who was just as smitten with the idea of a son-in-law as Viktor was of a potential-husband and puppy-father.)

“If you have something on the pig, by god, show it to him and put us all out of our misery!” Yuri yelled, until one of the family cats dropped on his lap (courtesy of Chris, who knew just how to shut him up).

“Well,” Ana pouted, but then smiled, “if you all insist.”

She pulled out her phone, practically shaking with excitement as she rummaged through her e-mail. Mila was sure her mother was taking her time to make her brother suffer, but she had seen the video, and almost instantly dragged her mother to the room, lying that Vitya would, of course, take her help. Anything to bring their wild goose chase to a close.

“He’s a dancer, Vitya! As in, he’s a professional! He was in this cute little music video,” she hit play. “Oh, he’s going to be such a lovely addition to the family. Unfortunately, none of you came out musical, but I can already see the potential endorsements. Do you think he’d consider filming some hip-hop work-out videos? – I’d love to take lessons from him!”

(“Hey, I play the electric violin!” Mila reminded her.

“I can dance! I’m just too dignified to dance in front of you peasants,” Yuri scoffed, scratching behind his cat’s ears.)

Chris almost choked on his own spit.

Cute was not the term he would’ve used.

Of course, how had they been such idiots? – Yuuri Katsuki. As in (super private, down-to-earth, ballet/hip-hop/pole-dancing) choreographer Yuuri Katsuki (Detroit’s Finest Inc.). As in principal dancer in Leo de la Iglesia’s summer tour two years ago, and his (and, if rumored was to be believed, also Britney Spears’) “work-out secret” (and, wow, Britney did look great in Vegas now). Chris studied Viktor’s face, watching him completely light up as he took the phone and started walking the expanse of the room with it, cooing as Makkachin followed behind him, “Oh, he’s so beautiful and flexible and wow, I didn’t know it was possible to do the splits upside down...  Amazing, Makka, look at our Yuuri! There’s so many videos!”

Yuuri Katsuki: Best Pole Moves

(Taking out his own cellphone, Chris read through the comments. They were all such idiots.

Of course, no one had come forward to give information on Yuuri Katsuki. He was incredibly private, and no one would’ve thought to send publicly available YouTube videos and information. Everyone had given them more credit than they deserved and thought, of course, that they would’ve recognized Katsuki Yuuri, owner of a set of hips that could move like pistons (probably a trademark description). Suddenly, the memes made a lot more sense. On stage with Rihanna, indeed. No wonder she had retweeted it.)

“Yes, please, or else how are we going to book tickets to Detroit?” Ana asked innocently.

“Detroit?” Viktor arched an eyebrow. Makkachin barked.

“That’s what it said on the address posted on the YouTube channel. They’re all from this one dance studio. I imagine he must be an instructor, but I doubt they’re going to give us his information on the phone,” she replied, checking the lacquer of her nails. “Honestly, Vitya, I’m a little disappointed you didn’t find this beautiful boy with how exposed he is.”

(Literally. The video playing now had Yuuri stripping off his shirt.)

“Actually, we might have more luck going to New York,” Chris was already sending a fast text to an old friend. “Now that I recognize him, I know, actually, I dated his old boss’ manager. Leo de la Iglesia, you remember, Viktor? We partied with him at the Grammy’s? He’s a friend of Isabella’s. She’s choreographed a lot of stuff for him, and Yuuri Katsuki has danced a lot with him. His birthday party is this coming weekend. He’s finally turning 21, but he’s also working on a new project. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s enlisted their help and… Isabella’s Facebook says she’s definitely in New York! She just had brunch with J.J., so they’re obviously home.”

“Hey, Beka’s DJing that party! I’m so going!” Yuri pumped an arm in the air.

“We have to go to New York, then!” Viktor beamed, “Chris, you’re amazing!”

“That’s brilliant! Then you will all go to New York!” Ana clapped. “I’ll go take care of logistics. Mila, Yuri, start packing. Chris, call your friends and see if you can track down this Iglesia person, and Vitya…”

Viktor waited patiently for instructions, kneeling to rub noses with his dog.

Ana worried at her bottom lip, “see if you can find a fashionable hat. I’m still worried about how visible your forehead is right now, honey.”

XVI.

“Y—You must have me confused with someone else, s—sorry!” Yuuri stammered his apologies, forgetting his sandwich on the counter as he rushed out of the café (taking only a half-second break to pull the hood over his head again). He tried to keep a steady pace, keeping his head down to avoid bringing attention to himself (which included trying not to flinch whenever a teenager took a break from a screen to check whether to turn or cross).

(Yuuri had assumed New York would be a haven filled with enough people too busy shuffling in between flitting thoughts and endless blocks to ignore their shoulder-rubbing neighbors. But Yuuri had failed to remember that, even if everyone in New York City was too busy looking down (or straight ahead) to notice his face, they were also all studying their phones and (almost by default) the handful of memes that had cropped up about Yuuri all over social media.)

He’d been careless. But he’d been hungry and rushing to get to Isabella’s studio.

Meanwhile, #Help4Vitya was trending again (as was #Searching4Yuuri) and prompting Yuuri to question whether he was the one who needed help (from the police). He pushed the door to the studio open, relieved to find Phichit and Isabella already there with coffee and rainbow bagels – one of the New York culinary delights Isabella was determined to introduce to their palates. The two were obviously conspiring. Yuuri was (instantly) on alert (and not just because the bagels were infringing on his diet).

“Hey guys, sorry I’m late. I was facetiming with Minako and Vicchan at a coffee shop and then someone recognized me,” he dropped his duffel bag on the ground, marginally confused when his friends said nothing and openly stared as he went over to the barre to stretch. Slowly, Yuuri slipped off the facemask he’d been toting and stripped off the hooded sweatshirt he’d been wearing to reveal a thin white, cotton t-shirt. “Is there a reason you’re both giving me the silent treatment?”

“Have you seen the new reward offer?” Isabella asked, voice as crisp as her newly applied layer of red lipstick. She shrugged off a jean jacket before beginning to roll her shoulders back. “It’s gone up significantly.”

Phichit followed Isabella’s lead, setting down the box of glittery bagels to slip off his sweatshirt and start stretching on the ground.

“Oh?” Yuuri tried to remain nonchalant, stretching a muscled leg over the length of the barre.

“Quarter of a million dollars,” Isabella hummed, reaching for her phone to start blasting Beyonce’s 7/11 (Girl I’m tryna kick it with you). “Mila says it was her mom’s idea, actually. She found your videos, and now Viktor pretty much has a carte blanche so long as he brings back a son-in-law.” She chuckled, reaching for her coffee. “Oh and there’s a new meme out – now they’re photoshopping Viktor out and having you hug things. Mostly phallic shaped objects.”

“Like a baguette,” Phichit chirped (and Yuuri arched an eyebrow, staring at his friends with obvious confusion from the reflection of the mirror). “Yeah, we don’t get it either.”

“This is getting out of hand,” Yuuri sighed, switching legs. “I’m starting to generate more memes than that website with the cats. That liked burgers. Or something.”

“It’s been out of hand and now he actually knows who you are,” Phichit snorted (and decided it was for the best not to correct Yuuri on his pop culture illiteracy about the website with the cats while he was down and probably hungry), pulling himself by his elbows over to the box of bagels. He studied each carefully before picking one (and completely ignoring his mouth was now a glitter bomb) as he said, “You should call him.”

“I don’t have his number,” Yuuri shrugged, trying to keep his head down.

(It wasn’t like Yuuri hadn’t thought about it. But he wasn’t exactly sure what would happen if he did. Chances were that the chase would be more exciting than the conquest to Viktor, and then Yuuri would be left holding himself together and trying to surmise the damage to his reputation and maybe a little bit to his heart.

Yuuri wasn’t actually living under a rock. He’d watched each of Viktor’s videos, some multiple times, especially the ones where Viktor stopped putting on a show for a hashtag and began talking to the camera like he was trying to search inside Yuuri’s soul. But love through a screen did not translate to love in reality. Yuuri knew this only too well from his failed experience with online dating.)

Isabella beamed, “do you want it? – I’ve had Vitya’s number on speed dial ever since we were pre-teens and got our first phones!”

“Uh, no, that’s okay,” Yuuri backtracked, face flushing bright pink. “I don’t think this could escalate any more than it already has, right? – He’ll get bored soon enough.”

Phichit hummed. “I don’t know. We’re going on Day 91 of #Searching4Yuuri. What do you think Isabella?”

“Well,” she tapped her chin.

(Isabella could remember the last time Viktor Nikiforov had been this infatuated with someone.

They had been children still, or Isabella had been a child, whereas Viktor had slowly started morphing into a gorgeous teen, wading into a pool of emotions and hormones that had led him to the shores of a charming thirteen-year-old obsessed with soccer. He’d been the son of banker, there for the entire summer, much like them. Viktor had made it his personal mission to smother him with affection, practically suffocating him with heart-shaped smiles and hair flips. Viktor had been tireless, not even giving up after the summer was over.

Once he’d recruited Mama Ana Nikiforova, booking that trip to Chicago to cheer for his love at a Middle School cross-county game had been easy. The poor boy asking his parents to send him to boarding school to put some distance between him and Viktor had been heartbreaking, but everyone knew Viktor would never have won that battle with Ana.

She liked her babies close.)

“Sorry, Yuuri, but if Mama Ana has been recruited to help, it’s only a matter of time until he finds you. Viktor is stubborn and obsessive, which is usually harmless on its own. Sure, his siblings are super overprotective, too. But if he’s got his mom in on it, too, there’ll be no expense too large to find you.”

Phichit nodded, “Yeah, the Nikiforovs have more money than God!”

Yuuri squeaked, “Then why would they want me for their son?”

Isabella shrugged, “Viktor’s their first-born. He’s the most spoiled of them all. You’re what he wants; I don’t think Ana and Gustav know how to say no to Viktor about anything. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s private investigators on you now. Which is probably why he’s in New York right now with his entire posse.”

“H—he’s in New York?” Yuuri blanched. “What, but, why?” – It wasn’t like Yuuri had reason to panic, in spite of Isabella’s warning. New York City was still a large city and Viktor made rounds in social circles far too ritzy for Yuuri.

“Mila said they’re going to attend Leo de la Iglesia’s party this weekend. They just touched down an hour ago. Viktor has already asked J.J. to have dinner,” she frowned. “I swear, if he wasn’t so pretty, I’d punch Viktor in the face for trying to use my husband to get to me to get to you. But don’t worry: He won’t get peep out of me. Or Phichit. He’s going, too.”

“Phichit,” Yuuri growled, warningly.

“I just want a selfie with Viktor. I need more Instagram followers. I made sure to delete any information that could lead to you!”

“You don’t think he’s going to pressure you into saying too much?” Yuuri sighed. “I guess it’s a good thing I’m leaving back for Detroit tomorrow. Alright, let’s get to work. Leo should be here any minute now to go over the final changes…”

XVII.

Isabella had to admit Viktor Nikiforov knew how to wine and dine people.

“I told him you guys have his information, and probably could now track him in Detroit,” Isabella said, primly cutting into her steak. She chewed thoughtfully, checking her phone periodically to read over J.J.’s messages. J.J. had had an emergency at work, something with the Fall line samples, and needed to skip dinner, leaving her and Phichit to deal with Viktor alone.

(And she was slowly confirming that Viktor was more dangerous than the wine, with how he seemed to have a special talent for loosening people’s tongues.)

“And he still didn’t want to contact me?” Viktor spoke in staccato-like pauses, rolling the wine in his glass. He was dressed in his dark blue Ermenegildo Zegna, a favorite for dining at Del Frisco’s Double Eagle Steakhouse. He looked out pensively, past the metal banister to the number of tables littering the first floor.

“Don’t take it personally,” Phichit reached for his own glass, taking a long sip. “Yuuri’s shy and naturally very anxious. This is all a lot. You’re, uh, a lot.”

“Hm. Sounds like it is very personal, then,” Viktor gave them his signature smile, taking a small sip of his drink. Phichit noted Viktor hadn’t even touched his food. “But he’s still here? In New York? – Maybe if we just saw each other in person, we could talk and he would see I’m not, I’m not like those videos all the time.”

“I said I wouldn’t talk about it beyond that, Vitya,” Isabella cut him off curtly. “Yuuri trusted us to have dinner with you. He trusts us. I don’t want to betray his trust.”

“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to betray his trust.”

“Yes, you would, don’t lie to yourself,” Isabella set her cutlery down. “Look, I feel for you, Vitya. I do. But I think it’s time you considered letting him go. Things have gone really, really far. Yuuri’s a nice guy. He’s sweet, quiet, reserved, hard-working. He’s not some drunk fantasy you get to keep parading around social media because you’re infatuated. I’m worried you’re going to inadvertently hurt him.”

Phichit stayed quiet, listening to the conversation.

Viktor looked down at his plate: “I don’t want to hurt him. I didn’t mean to, if I did, but I also didn’t mean to fall in love with him that night. And I get it if he doesn’t feel the same, but I just need to see him one last time. Even if it’s just to say I’m sorry.”

Phichit slammed the table with an open palm: “That’s it! Come on! Can we get the bill over here?”

Isabella balked, “what are you doing?”

“I’m looking out for Yuuri. He can’t keep living like this and you can’t keep living your life like this. Something’s gotta give and, apparently, the only rational person left is me, so even though he’ll probably be pissed at me for weeks, I’m going to take you to Yuuri Katsuki, but you have to promise me, promise, that you’ll back off for good if he tells you to!”

Viktor scrambled to stand, already pulling out his wallet to flash his black American Express, “Oh Phichit, you’re an angel! You bet! And if he doesn’t, I promise you can be godfather to our first-born! Check, please!”

“I don’t know that Chris will let you make Phichit godfather without a fight.” Isabella rolled her eyes: “Forget it. Just go. I’m not going to be a part of this madness. Not to mention this is the best steak in New York City. I’ll pay the bill. Phichit, I expect live updates.”

(Live updates was exactly what she got.

Phichit felt like the hero in a movie, rushing through New York City traffic in a sleek dark, Italian sports car courtesy of Viktor Nikiforov, who might not have had a license to drive in the United States.

He kept close tabs on the GPS, trying to direct Viktor to the Courtyard Marriot on 3rd street. While Isabella had offered her home to them, Phichit and Yuuri hadn’t wanted to impose (especially knowing J.J.’s special brand of one-sided bromance with Viktor). By the time they had reached the Marriott, Viktor had practically skidded the car into two parking spots. He slammed the door closed behind him, rushing after Phichit who was halfway through ripping his wallet out to search for his keycard.

“I left him in our room sometime around 5 p.m. so he could nap. I really doubt he’s still sleeping, but sometimes dance practice really takes it out of him, so just let me check on him first,” he whispered, opening the door and sneaking inside through a small gap. Viktor nodded, not bothering to argue as he took a step back and rubbed the sole of his expensive Brunello Cucinelli lace-ups against the hotel’s faded maroon carpet.

It only took Phichit a second to notice that Yuuri’s bags were gone and that there was a note on Phichit’s pillow:

Decided to take a flight out to Detroit tonight. I’ll see you at home. -Yuuri)

XVIII.

The Detroit Metropolitan Airport only has one picture of Viktor Nikiforov.

It’s an advertisement for Movado showing Viktor pushing up the sleeve of his suit jacket and crisp work shirt to show a couple of watches wrapped around his wrist. Showing off a sliver of skin shouldn’t be so deliciously decadent, but Viktor makes it work with his fingers splayed over creamy alabaster skin. In the fluorescent light spotlighting behind the screen of the advertisement, his platinum head of hair looks almost like halo, reminding Yuuri that, to the world, Viktor is almost ethereal and otherworldly and almost untouchable.

As he picks up his bag from the conveyer belt, Yuuri reminds himself of the fact that he has touched without guilt (and still remembers the feeling of silk fabric and strong muscle in between dream-like flashes of consciousness). He has been close enough to taste Viktor’s breath and confirm he was flesh.  

The last couple of months have also shown the world that Viktor is a person. A nice person, who answers people on Twitter and thanks people on Instagram for making memes out of his personal struggle.

But as he walks towards the exit of the airport, the Movado advertisement haunts him. This is the image of Viktor that has been shadowing over Yuuri for weeks now, too.

It’s an image (of model and trust-fund baby Viktor Nikiforov) that feels so far removed from the videos that make him laugh, hand pressed over his mouth to muffle the sound and keep from waking Phichit; the videos showing Viktor singing off-tune and having fun with his siblings and friends (even as he puts on an affronted face and pout to depict forlorn love and want). There’s a veiled element of performance in Viktor’s every movement. Yuuri has tried to feign annoyance, held steadfast to the weight on his brow like a crux, only for it to be in vain, because just as there are the videos that spark the memes that annoy Yuuri, there are the videos that have Viktor stripping himself layer by layer for Yuuri (with the rest of the world acting as voyeurs to his one-sided conversation):

When I was six, I fell and got this nasty scar, see? This is my dog, Makkachin, isn’t he the cutest? I hope you’re not allergic to dogs and that you like poodles. I went ice skating yesterday. There were a lot of couples around. I wished you were there with me so I could hold your hand, but then it hit me that I don’t even know if you know how to ice skate or not. So, if you don’t, wait for me, okay? I want to teach you. When I was little, I really thought I could be a professional figure skater…

It comes like an onslaught of emotions. And Yuuri thinks back to the night of Isabella’s wedding, how Viktor let himself be stripped of decorum and dignity that night, too; how he let Yuuri sandwich him with Phichit because he’d been too shy to dance with Viktor alone; and how when Yuuri had looked into his eyes – the only vague memory he has of seeing blue – Viktor had given Yuuri full permission to come inside and peek around his consciousness, and what he’d found was hazy, sleepy, drunk, honest, all-consuming affection.

Affection for a stranger. A stranger who had drunkenly staggered into a hotel room with his expensive suit jacket and, thereafter, never bothered to return it, much less tell anyone who had the power to do it.

Yuuri hated to admit to himself that he was probably just as bad as Viktor, only less honest in his infatuation.

Viktor was willing to make a fool of himself for love.

Yuuri, apparently, hid his affections in his closet (and under his bed), only pulling out Viktor’s jacket for comfort (and for the smell of expensive cologne) on times when the videos left him feeling particularly alone and emotionally aroused.

When his phone rang, he decided it was best to pick up.

“Phichit,” Yuuri sighed, resting the phone against his shoulder as he hefted the strap of his bag higher up his other shoulder. He rolled his bag behind him, walking out of the airport to flag a cab. “I’m fine. I’m safe. The airline called and said they were looking for someone to go on an earlier flight to free up overbooked seats and offered a really nice compensation package, so I took it. Look, I’m so—you, you tried to bring him right to me? Phichit, you promised. Uh-huh. I know you thought you meant well, but—”

He squinted behind his glasses, vaguely making out in the distance that there was a blond woman holding up a sign with his name. She made eye contact with him and beamed, practically jumping to get his attention and waving towards her sign.

“Uh, Phichit, I need to go. I’ll call you in a bit.”

No one, not even Minako, knew he’d come back early. But the area was well-lit and there were plenty of people around waiting for their rides, so Yuuri approached slowly.

“Yuuri!” the woman dropped the sign to the floor, wrapping her arms around him to bring him into a warm hug. “Oh, just look at you! You’re even more handsome in person. No wonder Vitya is so smitten.”

“I’m sorry, but,” Yuuri took a step back. “Do we know each other?”

“Not yet, but we will soon. I’m Ana Nikiforova. Viktor’s mother. I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of setting up an earlier flight for you and that I got us a car to get you home. But we can also stop to get some food, if you’re hungry. I know those short one-hour flights can be the worst during meal times,” she was already halfway through linking their arms together. She steered him gently towards a limo in the distance. “I love my Vitya, but he can be terribly overwhelming! – Oh, dear, are you okay? You’re looking a little pale…”

Yuuri planted his feet firmly on the ground: “I’m sorry, Mrs. Nikiforov, but I’m confused as to why you’re here. In Detroit.”

“That’s a very good question,” she paused, familiar blue eyes studying him. She looked so much like Viktor, or, really, Viktor looked so much like her. It was probably why he was so beautiful. “Yuuri! I’d like to offer you a quarter of a million dollars to move to St. Petersburg and let Vitya properly court you into becoming part of our family!”

XIX.

Otabek Altin was confused when Leo de la Iglesia (Grammy winner for Album of the Year, and his boss for the evening,) approached him by the DJ tower. Since Otabek was only eighteen, he needed an escort to move from his spot. He had scheduled breaks to monitor he wouldn't participate in any under-aged drinking. This was not one of his breaks.

Leo had hired Otabek for his birthday party, which he was hosting in a ritzy New York scene club with a dangerously sharp guest list, including Viktor Nikiforov, accompanied (only naturally) by his (half-dressed) best friend Christophe Giacometti and his (flirty younger) sister Mila. The three were sipping on cocktails in their own private VIP lounge, overlooking the rest of the party attendees.

Yuri, who was still too young to be reasonably allowed into an American club, texted Otabek periodically from his hideout in the Ritz Carlton (Beka, look at the cats!) to check on his dear brother (Did you see the cats? I’m so fucking bored! If Viktor was being an idiot, you’d tell me, right?) and poke gentle fun at his sister’s selfies (She’s making the duck lips again. Mom says she’s gonna get wrinkles early on all around her mouth. Ha!). 

Apparently, at some point, the Crispino twins had joined Viktor and company, only for Viktor’s bodyguards to prevent Leo from entering with them.

(While Viktor’s entire posse and the whole Internet knew of his obsession with #Searching4Yuuri, it seemed his bodyguards had missed the memo (along with any concept of pop culture, because, again, Leo de la Iglesia was more a household name than Viktor Nikiforov, and yet, somehow, he was being denied entry into the VIP lounge at his own party) about their boss’ priorities in life, and the invitation he’d received to the party.)

So Otabek took an early break, leaving the back-up DJ to keep spinning while he escorted Leo to the second-floor. His phone kept buzzing in his pocket as he gave Viktor’s bodyguards a nod. Instantly, the two men stepped aside, parting to give Otabek entry, but paused as Leo attempted to follow. Otabek rolled his eyes: “He’s with me. He’s here to see Viktor.”

“Yeah, him and the rest of the world, he can get in line.”

“But this is his party,” Otabek whispered, slow and deep. He wrapped a hand around Leo’s arm, pulling him inside. “Besides, he’s the first person that might actually have good news about Yuuri.”

The bodyguards gave him a blank look, so Otabek spoke louder: “As in, Yuuri, Viktor’s Yuuri. Yuuri Katsuki?”

“Yuuri Katsuki?” Chris stood behind the guards, a fresh drink in his hand as he stared them down. “We don’t mention that name around Viktor anymore. Since, two days ago, or maybe yesterday. I’m a little buzzed. I can’t remember.”

