Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Victor likes routines.

It’s an odd thing for someone who loves surprising people, but he’s always been under the impression that people cannot be surprised if they don’t have routines to begin with. He likes it when things are like clockwork—when the sunrise falls right when the news said it would, when he signs in for work the same time he always does, when the waiter comes around with the exact same champagne exactly every ten minutes.

If he knows the inner ups and downs of someone’s daily life, if he knows what they’re used to, then it’s all the more easy to surprise them. It’s what made him the darling of the press as a child actor, then everyone’s favorite celebrity bachelor, and now a good director at GP Entertainment, the youngest on the board. It’s because Victor keeps a tight rein on the things that can be controlled, and the rest of his life follows, puppets on a string that he’s learned to maneuver since he was seven.

He’s still meticulous, like that, and it permeates every part of his world—love life included. Victor knows what the media thinks of how free he is with his charms, how easily he apparently dates and dumps people, but one secret that stays under hush-hush within the entertainment world is that Victor never asks anyone out. The problem, however, is that he never says no to anyone, either.

So it’s become a game, of sorts, to anyone privy to the fact that the pattern exists in the first place: ask Victor out at the beginning of the month, date for however many days are in that month, and wait for the end to come and for Victor to say, always: I couldn’t fall in love with you. Let’s break up. Some things fluctuate between every new person he dates—sometimes they’ll end it themselves, three weeks in, sometimes a week in, but the one thing that never changes is what Victor says, in the end. He might be charming and a good actor, but he’s honest, when it comes to that.

Victor’s a gracious boyfriend to everyone, too, if he does say so himself. But he’s a busy man, forgetful mostly because there’s hardly anything in his mind but what’s been in there for the past twenty years living and breathing the life of a celebrity. It’s a habit he has yet to break, and love and life remain things he can only pursue in theory instead of actually get, in the kind of world he operates in. So the dating system works, fills his days like a cat toy being dangled in front of him, always out of reach but enough to be half-heartedly chased, and though it isn’t a game to him as much as others would love to assume, Victor moves on with the other routines of his life.

Victor likes routines, and by extension, he likes facts.

Here are the facts he knows about Yuuri Katsuki.

1. It was his birthday on November 29th.  He’s well-loved enough by the entire building that they threw him a surprise party—a huge one after-hours, to which Victor was invited primarily due to the fact that there was no one in the building not invited.
2. Yuuri had avoided Victor’s attempts to wish him a happy birthday all evening. Either he’s shy, or Victor had done something to offend him at one point. It’s always a 50/50 chance with everyone.
3. Yuuri is one hell of a character when drunk—he’d stripped, clung to Victor, challenged anyone available into dance-offs, and—
4. Yuuri is very good at pole-dancing. And break-dancing. And the flamenco.
5. Most importantly, he’d invited Victor to dance and said; If I win this dance-off, will you date me for the next month?

And Yuuri Katsuki had won all those dance-offs, fair and square.

Usually, usually, Victor would know what to do with all these facts—only it’s been two days since and he still has no idea. Yuuri alone was a surprise Victor hadn’t been expecting when he’d shown up to the party, not even including any of the things Yuuri had done over the course of one night, and Victor feels a little helpless.

He doesn’t even have a hangover to blame the helplessness on. He’d been completely sober the whole night, by his own choice, and all he has now, like Prince Charming with Cinderella’s shoe, are memories of a warm, drunk and dazed Yuuri Katsuki. Who, technically, had asked Victor out.

And who apparently doesn’t remember the night at all.

"What do you mean he doesn’t remember?"

"I went to say hello this morning, wish him a happy December and all, and he stared at me like he’s not sure why we know each other," Chris says, all too relaxed as he pours himself a cup of coffee from Victor’s maker, like he hadn’t just brought shocking news first thing into Victor’s office. "And I thought we had a good pole-dancing moment the other night."

Victor has to close his eyes and will the image away. He’s not very successful. "He doesn’t remember," he repeats, weakly. "At all?"

"At all. It’s a shame. He’s so cute." Chris sniffs, for effect, only it doesn’t earn any of Victor’s sympathy as he watches Chris sit on the leather chair behind Victor’s desk. Victor’s never sure why Chris is ever in the building—an actor like him has commercials to shoot, filming to do, photoshoots to attend, and yet Chris always finds it in him at least once a week to bother Victor, even if for old time’s sake has gotten too old an excuse a long time ago.

Victor still opens his mouth to readily agree—except cute doesn’t even begin to cover all the things Victor remembers from the other night and—

"You have a boyfriend," Victor mutters, almost accusing.

"Yuuri has one now, too, if I remember how your system goes," Chris says, taking a careful sip from his coffee. Victor’s coffee, technically. "You weren’t dating anyone last month. Yuuri asked on the 29th. That’s an automatic yes, isn’t it? Not to mention the dance—"

"Don’t." Victor says, long-suffering. He knows he’s pouting, already halfway into sulking, but Chris doesn’t look the least bit sheepish. "He doesn’t even remember."