Leo blanched, “But I have a letter from Yuuri. I promised to deliver it two days ago, but then I got really caught up with the party and other things. I’ve been texting Viktor non-stop to tell me his room number and he never replied, so I figured I’d give it to him now, but you’re saying he doesn’t want to hear anything about Yuuri Katsuki anymore?”

“Sacre bleu,” Chris groaned, grabbing Otabek and Leo by the arms to pull them inside. “They’re with me. I swear, that letter better have gold-leafing or something magical. He’s been depressed for days. He tried going to Yuuri’s room in New York. Imagine Viktor Nikiforov setting foot in a Courtyard Marriott for love. Only to find Cinderella has run off again back to Detroit!”

“Yuuri’s shy,” Leo replied, following behind Chris as they climbed a short set of stairs to the private lounge. “And your friend is a lot to handle.”

“Yes, well,” Chris sighed, “at least he’s honest about his emotions. Your friend seems to have some serious issues. Who doesn’t just pick up the phone and say, ‘hey, I’m not interested?’ People deserve closure. What they shared that night was incredibly intimate and romantic.”

Leo flushed pink, “I thought Yuuri said he got almost blackout drunk and started using Viktor like a pole.”

“Like I said, very romantic,” Chris nodded, “Everyone, look who I found!”

Sara Crispino squealed, jumping up and down on her chair, “Oh my gosh, Leo de la Iglesia! Happy birthday! I love all your music! And so does Mickey, don’t you, Mickey?” – Mickey only grunted in reply, trying to ignore the fact that his sister was fawning over another singer.

“Happy birthday, Leo. Thanks for coming to my party,” Viktor whispered, looking out towards the distant strobe lights. The pinks and blues reflected off his dark sunglasses. It was obvious he’d commandeered the bottle of Cristal in his hand and was just drinking straight from the bottle while lying like a listless rag doll. No one could deny Viktor knew how to speak with his body, even if he only spoke of sadness.

Otabek frowned, “it’s Leo’s party, not yours.”

“Uh, yeah,” Leo kept an uncomfortable smile on his face, kind as ever. Viktor looked lost.

“It’s not my party?” Viktor asked his sister, who shook her head and brought his head to rest on her shoulder. “Oh. Sorry, Leo, everything’s been a hazy blur since Yuuri... I’m a little bit not myself ever since he rejected me. You might have noticed that #Searching4Yuuri hasn’t had any new content in the last couple of days…”

“Right, Yuuri,” Leo slipped a hand into his pocket. “Look, I’m so sorry. He had to make a trip back to Detroit. We had dinner, since he wasn’t going to be able to make it to my party, and he asked me to deliver something to you, but then I got too busy.”

Viktor sat up, taking off his sunglasses to study the envelope thrust in front of him. He reached for it tentatively. Mila wrapped her arms around his middle, resting her chin on his shoulder as she waited for him to open the letter.

“He wrote to you, Vitya,” Mila spoke in soft, encouraging tones. “He had to leave, but he decided to leave you something. Isn’t that good? Why don’t you open it?”

“W—what if he’s just telling me to leave him alone?” Viktor’s bottom lip wibbled, and Mila exchange a soft look with Chris, who knelt down to squeeze Viktor’s knee.

“Then we burn the letter and get smashed tonight and find you someone else,” Chris smiled, encouragingly. “We’re here for you. Even Mickey.”

Viktor nodded, ripping the letter open only to find some hotel stationary with scribbles:

Hi Viktor,

I’m Yuuri. Yuuri Katsuki. I don’t remember all the details, but I think I might have danced with you at Isabella’s wedding and maybe done a couple of inappropriate things to you, which I was thinking of apologizing for, but I think you sort of liked it (?), so I don’t want to insult you with an apology for a situation you don’t think merits one. I know I’ve been very quiet these last three months, but I have watched every single video you put out there. So, since I now seem to know so much about you, here’s a little about me.

I have an MA in Marketing and I’m a dance instructor at a studio in Detroit, Michigan, where I used to teach a ballet class and a hip hop class. I had to drop those classes once I became a meme, but I’m now an okay pole dancing instructor. Dancing isn’t a very stable career, but it’s paying the bills okay right now. I even have a nice little apartment I’m sharing with Phichit. We co-parent three hamsters.

I suffer from anxiety, have always been really shy, and new people can make me nervous. I don’t have any scars. I’ve always kept mostly to myself and tried to be really safe, I guess, but more likely it’s because I was born in Hasetsu, Japan, where nothing really ever happens. Hasetsu does have a nice ice skating rink, though, so I learned to skate when I was little, and I think it would be nice to hold hands with you, though maybe not on the ice. I’m clumsy. I’m not sure I’ll remember or have room to answer every question you asked me, but I do love dogs, especially poodles. I have a poodle, too. His name is Vicchan, named after some character in an anime I really liked called Victor. Vicchan is nowhere near as big as Makkachin, who is really cute, by the way.

I don’t know if after reading all this, you’ll still be interested in me. Maybe now that you’ve found me, you’ll get bored. But at least I know I am very much interested in you. Maybe if you’re okay with me being a little more jittery and a lot less suave, you can come to Detroit and we can talk (and maybe I can dance with you for real). No videos, though.

(XXX) XXX - XXXX

Yuuri

(Mila simply beamed, giving Chris and the others a thumbs-up: “I’ve got a brother-in-law, you guys! And he loves poodles!”

Otabek simply sighed, pulling out his phone to text Yuri.)

 XX.

“I still can’t believe you turned his mother down,” Minako hefted the grocery bags with a groan as she followed behind Yuuri down the hallway. Isabella was visiting Detroit, having decided to come back with Phichit from New York to spend a little time away from J.J. during his most stressful week at work. It was August. And his fall fashion line was on the rocks. Yuuri had decided they might as well enjoy a nice dinner at home on her first day. Minako, of course, had been invited in thanks for taking care of the resident poodle and hamsters.

“Maybe he can’t either. Or, he really did find me so boring that he decided to give up,” Yuuri sighed, setting his bags on the ground to pull out his keys. He didn’t want to admit that it hurt a little. Yuuri hadn’t heard a word from Viktor since he’d had Leo deliver his letter, and there was nothing on the web now, either. Not even a goodbye video, just comments littering every single one of Viktor’s social media pages asking if he’d finally given up or found Yuuri. Well, Yuuri knew one of those was wrong, leaving only the other option. “Either way, those hashtags are dead now, so I guess I can at least go back to work.”

He pushed the door open, only to stand frozen with his hand on the knob. Minako bounced off his back, “hey, careful, I’ve got the wine bottles—oh my god, it’s like a flower shop exploded in here!”

She wasn’t wrong. Yuuri’s apartment was filled to the brim with flower vases and bouquets.

He nodded, mouth dry as he managed to focus his eyes and finally notice that Viktor Nikiforov was standing in the middle of his living room with his (tiny, adorable) friendly little poodle in his arms licking at his face: “Yuuri!” Viktor laughed, trying to get the dog to calm down, “Your poodle likes me! Not surprising, really. They call me the Poodle Whisperer for a reason.”

(And Yuuri knew only too well about that because The Happy Poodle Regimen was a staple in Yuuri’s bookshelf. It was almost ironic that it would have been written by Viktor and Makkachin Nikiforov.)

Minako set the bags on the ground: “So, I’m going to assume dinner is canceled. I’ll see you at work tomorrow, Yuuri! Bye!”

The door slammed close behind him and then Yuuri heard them. Phichit and Isabella's squealing noises resonated from Phichit's bedroom, and Yuuri glared at the locked door.

"You know I can hear you!" Yuuri shouted, crossing his arms petulantly. 

"Oh, right!" Phichit replied (and didn't even bother to sound sheepish). 

"Don't worry!" Isabella chorused, as the door to the bedroom opened. She dragged Phichit out, holding tight to his hand as they pretended (unsuccessfully) to sneak out through a small trail in between the sofa and the flower pots and vases littered everywhere. Both kept squealing, only taking a break to say, almost simultaneously, "We'll just be leaving now to give you two time alone (to, you know, talk and stuff, stuff, ah!)."

It was like dealing with teenagers, especially Phichit, who wasted no time in taking Vicchan from Viktor’s arms to “take him on a walk.” Right.  

"You're both fired as my friends," Yuuri pouted. 

"Okay," Isabella sing-songed, grinning, "just as long as we're friends again in time for the wedding. But even if we're not, I'm sure Viktor will invite us."

Viktor seemed completely unperturbed, moving at almost lightning speed to gather Yuuri into a desperate hug, pressing him tight against his chest and breathing in the smell of his hair (which should have been creepy, if not for the fact that it was Viktor, and he smelled like the expensive, deliciously masculine cologne that made Yuuri a little punch drunk). 

"Uh, hi, Viktor. Welcome to Detroit? Ah, how many flowers did you order?" Yuuri asked, squinting to make out the shape of daisies in the distance, right by the kitchen sink. 

"I don't know. I just told them to fill up the apartment," he finally pulled away to admire his handy work and (with a scrunched-up nose) announced, "They really didn't do a very good job, though." Viktor stalked over to the small trail left by the (obviously very rational) florists for the purposes of walking around the apartment. "See? There's empty space here! And do I see a single petal? No. Completely unacceptable. I'm sorry, malysh. I'll personally make sure they do it right next time."

"Next time?! – No, no, no, it's all good. Don't trouble yourself!" Yuuri spluttered, managing (but barely so) to dip under Viktor's arms to avoid another crushing hug. He tried to juggle his way towards his bedroom: "I really hope they didn't fill up my room, too."

"Of course not. I explicitly told them to just fill the bed with rose petals," Viktor pouted, rubbing the sole of his shoe against the ground (and Yuuri froze at the potential implication). “I wouldn’t make such an amateur mistake in courting you, lapochka.”

“Courting me?” Yuuri blanched. He’d thought they’d grab coffee, maybe eat a sandwich while walking around Detroit. Yuuri hadn’t said anything about courting. But there it was, that word again. Viktor’s mother had also used it. “Have you talked to your mother recently? I think I had that conversation with her already.”

Viktor waved him off, “Ah yes. I’m so sorry about that. Mama is very protective. I think she thought I was moving to St. Petersburg for good and figured it’d be easier on everyone if we just had you move, too, but my permanent residence is in Paris. Not that I mind moving to Detroit. It’s a nice little city. And the prices are incredibly cheap. It’ll take me a little bit to find something stable, but for now, we’re neighbors!”

“Neighbors?” Yuuri stretched out a shaky hand to anchor himself against the wall. “Viktor, you can’t just move to Detroit! You can't just move into my apartment complex!”

“Why not?” Viktor took a couple of steps forward, crowding Yuuri against the wall to admire the soft blush brushing over Yuuri’s round cheeks. He let his knuckles rest gently against Yuuri's face. “Yuuri, now that I’ve found you, I have no intention of being away from you ever again.”

TBC – Just one more chapter, if you are all still in for the trainwreck...

Chapter Text

XXI. 

There was a hashtag that had made Phichit laugh a lot: #DefendYuurisHonor, as if Yuuri was some innocent virgin in need of protection from Viktor Nikiforov, instead of a shy, pole-dancing champion dance instructor with low alcohol tolerance (and the embarrassing pictures to prove it), a stash of magazine cut-outs, and a crush visible from Venus. 

Yuuri fully understands that hashtag now, though. Viktor Nikiforov is dangerous (to Yuuri’s self-control, at least).

One minute, Yuuri has his back pressed against the wall, eyes flickering from left to right in search of an exit, and the next he’s pulling Viktor Nikiforov by the arms to kneel for a kiss. By the time he returns to his senses, he has pink and white petals slipping into his shirt (because red was just too forward and Viktor, apparently, based on the incoherent half-speech shared in-between kisses, didn’t want Yuuri to think he had expectations, even though it’s obvious he does by the hard appendage poking Yuuri in the stomach).

Yuuri’s entire bed smells of roses. And now Yuuri smells entirely of Viktor. It’d be wonderful, if it wasn’t so sudden.

“Wait, wait, stop,” Yuuri gasps, resting his hands on Viktor’s shoulders to anchor him in place. Maybe he shouldn’t have chosen his bed to do it, because it gives Viktor an opportunity to dig his knees against his blankets, and Yuuri wonders if he’s just helped him grow roots in his bedroom. “Viktor, we can’t. I mean. We have to stop.”

Viktor breathes in deeply, nodding as he runs a hand through his hair to keep himself steady, “right, sure, no problem.” He tries to look away, eyes focused on the worn carpet covering Yuuri’s floor.

(Yuuri is about to ask Viktor if he’s alright, when they both see a copper-haired hamster squirrel towards the door from under Yuuri’s bed with a large piece of magazine paper with a printed image of Viktor Nikiforov’s perfect forehead and icy stare.)

Viktor jumps next to him, looking horrified for a moment as he scrambles to press his back against the headboard. He breathes hard and looks over to Yuuri (who feels horribly embarrassed that he didn’t manage to get Viktor as winded as a hamster): “W—was that a rat eating a picture of my face?”

“No,” Yuuri groans, knowing well that if there was one hamster, there were at least two more to follow. He reaches for one of his pillows, trying to suffocate himself. “Those are Phichit’s hamsters, and they’re not eating your face. They’re trying to nest in it.”

“Under your bed?” Viktor arches a perfect eyebrow before rolling to the edge of the bed. He peeks under the bed, and Yuuri, again, wants to die. “Aww, you’re right. Wow! They’re so cute! Yuuri, you have to see this, they’ve accrued quite a collection under there. They’re, uh, very selective, aren’t they? – How did they even get –”

Yuuri panics. That’s not exactly a question he’s ready to answer. What follows isn't exactly a sacrifice, either. Viktor is beautiful, even more so in person than in print. He pulls Viktor back down by the lapels of his expensive suit, giving him a stare so focused that it feels foreign even to Yuuri: “Hey. Stop talking and kiss me.”

(And that’s the reason why Yuuri ends up making out with Viktor Nikiforov for an hour, give or take a few minutes.

It was easier than having to explain why Yuuri had a rather impressive collection of magazine cut-outs of Viktor’s old photo-shoots hidden under his bed. Of course, Isabella and Phichit don’t let him live it down. Yuuri hates them, a lot, especially when Phichit picks the worst moments to poke Yuuri and whisper, “Hey, hey, Yuuri. Stop talking and kiss me.”

“Phichit, I wasn’t even talking. I’m trying to type an e-mail to my parents.”

“I didn’t mean it literally. I was just, because, you know…”

“Don’t remind me. Do you know how long it took me to clean up all the rose petals from my bedroom?”

Phichit grins, “well, maybe if you hadn’t been moving so much.”)

XXII.

Viktor’s under a lot of pressure to get his first date with Yuuri (perfectly) right. At Christophe’s advice, he chooses a Sunday (not even the very next one), because, apparently, Viktor can be a lot to handle and it’s only natural Yuuri would want distance (even if he’s too polite to ask for it). This leaves Viktor with Phichit acting as the neighborly welcome-wagon for the week, which translates into a lot of hallway coffee and bagel chats, while Phichit keeps pulling out large Hefty-brand bags filled with dead bouquets.

(Every morning Viktor brings three cups of coffee and artisanal bagels with lox only for Yuuri to wave at him with a tight smile and mutter something about running late. Viktor would be disinclined to believe him, except Yuuri is always carrying a set of duffel bags and only returns home late. So, he starts to wake up earlier and earlier. It’s really starting to mess with Viktor’s beauty sleep, which has got to be a real thing because waking up at 7 am is starting to make his hair limp. It’s depressing, just limp hair hanging over Viktor’s forehead, lifeless and somber.)

This morning, Phichit is in a mood.

(But it’s, thankfully, not as bad as the morning Phichit tried to – what Isabella called – instill the fear of Jesus into him by giving him a chilling version of shovel talk.

Isabella had barely kept Viktor from terrifying nightmares of Phichit looming over his bed, waiting with a razor thin comb: “Phichit wouldn’t really cut you,” Isabella had laughed on the phone. If she had tried to be reassuring, it hadn’t worked. “Vitya, it’s just a meme from some old show. You know. Bon Qui Qui? You can have it your way, but don’t get crazy.”

“I’m not! I’m just trying to get Yuuri breakfast!” Viktor shouts, almost on the verge of hysteria, “I’m just trying to get him fed, keep his thighs nice and thick.”

“No,” Isabella sighs, “Viktor, that’s another Bon Qui Qui saying. Just, just go find YouTube. And for goodness’ sake, do not tell him you’re trying to fill him up or keep him thick. Yuuri’s a professional dancer; he lives from having a tip-top shape body: The fluff in his thighs is muscle, not fat. He’s going to run if you tell him you’re trying to fatten him up!” – which Viktor doesn’t really understand, because Yuuri’s beautiful, and, really, Viktor would love him at any shape.)

“Nikiforov,” Phichit yawns in greeting and takes the proffered coffee. Viktor’s still not sure when or why Phichit started calling him by his last name. It has a strangely transactional tone, like they’ve entered a low budget remake of the Godfather (or whatever the Godfather is like, because Viktor’s never bothered to see it). “Three packets of sugar, well-stirred, just how I like it. This is acceptable. Just for that, I’ll put you out of your misery, son: Yuuri left at six today.”

“Six? – You know, you have my number. You could’ve messaged me,” Viktor’s face falls. He could be sleeping in for once, or doing an emergency hair treatment. He reaches to touch a lock from his bangs, pouting.

“But then who would get me coffee?” Phichit arches an eyebrow, flipping through his phone’s Instagram feed.

Yuuri is starting to leave earlier and earlier. It’s keeping Viktor on his toes (and in eternal fear that Phichit will cut him, whatever that means).

(Viktor can’t afford to get cut. He earns a living from having a pretty face).

“Six in the morning,” Viktor whistles to himself, taking a sip of his coffee. “So early? Wow.”

“Don’t sweat it, lover boy. I’m sure he’s just building up anticipation for the big day,” Phichit grins. “What have you planned anyway? – Might as well go big or go home, you know. You’ve really built up expectations!”

Viktor blanches. Expectations. Yuuri has expectations of Viktor – who has never actually courted anyone, ever.  A part of Viktor had expected that once he saw Yuuri again, the power of love would win out and they would simply take the next available flight with two first-class tickets available to St. Petersburg. Those plans have been decidedly put on hold.

“I’ve got planned big plans,” he purses his lips, lying as he leans suavely against the wall separating their apartments, “the biggest, loudest, most-amazing date ever.”

“Good,” Phichit enthuses, taking a long sip from his coffee before grabbing for the bag of bagels. “Because if you break his heart—”

“I know, I know!” Viktor squeaks, “You’ve already told me you’ll cut me!”

Phichit chuckles, “Lucky for you, Nikiforov, I’ve decided I’m a lover, not a fighter. But if you hurt him, I’ll convince Yuuri to enter a long-term platonic marriage with me and you’ll get Instagram updates of us bringing up our hamster and poodle babies in an apartment filled with photos of your face with sharpie mustaches! And for our honeymoon, we’ll go to a pole dancing competition!”

“You wouldn’t!” Viktor gasps, barely catching the half-empty paper bag thrown his way. “Phichit Chulanont, you’re an evil mastermind.”

Phichit nods, taking a hard bite of his bagel: “I know. Hey, can you walk Vicchan when you take out Makkachin?”

Viktor nods with a shrug, already re-entering his apartment. “Sure. I’ll come by in thirty minutes?”

Phichit takes one look at a whining Vicchan, who is dangerously circling and sniffing the sofa, and says, “Do it in fifteen and I’ll give you a copy of Yuuri’s instructor schedule.”

“Give me his typical weekly schedule and I’ll walk him right now.”

“Deal. Pleasure doing business with you, Nikiforov.”

XXIII.

Viktor’s waiting for Yuuri outside Minako’s studio that afternoon, leaning against the door of a new car. Vicchan and Makkachin are both fighting to fit their heads through the back window of a grabber blue Mustang GT. Leave it to Viktor to get a car within a week of landing in Detroit, Yuuri thinks but doesn’t comment on it.

(Yuuri’s caught completely by surprise. Typically, he’s the last to leave the studio, after Minako, of course, but she owns the place and needs to focus on things like financial statements, procurement plans, and personnel schedules. Yuuri just likes the feeling of safety he experiences, tucked quietly in a studio with only his reflection to watch over him. It’s become all the more precious with his space so crowded now back home.

If Isabella isn’t blowing up his phone, she’s sending her free advice through Phichit, who seems to be equally intrigued by the whole Viktor-moving-next-door thing. And, then, of course, there’s Viktor, who, even when he’s not in Yuuri’s space, is still always around – waiting with coffee, waiting with the dogs, walking Vicchan, taking on responsibilities that don’t belong to him, like trying to stock up Yuuri’s fridge or helping Phichit clean his apartment, even when he has a maid clean his own. It’s all horribly endearing in a way that makes it hard for Yuuri to not want him around.)

“Uh, hey, Viktor,” Yuuri smiles, approaching the car to pet Vicchan’s head. His eyes flicker to the bright pink tickets on the windshield and he pretends not to notice when Viktor scrambles to collect them all in a single swoop of his hand. H keeps his eyes trained on the dogs, scratching behind their ears. “You know, you’re not supposed to park here.”

(It’s a lesson Viktor has learned the hard way, but what’s a few tickets (or car rental fees) in the name of love, anyway? He looks down at his watch, pretending that he hasn’t just spent an hour lounging around waiting for Yuuri to walk out.)

“Ah, yeah,” he shrugs, trying to play it nonchalant as he stuffs the tickets into his pocket. “I wasn’t here that long really. I thought I could give you a ride since I was in the neighborhood.”

“With my dog?” Yuuri asks, pointing at a happy Vicchan with his hand. (And Viktor knows now isn’t probably the best moment to explain that he took Yuuri’s dog for a morning walk and then just never returned him home. In his defense, Phichit had also not called him to ask to return Vicchan, who was a veritable ray of tiny sunshine, following Makkachin everywhere like a puppy.) The poodle slobbers over Yuuri's hand. He smiles coyly, crossing his arms. “What exactly were you doing so conveniently in the neighborhood with Makkachin and Vicchan and a new car?”

“Heading to the dog park,” Viktor leans forward, taking Yuuri’s bags. A soft hand presses against Yuuri’s waist, leading him to the passenger’s seat. “They insisted I take you with us. I don’t know about you, but it’s impossible for me to deny a poodle anything. Two of them? – They could take over the world.”

Yuuri laughs, but then eyes the passenger seat with concern, and Viktor wonders if the flowers were too much. He’d stuck to a simple bouquet of yellow and white daisies, but maybe Yuuri really is all flowered-out considering Phichit has been cleaning the apartment all week. Yuuri turns his face so fast that their noses bump together: “Viktor, I haven’t showered yet. I don’t want to mess up your car.”

“Don’t be silly (you’re perfect),” Viktor whispers, breath shuddering at their proximity. It’s amazing that even without a shower, Yuuri retains all the post-workout glow without the acrid smell of sweat. He clears his throat, stretching around Yuuri to grab the bouquet and throw it on the back of the car.

Yuuri chuckles, but decides to finally take a seat, “fine. But we’re going back to the apartment complex. I can’t go to the dog park smelling like this. We can go after I shower.”

Viktor’s relief is palpable. “Sure, anything you want!”

(Once in the safety of the car (which is an absolute misnomer, because Viktor should not be allowed to drive – apparently more legally speaking than not,) Yuuri unsnaps his seatbelt to grab for the bouquet. He lets it rest on his lap. Viktor tries to focus on the road, but it’s hard when Yuuri’s fingers keep smoothing out the petals.

The radio keeps crooning out Ed Sheeran’s Shape of You (Boy, let’s not talk too much, grab on my waist and put that body on me, come on, come on now follow my lead). Viktor feels his throat get scratchy and dry. (I’m in love with the shape of you.) His fingers grip tight to the steering-wheel.

“Wouldn’t want the dogs to eat these,” Yuuri explains, a soft flush to his cheeks, before he gasps, feeling the car jerk forward as Viktor breaks too fast. Viktor’s arm stretches out almost instinctively to protect Yuuri. In the back, the dogs barely flinch, happily jumbled together in a corner for a nap. Vicchan barely snaps open an eye. “Uh, Viktor, do you even have a license in the U.S.?”

Viktor blinks, heart-shaped mouth opened in surprise, “Wait, I need a special license to drive here?”

“How did you get a car here without an international driver’s license?” Yuuri asks, surprised.

“I don’t know,” Viktor confesses, singing along to the music (I may be crazy, don’t mind me,) “I just smiled a lot at the lady at the car rental place and she gave me the keys.”)

XXIV. 

Viktor hires a driver for their first date(s): One, because Yuuri asks, but two, because he wants to feel free to fully enjoy himself without worrying about keeping Yuuri safe on the road.  They end up having four dates in a single day, mostly because Viktor can’t choose what’s the best idea for a first date (mostly because, now that he thinks about it, he’s never really had to have a first date), so why not all? – The winery is first. Viktor has the driver take them 90-minutes out of the city to a large estate with a quaint building, where they can have a wine-tasting.

The entire time, Yuuri’s eyes remain glued to the tinted window. He keeps texting Phichit every 15 minutes because he wasn’t exactly expecting to leave the city-limits. For once, he’s grateful Isabella had flown down from New York to spend some time with them, because Yuuri has a good feeling he might need her to backup Phichit if he ends up inadvertently kidnapped.

(Kidnapped is an understatement. Brunch. Viktor had told him they were going to have brunch, so Yuuri had donned a pair of fitted jeans and a decent button-up. He had slicked his hair back and worn a set of glasses with a thinner rim. Little did he know a wine-tour was going to melt into brunch at an expensive restaurant (where he felt incredibly under-dressed), where Viktor seemed to down mimosas by the bottle out of nerves. He also had not expected the golf lessons after or the dinner that followed.)

Yuuri spends the entire day overwhelmed – which means he spends much of his time quiet and subdued, leaving plenty of room for Viktor, in his nerves, to talk to fill the silence.

The truth is that Yuuri doesn’t know anything about good wine. Throughout college and into his years in graduate school, he’d stuck to the boxed-kind. Yuuri lets Viktor order for them and lets him list off a million details that he can’t taste or smell or see. Wine terms are intimidating and Yuuri spends the whole time either sipping so slow that the vineyard owner asks him if there’s something wrong with his glass, or drinking so fast that he’s starting to get drunk. He just can’t seem to find the perfect balance between a sip and a chug.

Thankfully, they get a small table with crisp, white linens. Sitting down, no one can see Yuuri wavering from the influence of alcohol. But it seems with each glass, Yuuri is slowly moving his chair closer to Viktor.

(By this point, Viktor has run out of things to say about wine, completely flustered by the soft pink now lining Yuuri’s high-cheekbones. He’s started to make up things about taste and color and he has to admit he didn’t plan for Yuuri to get drunk, but it’s incredibly auspicious when Yuuri tips the glass just a little too forward, while whispering prettily, “I like this one. Can we get more of this one, Viktor?” – and lets the contents spill on Viktor’s expensive slacks.

Typically, Viktor would mourn the loss of a good pair of Bensols, but he’s just relieved Yuuri is finally enjoying his time in the vineyard: “Malysh, if you like it, we can buy a few bottles to take back. Oh.”

“Oh no!” Yuuri hiccups, eyes large and innocent as he grabs for part of the tablecloth to start dabbing it over Viktor’s thigh. Viktor watches horrified as the wine continues to bleed and spread through the fabric, which drinks greedily. Yuuri seems completely oblivious to how much worst he’s making the stain, instead using pure sheer will to slowly move his hand further to the center of Viktor’s front. Viktor doesn’t have same level of self-control to tell him to stop. “Don’t worry, Viktor. I’ll clean it right up.”)

To Viktor’s embarrassment, the vineyard owner walks in to find Yuuri vigorously rubbing her linen between Viktor’s legs. Completely unfazed, Yuuri turns to her, eyes shining bright as he asks, “Would you happen to have stain remover around? We had a little accident."

All Viktor can do to salvage the situation is smile nervously, hand snapping around Yuuri’s wrist to keep him from moving, “Can we get the bill, actually?” 

(Thankfully, brunch is in the city. They ride back for another 90-minutes, until they get to the nearest department store and Viktor buys a new pair of slacks before they head to the restaurant.) 

Yuuri is sober and embarrassed by the time he gets the menu. He has very little appetite and lets Viktor order. Viktor ends up drinking too many mimosas, unsure how to strike up decent conversation.

“I’m sorry about, well. I hope I didn’t ruin your pants,” Yuuri offers at last, in-between bites of his crepes. He feels more than a little self-conscious with Viktor eyeing him expectantly, almost longingly. Yuuri would’ve never expected anyone to find him so fascinating just for existing, but, the again, the first time he met Viktor, he practically gave him a lap dance, and now he can say that on their first date he almost rubbed him to climax at a winery. Viktor is only a man and Yuuri is slowly becoming a professional tease. 

“It’s fine,” Viktor waves it off with his fork, “I was afraid you weren’t having any fun.”

“Ah, I’m not big on wine. Or drinking,” he says, even as they keep going through glasses of mimosas. “But it was nice. Until. Yeah.”

“I really didn’t mind at all, Yuuri,” Viktor reaches for his free hand, smiling. “You could have thrown up on me and I would still be looking at you with as much affection as I’m doing right now.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes, playful as he says, “idiot. I can handle my alcohol a little better than that.”

(And that’s exactly how they end up at a golf course, with Viktor half-drunkenly crawling on his knees to push Yuuri’s legs into the right position for golf. The people around them seem to watch with peaked interest at the two drunk, good-looking twenty-somethings that can’t seem to keep their hands off each other.

Yuuri notices with glee that Viktor’s hands wander just a little too long on his thighs. He giggles, moving his feet only slightly, before asking, “like this?” And Viktor, naturally, happily gets down on his knees again to speak to him in Russian. Yuuri’s pretty sure he’s saying something filthy. It’s fine, because when Viktor stands behind him to show him how to hold the golf stick, Yuuri just pushes his butt out, asking again, “like this?” And he knows perfectly well it’s not quite right, but, by then, they’re both too drunk to care (and Yuuri can't deny that he finds Viktor incredibly attractive).)

Phichit has been calling Yuuri non-stop by the time they get to dinner.

“I think Phichit thinks you’ve kidnapped me!” Yuuri laughs, practically hanging off Viktor’s arm as they stumble to take a seat. It’s not exactly a lie. Viktor’s mind is a haze of devoted confusion, filled with the sound of Yuuri’s voice and the smell of his cologne and the sight of his cheeks, vibrant and pink, matching the happy sparkle in his eyes. It’s taking him back to the first time they met, and Viktor is glad that he’s just as gone as Yuuri this time.

The restaurant has a great band playing soft jazz with hints of salsa. The drums begin to play the familiar sound of The Zombies’ She’s Not There (Nobody told me about her, what could I do,) and Viktor watches as more coordinated couples take the dancefloor, moved by the cover. Yuuri watches his innocent enthusiasm, his shoulders moving to the beat of the music.

“You want to dance?” he asks Yuuri, almost by the time the music has ended.

And Yuuri simply beams, pulling Viktor by the hand: “Yes!”

(Yuuri is impressively unashamed of how good he is at dancing, and he seems more than happy to ask the band to play something a little more sultry and exotic.

“Do you know how to lambada?” he asks Viktor, already starting to lead. Apparently, Yuuri is good at the lambada – whatever that means. Viktor’s not sure he fully understands the question, until Yuuri presses him close, showing him how to swing their hips together, dipping down and coming back up for air. “I love this song. It’s Brazilian. But I never had someone to dance with me.”

Viktor loves this side of Yuuri, soft and open, pressed close to him and teaching him how to move in sync. When Yuuri dips him, he laughs, pressing their foreheads together. There’s this glimmer of something wonderful and pure blossoming in Yuuri’s eyes until his face suddenly starts to turn slightly yellow, then green, and he drops Viktor flat on the ground before running to the bathroom.) 

 XXV.

The next morning, #ReturnOfDrunkCinderella is trending on Twitter and Instagram (joined by a very mysterious second tag #CountryClubPrince). It’s also probably trending on Facebook, but no one pays attention to hashtags there, so Phichit doesn’t really know. The pictures are adorable, and the world really is sending blessings to the twenty-somethings that had been enjoying a nice dinner, celebrating their first-year anniversary, and had the common sense to ignore each other for their phones the moment they saw that Viktor Nikiforov was on a date with Yuuri Katsuki.

(After all, the world had been curious to know what had happened to make Viktor suddenly cut his search short. Now they all knew, Drunk Cinderella had found his Country Club Prince and proceeded to get smashed once again.)

“Yuuri, please? – I can make you a Bloody Mary,” Viktor begs with coffee in hand outside of Yuuri’s bedroom. He’s wearing sunglasses indoors, betraying the massive hangover he’s also carrying. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t intend for you to get drunk yesterday. Or for it to trend on the Internet.”

(“No! No more alcohol! I’m never drinking again!”)

Phichit watches amused from the sofa with a hamster on his head as he scratches Vicchan’s belly. Isabella simply rests her feet on Phichit’s lap, completely unsurprised by the train wreck still unfolding before them. Just the day before, Viktor had brought Yuuri home, looking completely wrecked. Phichit had carried Yuuri to the bathroom, and Isabella had escorted Viktor back to his own apartment to get full details, which was almost impossible when Viktor needed aspirin and water himself.

Viktor isn’t too proud to beg on his knees. He sits down by the door, resting his back against the wall, “Malysh, please open the door? I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Groaning, Yuuri makes his position clear, again: “Viktor, go away! Didn’t I embarrass myself enough yesterday? – The whole Internet now knows I didn’t just slut it up on the dancefloor once, but that I did it twice now! With the same guy!”

“Well, I would hope it was with the same guy, or else I’d probably have to get Uncle Yakov involved. He knows how to handle people.” Viktor preens with pride, “Lapochka, I don’t know why you’re embarrassed. Yesterday was the best date of my life! I mean, wow! You can really move, Yuuri.”

“I think you’re just making him angrier,” Isabella tisks. “Why don’t you go rest up and you can both talk things out over dinner tomorrow.”

(“No! I’m not going out in public ever again.”)

“At your apartment,” Phichit adds.

(“No! I’m not going out on another date with Viktor ever again!”)

Viktor winces, looking over at the door with a pout: “But I didn’t put up any pictures on the Internet.”

“Ignore him. Dinner. At your apartment. He’ll bring Vicchan, so it’s not a human date. It’s a puppy play date.”

(“I hate you all so much,” Yuuri whines, reaching for a bucket again to hurl.)

XXVI.

Their second date, by comparison, is a whisper in a storm. Isabella gives Viktor only one piece of advice: Keep it simple. So, Viktor is sober, demure and serious, almost scholarly, and it makes Yuuri wonder if he’ll ever discover and strip him of his every layer (“In a non-dirty way Phichit.”).

Viktor welcomes Yuuri to his apartment dressed in a long-sleeved white button down tucked neatly into a set of faded blue jeans. Vicchan runs circles between Viktor’s legs before tackling Makkachin, who looks just as excited to see his small poodle friend. Together, the two poodles chase each other around the apartment, and Viktor smiles at Yuuri as he pushes the coffee table to a corner to give them more room to roughhouse.

Poodle whisperer, indeed, Yuuri thinks, but doesn’t vocalize his thoughts, eyes already scanning the perimeter of the apartment. Viktor’s apartment is technically identical to Yuuri and Phichit’s next door, but it somehow feels different, even if not wholly unlived for a place that’s only been furnished for a handful of days.  Maybe that’s Viktor’s talent – to take the shape of any room, absorb space like a sponge, leaving behind an imprint of himself taped to the walls and floor and ceiling. And, immediately, Yuuri notices that the island separating the kitchen from the living room and dining room is filled with a line of thick books.

(For someone who seems to represent sleek lines and fast, pristine fashion, Viktor has a lot of paper around. Thick magazines on the coffee table. Books on the kitchen counter. Prints framed on the wall. Paper, thin and brittle and so full of color, everywhere. Yuuri would’ve thought Viktor was more a tablet-reader, but here is proof that he was wrong.

It makes him wonder how many things he’s got wrong in the past.)

“Please, make yourself at home. Can he handle raw hide?” Viktor asks, already reaching into a cupboard to bring out a giant bone. It’s intimidating, probably half Vicchan’s length, and just perfect for Makkachin. But Yuuri nods numbly. “Here you go, buddy,” Viktor smiles, cooing as he pats Vicchan and sends the poodle on his merry way to the living room to chew his new rawhide bone. Makkachin rushes over to Viktor, who procures another similarly-sized bone. The larger poodle takes the bone, rushing to circle his giant pillow bed.

“Be nice to our guest, Makka,” Viktor reminds gently, turning his attention to the stove, which is absolutely empty.

Yuuri is impressed when Makkachin leaves the bone, running to Vicchan to bark at the smaller poodle, who instinctively follows so the two can share the dog bed in an unceremonious heap of fluff and scratching sounds.

“Cute,” Yuuri smiles, watching them before he approaches the line-up of books. Apparently, Viktor is incredibly well-read. Yuuri recognizes many of the names on the book bindings, but some seem terribly unfamiliar and foreign. When Viktor doesn’t tell him to step back, he reaches carefully for a book bound in beautiful emerald velvet. He weighs it on his hand, amazed when he sees the shape of a turtle stitched in gold on the cover. “A Rebours,” he reads to himself.

“Ah, the book where a man dips a turtle in gold. Back in the days when the definition of animal cruelty was, uh, loose,” Viktor looks up, “You ever read it? It’s a little sick, but Huysmans was the father of decadence. It’s like taking a dip into the anti-aesthetic of the 19^th century. Chris likes to say that my parents should’ve censored my reading list when I was fourteen. Maybe then I wouldn’t be as, uh, extr—”

“Extra?” Yuuri offers, a small smile pulling at his lips, until he realizes that he might have offended Viktor. He presses a hand against his mouth. “Sorry!”

“No, it’s fine. That’s,” Viktor only laughs, “I was going to say extreme, but I guess extra is a little kinder, actually.”

“Uh. I can’t read French,” Yuuri confesses as he tucks the book close to his chest, “I was just. It’s pretty. I should’ve asked. I didn’t know it was special.”

“I think the author would’ve found pretty as more than an adequate excuse to pick the book.” Viktor smiles, taking long, easy strides to reach him. “You ever read the Picture of Dorian Gray? – Well,” he pauses, eyes filled with light and mirth, like he’s about to share a funny secret with Yuuri. “That’s the poisonous novel that ruins Dorian.”

“Uh, I think so? Maybe for a literature class,” Yuuri flushes pink, eyes flickering around Viktor to the books. There’s a lot of Jane Austen on Viktor’s shelf. Yuuri isn’t surprised. Viktor seems like he would be a romantic. Austen is tucked between tomes of poetry and, more to the corner, as if hidden, an impressive collection of science fiction, including some faded paperbacks. “I don’t think I read it close enough to remember that part, though.”

“Well, maybe we can revisit it together. I’ve always wanted to do the couple thing where people read books to each other? – I always thought that looked fun,” Viktor says and walks past him when his phone rings. He gives Yuuri a wink, “Food’s here.”

(They’re eating katsudon when Yuuri tentatively asks, “what’s the book about?”

And Viktor takes his time chewing before responding, “It’s a story without plot, about a guy who, having lived a very decadent life in Paris, decides to move far away to the countryside and fill his days participating in intellectual experiments that really all revolve around filling his life with eccentricities in the name of beauty and knowledge.”

“Why would you want to read something like that?” Yuuri asks, eyes locking with Viktor’s own.

Viktor shrugs, “I was fourteen. I had let my hair grow because I thought it made me more beautiful. I had very few friends, was just starting to model, and even as the entire world was supposed to want me, not a single person that I wanted, wanted me back – which hasn’t really changed. And, it was a book with a weird history, banned a lot, all about what I thought was the nothingness of pretty things and how everyone wants pretty, even if no one wants to deal with the extra. It felt like the right book to read at the time.” He chuckles, “I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I was a kid.”

Yuuri frowns, “Do you, do you really feel like no one has ever wanted you?”

Viktor swallows hard, almost choking from the shock, “well, not romantically. I’m always too much. But I have hope! My parents found each other and they’re just as ridiculously eccentric as the other and I think that’s why they love each other so much.”

Yuuri smiles, “well, you could always just tone it down, too.”

“But wouldn’t it just be easier to find someone who is fine with who I am?” he grins, giving Yuuri a fast wink.)

XXVII.

They decide dates indoors are better. By their sixth date, they’re comfortable with each other. Viktor has ordered so much sushi that they invite Phichit to take some with him.

Beauty and the Beast is playing on the screen, the lilting, familiar tones of woodwinds beginning the most iconic scene in the ballroom. Instinctively, Yuuri tucks closer under the blankets, making room when Vicchan jumps on the sofa to rest his head on the crook of Yuuri’s hooked knees. He lets his fingers run through thick, curly fur, trying to focus on the movie even as he can feel Viktor’s eyes stealing fast glances of his face.

Viktor stands with a flourish, extending out a hand to Yuuri: “Would you like to dance?”

Yuuri looks over to him, studying his outstretched hand, “dance?”

“I’d love to,” Viktor grins, reaching to pull Yuuri to his feet.

“You planned this,” Yuuri laughs but follows willingly, arching an accusing eyebrow, “I thought you said you’d try to be normal, Viktor.”

“This isn’t normal?” Viktor asks, resting a hand on the small of Yuuri’s back to break into a seamless waltz step around the living room. Makkachin watches them bored from the dog bed. “It feels plenty natural to me.”

“Most people don’t just start waltzing in the living room,” Yuuri chastises him playfully, looking down at their joined hands. Viktor looks down at him with something akin to longing, and Yuuri can almost feel heat spread from the back of his neck to the rest of his face.

“Well that’s boring,” he whispers, spinning Yuuri even as the song ends.

“Or, you know, predictable,” Yuuri challenges, taking the lead role and pushing Viktor back a few steps into the beginnings of a tango. Viktor follows almost seamlessly. “You don’t actually know how to date like a normal person, do you?”

(Viktor thinks now would be an appropriate time to tell Yuuri that he’s, technically, never courted anyone. While Viktor is by no means a virgin and never gave much importance to the idea of virginity, he’s never exactly been one to settle down. He wonders what Yuuri would say if he only knew that Viktor is no more a playboy than Yuuri.)

“You keep throwing that word around and I’m not sure I really understand what you expect from me.”

“Nothing,” Yuuri brushes some lint away from Viktor’s shoulder, floored once again by the knowledge that the man in front of him – beautiful beyond words – cares about nothing except him in this very moment. This is the man Yuuri stole from the world. It sends a strange thrill up his spine, like he’s collected something precious and has yet to discover the full totality of its being. “I expect nothing. I just want you to be whoever it is you really are, Viktor.”

“And if this is me?”

Yuuri sighs and, not for the first time, asks, almost angry, “Well, is it? – Trips around the world, Instagram selfies, expensive clothes, velvet books, takeout every day? Is this you, Viktor? – Because this isn’t me. I was taught to be humble and work hard and make do with what I had, which wasn’t always a lot, but it was enough. I don’t think you even know what that word means.”

(They go through this verbal dance rather regularly, with Viktor trying to pull and lead and Yuuri resisting at every opportunity. It’s left them trapped, dating inside Viktor’s apartment, eating takeout and delivery, walking their dogs, watching old movies, and pretending the world outside of this moment doesn’t exist. It’s thoroughly exhausting, like trying to hide the sun with his fingers, and watching sunlight still seep through his knuckles. It’s also completely unsustainable, and Yuuri knows eventually one of them will reach their breaking point.

Maybe this is it.)

“I know that you’re enough, even if you can’t seem to ever believe it,” Viktor snaps back. “I grew up with everything, but I had nothing until I met you. It just seems like you’re too busy trying to proof that you deserve nothing to see that I’m willing to give you the world.”

“I don’t want the world,” Yuuri whispers, almost ashamed. “That’s not. I’m not, I didn’t grow up like you, Viktor. We’re obviously too different.”

“Then I don’t think you really know yourself, Yuuri, because the Yuuri I see is amazing – graceful and beautiful and gracious and funny. And when he has a couple of drinks, he seems to blossom into someone confident and exciting – someone that’s obviously there all the time and just too afraid to live. Please let me show you, let me prove to you that you are magnificent. Yuuri, you’re the most beautiful person in the world. Let me show you that we’re really not as different as you think.”

XXVIII.

Phichit listens attentively, surprised at the anger his best friend leverages to hammer the meat. It’s going to be so soft, Phichit won’t even need teeth to chew. Vicchan whines in the corner of the apartment, and Phichit can almost imagine that, on the other side of the wall, his friend Makkachin is doing the same.

“I still don’t understand what he said that was so bad?” Phichit tried again, “you do have kind of terrible self-esteem and he just has a lot of money. He’s eccentric and he wants to buy you stuff. Most people would want a boyfriend like that, especially if you haven’t even slept with him.”

“One, not my boyfriend; two, yes, I know, but he shouldn’t say that, that I don’t know my value,” Yuuri points out. “I know exactly what I’m worth. (“Here, here!” Minako cheers drunkenly from the living room, lifting her glass high in solidarity.) Phichit, I don’t see your marker moving. Keep drawing.”

Phichit flinches, but picks up the black marker again, turning the page again. Viktor’s face grins from the page. Phichi sighs, starting to draw thick, heavy eyebrows above Viktor’s eyes. “Minako, do you want to take a turn?”

(500 Photos of Viktor Nikiforov, the magazine reads. Phichit hates himself a little for even getting it from the market. It was supposed to be a funny joke. Joke’s on him. He fears he’s about to get carpal tunnel.)

“No, I think you’re covering it just fine,” Minako smiles. “So, does this mean you’re done with Viktor Nikiforov?”

“You say the word and I will cut a bitch,” Phichit promises, almost hoping he’ll have an alternative to potential repetitive motion injury.

Yuuri sets down the kitchen hammer, “We’ve got plans for a long weekend, actually. But I still get to be mad at him today and tomorrow.”

(When the doorbell rings, Yuuri cleans his hands on his apron.

“I got it. Must be my Monday flowers.”)

XXIX.

Their dates are extravagant, but not thoughtless.

After their first date, Yuuri decides to outlaw excessive alcohol-use, but not really good food, even if it’s expensive, which is great, because Viktor seems to love food almost as much as Yuuri.

Viktor takes Yuuri to Washington, D.C. when he has a work-related trip for a children’s charity, and they spend his free afternoon weaving in between crowds of tourists at the national mall, where the congregation of food trucks is enough to make Yuuri’s head spin – Peruvian, Japanese, Korean, Thai, Italian, Mexican, the selection is endless. And Yuuri remembers well taking Viktor’s hand while resting on the steps of the Jefferson memorial, overlooking the Potomac basin.  Another Saturday, they go to New York on a whim to eat dumplings in Chinatown, running from restaurant to restaurant to try them in all flavors and colors – steamed, pan-fried, boiled, with chicken filling, or beef and vegetables, or shrimp (and Viktor promises to take him to Shanghai someday to try even more). Another weekend, they take a trip to New Orleans to eat authentic po’boys and end up taking a night cruise on the Mississippi, using an application Viktor has downloaded on his phone to find constellations in the cloudy sky.  

Yuuri has to admit the lifestyle is a little addictive, between realizing that the man he’s dating is constantly gracing magazine covers (and completely unashamed to text him explicit photos from photo-shoots) and making trips to locations he never thought he would experience.

#DrunkCinderella and #CountryClubPrince trend periodically. Sometimes people add #RelationshipGoals.

(Or, almost every weekend.)

On a Wednesday, Viktor surprises Yuuri with a steak dinner at a popular restaurant downtown before he’s treated to a showing of Sleeping Beauty at the Michigan Opera Theater. Yuuri bites his bottom lip hard, holding tight to his program as he watches the show with Viktor’s warm body by his side.  

(But, for the most part, things feel normal. It’s not like Viktor is whisking him away to Europe on a whim, and Yuuri wonders if Viktor is holding back for his sake.

“Show me everything,” Yuuri whispers one night, legs tangled in between 800-thread count sheets. “Remember when you said you wanted to show me the world? – I want to see it through your eyes.”

They haven’t done more than sleep in Viktor’s bedroom, but the companionship is always welcome and comforting, with the dogs sleeping by their feet and moonlight streaming through the window.)

So, they take a trip to California, and Viktor plans a hot-air balloon ride for them. He feeds Yuuri strawberries and holds tight to his waist, resting his chin on Yuuri’s shoulder. And Yuuri feels like he’s seeing the world for the first time – the sky turning from bright oranges to muted purples and yellows within reach of his fingertips. He rests against Viktor's chest and sighs, letting their fingers tangle together. 

"So," Viktor smiles against his cheek, "you like what you see?"

(Yuuri turns to lock eyes with Viktor, studying his face: "Yeah. It's perfect.)

XXX.

Yuuri realizes he’s (maybe, just a little) smitten with Viktor while teaching a pole dancing class.

(He decides it must be the type of love people feel for the comfort of habit. Months in and Viktor is a routine. Yuuri can count the hours, make sense of the days around Viktor and whether he’s bringing Yuuri flowers (Monday) or knocking on his door to walk Vicchan (Saturday). Reluctant as he might have been, Viktor Nikiforov is skilled at negotiation, thanks to a simple strategy: Accept a no, but never assume it’s definitive.)  

“This is called the Cross L Leg Climb,” Yuuri tells the class, legs crossed around the pole as he lifts a hand up vertically. He slides down, admiring as his students slowly try to prop themselves up. He makes rounds around the room, providing advice as he goes.

When he spins, he thinks about the way Viktor’s hands felt on his back as they danced in the middle of his living room, their dogs staring at them from the comfort of Viktor’s expensive velvet sofa. When the crook of Yuuri’s knee bends to grip at the pole, he thinks about Viktor’s finger bending to beckon him to him to give him a ride home from work. He thinks about rides in the convertible with the top down with Makkachin in the backseat (and Viktor’s eyes flickering to the visor every so often to make sure Makkachin’s not about to eat the boxed cheesecake).

“Remember that while pole dancing is about technical skill, a lot that goes into it is also artistry, and if you walk up to the pole like you own it, no one will really know any better if you’re doing it right or wrong, even if you’re not doing any spins or fancy moves,” he encourages everyone, as they practice lunges and shoulder and back slides. He lets his arms and pointed toes frame each move lovingly. “It’s all about the show. If you feel strong and sexy, that’s all that matters.”

It’s a conversation that is so important for his mid-level classes. Beginners are empowered by pure impulse, by the excitement of trying to pole dance. Enthusiasm alone gets them through bruised legs and egos. His advanced students known exactly what they’re doing; they’re driven by the technical aspects of the craft. They want to develop their showmanship. But his mid-level students are sandwiched somewhere between trying to achieve both.

(And Yuuri can’t help but think about how Viktor moves like he owns the world. How when he flicks his wrist to check his watch, his hair flips back to match the fluid movement. It’s like he’s dancing, each part of his body in perfectly controlled sync, right down to his smile (but never his eyes). Yuuri tries to count the number of times he’s been blinded by Viktor’s smile spotlighting him.)

Typically, close to the end of the class, Yuuri will indulge his students’ curiosity by performing a particularly difficult move to give them some inspiration to keep working on building their core strength. He’s midway through a Carousel Spin, toes pointing up, when he hears the door slam open and the entire close turns around to find a disheveled Viktor staring straight past them to Yuuri.

“Uh, class, I’ll see you next time,” he dismisses them, planting his feet firmly on the ground. Viktor has never interrupted his class before, and he knows that Minako wouldn’t allow something so unprofessional if it wasn’t an emergency. His students stare openly at Viktor as they leave, some gawking and knocking into each other even after they pass him. “Viktor?”

Yuuri notices then that Viktor has small carry-on with him. His shoulders are quaking, and Yuuri takes another step forward, almost reaching with a tentative hand to comb Viktor’s hair.

“Are you going somewhere?” he asks, pointing towards the bag. He knows it’s a silly question. It’s obvious Viktor is going somewhere, and the pit forming at the bottom of Yuuri’s stomach makes him nauseous in the potential knowledge that Viktor might just have given up at the exact moment that Yuuri has decided to try. Yuuri gives him a small, uncertain smile, “Tired of me already?”

“My dad had a heart attack,” Viktor replies, gulping hard. “Yuuri,” he whispers, his arm shooting out to reach for Yuuri before he takes a step back. The act drips with desperation so thick that Yuuri stops breathing. “I—I need to go back to St. Petersburg right away. My flight leaves in just four hours, but I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye…”

The goodbye sounds so definitive, it leaves Yuuri’s mind reeling. Logically, Yuuri knows Viktor needs to go to St. Petersburg. A petty part of him is pleased Viktor didn’t say I need to go home.

“Where’s Makkachin?” Yuuri asks instead, fisting his hands by his thighs. The gap between them appears to grow by the minute. It terrifies Yuuri and he’s almost desperate to pull Viktor to rest against his chest, hypnotize him with the beat of his heart, but instead Yuuri watches Viktor slip between his fingers like water. Viktor is a flood right now, and Yuuri is drowning, eager to catch his breath, but the words keep coming. Yuuri fears he’ll have bruises in the morning.

(He won’t know how to recover.)

“The flight couldn’t, they can’t accommodate Makka, so I asked Phichit to help me out by keeping her just for a couple of days. I’ll make arrangements. Chris has a gig in New York. I’ll hire a company to help move the rest of my things…”

Yuuri can tell Viktor’s mind is speeding by the minute, gaining more and more momentum to run far away from Detroit, far away from Yuuri, and their apartment complex and daily dog walks. There’s a question implicit in Viktor’s announcement. And Yuuri seizes it, decides this is it, because Viktor is a minute away from leaving and the answer Yuuri doesn’t give will define him in Viktor’s mind forever.

“Viktor, let me come with you.”

(If you’re really not coming back to Detroit, then take me with you.

But he doesn’t add anything beyond that, eyes locked with Viktor’s to wait for his answer.)

Viktor starts, surprised by the request, “Yuuri…”

Yuuri takes Viktor’s shaking hand in his own: “Just give me thirty minutes to pack. Please.”

(And he knows it’s a cheap move. Viktor isn’t able to deny Yuuri anything.)

XXXI.

The trip to St. Petersburg from Detroit is almost thirteen hours.  It takes them almost twenty-four to get to their destination.

Viktor buys a couple of first class tickets on Delta to Paris (and spends the entire flight nursing a single glass of white wine, while Yuuri remains attached to his arm), and when they get to Paris, he practically runs to the Air France counter to check-in, only to find the flight has been cancelled due to inclement weather in St. Petersburg and the beginnings of snow in December – uncharacteristic for an otherwise unusually cloudy Paris. There’ll be another flight in the morning, and the agent at the counter promises to put them on the wait-list for first class, but, for now, nothing is assured. Viktor whispers all of this dejectedly to Yuuri, holding tight to his hand as they wait for a car.

(The moment flurries begin to fall, Viktor reaches for his scarf and wraps it tightly around Yuuri. Yuuri tucks his head low to shield his nose from the cold. The rich cashmere feels soft brushing against his cheeks, and Yuuri feels intimately loved, with Viktor’s arms around him to keep him warm and the scarf to envelop Yuuri with his smell. There’s white all over, light and airy, like the pitter-patter of his heart.)

Once in the car, Viktor calls his mother.

Russian sounds unusually harsh to Yuuri’s ears, but nothing about Viktor could ever be anything less than beautiful, and Yuuri finds himself leaning on Viktor’s shoulder, listening to the high lilts of Mama Nikiforova’s voice as he makes note of the Eiffel Tower and the Champs-Elysees. She sounds calm, and Yuuri feels comforted by her tone and the press of Viktor’s body against his chest. (“Dad’s out of surgery and resting,” he explains, running a lazy hand through Yuuri’s dark hair. Yuuri can feel every muscle in Viktor’s body relax, taking shape under Yuuri’s body.) Then, the car stops in front of the Plaza Athenee, and Viktor turns to Yuuri with a soft blush (betraying on his face what Yuuri has in his mind): “I rented my studio while I was at home and Detroit, but I’ll get us two rooms, don’t worry.”

“Oh,” Yuuri whispers, disappointed, and he can’t tell if it’s because Viktor will get them separate rooms, or if it’s because he won’t get to see Viktor’s apartment in Paris and how he lived pre-Yuuri. (And the idea that their lives really have become pre-Yuuri, pre-Viktor makes his stomach dip with nerves in the inevitability that someday, he hopes, their lives will never quite be post-Yuuri or post-Viktor.) Maybe it’s both. But there’s only one he can do anything about and, boldly, he wraps a hand around Viktor’s fist, “d—don’t, don’t bother with two rooms. I mean, it looks like it’s an expensive hotel, Viktor. And I invited myself—”

“Yuuri, no,” Viktor breaths out, using his free hand to bring Yuuri’s own to brush his lips against Yuuri’s knuckles, “I’m, I’m so grateful you’re here with me. I’d probably be a mess without you here.”

“Then let me be here for you,” Yuuri smiles, eyes blurry behind his fogged glasses, and Viktor chuckles, taking them so gently to wipe them with the corner of his expensive coat. “One room. One bed. And nothing super expensive, Viktor. No suites.”

Viktor hums, depositing his glasses back on Yuuri’s face. His thumbs trail down his cheeks delicately, like he’s just now discovering some secret in Yuuri’s dimples. For a second, Yuuri wonders if it’s written all over his face.

(His mother had always told Yuuri that he carried his heart in the shine of his eyes.)

“Ah malysh, yes, yes, always so careful about our finances. (“Not ours, yours!”)  Semantics, but, yes, I’ll get us the cheapest room, then.”

(The cheapest room is still an exorbitant 900 euros a night (and Yuuri doesn’t even dare consider what portion of that he could even begin to finance). It’s comfortable in the way only such an expensive room could be, with more mirrors than Yuuri thinks should be necessary, but for 900 euros, Yuuri can only imagine that people want to at least believe there’s extra space in between otherwise narrow, overly decorated walls. But the view really is everything, and now that they know Viktor’s father is in recovery, they both don’t feel so selfish in indulging in the romance of Paris.

After all, Viktor has never been in Paris with someone he loves, and Yuuri has never been to Paris before today.

Viktor still complains as he wraps his arms around Yuuri’s waist from behind and they look out towards a pretty Paris street, glazed in light and snow: “If you had let me get a suite, we could be swaying in front of a view of the Eiffel Tower right now.” This is probably the closest Viktor has been to Yuuri in a very long time, and he (because he’s never known when he’s asking for too much,) let’s his teeth nip at Yuuri’s earlobe.

Yuuri smiles, resting his back against Viktor’s chest. He puckers his lips, tasting his next words carefully before purring, “That’s alright. We don’t need the Eiffel Tower. I’d much rather you make love to me right now against that mirror over there anyway.”

Viktor arches an eyebrow, hands dropping to box Yuuri’s hips, “that one over there? There’s two big mirrors in that general direction, solnyshko. You might need to be more specific.”

And Yuuri grins, turning to wrap his arms around Viktor’s neck and jump to lock his legs around his hips in a move so familiar that it makes Viktor dizzy. Pressing their foreheads together, Yuuri breaths against Viktor’s lips, “I guess we’ll just have to use them both.”)

XXXII.

The mirror feels cool against Yuuri’s back. And he almost laughs when Viktor enters him.

(Yuuri can’t stop thinking about how months ago, Viktor Nikiforov had been serenading him through a screen (no tellin’ what I’m gon’ do, baby, I would rather show you, what you been missin’ in your life when I get inside,) about this exact moment.  Instead, he gasps, head snapping back and slamming hard against the mirror. His splayed hands attempt to dig into the smooth surface to push himself higher, unsure how to escape when Viktor’s body is trapping him, heady and perfect between his legs, taking up every minute and breath between them. Yuuri spreads his legs wider, and Viktor follows, drinking every bit of space with thirst and warmth.)

“Stay with me,” Viktor rasps, staying completely still to let his hands grab Yuuri’s and lock their fingers together above his head.

(Bless the lofty ceilings and long cabinets in old decor, Yuuri thinks, even if they cost a month of rent in Detroit for a single night.)

Yuuri isn’t exactly sure where Viktor thinks he’s going, considering that he’s a minute away from spreading his legs enough to perform an unconventional set of splits (and his clothes are somewhere by the window, forgotten). He’s tucked in a corner, safe and loved, somewhere in between the haze of frustration and pleasure, so full and yet unfulfilled. Yuuri rolls his hips and greedily stretches forward to drink the groans coming out of Viktor’s mouth.

(Viktor Nikiforov, Yuuri realizes when he’s plucked away from the mirror and deposited on a chaise, treats sex like everything else in his life. It’s a fully decadent, exceedingly pleasurable, completely indulgent experience. He takes a taste of what he likes and devours what he loves in absolute excess, and Yuuri wonders why he ever thought he couldn’t love this man, who is cradling his cheek, staring down at him laying down on the plush red casing of 19^th century furniture. This man who pushes one of his legs up, abusing the flexibility of Yuuri’s body to press kisses against the inside of his knee and down his thigh, even as he pushes deep into him, unrelenting and unforgiving.)

And Yuuri lets himself be greedy, too. He lets himself want and accept that he wants, back arching to seek Viktor’s warmth when he pulls away, hefting Yuuri’s hips higher on his lap to thrust faster and reach deeper.

“Touch yourself,” he orders, and Yuuri follows, a trembling hand running down the expanse of his own chest reverently, like he’s something beautiful (and Viktor whispers as much inside his ear) and expensive, like all the things that seem to belong neatly in Viktor’s life. “Teach me,” Viktor continues, voice coming out in barely-there whispers, lost somewhere in the distance, and Yuuri barely registers he’s still talking as he reaches the edge, “teach me how to always keep you near.”

(In his mind, Yuuri knows if he was a braver man, this would be the moment where he takes Viktor’s hand and tells him, I’m here, Viktor, and I’m here because I love you.

This would be the moment when he presses their foreheads together to whisper, I love you when you smile at me, blinding me like the sun, and speak Russian and French to me like you’re planting love in my ear.

And this would be when he would wrap his arm around Viktor’s waist, and bring their chests flush against each other so Viktor could feel how Yuuri’s heart punches at the cage of his ribs, while he says, Viktor, I still love you when your hair’s matted with sweat and you smell like hotel laundry soap, and especially when you look at me like I’m your anchor, a lifeline to the shore, because it reminds me of the sea by my home, and that alone reminds me of the depth of my love.

But Yuuri isn’t a braver man. He’s not a poet, either. He’s afraid of sounding silly, of baring his vulnerability at Viktor’s feet. But, right now, he’s also a man completely lost in the sensory experience that is being worshipped by Viktor Nikiforov.)

When he comes, his tongue twists around the first couple of words and tangles with Viktor’s tongue. His chest is heaving as he stares up at the ceiling before a weight drops on his side.

“Viktor, I,” he gasps, trying to take in some air.

The chaise is not big enough for two bodies, and when Viktor tries to lean against his side to look into Yuuri’s eyes, he miscalculates and falls into an unceremonious heap to the ground. Yuuri loses all concept of his afterglow, laughing as he rolls to his side to stare down at Viktor.

“Victor, I love you,” Yuuri smiles fond and perfect, stretching out his hand to pull him back up.

(Yuuri might not be a braver man, but he’s a man in love, and with the way Viktor lights up and rushes up to devour his lips, he doesn’t think he cares too much about the former anyway. Not when Viktor is pushing him up again, grinding their hips together, offering a luxurious bubble bath and another round in a bathroom the size of Yuuri’s entire bedroom. And especially not when Viktor licks champagne off Yuuri’s skin, writing love with the dig of his hands.)

XXXIII.

The next morning, Yuuri waits dejectedly with their bags, ears perking up each time Viktor speaks in flawless, practically unaccented French, except for the staccato-like break in his voice every couple of words (and Yuuri knows almost instinctively (or, really, from the way Viktor’s brow keeps bunching up,) that Viktor is a minute away from raising his voice at the counter agent every time he’s told to wait).

“They’re all sold out for first class,” Viktor whispers to Yuuri, like he’s almost embarrassed. (There’s even a pretty pink flush to his cheeks that makes Yuuri want to kiss the warmth of his face with desperate thirst). And Yuuri realizes that this is Viktor reaching out, stretching to find Yuuri somewhere between the worlds that separate their concept of normal. Viktor has probably never flown on anything other than first or business class. Yuuri isn’t sure if he’s asking for permission, until he continues: “They have a few tickets in the last row.”

Yuuri rolls their bags closer, letting them rest by his side as he wraps his arms around Viktor’s shoulders, bringing him close to breathe in the smell of hotel soap. Yuuri knows the hotel soap wasn’t cheap, but it’s still a stark contrast to the usual intoxicating smell of Viktor’s cologne. Yuuri prefers this even more, because beneath the faint smell of violets there’s a warm musk that is all Viktor. This must be what people call the honeymoon period, because all Yuuri wants is Viktor.

“The sound of the motor will lull you to sleep,” Yuuri promises and hopes his smile is doting, and not awkward like the twitch he just felt on the corner of his cheek. “Maybe we’ll get the row to ourselves and we can stretch out.”

Viktor nods, worrying at his bottom lip as he hands over their passports: “On the way back, I’ll put you on first class the entire flight. I promise. I’ll order you the best—”

“Viktor,” Yuuri sighs, nipping at his shoulder to cut him off, and then almost regrets it when he feels lint on his tongue. “I’m fine with a normal seat. I’m fine with it now and next time and any time. I didn’t come with you for a free vacation. I came because I want to support you, because I know how hard it must be that your Dad’s sick. I’m here because I…”  

(Because I love you. He’s said it already. It’s not a secret. He can’t even blame it on endorphins, or he could, he knows better now, after everything.)

Viktor turns away to grab their tickets. They walk side by side quietly down the long hallways leading to security and, then, to their gate. Just before they enter the security line, Viktor grins, “hey, Yuuri, were you about to say you came because you love me?”

Yuuri blushes, looking away, “If you already know, then why are you asking.”

Viktor gushes, dropping their bags to bring Yuuri close for a quick kiss, “ah, so cute, Yuuri! Because I wanted to hear you say it again, of course. I wasn’t sure if yesterday was just, well, yesterday.”

Yuuri sighs, reaching down to grab their bags, “well, it wasn’t.” He extends a hand out for Viktor to take. “Not just yesterday or today. And it won’t just be tomorrow or the day after that, either.”

“Hm,” Viktor pauses, face slack and soft, as if Yuuri has just whispered some tender secret in his ear. “Sounds almost like a marriage proposal. Should I ask in a couple of weeks if you still love me?”

Yuuri rolls his eyes, elbowing him gently, “You know I’m still going to say yes.”

XXXIV.

A Rolls Royce Phantom pulls up to pick them up from the airport, and Viktor doesn’t even wait for the driver to open the door, much less the trunk, before he’s grabbing both their bags to tuck them into the back of the car. Yuuri watches his arms flex under his dark training shirt. Instinctively, Yuuri knows it would save them time if he went ahead and slipped into the car, but he waits for Viktor, who, ever the gentleman, even at his worst, opens the door for him and presses a firm hand over the small of his back to usher him inside. Now that they’re in St. Petersburg, not even the knowledge that his father is recovering will help Viktor shake the nightmares. And Yuuri realizes then that he’s never felt so safe and so cherished, and he only wishes he could make Viktor feel half of what he feels then.

(The ride itself is silent, Viktor’s eyes hard and focused as he weighs his phone on his palm. Yuuri reaches up with his hand to comb Viktor’s hair, noticing at last how disheveled it looks after the flight.)

Nikiforov estate is impressive, and about 30 minutes outside of St. Petersburg, so the Nikiforov family keeps a large apartment in the city, especially for when Viktor’s father had to pull long days and weekends in the office. The apartment was inhabited by some famous poet in the 1800s and a huge list of other names that all sound very Russian and completely foreign to Yuuri, who is also just flat-out fully unacquainted with the list of people that have lived in the refurbished, aristocratic penthouse. Ana Nikiforova is only too happy to share as she links her arms with Yuuri and Viktor, leading them both through a lighting fast tour.

“It was also a Masonic lodge for a time, too. It’s not as big as home, and we seldom stay here, so if you and Vitya like it, you can certainly make use of it whenever you like,” she smiles, her eyes full of suggestion. Yuuri feels exposed, like she can probably smell her son on his skin. “I figured you’d just sleep with Vitya in the master bedroom, there are six bedrooms, each with a private bathroom. The flat is about 240.5 square-meters, with the loveliest view of the Neva River and the Mikhailovsky Castle. When we bought it, it came with all the antiques and the furniture, so we kept it all, but you can move anything you want,” she gushes. 

Yuuri imagines this must be what Versailles looks like. 

He shakes his head, “Please don’t worry about me. I invited myself after all.”

“Stop saying that, solnyshko,” Viktor whispers, pressing a kiss to his head (and his mother gushes even more, cooing at them as she ushers them down the hallway to continue with a tour of the kitchen). “You’re here because I need you here, so for as long as you are here with me, this house is just as much yours as it is mine.”

Ana whimpers, clasping her hands together. “Yes, absolutely! Yuuri, you are not a guest here. You are family. I love you already like one of my own, and I hope you will feel welcome and loved here always, enough that you might consider it your own home with Vitya someday, even if right now it is only temporary.”

“Mama,” Viktor admonishes, because the implication is clear. Ana intends for this to be their married home. She’s been planning it. Yuuri studies everything eve more reverently than before. The idea looms over him. He can’t imagine himself living in such a loud environment. Yuuri is a dancer and he’s graceful, but socially he can be clumsy at his best and downright embarrassing at his worst. Yuuri’s not sure he could be a host in this space, wait for Viktor to come home with business associates in need of some wining and dining. He can barely imagine Viktor in that role. But until Viktor’s father can get back to work, it’s exactly what Viktor will do, and Yuuri will play host, if he’s asked. “When can we go see Papa?”

“Doctor said it’s fine for us to move him this weekend, so long as he accepts monitoring and we get a nurse. He really doesn’t want all of you to see him right now, Vitya, and he just had the surgery, so I don’t want to pressure him. But why don’t you bring Yuuri home this weekend and you can see him then?”

Viktor nodded, somber as he looked around the apartment.

And Yuuri can tell that he feels just as isolated from it as Yuuri. It’s strangely comforting.

“It’s only temporary, Vitya,” Ana squeezes his shoulder. “Doctor said he can go back to work in three weeks. And you don’t need to go into the office every day, just every so often to help bolster investor confidence. I have every confidence in you, dorogoy. In you, too, Yurotchka.”

(Ana leaves them after a while. The house feels strangely empty with just the two of them. They should have brought the dogs.

Viktor sighs, and turns to Yuuri, a big smile on his face as he winks: “So, you want to pick out our bedroom? We have six.”

It’s like a veil has been ripped from Viktor. Yuuri can now see the nuances of Viktor’s real smile. This one is for Yuuri’s benefit, and Yuuri determines then that his goal on this trip will be to help Viktor feel comfortable in this home. He might not be the best host, but he will try for Viktor, almost like a trial period. And he wants so desperately for Viktor to still want him.

So Yuuri laughs, pulling Viktor by the neck down for a kiss and shocking his boyfriend (is that what Viktor is, his boyfriend?) when he says, “let’s not pick then. I’m sure we can get creative and use them all.”)

XXXV.

Two weeks later, it’s looking more like they’ll need to stay for five weeks, instead of three. Viktor pays a lot of money for their poodles to travel together to St. Petersburg (and Phichit naturally tags along). Isabella follows shortly after, complaining J.J. is too busy trying to pick out tie patterns to bother with his wife. There’s so much room in the apartment that Yuuri doesn’t even mind.  The two keep him company and help with the dogs. Yuuri cooks. There’s someone that comes to clean. And his life slowly bends into a strange blend of domesticity that wets Yuuri’s appetite for more: Viktor is doting, kind, funny, intelligent, and devoted.

On Mondays, he (still) brings Yuuri flowers. On Tuesdays, he takes him out to dinner. On Wednesdays, they read a book together, taking turns reading a chapter out loud. On Thursdays, they go to the Nikiforov estate for dinner (which has slowly become his favorite, if only because Mama Ana always looks like a kid on Christmas morning when Yuuri walks through the door, like she can’t believe he’s given them another chance). Yuuri has never felt so loved. On Fridays, Viktor hires a chef to cook for all of them, even the dogs, and they eat on the rooftop of the expensive building the inhabit, just the lights of the city and candles, good wine and their good friends, and the dogs running around happily and hiding between table and chair legs to beg for food.   

And Yuuri has to admit that, despite all his protesting, he has seamlessly fallen in love with their lifestyle, filling every nook and cranny with flowers (and love, which for Yuuri is food, katsudon for dinner when he can, and cookies for Viktor to take to work). He likes running his hands down Viktor’s chest as he sits and draws new designs, or checks over his sister’s collection. He loves resting his head on Viktor’s lap, turning his face to dig his nose into his thigh and hearing Viktor’s voice break even as he reads a stirring scene. When Viktor surprises him at the dance studio they’ve rented, Yuuri loves locking eyes with him through their reflection on the mirror (and he’s not even ashamed anymore that it reminds him of their Paris escapade.)

But Yuuri can’t help but feel that none of it will last. One, because all of this is only for a long as they're in St. Petersburg. This is a borrowed life for them. Two, because Yuuri didn’t grow up this level of wealth. He might love the experience of Viktor, but he’s often still overwhelmed and nervous. His hands clam up when Viktor tells him they need to have dinner with an investor. One time, he almost hyperventilates in the bathroom when he – sitting in a table shared with two other couples – can’t communicate with the two spouses sitting on either side of him. Both chat in fast Russian, tongues swiveling through the words with ease, completely ignoring him, and he decides maybe it is for the best to blend into the background.

So Yuuri accepts that this will only last for as long as it can, like many relationships. Someday, Viktor will marry someone else. Yuuri will, also, if he’s lucky, marry someone else. Both will marry into their stations, and Yuuri will just have to hope that he doesn’t spend his whole life missing Viktor like a phantom limb.

XXXVI.

Isabella looks at Yuuri’s bento box with obvious envy. She bites her thumb, pouting, “yours always comes out so pretty.” She sighs, completely defeated as she crumbles to rest her elbows on the marble counter. The misshapen peanut butter Koala-shaped sandwich lying next to a mountain of fruit seems to laugh at her. J.J. doesn’t even like kiwis, but (he’s also not in Russia to eat his bento box with a smile and) it was all that was left in the refrigerator. She’s been meaning to practice, feeling completely inspired, if not overshadowed by Yuuri’s natural knack for domesticity.

(It suits him beautifully, in between waking up early to toss on a pair of tights and an overgrown sweater to crawl out of bed and into the kitchen to send Viktor off to work with a full stomach, and then heading down for a gym to work out. He could easily go for a run with the poodles, but Phichit has taken on dog-sitting duty while he’s in St. Petersburg. Isabella mostly spends her time hanging out with Mila at her studio in the main office building.)

Yuuri flushes pink, putting the finishing touches on his flower-themed boxes, “Ah, that’s because I’ve been getting a lot of practice, I guess.”

(It’s an understatement. Yuuri has been making lunch boxes every single day for Viktor since Phichit and Isabella arrived in country. He doesn’t say it, but Isabella knows, having watched Yuuri one time too many already stack Tupperware containers at the back of the refrigerator shelf with a worried frown. Snacks, he calls them, except he never tells Viktor they’re there, and Viktor never opens the refrigerator with Yuuri around to feed him, especially when it earns him a lapful of his boyfriend.

The excuses are endless by now, tucked in between Yuuri’s anxiety and, perhaps, a blurred dash of reality: Viktor is a busy man right now, standing in for the CEO of Niki Four Enterprises, and probably has more lunch dates than papers to sign. But Isabella also knows for a fact that if Yuuri showed up with lunch, Viktor would cancel any meetings to enjoy Yuuri’s food, even if he does eat it for breakfast and dinner.)

“Are you actually taking it to Viktor today?” Phichit yawns and moves quietly behind them to rummage the refrigerator for an apple.

Yuuri nods, “I figured since it’s our last week in St. Petersburg, I should take him lunch today. I haven’t visited his office before. I hope he won’t be too busy…”

XXXVII.

Busy is apparently a thing that applies to everyone except for Yuuri – especially when it comes to Viktor’s schedule.

“Hi, I have Mr. Yuuri Katsuki here to see—” Isabella marches up to Viktor’s secretary, while Phichit pushes Yuuri forward until he’s almost bending over the desk with the lunchboxes. Apparently, Isabella didn’t have to say a word after all.

The secretary jumps, eyes bright as they settle on Yuuri. She’s blonde, built like a model, and Yuuri can’t help the voice in his head that keeps tugging at his crumbling self-esteem. Two other assistants stop typing.

This is where Viktor works, he thinks, with women and men built like they could be in magazines. 

“Mr. Katsuki-Nikiforov,” the secretary smiles brightly, standing up. She speaks in stilted English, but it’s cheerful, “Welcome! It’s so wonderful to meet you in person. Your husband talks about you all the time! Let me just, I know I have the folder somewhere here with your card. You have full access to the entire company. Oh, here it is, I found it. I’m sorry we didn’t have someone escort you to the top floor. I hope you didn’t have any problem finding the office. Sasha, can you call Mr. Nikiforov to let him know his husband is here to see him?”

Sasha is already on the phone, talking in hushed Russian.

(Mr. Katsuki-Nikiforov. Your husband. Full access.

Yuuri can almost feel Phichit and Isabella whispering the words to each other. The repetition makes the words feel real. Viktor told his staff he was married to Yuuri. Everyone’s been waiting to meet him. It’s a lot to take in as he stands there, hands heavy with the lunchboxes he’d made for them, more in aspiration that Viktor might have a free moment than in expectation.

Now it feels like everyone’s been expecting him. Yuuri feels like he’s let someone down. He hopes it isn’t Viktor. But Viktor seems like he’s used to having Yuuri keep him waiting…)

“Oh, I don’t. I don’t want to bother him, if he’s busy,” Yuuri says, “I just wanted to bring him some lunch.”

The door to Viktor’s office is already opening and a familiar head of platinum blonde hair is peeking out.

“Yuuri?” Viktor sounds elated, and just a bit nervous.

“Viktor,” Yuuri gulps hard, and jumps when the secretary pins a blue ID card on his shirt. It’s the first time Yuuri notices how underdressed he is and wonders if he has made a bad impression as the pretend-husband of the company’s acting CEO. Viktor is looking at him like he’s something precious, though, and Yuuri shakes away his doubts, giving him a bright smile. “I brought you lunch!”

XXXVIII.

Yuuri arches his back high off the mahogany table, fingernails trying to dig and scratch at the expensive wood as Viktor’s head bobs lightly between his legs. He bites his bottom lip hard.

“I can’t hear you anymore, Yuuri,” Viktor stops, looking up at Yuuri from behind the shadow of Yuuri’s swollen cock. His lips are plump and inviting, a sliver of sheen visible at the corner. Yuuri notes with embarrassment that the head of his dick is red, looking almost angry that Viktor has stopped, but Yuuri is grateful, hand resting on his chest to even his breathing. “Am I not doing it like you like?”

“Sorry, I’m a little occupied trying to remember to breath in between making sure your staff doesn’t hear me screaming my lungs out,” Yuuri whispers (and doesn’t add that he’d rather not have half of Viktor’s staff know what they’re doing), eyes locked on the ceiling. The conference room attached to Viktor’s top-floor corner office is sleek and modern, hard and clean lines for everything, including the square desk being defiled by Yuuri’s naked skin.

Once again, Yuuri is floored by the weight of Viktor’s influence over him. It’s still (even now that rationality is coming back by the second) keeping him pinned in his position. He questions whether he should remove his leg from where it hangs loose over Viktor’s shoulder. But Viktor (ever the proverbial mind-reader,) tugs harder, using the wheels of his office chair to pull himself closer. Playful blue eyes settle on Yuuri’s face: “Nervous someone will hear? – It’s a soundproofed room.”

“Not sight-proofed, though,” Yuuri lets his eyes point towards the skyline view to his right. “Why can’t you just eat lunch like a normal person?”

“Only way to look in would be with a helicopter,” Viktor deadpans, but smiles, pressing a kiss to Yuuri’s leg. (And Yuuri knows from the strained, throbbing twitch at the corner of Viktor’s mouth that the implication he’s not normal – the reminder that he’s being too-much of something Yuuri can’t name – bothers him. Somehow Yuuri knows instinctively this might not bode well for him.) He stands in a single, fluid move, and Yuuri hates how put-together he looks, how perfect he remains. His dark grey suit is immaculate, not even a wrinkle on his arms (and Yuuri lets himself enjoy the view, sitting up to watch Viktor find a little remote that ushers a set of thick curtains to cover the view).

(The room is dark, but Yuuri can still make out the shadows of Viktor’s body, smooth, elegant lines in the distance. Everything is blurry without his glasses, but Yuuri loves those moments when he can use his imagination. Instinctively, he drags his legs from the side of the table until he is sitting fully on the tabletop. He tucks his legs to his side. For the first time, he feels the draft of the air conditioning unit and shivers (and he remembers that he’s completely naked, his clothes discarded on the floor).)

“How about some music?” Viktor turns off the A/C unit before setting the remote down. Yuuri’s eyes follow his every movement, barely making him out as he turns on a very faint lamp. “Hm, Yuuri?”

Yuuri’s not sure what’s expected of him right now. This is Viktor. Always surprising him.

Viktor doesn’t wait for him to respond, pulling out his cellphone. Yuuri blinks, making out the faint sound of Bruno Mars’ That’s What I Like before the song starts blasting throughout the room (Girl, pop it for a pimp, pop, pop it for me). The speakers tremble with the thick bass, and Yuuri can feel it like kisses against his skin.

Viktor slips off his suit jacket, sliding it over the table for Yuuri to catch.

“Go ahead and put it on,” he instructs, wasting no time in pulling out a set of champagne glasses and a chilled bottle. Leave it to the Nikiforovs to have a collection of alcohol in their conference room. The bottle pops just as Bruno keeps crooning through the speakers (Strawberry champagne on ice, lucky for you, that’s what I like). Leave it to Viktor to know, like an expert, how to pop open bottles (and doesn’t Yuuri already know how much Viktor enjoys something sweet).

Yuuri follows instructions quietly, taking a moment to hide his blush by tucking his face against the fabric that smells so much of Viktor. Viktor, who is walking over to him with a glass of champagne; who doesn’t even bother to hand it to Yuuri; and, who simply leaves the glass by Yuuri’s ankle before slipping back into his seat and reaching for the previously forgotten bento boxes. He opens one slowly, singing to himself slowly, “You deserve it baby, you deserve it all.”

(Leave it to Viktor to have a nice voice. It surprises Yuuri, considering how off-key he sounded in so many videos, and it hits Yuuri that this is a special show for him. There was an audience for the Viktor in those videos. But, in this moment, Yuuri is an audience of one.)

And, finally, Yuuri finds his voice, watching him grab deep-fried shrimp with a set of chopsticks. He chews thoughtfully, studying Yuuri in front of him, still (now almost painfully) hard and in only Viktor’s suit jacket.

“Viktor,” he clears his throat, surprised when the song simply loops to the beginning again, “w—what exactly are you doing?”

Viktor leans back, taking a long languid moment to ogle Yuuri. He’s shameless, popping open his collar.

“I’m eating this delicious lunch you made for me. You know, like a normal person,” he reaches for the next shrimp, stretching it out for Yuuri to take into his own mouth. His grin stretches wide to match the sparkle in his eye, and it makes something heavy dip in Yuuri’s stomach (and a part of him recognizes, shamefully, that it’s arousal, deep and unmistakable). “No? – Okay, then, more for me.”

“So, you’re eating lunch now?” Yuuri asks, disbelieving.

“Yup,” Viktor pops the p with glee, leaning his elbows on the table. Innocently, he licks his lips, wasting no time in adding, “I’m going to finish eating lunch, like a normal person, and then I’m going to fuck my boyfriend in a conference room, like a normal person. You should drink. It’s good champagne. Want me to open your lunch, too?”

Yuuri gasps, the heat pooling in his lower belly. Viktor throws the words at his feet, a filthy offer that makes all of Yuuri burn. The bastard. Yuuri watches him eat happily, making almost obscene moans as he worships Yuuri’s food.

(Music has always been intoxicating to Yuuri, more so than alcohol. His senses are on overdrive, the smell of Viktor surrounding all of him, the weight of expensive strawberry champagne on his tongue, the sight of Viktor slowly snapping off buttons and pushing expensive silk up his arms, and the sound of Bruno Mars crudely whispering something about got it if you want it, you deserve it all, and Yuuri believes for that moment that he does deserve it all. He wants to deserve it all, or at least Viktor.

He finishes his glass, before setting it aside and crawling down the length of the table.

And Viktor looks at him like he’s hung the moon. When Yuuri manages to make it to his lap, Viktor looks like he asked the stars to shine just for them (though that might be because Yuuri can’t help the way his hips are grinding slow and gentle to the beat of sex by the fire at night, silk sheets and diamonds, lucky for you, lucky for you, and Yuuri can only hope that Viktor does feel lucky.)

This is the most decadent thing Yuuri has ever let himself do.

They have the decency to finish feeding each other lunch (and enough indecency to touch each other languidly) before Viktor takes a short break to bring the entire bottle of champagne back to their end of the table. And Yuuri wastes no time, in his desperation and ache, to pull Viktor’s pants down before pushing him back down onto his chair.

The rest of the next hour is lost to Yuuri, riding Viktor and letting him feed him champagne in between dirty, messy kisses.)

XXXIX.

Yuuri is bright red by the time he stumbles out of Viktor’s office. (The fact that he feels so filled with inspiration, among other things, only helps to keep him rooted to the present – a reminder that this is all Viktor he’s carrying in his heart and on his skin.) He gets one last kiss and his fingers refuse to unravel from the lapel of Viktor’s jacket, which, by some miracle, is still not wrinkled. Viktor runs the pads of his fingers over Yuuri’s jaw, studying his lips.

“Let’s go to Barcelona this weekend,” Vikor whispers, obviously still drunk with champagne and the taste and smell of Yuuri as betrayed by the flush painted on his cheeks and the slur wrapped around his voice. “Or tell me where you want to go. I want to take you somewhere. Anywhere. Lock you up just for me.”

“Stop saying filthy things in your office,” Yuuri admonishes, but his tone has no bite thanks to the giggles bubbling up his throat. “Get to work. Maybe if you’re good…”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, lapochka. I might have to get us a hotel in Moscow to give us some privacy from Phichit and Isabella,” Viktor chuckles, bringing up Yuuri’s knuckles to kiss them before he waves him goodbye. “Should I have a helicopter on standby just in case I’m good?”

“We only have a few more days, Viktor. I’m sure you can wait to Detroit to have me all to yourself.”

And Yuuri misses the flash of surprise on Viktor’s face.

(In the car, Isabella elbows Yuuri gently, “so, Mr. Katsuki-Nikiforov, huh?”

Phichit squeals, bringing them in together for a selfie, “I’d say that was as good a proposal as any!”

Yuuri flushes bright pink, ducking his head down, “he probably had to do it to get me access without getting too many questions. Don’t read too much into it, guys.”

Isabella arches an eyebrow, reaching with a gentle finger to flick something on Yuuri’s neck. Belatedly, he realizes that it’s his shirt tag. He put his shirt back on inside out and walked out of Viktor’s office just like that, without his friends even telling him. Trembling, Yuuri reaches back to confirm his suspicions. While he’s doing that, Isabella pokes his neck with a knowing-grin. His fingers next move tentatively to the sensitive spot on his neck.

“Phichit! Don’t you dare post that picture on Instagram!”

“Oops, too late,” Phichit hits submit before throwing his phone over to Isabella, who shamelessly slips it into her bra, letting #MrKatsukiNikiforov and #AfternoonDelight trend, but only until Viktor shares the picture and later posts a picture of himself, collar popped open to give a perfect view of a bright purple bruise on his neck.

Yuuri doesn’t talk to him until he promises to edit his post to delete #YummyYuuri and #BestLunchEver. But, by then, it’s a little too late, especially since he simply replaces them with even worse hashtags (like #ItWasGoodForMeToo), including the infamous #EatingLapochka, which he innocently excuses by saying, “Well, I can’t put a with in there. It ruins the tag’s aesthetic.”)

XL.

Ana Nikiforova cries at the airport to the point where her mascara starts running down her cheeks and Mila has to keep squeezing her arm between her mother and Yuuri to dab a handkerchief over Ana’s face. Viktor keeps speaking to his mother in Russian, first in soft, comforting tones that soon enough get louder and firmer to match the obvious twitch in his eye. Yuuri almost doesn’t want to know what he’s saying, what with Ana only sobbing louder as she keeps bringing Yuuri into a tight hug, kissing his forehead and his cheeks, and patting his head. When Yuuri tries to take a step back, his face gets pushed down to her bosom.

“Okay, Mama,” Viktor huffs, peeling Yuuri away to stick him tight by his side. “Enough. We’ll come back to visit soon.”

“Soon, he says, as he goes breaking his Mama’s heart,” Ana whimpers, bottom-lip wobbling as she stares at them both and tries to go in for another hug. Yuri Nikiforov groans, pulling her back with Mila’s help. “My sons are leaving! Oh, my heart! Broken. Just broken.”

Sons. Yuuri feels something warm engulf his chest. He takes a step forward to take one of Ana’s hands. It’s an obvious mistake, and Viktor ends up having to pry Yuuri from his mother’s arms by force, practically carrying him away to the security gate. Yuuri feels horribly exposed with his ass propped up on Viktor’s shoulder.

“Oh my gosh, Viktor, I think your mother fainted!” Yuuri gasps, hands digging into Viktor’s lower back to keep him from sliding down.

“Yes, she does that every time one of us leaves. It’s the only time when she chooses not to wear water-proof mascara,” Viktor sighs. “But she’s fine. She’ll be all smiles and happy wishes by the time we Skype her back in Detroit. Trust me, malysh, if we go back to check, we’ll never make it on the flight, and the dogs have already been checked in.”

TBC

Chapter Text

 XLI. 

Yuuri is relieved to be back in Detroit, but once they make it to the apartment building there’s a thin veil of awkwardness fogging the hall. Viktor stares at his apartment door for a long moment, shuffling his feet nervously, and Yuuri wonders if he’s just tired as Viktor stumbles to bring out his keys. They jingle in his hands, filling the silence of something (very clearly about their relationship) unsaid.

Phichit whistles as he opens the door to their apartment and makes a quick beeline to his bedroom, shouting, “Gold, Silver, Bronze, and Phichit Junior, I’m home!” – And Yuuri can only imagine there’s a party starting to develop in the hamster palace. He’s comforted to be back home, despite the luxuries of the apartment they shared in St. Petersburg. The very thought of St. Petersburg in Detroit reminds him how far away that life is now.

“Vitya?” Yuuri asks, letting a hand rub circles over Viktor’s back. Viktor looks a little lost. In his crate, Vicchan begins to whine, unhappy that no one has yet to reunite him with his friend Makkachin. Makkachin seems similarly antsy, though more than likely because Makkachin needs a walk around the block. “Are you okay?”

Viktor jumps, turning to look at Yuuri with wild eyes. The keys in his pocket burn. He pushes out, “Yes, of course, everything’s great.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” Yuuri asks, pressing a kiss to Viktor’s cheek before pushing his bag and Vicchan’s crate into the apartment.

(Viktor is left more than a little confused. He thought Yuuri had made it clear that he was moving into Viktor’s apartment after they returned to Detroit, what between all the requests for Viktor to be patient and promises that Yuuri would soon be all Viktor’s, all the time, which is, really, all Viktor wants for his new life in America. But then the door to the other apartment closes and he’s left in the hallway with his keys and his dog and a couple of bags filled with vodka and clothes that partially still smell like Yuuri and the home they’ve left behind in another continent.

The last several weeks might as well be a dream.)

XLII.

Viktor decides he needs to be patient. Yuuri probably needs time to physically move his stuff, figure out arrangements with Phichit for a new roommate (though Viktor has considered offering to pay for Yuuri’s half indefinitely if it will speed up the process), and re-look at their lease. But, after a few weeks, Viktor starts to get impatient, perhaps because he recognizes that Yuuri is comfortable with their arrangement. Viktor’s apartment is almost like an extension of the one next door. Vicchan pretty much spends all day in Viktor’s apartment, huddling with Makkachin. The dog has no qualms about pawing at the door to be let in.

Yuuri, too, seems to be fully comfortable with the idea of walking in for breakfast and for dinner, sometimes staying the night, often burrowing in Viktor’s bed (and heart) on weekends, only to leave. (The fact that he leaves wouldn’t hurt so bad if Viktor didn’t realize each time that Yuuri doesn’t stay. The fact he comes back is but a consolation.) So, Viktor concocts a plan.

(And when Yuuri comes into the apartment hungry, on those nights when Viktor kneels humble and wanting between his legs on the sofa, he slowly strips Yuuri – layer by layer – of each piece of clothing, tucking it under furniture, hiding it under the bed, or winding it around something that can soon be forgotten in the heat of lust. It’s a struggle, not just because Yuuri never initiates intimacy (and for a month, Viktor thought it was possible to die from blue-balls). Viktor, who has never done laundry before, becomes a master, sneaking into the apartment next door to play the role of devoted boyfriend (which he is, he totally is!) and walk out with a hamper full of clothes.

He divides blacks and whites and colors, researches what goes into hot and cold water and when it’s okay to use bleach. He pours too much softener, like he’s dropping a love potion into the laundry machine.

Eventually, he thinks, Yuuri will get the memo.

“What you’re doing is psychotic and you should cut it out,” Yuri Nikiforov snaps at him one day over Skype. Mila Nikiforova elbows her little brother away from the screen, gushing at her brother.

“That’s so cute, Vitya. You’re trying to be more domestic,” she grins, shimmying in her excitement. “Tell me everything! Are you going to cook him dinner? You’re a good cook, Vitya. Maybe you can try your hand at Japanese cooking, start preparing to wow the family for whenever you meet them. Ah, yes! Go on, have dinner waiting for your man!”

Viktor shrugs, running a hand through his hair. He winks: “Well, you know I don’t have to cook to keep him coming back, and coming and coming—”

“Gross, you jerk! Your baby brother is on the line!”

Mila chuckles, “Oh, so now you want to be our baby brother? Such an angry kitten, Yura. Good for you, Vitya! Keep us posted and give our love to Yuuri!”)

XLIII.

It takes Yuuri a few weeks to realize his closet is empty. He huffs, moving to his drawers, which are scarcely much better. All he has left intact is underwear, but he can’t exactly wear just underwear. The few jeans still left are a little tight – leftovers he hasn’t had the heart to discard with the excuse of donating them someday. But, at this point, he has no clean shirts left. Peeking his head out the door, he yells, “Phichit, have you been borrowing my clothes recently?”

Phichit looks up from his laptop, sipping a smoothie, “Only thing I have of yours is a pair of booty shorts you said I could have. Hm. Maybe they’re at Viktor’s – seeing how you spend all your free time next door.” Phichit wiggles his eyebrows and Yuuri pouts. “I think I saw him carrying a hamper of clothes the other day? – Maybe he’s trying to do your laundry to help you out with the tour preparations getting so busy.”

That’s entirely too altruistic for Viktor, who doesn’t even know how to clean his own clothes. After all, he’s Viktor Nikiforov, the man that genuinely believes all dirty clothes belong in a crisp linen bag to be left outside your apartment door to be taken to the cleaners and then magically brought back for re-wear. Yuuri had had to teach his boyfriend that in Detroit, especially in their non-serviced apartment building, leaving out a bag of gently used Armani suits was an invitation for theft. But Phichit had a point. Yuuri had been spending progressively more time in Viktor’s apartment, eating dinner there and spending weekends – not to mention Vicchan practically napped there all day instead of in Yuuri’s apartment.

“Maybe he took them to get them dry-cleaned,” Yuuri mutters, upset as he keeps on about ‘Viktor being Viktor.’ Sighing, Yuuri reaches for the key to Viktor’s apartment, slipping on his pajama shirt. Vicchan perks up, practically rushing to the door already. “Come on, boy. Maybe I can find a shirt or something I left behind.”

The apartment is quiet. Vicchan whines when he notices that Makkachin is not around and Yuuri is surprised that Viktor isn’t home, but he walks in regardless, making a beeline for the bedroom where the bed is made pristinely with flat, perfect edges, almost like a hotel room.

In the drawers, Yuuri finds a pair of his socks and a lonely pair of gym shorts. When Yuuri turns to the closet, though, he blanches, immediately finding all his dress shirts and most of his pants – jeans, khakis, suits. Mentally, Yuuri begins to calculate how much time he spends in Viktor’s apartment. He’d always heard from some of his colleagues – women and men dancers around the water cooler – about partners testing the waters intentionally, leaving a toothbrush in the bathroom, or an extra pair of pajamas. But this? Yuuri must be crazy if he didn’t once notice that he was leaving his clothes behind like breadcrumbs.

(“Wait, so all your clothes are over there?” Phichit asks when Yuuri returns.

Yuuri flushes a bright red, but nods, feeling incredibly embarrassed, but also extremely lost. He’s never been in this type of situation before: “Viktor must think I’m, like, trying to move in or something. Oh my god, what if he thinks I’m trying to pressure him? Phichit, I swear I didn’t do it on purpose!” 

Phichit frowns, “Hey, Yuuri, I’m sure it’s fine. It’s Viktor, the guy who decided, sure, let’s play house in an international penthouse apartment in St. Petersburg! It’s okay. If he hasn’t made any comments about it, he’s probably fine with it, or thinks it’s totally normal with how much time you do spend over there. I mean, you have a key. You practically live there.”

“Yes, but I don’t live-live there. Quick, help me get it all out, please?” Yuuri begs, flustered as he starts walking back to the apartment. “Phichit, please. I—I don’t want to screw things up with Viktor.”

Phichit sighs, but follows Yuuri like a good best friend. He only bothers to speak again when he’s hauling a mountain of shirts out of the apartment, “Fine. But I think it’d be a lot easier if you just talked to him.”)

Yuuri enlists Phichit to help as fast as possible, practically ripping clothes from hangers in their rush. Of course, they leave the door open, meaning there’s no warning when Viktor returns home, except for Vicchan’s excited barks as he’s reunited with his best poodle pal, Makkachin. Yuuri wants to die when he walks out to find Viktor’s smile slowly vanishing from his face, and Yuuri can barely make out if he’s hurt, thanks to the pile of clothes hanging heavy on his arms.

“Yuuri?” Viktor asks, voice thick with something Yuuri can’t recognize. At least, it’s not anger, but it certainly feels like it should be. “What are you doing?”

“Viktor, I’m sorry,” Yuuri whispers, tears already trickling at the corner of his eyes. “I swear, I had no idea I was taking over your closet. I wasn’t doing it on purpose. I’ll be better about it from now on.”

Viktor’s face softens, realizing what has happened, because of course Yuuri wouldn’t blame Viktor for his missing clothes. Yuuri would blame himself, because that’s the type of precious, special boy that Viktor loves. Yuuri is sweet, a real force of nature that makes his head spin with love at every corner of his existence, but Yuuri is also completely blind and oblivious at times. Viktor takes some quick steps over to him, picking at a familiar suit jacket, long lost the night they first met.

“Yuuri,” he whispers, plucking the jacket to show it to him.

And Yuuri panics again, “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t trying to steal it. I must have missed it—”

“Yuuri,” Viktor speaks more firmly, eyes locking with his, “I haven’t had this jacket in my closet in a very long time. As in, I didn’t move it with me to Detroit because I didn’t have it then to move.”

Yuuri studies the jacket, his cheeks blooming with color, “That’s even worse! Why didn’t you say anything when I wore—wait.”

Viktor chuckles, nodding, “Yes, did you just realize it, lapochka? – You’ve never worn this jacket. Or maybe you have, but I, surely, haven’t seen it. I did this, Yuuri. I’m so sorry. I didn’t think you’d take this long to notice or that you’d think it was in any way your fault.”

“You raided my closet.”

“I did,” Viktor admits, trying to take the clothes from Yuuri’s arms. This is the most serious and even-tempered Yuuri has ever seen him. Yuuri struggles for only a moment before letting him take some of the clothes.

“And did my laundry. You learned to do laundry.”

“Yes. That too,” Viktor nods, successfully taking hold of a handful of jeans. He slowly starts walking to the bedroom. Yuuri shadows behind him, a warm, comforting weight in the otherwise empty apartment. “I’m going to put these back. I can, right?”

“Because you wanted them here?” Yuuri asks, confused.

“Because I’ve been trying to get you to move in with me since we got back, Yuuri,” Viktor sighs, looking at the raided closet with mixed emotions dancing over his face. Still, he gets to work, dropping the clothes on the king-sized bed before reaching for the first hanger. “I put a lot of work into this, you know. I even color-coordinated your clothes. You own a lot of darks.”

“Yuuri, is there more?” Phichit’s voice rings through the apartment.

Yuuri runs out of the bedroom, “no, I’m fine. Just. I’ll be there soon. Thanks, Phichit.”

When he returns, he finds that Viktor is taking his work seriously. “If you still didn’t notice with the clothes, I was about to start on shoes, then follow up with other things,” he says, fingers trailing over a pair of faded jeans like he’s trying to memorize the dips of the inseam. “I figured I’d avoid raiding your bathroom cabinets.” And Yuuri appreciates that Viktor had the decency not to mention his medication. The fact that Viktor wants him to move in at all is still surprising. It’s not something they’ve discussed or vocalized, but Yuuri finds himself realizing with clarity that this is what he’s wanted since they returned from St. Petersburg and questioned whether they would ever get to this point.

“You want me to move in?”

Viktor’s hands are shaking now.

“That’s what I thought you were going to do the moment we got back,” Viktor confesses, and Yuuri has never seen him look so broken as he finally folds the pair of pants. “But maybe I got it wrong. Maybe you like just coming in here when you have time and having a place to go for when you get sick of me. Me and all my extra bullshit.”

Yuuri takes a step back. He’s never heard Viktor curse before. It takes him a moment to realize Viktor is crying and he reaches with a tentative hand to brush his fringe back and look at the tears clinging to the edge of Viktor’s eyes. Viktor hasn’t cried in front of Yuuri before. He’s seen Viktor in the aftermath, felt him tremble with contained emotion, but never seen it explode. It’s like a fountain, and Yuuri thinks to when he was small, fascinated by water slipping through his fingertips. 

“Yuuri, what are you doing?”

“Sorry! I was just surprised, is all. You’ve never,” he worries at his bottom lip, “I’ve never seen you cry before.”

Viktor rubs at his eyes, turning away from Yuuri.

“You don’t have to move in if you don’t want to. I just thought. Back in St. Petersburg you kept hinting—”

“I really don’t know what you’re referring to. I would never hint. I’m too anxious for that!” Yuuri blurts out, trying to piece together in his mind when Viktor would have read his words and translated them as Yuuri interloping into his life. Back then, Yuuri had resigned himself to eating crumbs, anything at all and for as long as Viktor would give it to him. He keeps his arms close to his flanks now, unsure if he’s allowed to even touch Viktor. “I thought it’d be pushy. To just be here all the time. When I saw all my stuff here, I freaked out.”

“You were with me in St. Petersburg all the time.”

Yuuri nods, “But you needed me then.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor sniffles, turning to look at him with a small smile, “I always need you. Do you think I just go around putting together state-of-the-art social media campaigns to find every guy that gives me a lap dance at a childhood acquaintance’s wedding reception? – Because you’re a one-time case for me. I’m not that thirsty. Or I am, but only because it’s you. I genuinely believe it’s always going to be you. It’s okay if you don’t feel the same right now, but if you do—”

“I do,” Yuuri blurts, surprising himself by his forwardness. He inches inward, worrying at his bottom lip. “I want to move in. Here. With you. If you still want that. But I’m probably going to need to talk to Phichit first?”

Viktor only cries even harder, stretching out his arms to envelope his boyfriend into a tight hug.

“Yuuri,” he sobs, “Of course I want that. I’m so happy.”

“Then maybe you can stop crying?” he asks, chuckling as he wraps his arms around Viktor’s waist. “I’m getting mixed signals, Viktor. It makes me nervous.”

 XLIV.

Moving in together is easy. Living together is hard.

Once Yuuri makes Viktor’s apartment his new permanent residence, he notices that Viktor, too, begins to think about the concept of permanence.  This is their home. Thus, Viktor feels he needs to get back to work. So far, Viktor has been living like a nomad, taking off for long week photoshoots in large European metropolises, the like Yuuri would love to visit if not for the fact that he, too, has a job.

Viktor’s agent in Paris starts to get frustrated soon after Viktor begins to keep a schedule (and Yuuri chews hard on his cheek whenever he hears the loud curses in French, thick and heavy as they fill the silence of the apartment with white noise).

(Apparently, Viktor’s Uncle Yakov handles it. Yuuri isn’t sure what it means, only that Uncle Yakov is the handler of the family, and he starts wondering if Viktor is hinting that part of his family has former connections to the mafia. Viktor has never shared how his family made so much money. When Yuuri does meet Uncle Yakov a few weeks after moving in with Viktor, he realizes Viktor must have been exaggerating because Yakov is a stout, older man with a receding hairline and well-dressed in a Burberry trench coat. His voice is gruff and his hand is rough, but when he hums his approval over Yuuri, Yuuri feels like he’s won the world.

“You’re the boy Vitya’s been obsessed with, huh?”

And Yuuri flushes pink, setting some food in front of Yakov. He’s determined he’s going to win all of Viktor’s difficult family members with the power of katsudon. So far, it’s worked on Viktor’s younger brother; surely, it will work with his uncle, too. It does.

“I don’t know if obsessed is the right word,” Viktor jokes, making heart eyes at Yuuri as he rests his elbows on the table. Yuuri taps at his forearms to get them off so he can set some food in front of him, too. “I’m in love. I love you, Yuuri.”

“I love you, too. Now drink your smoothie,” Yuuri chuckles.

“Don’t you love how he cares so much about my career? Yuuri makes me all my smoothies,” Viktor preens, drinking the brown concoction without complaint. “He’s got magic fingers.”

Yakov snorts, “I bet, Vitya.”

“No, really! Everything he makes tastes much better.”

“So long as you stay in shape for New York fashion week,” Yakov shakes his head, but later tells Yuuri he’s doing a good job with Vitya, that boy hasn’t avoided complaining about those smoothies since he was sixteen and we lied to him that it would prevent premature aging and hair loss. And Yuuri just nods, proudly, handing Yakov some Tupperware with more katsudon to go.)

Yuuri understands, though: Viktor’s not close enough to London for last minute ad requests or contract signings with Burberry. New York would be an easier place to operate, but Detroit is where Yuuri resides and that automatically makes Viktor start looking for another modeling agency there. (And the entire week that it takes Viktor to find a new agent, Yuuri can’t sleep.) He also starts looking for a studio, explaining to Yuuri that he’s working on transitioning into a position as a designer: “Designers are more versatile than models. They can work from anywhere.”

(Of course, Mama Nikiforova cries when Viktor explains that they won’t be moving to St. Petersburg any time soon, so Mama, please stop sending pictures of our suite and the potential nursery, unless you’re okay with us using the playpen for poodle puppies.

“But Vitya,” she sniffles, letting her mascara run as she pulls up a baby girl’s bubble dress in blue bouquet print, “I already told Baby CZ to consider us for next year’s fall lines. Burberry is ready to sign the kid as soon as they can walk. All we need now is the kid.”

Yuuri tries not to laugh as he listens in, focusing instead on frying the breaded chicken for their meal. Only Ana Nikiforova would pimp out her non-existent grandchild to massive fashion powerhouses. He’s sure, though, that Viktor can see the faint flush of his cheeks bleeding down his neck and probably settling somewhere near his navel. Viktor licks his lips and crosses his arms, sitting back (and Yuuri grows only more excited for the call to end).  

Behind Viktor’s mother, Mila shakes her head, lifting a Burberry peacoat in miniature, and Viktor’s mouth gapes open as he slams both hands on the table. The laptop rattles, as he says with a heart-shaped smile that rivals the sun: “Oh my god. Please tell me they make that in my size. So cute!” – And Yuuri arches an eyebrow, coming from around the kitchen island to rest his chin on his shoulder. He waves shyly at Ana and doesn’t even fight when Viktor pushes the chair back pull Yuuri on his lap more comfortably. “Yuuri, look. Mama bought the baby poodles clothes.”

Yuuri laughs, waving shyly at Mama Nikiforova, who has stopped crying to gush at Yuuri and how handsome he’s looking, especially his skin: “It’s glowing, Yura. So beautiful, my boys! Yuuri,” she whines impatiently, “tell Viktor that these clothes must be worn by an adorable chubby baby with your lovely complexion and beautiful eyes and dark hair.”

“Poodle puppies are plenty chubby and fluffy,” Viktor teases his mother, eyes dancing. “You should know that better than anyone.”

Mila lifts a pair of newborn ballerina slippers by a pair of silk, white ribbons, and Yuuri can’t help but gasp. He presses both hands over his mouth instantly, trying to repress the sound, but it’s too late. Viktor has heard him, and turns all his attention to him, eyes shining brightly as he pokes Yuuri’s side, “Oh?” His voice lilts with a teasing curl, “Oh! Oh, I think he likes that. That’s the face he makes when he likes something. I know it very well. Can we get a close up of those, Mila?”

“I—I was just surprised. I’ve never seen some so tiny, is all,” Yuuri mumbles, looking away.

“Yeah? So you don’t want to – oh, he’s taking a look,” Viktor laughs, pressing Yuuri closer against him. “Think those would fit a poodle puppy?”

“No,” Yuuri rolls his eyes, elbowing Viktor’s ribs hard. He continues with wonderment in his voice, “those are for a newborn. A human newborn.”

Ana beams, clasping her hands together as she sing-songs, “Ah, Yuuri understands me, such a precious boy. Let me show you the tutu! I’m sure you’ll both want a baby once you see the tutu. They make such cute things now and – tada! A peacock, it’s all tulle! And just look at these tiny socks with poodle faces, and just in case the baby inherits Vitya’s forehead (though I’m really hoping the child will take after Yuuri, no offense, Vitya, darling, I still think you’re the most beautiful boy, but Yuuri has such lovely, proportional features), I bought them a hat from Burberry. Can you believe it was on sale? Only $150, such a steal…”)

So, while before it was easy to assume Viktor was always home, now Yuuri has a measure of how hard Viktor works. It makes Yuuri love him even more, seeing him, again, in the light of a businessman and having the opportunity to miss him.  But, really, moving together is hard because just as Yuuri begins to stuff the last shelf with his books, he starts packing for Leo’s summer tour. With his career exploding, Yuuri had made a decision to pursue dancing—one last time—seriously, something both Viktor and Phichit had supported eagerly (as had Ana Nikiforova, who kept offering Yuuri potential contracts doing dance workout videos, including a regimen strangely called Yuuri’s Booty Booster).

“Are you sure you’re okay watching Vicchan?” Yuuri asks, reaching for one of Viktor’s shirts. He’s hoping to be sneaky. It doesn’t work. Viktor wraps a hand around his wrist, thumb rubbing circles over Yuuri’s quickening pulse. “What?” he asks shyly, trying to pretend he doesn’t know precisely what he had planned all along.

“No, you don’t. I see you. That’s my favorite shirt, Yuuri,” Viktor tisks (and Yuuri knows because it always smells like Viktor with how often he wears it), reaching for another one. The whole time, he smiles coyly. “You can take this one. I’ll even douse it with my cologne, if you want.”

Yuuri flushes bright red, but takes the shirt anyway, muttering his thanks as he stuffs it into his luggage. Four weeks without Viktor. It shouldn’t feel like a lot, but it does, if only because they spend so much time together. He reaches for a sweatshirt, looking up at Viktor to ask permission. When he receives a placid nod, Yuuri stuffs it in his bag. His fingers kneed the material, remembering how it feels to rest his cheek against Viktor’s plush chest on movie night.  

“I could just come with you,” Viktor offers, “Bring the dogs.”

“That’d get expensive fast, Viktor. It’s four weeks, eight cities. And Makkachin is a lot bigger than Vicchan for some of those domestic flights, not to mention the paperwork for international travel.”

“You know, the benefits of dating rich is that you don’t have to worry about any of it. I’m not counting my pennies, Yuuri. And I would consider it an investment to keep our family together. At least let me visit for the East Coast shows?”

“But you know I will think about it, the cost (and whether you’ll be mad you spent so much on me if it doesn’t work out, he doesn’t say),” Yuuri sighs, wrapping his arms around Viktor’s waist to pull him close. “Just behave and promise me you’ll wait patiently here and Skype me every other night?”

Viktor squawks, “Just every other night? – Lapochka, I’m hurt! I expect at least once a day. How am I supposed to live? I’ll already be wasting away on takeout. (“You can cook better than I can, Vitya.”) It doesn’t matter. I can’t cook just for one, so I’m going to grow skinny, skinny until I disappear. I can’t handle withdrawal symptoms, too! Chris and Phichit will have to start a solidarity campaign for me: #SaveVitya #Looking4YuuriAgain.”

“Don’t you dare. If I see #Looking4Yuuri resurface, I won’t leave you naughty WhatsApp messages,” Yuuri chuckles, pulling him down by the nape for a kiss. Their breaths mingle as he says, “You’ll have to delete them afterwards, though.”

“At least one WhatsApp message a day, then,” Viktor bargains, pecking his lips quickly. Vicchan barks as he circles their legs, obviously eager for a walk. “And I want pictures. Lots of pictures. Pictures are not messages. I get to keep all naughty pictures to keep me warm on those lonely Detroit nights.”

Yuuri laughs, but nods, dropping the bag to the floor (and sending Vicchan scrambling for the door to seek Makkachin) to push Viktor back onto the bed, “Deal. So, since pictures are allowed, start stripping, super model. I’m going to take so many pictures of you, I’ll have at least one picture of your dick a day.”

“Two!” Viktor laughs, already unzipping his pants, “I’m going to send you so many pictures, Yuuri. You don’t even know what’s coming.”

Yuuri winks, “hopefully me!”

(And Viktor decides, for the hundredth time, that he’s so in love.)

 XLV.

“Thank you all for joining this very important conference call on the future of my happily ever after with Yuuri,” Viktor nods at the expecting faces staring back at him on the computer screen – all except for Yuri, who is looking bored as he asks, why am I here for this? Viktor ignores his younger brother. “As you all know, Yuuri and I are obviously soulmates, which means every step in our relationship has led to the obvious indication that we should get married. And adopt a poodle puppy.”

“Why a poodle puppy?” Phichit asks, popping his head over Viktor’s shoulder. “I thought Ana said you were adopting a baby.”

“That is the baby,” Viktor replies with ease.

“That’s only what you think!” Ana sing-songs from Yuri’s screen, completely off sight. 

“Oh wait, that’s what this call is about? – Hold on,” Leo blinks, suddenly growing tense. In the background, everyone spots Yuuri walking in a pair of booty shorts as he drinks water from a pale blue water bottle. He’s oblivious to the chat his friend group is having about him just a few feet away. Leo slams the laptop screen closed and his box goes black.

Viktor gasps with want, unhappy that his fingers weren’t fast enough to get a screenshot. In a few seconds, Chris sends an attachment and Viktor clasps his hands together, “Ah, bless you, Giacometti. Chris is definitely best man now!”

Chris winks, blowing Viktor a kiss, “I knew I was still first in your heart. Or second, seeing as Yuuri is now number one. But that’s fine.” He runs a hand through his hair, showing off his rippling pectorals, obviously wet from a recent visit to his Olympic-sized swimming pool. “I always prefer to come second anyway.”

“Gross!” Yuri squawks, “Why are you all so disgusting? And why am I here? I’m not going to help you do whatever you need to do to marry the piggy!”

“Yura,” Ana Nikiforova appears on screen behind her youngest son, muting him.

“Thank you, Mama,” Viktor clears his throat.  

“Aw,” Isabella mourns, patting a crumbling J.J. on another screen. She throws Viktor a dirty look (that visibly says, I thought we had a deal not to discuss who would be the best man until the very end for J.J.’s sake,) as she hums, “it’s okay, J.J. You can still be in the wedding party, I’m sure. Right Viktor?”

“Uh,” Viktor pauses, grateful when Leo’s screen lights up again. “Leo! You’re back! Did you get any close ups of Yuuri in those Juicy-shorts?”

Mila frowns, leaning closer to her phone screen, “are you hiding in a supply closet?”

Leo breaths hard, nodding, “I ran in here. I didn’t realize it was a secret meeting. Why doesn’t anyone tell me these things? – I could’ve ruined the surprise! Gah, I’m out of shape. Okay, we’re good now. Yuuri doesn’t come anywhere near supply closet.” The dim light of a loose light bulb above his head makes the shadows dance over his face. It’s a strange visual, and Viktor internally cries for the sacrifice of his friends, some of whom would be so willing to bypass decent camera lighting and distort their beautiful features with crappy wifi to discuss the fate of his happy (hopefully married) future with Yuuri (hopefully soon to be Katsuki-Nikiforov). “But we have to make it fast. I’m smelling a lot of non-organic cleaning fumes in here, guys. I’ll either pass out in ten, or screw up my voice, which can’t happen – tonight’s the first concert.”

“Your sacrifice is well noted and will be remembered, Leo,” Viktor sniffles, “Everyone, a moment of silence for Leo’s voice tonight.”

“Cheers,” Chris nods, bringing a shot glass out of nowhere.

“Cheers!” Mila and Isabella follow suit, without shot glasses. In her screen, Isabella hugs J.J. tightly, trying to press soothing kisses over his temple as he weeps.  Otabek simply hums, while Yuri glares at the camera, still muted by his mother, who stands guard behind him. 

Leo blanches, “wait, what? No. You guys. No. I’m hanging up in fifteen minutes.”

“Now then, if I may go through our agenda,” Viktor ignores him, turning to Phichit, who hands him a manila folder with a thick stack of paper.

 XLVI. 

“Are you nervous?” Phichit asks Viktor, surprised to see him so flustered as he considers in front of the mirror whether to comb his hair back. They’ve been working for a couple of days on scheduling a call with Yuuri’s family back in Hasetsu, which was easy enough, until Phichit realized that neither of them spoke good enough Japanese (as in, Viktor spoke almost none, except the translations he’d picked up from Yuuri to hello, faster, harder, that was incredible, and, to Phichit’s even greater embarrassment (and adding to the list of things he wished he’d never learned), can I come in your mouth?) to have a serious conversation, which meant Minako had to be pulled into the planning stages of the most important day of Viktor’s life to date. “I don’t recommend it. The, uh, bangs are kind of your signature look now. Not to mention your hair’s a little asymmetrical, so might not be a good idea to push it back. But, you know, if you want to—”

“You’re thinking of my forehead, aren’t you?” Viktor scoffs, dropping the comb to focus on his tie instead.

“Hey Viktor,” Minako yells from the kitchen, having recently been scarred for life at the discovery of what little Japanese Viktor had learned while living with Yuuri, “Can I drink this vodka? Oi, Viktor? – I’m going to drink the vodka.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything, but I promised Ana. She’s really worried about it,” Phichit shrugs, leaning against the bathroom door. Makkachin and Vicchan look up at Viktor from Phichit’s feet, tails wagging as if in encouragement. “Uh, Viktor, I think you, uh, have a mosquito bite right—”

“Phichit, don’t forget to give Viktor the concealer! Looks like that volcano is going to erupt any second!”

“It’s a stress pimple, okay?” Viktor sobs, hand stretched out for the little tub of concealer. He dabs it carefully on the tip of his nose, probably still in shock. “Do you know when was the last time I got a pimple?”

Phichit shakes his head, “Uh, puberty?”

“Never, that’s when. Years of vacationing in the Dead Sea and getting sea kelp and mud masks in fucking Paris for this to happen to me now? I’m going to sue Alpaga. Oh my god, is this pharmacy-bought concealer?” Viktor reads the brand with growing horror, washing it off almost instantly.

(When Yuuri calls, Viktor tries to pretend everything is fine. Phichit reminds Viktor in the background that it’s imperative he finishes the call quickly so they can talk to Yuuri’s parents before Minako has to teach a class, but then Yuuri frowns and says, “Vitya, did a spider bite you on the nose?”

And Viktor starts crying again (just as Minako brings over a vodka shot for Phichit), reaching for the concealer, “Am I ugly? – I’m ugly, aren’t I? I bet you’re surrounded with beautiful people right now. And I’m at home, getting ugly and fat.”

“What?! Viktor, no, you’re so thin right now,” Yuuri panics, watching his boyfriend’s face grow blotchy with tears (and Phichit hates to admit it, but Viktor is an ugly crier). “Of course not. No one is more beautiful than you. I could go all around the world and not find anyone better than you. Vitenka, you know no one is as beautiful to me as you are...”

Viktor stops crying, suddenly looking at his camera’s phone like the world has stopped turning. He blinks away the tears clinging to the edges of his eyes: “Yura, d—did you just call me Vitenka?”

“Did I say it right? Sasha’s one of the female dancers here. She, uh, she’s Russian.”

“So sweet, lapochka. Say it again, lyubov moya.”

Phichit takes another shot, watching as Yuuri coos out Russian nicknames and Viktor preens with pride and shimmies in happiness, the bright red pimple caked with make-up on the tip of his nose. Minako, too, seems happy, hugging all of Viktor’s collection of expensive alcohol.)

XLVII.

Toshiya and Hiroko Katsuki easily become Viktor’s favorites, after his own parents and Yuuri, of course. Where Viktor’s parents have always been all sharp edges and immaculately flattering cuts, Yuuri’s parents are soft and comfortable, like a warm pool of love after a harsh winter day. It’s so fitting that they would run a hot spring resort.

“So, you’re the handsome foreigner our Yuuri has been dating,” Toshiya says and Viktor recognizes the word handsome almost immediately. He preens, pride evident as he sits up straighter, and Minako looks almost sick as she drinks some more. She doesn’t want to know why Viktor knows the word handsome, not after coming to terms with the fact that all of Viktor’s Japanese language education has been less than innocent. Toshiya fixes his brown-rimmed glasses and smiles brightly. “We were beginning to wonder if you were real, since Yuuri only ever seemed to send advertisements for fancy purse companies.”

Viktor’s heart breaks just a little at that: It’s true that Yuuri and Viktor don’t have a lot of pictures together, if any, really. Most have been sneak-attack shots by people spotting them in public. Otherwise, Viktor has paperwalled his entire Instagram with pictures of his photoshoots, Yuuri’s face, and their dogs. The photos Viktor is collecting now of his boyfriend are definitely not something he would ever share with his own parents; the same goes for Yuuri. He feels almost embarrassed.

“Oh, well, I’m a model so I do have a lot of advertisements,” Viktor explains. “We’ll send a proper photo soon, though. We’ve been meaning to book some time, with the dogs, too.”

“Does that pay well? – Being a model,” Mari, Yuuri’s sister, asks, studying him with more scrutiny than the Katsuki parents. She speaks slowly, relaxed, like this is an everyday type of conversation. Viktor doesn’t blame her for asking. In truth, Viktor makes a fine income, but nowhere near enough for the lifestyle he leads on a regular basis. He knows eventually he’ll have to step up and take the helm of the family business, but, for now, he’s enjoying the freedom of making a home out of Detroit with Yuuri.   

“Mari,” Hiroko shakes her head, chuckling. Her whole body shakes with happy laughter, like she’s just heard the funniest thing in the world. Viktor is already trying to come up with different ways of describing his financial situation. She waves her daughter off, “Don’t answer that, Vicchan. Now, Phichit told us you had something important to talk to us about.”

Vicchan. Viktor feels his whole chest flood with warmth for these people. He could be a Vicchan. He wants to be a Vicchan and learn Japanese so he can talk to his new parents about how much he loves them for bringing into the world a human being as beautiful and soft as Yuuri Katsuki; how he wants to give them grandchildren someday, but not right away; and how he would like them to visit St. Petersburg and meet his parents.

“I—I’ll take good care of your brother,” he says to Mari, hoping he sounds as earnest as he feels. “He’ll never want for anything, even if I have to sell every single one of my Mercedes Benz. I promise.”

Mari looks taken aback, surprised. She gives him a half-smile, shaking her head: “Just keep him happy. My brother has a heart of glass.”

“I’ll be very careful with it,” Viktor promises. He looks at Minako, who keeps translating at the speed of light. “I don’t know what the cultural norm is in making these kind of declarations, Minako. Can you tell them in the most polite way possible that I’d like to ask for their blessing? I want to marry their son.”

“Marry?” Hiroko recognizes in English, repeating the word with a thick accent. Her eyes are wide and warm as she waits, looking to her husband in utter surprise. She whispers something to him, and Toshiya nods.

Viktor looks to Minako, lost. She shrugs, “I can’t hear them well enough. If I hear something that doesn’t sound too good, I’ll let you know and you should get down on all fours and ask again.”

“You want marry Yuuri?” Hiroko asks, practically thrumming in her enthusiasm, even as tears are already welling in her eyes.

“Yes,” Viktor nods, smiling brightly. Yuuri had once told him that his parents understood quite a bit of English, having had to learn to attend to tourists from Europe and the United States, but Yuuri had been honest that their vocabulary was limited, mostly to words and phrases that would be useful for the business. Viktor speaks slowly, more out of nerves, “I want to spend the rest of my life with Yuuri. But before I ask him, I wanted your blessing. In my family, this is what is done.”

Minako translates, squeezing Viktor’s shoulder. He’s sure she can feel the way his heart is punching at his ribcage. He wonders if that’s the sign he should get down on his knees, so he immediately pushes the chair back and bows down, low.

“Please, let me marry your son. Please.”

Toshiya is the one that responds almost immediately, voice panicked, and reminding Viktor so much of Yuuri, “No, no, get up! Please! Yes, of course, yes, if Yuuri accepts your proposal, we will welcome you to the family with open arms. Anyone that loves our Yuuri is welcome by us.”

“But,” Mari adds, “you’ll have to come visit Yu-topia promptly if he accepts. And you’ll have to learn the family business, starting with mopping the entire resort.”

Minako whispers the translation quickly, laughing as she goes through Mari’s part, and Viktor lets out the breath he didn’t even know he was holding, crumbling into tears: “Thank you!” he says, trying to scramble back to his seat. “Thank you! And yes, I’ll leave those floors so clean! I’m also very good at making beds, and I even know how to do laundry now! I’ll help any way I can!”

Minako laughs, saying something to the family that makes them all laugh, but Viktor can’t understand.

“Now, for the hardest part,” he tells them, bringing a manila folder out, “you can’t tell him I asked you.”

XLVIII.

The first picture is normal enough. The description is a little cryptic, but it’s Viktor, so Yuuri doesn’t think anything of it.

Yuuri wakes up to a notification that his Instagram – the one he doesn’t manage himself – has been tagged close to over one-hundred times. He rubs his bleary eyes and reaches for his glasses, surprised when the first thing that greets him is a picture of Viktor. It’s a professional photo, and Yuuri huddles closer to his blankets, staring at the beautiful picture of his boyfriend in a black turtle neck and faded blue jeans, staring straight at the camera with parted plump lips and smoldering blue eyes. He smiles, letting a hand cup himself through his pajama bottoms, and he bites his bottom lip with want.

ViktorNikiforov Step one: Decide that you’re ready and then just stick to it. Easy enough. Have I got a surprise for you! #JustSayYes

3 hours ago

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CouplesWeLove @katsuki-yuuri Do you know what this means?

BuzzFeed Spill the tea @katsuki-yuuri!

Yuuri tries to make sense of the message, but suddenly gives up when – true to his word – Viktor sends his daily morning picture. Giddy, Yuuri kicks at his blankets, hitting the green box blinking on his screen to go straight to WhatsApp and download the blurry photo. And there’s Viktor, completely naked on their ridiculous number of thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets (technically, Yuuri remembers they’re 800-thread count, but he also knows for a fact that isn’t an actual feasible number to own and he refuses to buy into the luxury advertisement gimmick), right hand holding onto his beautiful dick, thick and leaking as it curves hard towards his belly. Yuuri smiles, hitting the call button. 

“Hey,” he says breathless, staring up at the ceiling. “Looks like you’re having a good morning. I’m jealous.”

Viktor chuckles, obviously still mussed with sleep as his voice replies, deep, “Only because you called. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” Yuuri sobers, face turning soft, and he feels ridiculously sappy as he turns on his side to hold the phone closer against his ear. “So, what’s #JustSayYes? Did you sign a contract with Nike or something?”

“That’s #JustDoIt,” Viktor laughs. “It’s not Nike.”

“But it is some campaign?”

“Something like that.”

Yuuri hums, just a little disappointed. It’s been a couple of weeks now and Viktor hasn’t done anything unexpected; his behavior has been irreproachable and it makes Yuuri hungry for more. A part of him had thought his boyfriend would surprise him somewhere along the way.

“I keep getting tagged by curious handles. I don’t know why they would think I have anything to do with it.”

“Well, maybe because all my last major tags have been about you? Don’t worry about it, though. It’s just a new campaign I’m putting together while I’m bored, home alone, missing you. But I promise I’m being good. No #Searching4Yuuri, right? Definitely no #EatingLapochka, either. Pity.”

“Right,” Yuuri sighs. It wouldn’t be too bad if the hashtag came back, though, Yuuri doesn’t say, wondering what’s wrong with him that he hungers for the drama and romance with the same intensity that he yearns for Viktor every morning. “No #EatingLapochka. You still in bed?” he asks, hand sneaking back down his stomach.

 XLIX.

#JustSayYes starts trending regularly. When one of Viktor’s hashtags starts trending, Yuuri always feels a strange sense of dread. People seem to be as equally confused as Yuuri.

So, Yuuri studies Viktor’s Instagram with scrutiny. There’s Viktor posting a professional photo every morning (just before he sends Yuuri his daily dirty dick picture, which Yuuri is beginning to believe is really all a trick to keep Yuuri from focusing on #JustSayYes. It only makes Yuuri more suspicious and nervous,) and then there’s Viktor’s back as he enters a recording studio booth and the sequel of taking shots in the recording studio with Chris. But, soon enough, Yuuri starts seeing the hashtag crop up in other places.

First, there’s Phichit, who takes a selfie with his hamsters on his head and Makkachin and Vicchan wearing matching bowties. Poodles are ready! #JustSayYes.

That’s quickly followed by Yuri Nikiforov taking a picture of his cat wearing a leopard-print vest: Potya is ready. #JustSayYes  

Mila posts a picture with J.J., each holding up sketches of dresses and suits: Our new collection is READY and fully inspired by love. Limited edition love. #JustSayYes

The picture J.J. posts is obviously from the same day, only in this one, Isabella is dressed in an oversized suit, holding a bouquet of flowers as she kisses her husband. Mila wears a dress, holding up a little sign that reads: #JustSayYes. J.J. uploads the picture with a cryptic statement: Love is the answer to all that we are. Ready! #JustSayYes

Minako posts a video of Viktor and Chris dancing a waltz. It’s a comedic video, which easily devolves into normal shenanigans, and Yuuri almost relaxes when he sees the two friends suddenly recreate a very familiar dance to N*Sync’s Tearin’ Up My Heart. At the end of the video, Minako whispers for the camera, holding up a little sticky note that reads #JustSayYes: “We’re so ready.”

And the posts continue through the weeks, sending Yuuri into a spiral of nerves. 

Ana Nikiforova almost breaks the Internet when she takes a picture wearing a mud mask with her husband, tagging her location as Japan. There’s a third person in the picture that Yuuri very easily recognizes as his mother, wearing a facemask as well. She’s not as cryptic as the rest: Everyone, meet my new best friend, Hiroko Katsuki! We’ve been ready. But we’re not stressing because we’re going to look AMAZING! #JustSayYes #KatsudonTherapy

Yuuri almost has a panic attack.

Leo orders him to take a long break from practice. They’ll be in Toronto come morning anyway, and many of the dancers are taking one last opportunity to enjoy New York. Isabella tells him he’s being paranoid, before taking him out for drinks: “You’re going to be fine,” she says as he lies on top of a bar without his shirt on, “Now shots, shots, shots!”

He staggers drunk and relaxed into his hotel room. Isabella is right. The fact that they’ve gone through both East Coast shows without sign of Viktor doing something extra, like showing up with a mountain of flowers and hiding in Yuuri’s dressing room, or surprising him naked in the hotel shower, gives him some hope that #JustSayYes has nothing to do with him.

It also makes him strangely nostalgic as he wonders if, just a few months into their relationship, the magic is already dead. It’s ridiculous. Yuuri can’t have it both ways: He can’t complain and miss Viktor’s extra – except he is, desperately. That might be more indicative of missing sex and his boyfriend in general, though.   

(“Viktor,” he calls his boyfriend the next morning, voice unusually harsh as he takes a water break. “Viktor, is that a moose I hear in the background?”

“What?” Viktor yells, so much noise behind him that Yuuri can barely hear him. “Yuuri! Lapochka! Can I call you back, babe? I’m dealing with something important.”

“Vitya?” Yuuri yells. “Vitenka, don’t hang up on me. Tell me why Mama Ana is with my mother in Japan!”

“Love, I—I can honestly tell you I have no idea why my mother is in Japan—oh my god, Chris, no, you’re going to make it angry! Yuuri, I need to call you back. I promise I’ll call you right back.”

Yuuri stares at his phone, hearing Chris’ voice yelling: “Shoo, shoo, beast! Stop talking and put the car in reverse!”)

L.

Chris Giacometti @christophe-gc

The coolers are packed. The convertible is clean. Poodles in the back and @ViktorNikiforov at the wheel. We’re sexy and READY! #JustSayYes

08:02 AM –  4 hrs

Leo de la Iglesia @LeoDLIOfficial

I’m so excited. I’ve been keeping a really big surprise in store for tonight’s show. I’m READY, are you #Toronto? #JustSayYes

12:14 PM – 2m

LI.

After totaling the car, the moose had inspected her handy work one more time before leaving with its young at an impressive speed.

Viktor and Chris continued to look forward for minutes, barely holding onto their breath with only the white of the airbags in front of them. Eventually, Viktor pushes his seat back, watching as Chris does the same to avoid getting smothered by the pressure. Behind them, the poodles are going wild, and Viktor immediately reaches for Makkachin and Vicchan, “shh, guys.”

“I’m going to pop the bags,” Chris tells Viktor, reaching for a pocket knife to deflate them. Viktor is surprised: In all his years of friendship, he never thought Chris would be the owner of a swiss army knife. But, he thinks, maybe it comes with citizenship.

“I didn’t know you owned anything practical,” Viktor tells him, still in shock. He’d never thought death by moose was something that could happen to a person. Not in Canada. He’d never been to Canada before, but all the brochures had been deceivingly reassuring and peaceful looking, with nature seeming so tame and pristine in the fogged lie of printed gloss. Viktor will never believe the promotional posters again. He’ll also probably make sure there’s no moose wherever he takes Yuuri on a honeymoon – or  a safari, just to be safe, he’ll cross that out, too.

Chris shrugs, “I bought it for the cork and beer openers.”

“Makes sense,” Viktor sighs, looking down to see that his phone screen is completely cracked. The phone seems very much dead. “Oh shit. Now how am I going to call Yuuri? How am I going to get my daily Yuuri picture?” he pouts, showing the remnants of his iPhone to Chris, who slaps it away. The phone barely flickers back to live before a sad little face comes onscreen and Viktor confirms his phone is dead. This is its last goodbye as the screen turns a pale gray and then black. “Hey!”

“Are you serious? We almost died! By moose! And you want to call Yuuri? – Who are you? I feel like I don’t know you anymore. At least let’s get drunk first, and then call a tow truck!”

Viktor nods, blinking back into rationality, “yeah, no, you’re right. Priorities. Okay, call the tow truck.”

Chris nods, looking down at his phone, just as he remembers that it’s been dead for thirty minutes already. “Uh, about that, actually. If you remember, we’d been using my phone for all the selfies.” He braces for the worst, before he continues, “In brighter news, though, I think your pimple finally popped.”

“That’s a nosebleed,” Viktor deadpans.

LII.

Yuuri stretches aggressively. Leo watches distressed with Isabella as he lifts and holds his right leg against the nearest wall, muscles clenching and flexing at the curb of his butt. Isabella whistles admiringly.

“He’s really angry today,” Leo tells her, wringing his hands. “Have you heard from Viktor and Chris yet? They said they’d call as soon as they arrived in Toronto, and I think that should’ve been some hours ago. I wonder if something happened. They haven’t uploaded any road trip selfies or posted any tweets since this morning.”

“Yeah, I noticed that, too. What are you gonna do if they don’t show up in time? – You did make that announcement,” she points out, trying to flip through her Instagram feed.

Leo winces when he sees Yuuri fall into a set of splits, practically bending his body into a straight line as he pushes his foot towards the floor. Isabella looks equally uncomfortable, trying to hide her face behind her phone.

“How many Instagram followers do you think I’ll get if I upload a video of him twerking?”

Leo shrugs, “I got a few thousand new followers last time for a picture of him eating a hotdog in booty shorts. Test it out. If anything, Viktor will immediately re-insta and then we’ll know he’s alive!”

LIII.

“Let’s drive to Toronto, Viktor. It’ll be fun, Viktor. Let’s take all these selfies and eat up valuable battery life, Viktor,” Viktor groans, sitting on the trunk of his convertible. In the backseat, the poodles have finally relaxed enough to nap together in a heap of tangled fur.

“How was I supposed to know moose are so aggressive? Besides, we would’ve been fine if you hadn’t stopped to answer Yuuri’s phone call. Who does that? Moose is coming straight for the car and you decide it’s the right moment to talk to bae?”

Chris finishes chugging down the last bit of the moscato before throwing the bottle to the floor. He leans against the side of the car.

“What if it had been the last time I had the opportunity to tell Yuuri how much I love him, though?” Viktor asks, looking incredibly lost.

Chris rolls his eyes, sighing as he checks his phone. The battery bank has finally started to work, blinking almost in flirtation a soft green. He smiles, “Hey, look at that! Just a few more minutes and we can call a towing company. Don’t worry, Casanova. We’ll get you there in time, just at the right moment to ask your boo to marry you in front of a stadium full of people there to hear Leo sing about dying relationships and meaningless sex. In the meanwhile, we still have chilled champagne in the cooler.”

Viktor looks at the cooler, “well, if another moose comes for us, at least we’ll be too drunk to care if we’re dead.”

LIV.

RUSSIAN MODEL VIKTOR NIKIFOROV AND SWISS PHOTOGRAPHER CHRISTOPHE GIACOMETTI SURVIVE WILD MOOSE ATTACK DURING CANADA ROATRIP

BREAKING NEWS - In today’s weird fact from the files of the gorgeous and famous, Viktor Nikiforov and Christophe Giacometti, also known as the winners of BuzzFeed’s best bros mostly likely to take you on that threesome, have checked into a local Toronto hospital for injuries sustained during a wild moose attack against their car! (We’re not even kidding and, yes, you’re not reading the Onion.)

Giacometti seemed fine, walking into the ER with a couple of dogs on leashes, while Nikiforov was transferred to the hospital on a wheelchair with blood caked on his face and shirt. Nikiforov’s publicist has yet to provide a statement. It’s likely Nikiforov was on his way to Toronto to see special bae Yuuri Katsuki perform at Leo de la Iglesia’s concert. Katsuki is the show’s principal dancer and skyrocketed to instant Internet sweetheart status after Nikiforov started a social media Cinderella search after the two met at a wedding reception and forgot to exchange numbers (talk about modern-day romance)! Hopefully Nikiforov won’t miss tonight’s performance, since it seems now the full team really is in on #JustSayYes. For more on that, click here.

.

Phichit almost choked on his lemonade, reaching for his cellphone blindly to dial Isabella. Leave it to Viktor to go on a road trip to Canada to propose to his boyfriend and end up on the cover of every single gossip blog on the Internet with the words moose attack on the headline. Moose collisions were (typically) incredibly rare events.

“Izzy? Did you see the news about Viktor and Chris getting mauled by a moose? – It’s, like, everywhere online right now. It seems they were just taken to some hospital. Girl, Viktor might have lost his nose, like the picture just has blood everywhere.”

“Oh my god, Phichit! What?” Isabella gasps, “Send me a link!”

“Just did. Sent you the one with the least grainy photos. Did you see?”

“I’m reading right now. Viktor fucking Nikiforov, couldn’t seal the deal in High School, can’t seal the deal now. I swear, it’s a miracle he managed to get lucky with someone for once.”

“Wait, what?” Phichit says, scandalized. “Tell. Me. Everything!”

“No time to talk about Viktor’s virginal struggles in secondary school. That boy couldn’t lose it, even when he was giving it away, and now he wants to give it away, and he loses his only redeeming feature – his face. Not that his abs aren’t a miracle, too, but—we’re getting distracted. I’ll talk to Leo and we’ll check in on him. Whatever you do, do not send this to Yuuri. He’s already on edge. He did the constipated booty shimmy for five whole minutes.”

“Five minutes? Man, he must be really pissed to keep his ass muscles clenched for that long. Okay, but keep me posted!”

LV.

Ana Nikiforova was loving every part of her vacation in Japan. Really, she should’ve done this just weeks after they found Yuuri. Hiroko Katsuki was a dream of a lovely woman and a wonderful spa partner. Ana drained her glass of champagne, stretching out her long legs. “Daichi, can you refill this and ask Hiroko if she wants another top up?”

Daichi does as told, getting them both fresh glasses. Ana really should have found an interpreter sooner. It’s making everything so much easier as they sit around drinking, eating pork cutlet bowls, and now watching the developing breaking news that her son may have hit a moose with his car. Leave it to Viktor to try to do crazy things, like drive himself. No one had ever taught him how to drive for a reason: There were chauffeurs in the world in need of a job.

Ana clinks glasses with Hiroko, “You know, sometimes I just don’t know what’s wrong with that boy. I worry about him so much.”

“I do the same with my Yuuri,” Hiroko answers, and Ana waits for Daichi to translate before she nods pensively.

“Ah, but Yuuri is such a lovely boy,” Ana sighs, “really, I don’t know if you’ve ever measured his face, but it’s practically perfectly symmetrical. He also has good proportions and very elastic skin.”

“Really?” Hiroko asks. “I guess it’s not something we ever thought to do. He was a very cute baby… but I’m sure Vicchan was lovely, too.”

“Really? I can only imagine Yuuri was a lovely baby,” Ana sits up, eyes as wide as her heart shaped mouth. “Oh, you must show me. I’ve predetermined that we should use Yuuri as the genetic base for our future grandchildren, but I’m open to suggestions and, of course, visual confirmation. Unfortunately for me, Viktor was an incredibly beautiful child, except for one critical flaw. His forehead. Thankfully he was born with a full head of hair. Imagine my nausea during the entirety of the nine months I carried him. Mila was the same. Yuri was a quiet pregnancy, until the birth – talk about agony and an ugly baby: Born completely bald. But children do surprise you. He’s probably my prettiest baby. I mean, Viktor is handsome. Mila is beautiful. But, my Yura? He’s just so pretty.”

Hiroko nods, “let me bring the photo album. I’ll show you my Yuuri. Oh, it would be so exciting to have another baby in the house.”

Ana nods, following behind Hiroko and Daichi, “Yes! Exactly! Oh, Hiroko, I think we’re going to be such good friends.”

LVI.

The concert devolves into a mess.

Yuuri is still on stage when Leo reaches for the microphone and the two giant screens on each side of the stage flash in bright white letters on a dark screen the words #JustSayYes. Yuuri almost chokes and tries to inch towards the corner of the stage when two of his colleagues shake their head and push him forward until his within a foot of Leo.

“I promised you guys a surprise,” Leo smiles to a cheering crowd. “Now, I know all of you know Yuuri. Yuuri Katsuki has been your favorite for the entire tour. I know because I took count of all the times you posted videos of his breakdown dances – did you know you posted videos of Yuuri more times than you posted videos of me? Well, Yuuri’s been away from his boyfriend and his dogs for almost two months now, in between practice and travel. What was supposed to be a month got a lot longer and Yuuri’s been a trooper, along with the entire squad.”

Yuuri flushes bright pink, waving at the crowd. When a thong hits his foot, he recoils back with an awkward smile.

“So, when Yuuri’s family and friends told me they had a really big surprise for him, I was happy to help!”

The video starts rolling just as Yuuri is shaking his head at Leo, because Viktor’s productions can never end well. But it’s too late. The video starts with all the images and videos he’s already seen, only this time, there’s context. Viktor’s face comes on screen, a home video showing him as he’s cooking breakfast for himself in their apartment. Their dogs are playing in the background. Makkachin is carefully trying to reach for a piece of forgotten toast on the counter. Viktor pulls out a little box with a ring from his pocket, showing off the diamond gleaming under the poor lightning of their kitchen.

“Hey everyone, so, I’ve decided that I’ve met the love of my life and I really want to spend the rest of my life with them. I need your help: I need him to #JustSayYes. But he can’t know, so I’m releasing this video through my dad’s Instagram, since he almost never uses it and Yuuri doesn’t follow it. We need to keep this a secret, so from now on, cheer us own with #JustSayYes, but don’t post what it means… Let’s see how long it takes him to figure it out. And if he doesn’t, then I promise I have a big surprise for you. I’m going to sing for all of you at Leo’s last concert in Toronto where I’ll get down on one knee in front of all of you. Deal?”

Yuuri gasps, hands immediately resting on his face as he begins to understand why everyone had been asking him what it meant: #JustSayYes. Just say yes, Yuuri. He’s been such an idiot. Yuuri watches Viktor’s glowing face on camera. Leo chuckles, elbowing Yuuri in support, though it’s wholly unnecessary with half the stadium now chanting just say yes, Yuuri. There’s strangers on the screen doing the same, people Yuuri has never met with signs reading #JustSayYes. There’s people speaking on camera: “When he proposed,” a girl gushes on screen in a park, a baby resting on her lap, “I just knew. Sometimes you just know. So if you feel it in your heart, say yes.”

An elderly man feeds some pigeons as he laughs, “oh, she was so surprised. But then she said yes.”

“He said yes,” a young man with his hair slicked back says, probably next to his partner. “I just literally turned to him and said, ‘hey, you wanna…?’ and he said, ‘yes.’ And that was it for us.”

Yuuri is still in shock, drinking in the images. Each one hits him fast, and he’s left juggling his emotions. (The scariest one is the realization that he’s so in love that he’s not even scared of saying yes, he’s terrified of Viktor deciding he doesn’t want Yuuri to say yes anymore. It’s completely irrational, but it sends his stomach whirling with nausea.) He keeps looking around, just bracing himself for Viktor, but each second that passes, Viktor doesn’t show up (and his mind begins to agree with his anxiety). The screen transitions one more time, and Yuuri almost faints when he sees Viktor on screen in a hospital gown and with a band-aid over the bridge of his nose.

“Hi everyone! Hi Yuuri,” he says, breathless as his eyes focus, and Leo points to the camera for Yuuri. Yuuri turns, still a little lost and almost losing his footing when he spots the bright red dot screaming record. “So, I really wanted to be there, everyone. But, as you all know, I got into an accident with a moose and unfortunately bruised my nose so I can’t really sing right now. Not well anyway.”

“What?!” Yuuri yells right when Leo hands him a microphone. The feedback effect is loud and painful. “Oh my god, Viktor!”

“Chris and I are fine,” Viktor repeats slowly. “We are so grateful to everyone that sent well wishes on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook. And a special thanks to Perez Hilton for publishing a picture of me entering the hospital from my good side.”

Chris peeks his head into the screen, nodding, before he sagely says, “Thank you, Viktor, and now I would like to take this moment to bring attention to moose-related fatalities. Yearly—”

Viktor slaps his friend away from the camera, still smiling like a doll. It’s eerie, and Yuuri tries to hide his face in his hands, questioning how he ever got into this position: He’d always been good, kept to himself, censored his social media, and kept an otherwise clean Internet profile. How had Viktor Nikiforov happened to him?

“Yuuri, this day was supposed to be so special and I’m so so—”

Yuuri clutches the microphone tightly, “Viktor, can you hear me?”

“Yes, lapochka, I hear you great.”

“Good,” Yuuri huffs, “listen to me. I’m on my way to the hospital right now. We’ll talk there, okay? Don’t go anywhere. And don’t say anything else on camera right now.”

“I’d wait for you for the rest of time, Yura,” Viktor nods, “Also, the hospital won’t release me while on such a heavy dose of drugs, so I have nowhere else to be.”

“That’s what I feared,” Yuuri groans, handing the microphone to Leo as he runs.

LVII.

Yuuri runs into the hospital room almost breathless. He’s grateful that Isabella is already there, waiting patiently to usher him into the room where Viktor is currently talking to Chris about the importance of bringing attention to moose attacks in the wild. (She explains the dogs are in her hotel room, safe and happy and probably sleeping, but Chris and Viktor are under observation.) For two people that have been through an accident (and then drank half a cooler worth of alcohol bottles, according to the doctor), they seem exceedingly coherent.

“What were you thinking?” Yuuri yells, eyes already brimming with tears as he spots Viktor looking frail on the hospital bed. He’s sitting up, barely picking at a small cup of strawberry gelatin. “You could’ve gotten killed. Moose are, like, 1500 pounds, maybe more! Were you trying to feed it or something?”

“No,” Viktor wilts immediately, “The dogs were barking and I guess it got freaked out and then Chris threw a rolled-up bag of potato chips at it and then it just rammed into the car.”

“We could’ve gone in reverse,” Chris reminds Viktor petulantly, “but someone had to take a call from his boyfriend.”

Yuuri deflates, falling to sit on the edge of Viktor’s bed, “What?”

“I hadn’t talked to you in a whole day,” Viktor mumbles, “I didn’t want you to get anxious if I didn’t pick up the phone.”

“Stupid. I was already anxious about the whole #JustSayYes thing,” Yuuri scoffs, rolling his eyes. He lets a hand brush Viktor’s fringe back, “You could’ve just asked me, you know, instead of doing this whole thing. What were you thinking? I mean, are you insane? – The whole world knew you were going to propose before I did.”

Viktor leans his cheek closer to Yuuri’s hand, “I was scared you might say no, or that you might think it was too soon. Yuuri, you’re always making these comments, about how eventually you were sure I’d find someone else? And I don’t want anyone else. I just wanted you to see how wonderful it could be.”

Yuuri sighs, “so stupid. And so wonderful.”

Viktor looks at him, big eyes focused and so full of love.

“I’m sorry I do that. I guess I just didn’t want to get hurt if you decided I wasn’t what you wanted at the end.”

“You’re everything I want,” Viktor slurs, the drugs slowly kicking in again. “You’re always going to be everything I want. I know that.”

Isabella motions for Chris to leave the room with her and he follows, limping along. Yuuri looks behind him as the door closes.

“So, are you going to ask, then?” Yuuri whispers, inching close like there’s some secret between them.

Viktor blinks, smiling, “the ring’s all the way over there, in my pants. Actually, that’s another thing, I’m not wearing pants. Or underwear. I’m naked under this thing. I was hoping for something a little more dignified for when I asked, Yuuri.”

Yuuri chuckles, kissing him softly, “Really? Because naked and in bed is exactly how I pictured you in the moment when I would say yes.”

LVIII.

“Do you think we should tell them that the live feed is still on?” Isabella asks Chris, staring at the screen on her phone. The two watch silently as Yuuri and Viktor keep kissing, lapping noises adding to the soft beeps of medical machinery humming faintly in the background. It’s extremely romantic and easy enough to forget that it’s real, not some made-for-TV, low-budget movie. They’re both too beautiful to be on a B-list film anyway. Or maybe that’s Isabella’s heart going soft for her friends.  

“We can interrupt them in a minute; they just got engaged,” Chris tells her, watching as his friend smiles and runs a clear thumb down the curve of Yuuri’s cheek. It’s an incredibly tender moment, and Chris determines then that he will go through the entire video and pull out the best still shots for their engagement photos. “Let the world believe in love just a little longer.”

(Of course, that’s when things begin to get a little more risqué and fast. Isabella watches with growing horror as Yuuri slowly begins to climb onto the small hospital cot, giving Viktor a lascivious grin as he asks, “So, you said you’re feeling okay, right?”

Viktor nods, obviously happy with the weight of his fiancé on his lap. Yuuri’s hips and thighs trap him on the bed, “I mean, I’m feeling great right now. My god, did these get thicker? – What have you been doing, Lapochka?”

“Hugging my pillow. You don’t mind if I check for injuries, right?” Yuuri whispers, hands already running up and down Viktor’s chest. His hand slowly inches under the blanket. “I was just so worried when I saw the pictures and all that blood. I wouldn’t want to—”

“Stop!” Chris slams the door open with Isabella right behind him. “You savages! This is a hospital!”

Isabella nods, barely breathing through laugher, “you guys, the live feed has been on this whole time!”

Yuuri scrambles to jump off, tripping on his way and falling hard on the floor.

“Oh my god!” he squeaks, “Please tell me the screen was turned off at Leo’s concert.”

“Doesn’t matter – this was live on Facebook, too!” Chris reminds them both, finally going over to the camera to turn it off.

“Can I die now?” Yuuri asks them, eyes pitiful as he scans their faces. “Yes? Just step on my head, Izzy. Just step right on it. I don’t need to live to see the headlines or the twitter memes.”

Viktor laughs, “So, I think after this we should go on a social media fast, yeah? Maybe for like a year.”

“Try a decade,” Chris shakes his head.)

LIX.

“I love this so much,” Yuuri looks around the remodeled rooftop, grinning as he turns to wrap his arms around Viktor’s waist. There’s tealights hanging from loose cords, giving ambiance lighting to an otherwise blackout night sky. It’s impossible to see the stars with all the light pollution in Detroit, but Yuuri doesn’t care. In the middle, there’s a long, rectangular plastic table – only made presentable by a cotton tablecloth in soft cream and lace. This might not be St. Petersburg with a chef waiting to serve a long purpleheart wooden table, but it feels just the same, even with red cups and fancy disposable plates. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Viktor smiles, reaching down to kiss his fiancé.

“Hey, he didn’t do it alone,” Phichit scoffs, coming up the stairs with a steaming pot of roast. “Come on, lovebirds. Get to work. There’s at least eight more things to haul up here.”

“Hey, lazy asses, is someone going to help me with the mashed potatoes?” Isabella yells behind him.

“I’m trying to help you, honey,” J.J. whines, probably behind her, “but I’m already carrying the barbecue.”

“Some of us also have the salad and hot dogs,” Chris’ voice filters as well.

One by one, they come up the stairs and disperse around the rooftop.  

Yuuri playfully slaps Viktor’s arm, “did you just come up here with nothing?”

“I needed my arms empty to hold you?” Viktor offers. “I’ll help when Minako gets here with ice for the drinks.”

“Hey, can someone buzz me up?! I’ve got the ice and Leo de la Iglesia, who I’m sure would like to not get mobbed today, thanks!”

Yuuri laughs when Viktor groans, letting go of Yuuri to march down to the apartment like a petulant child. 

(It’s a lovely dinner, just good food and great friends and (the best part, which is) Viktor’s hand playing with Yuuri’s ring-hand under the table.

There’s this part of Yuuri that feels strangely nostalgic, wishing Ana was around to playfight with her fork against Yuri for the last piroshki, or that Mila was sitting next to Viktor, poking at the soft spot on the top of his head, or that Gustav was next to Yuuri, acting as the only sane island in an otherwise boisterous and loud and ever so loving family of Nikiforovs (even if Yuri would never admit to loving his family). He wishes Yakov was back in some corner, looking gruff even as he calls out Vitya, soft and stern like a second father. He wants his family there, too. He wants his mother’s cooking, and his father’s jokes, and his sister’s half-smile. But, in that moment, when Viktor takes his hand and kisses his ring and whispers, “Lapochka?” – Yuuri comes rolling back to the present and thinks to himself how if Viktor was all he ever had at the end, he would be okay.

“What’s wrong?” Viktor asks him.

And Yuuri smiles, “Nothing. I was just thinking how much you feel like home.”)

LX.

“Okay, are you ready?” Yuuri chuckles, setting up the laptop in front of them.

Viktor nods, grabbing for Vicchan to have something fill his lap, “I think so? I mean, it’s not like they can take it back, right?”

“I think Mari would cry, especially if you promised you’d mop the entire onsen,” Yuuri shakes his head, “I can’t believe you fell for that. You know, it’s actually quite big.”

“That’s okay! It’s not the craziest thing I’ve done for love!” Viktor reminds him, elbowing him gently as the screen begins to flood with images of Hiroko and Toshiya. Both of them wave at Yuuri’s parents. As Viktor starts saying hello and good afternoon, now that Yuuri has actually taught him useful things (or useful outside of their bedroom), and, to Yuuri’s surprise, thanking you for creating your son. It doesn’t come out quite right, but Yuuri translates what he means and his parents nod benevolently with friendly laughs.

“So,” Yuuri chews on his bottom lip, bowing before his parents in apology, “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce you before. And I’m sorry you weren’t there for my engagement (even though the rest of the world saw it, as well as us getting frisky in a hospital room, he doesn’t add). But Viktor and I would like to visit soon, maybe in a couple of weeks, if that’s okay.”

Hiroko is the first one to cheer, “Yes! We’d be so happy to see you! It’s been such a long time.”

“Happy, they said happy,” Viktor recognizes, smiling, “that’s a yes?”

Yuuri nods, “yes, Viktor, they said they’d be happy to see us.”

“Very happy to see Vicchan,” Hiroko tells Viktor.

Viktor gasps, heart shaped smile wider than Yuuri has ever seen it as he clasps both hands together, “We could be there this weekend! Tell them, Yuuri.”

“They understood that,” Yuuri chuckles. “I was telling them two weeks.”

“Yes,” Hiroko smiles, “Two weeks is good, Yuuri. Tell Vicchan that two weeks gives me enough time to call Ana and invite her over, too. She and I discussed that we would like to bring all the family together to celebrate.”

“I heard Ana,” Viktor arches an eyebrow. “I’m concerned.”

Yuuri blinks, surprised, “Uh. Viktor? I guess they want to invite you parents, too.”

“Wait, really?”

“Whole family together,” Toshiya says in English, nodding along with his wife. “We’ll see you in two weeks, then, Yuuri?”

“Ah, I think so, Dad,” Yuuri responds, looking over at his catatonic fiancé. “I think Viktor’s in shock. Hm. We’ll call you two later, okay? Once we have the tickets bought.”

Hiroko claps, “perfect! I’ll call Ana right now!”

“I heard Ana again,” Viktor pouts, looking at Yuuri more than a little dazed and lost.

Yuuri can only laugh, “at least they didn’t take it back?”

Viktor grins, “that’s true! We’re getting married!”

Yuuri nods, kissing him, “yeah. We’re getting married.”

The End – for now?