"Oh? So you’re just going to let it go?" Chris raises an eyebrow, leaning back further on the leather chair. "December’s an awful time to be alone, for someone like you."

Victor exhales, tries to expel all the urge to sulk out of him. What happens instead is a pained sigh. "What is that supposed to mean?"

But Chris is already getting up, checking his wristwatch. Victor’s own desk clock reads 6:43 PM. "Just that you get so lonely, for someone so private," he says, giving Victor a rare innocent smile. "Yuuri’s on the fourth floor. Room 417. He usually leaves at 7 in the middle of the week. Ask him out for some dinner or something. Good luck."

"Good luck," Victor repeats, ignoring Chris’ tap on his arm as he brushes past Victor. "What for?"

"That man has a heartbreaker’s smile, let me tell you now," Chris just about purrs, halfway out the door. "But who knows, maybe he’ll drag you out of your little cocoon, you workaholic, you."

He doesn’t close the door all the way behind him—completely on purpose—and Victor lets out another sigh, brushing hair away from his eyes. The silence of his office is almost reprimanding.

Victor would let it go—except he hasn’t stopped thinking about it in the past 36 hours, hasn’t stopped thinking about Yuuri’s bright eyes and the way he’d clung so shamelessly to Victor, hasn’t stopped thinking about Yuuri dipping him low when they were dancing, hasn’t stopped thinking about his own smile, the laughter bubbling in his throat that night, despite being completely sober.

When he realizes it, he’s already getting off the elevator on the fourth floor. The hallway is empty, but he hears piano music from halfway down the hall, and Victor follows it, counting down to Room 417. When he arrives in front of it, it’s the same room the music is coming from, the door half open.

Yuuri’s at one of the two desks in the office, so fixated on the music coming from his laptop that he doesn’t notice until Victor knocks on the open door. Twice.

It’s a slow process, Yuuri coming out of his contemplation to register Victor there. A lot of blinking involved, during which Victor realizes he has no idea what he came here to say.

"Hi," Victor chirps instead. That’s always safe.

Yuuri keeps blinking at him. Victor hadn’t over-imagined the dark eyes, wide and bright with or without Yuuri’s glasses—they’re attention-catching, even from this far away, expressive with Yuuri’s surprise. His lips are pretty, too, parted open while Yuuri works through his recognition, and his voice is a little breathy when he says, "Victor?"

Victor brightens at that. "You remember who I am?"

"I—Of course—" Yuuri moves fast, like he has multiple hands. The laptop’s closed in the same movement that Yuuri straightens in his seat—and then he’s standing, hands on his side. "You’re—you’re Victor Nikiforov, of course I know you?"

Realization takes a while to dawn on Victor, and then he’s deflating. "Oh. Right."

Yuuri tilts his head, confused. It’s adorable—he’s adorable—and Victor’s chest clenches painfully. "To what—what do you need? I mean—what can I do for you? Can I do something for you?"

"I was told," Victor says, leaning against the doorway, "that you usually wrap up your shift around 7? I was wondering if you wanted to go get dinner?"

He purposely keeps his voice low, just not to scare away Yuuri, and he’s rewarded with Yuuri’s pink ears. Yuuri opens and closes his mouth for a good five seconds, before he—takes a step back, almost knocking over the plant on the window sill behind him. "I—why?"

That isn’t the answer Victor’s expecting. Good luck, Chris had said, and now Victor replays it in his head and hears the touch of smugness there. It might have been a bad idea to come here, if even Chris had been left discouraged.

Blankly, all Victor manages is parrot back the question, "‘Why’?"

"Why would you—" Yuuri’s frowning now, and he’s checking the corners of the office for something. But then he looks at Victor, as if finally, finally, seriously seeing him—and when he sighs, the way the exhale puffs up his cheeks convinces Victor that no, this isn’t a bad idea at all. "We don’t—you don’t know me, is all."

Victor can’t help it, he closes his eyes tightly for two seconds. When he opens them, sees Yuuri and his beautiful eyes still looking hesitantly at him, he gives his biggest, brightest smile. "Well, if you come out with me to dinner, I’ll explain?"

ꕤ

"I said that?"

More facts on Yuuri: Yuuri blushes a very, very pretty pink. His ears are always the first to turn red, and then his cheeks. The expressions that Victor has seen on Yuuri so far in the short walk to the restaurant had ranged from bashful to thoughtful to disbelieving—but with such open and easy transition that Victor knows with absolute certainty that Yuuri would make a bad actor. His eyes are even brighter up close in the restaurant lighting—honest and earnest even if his body language remains closed against attempts to get him to warm up—and Victor’s absolutely entranced.

Yuuri also really doesn’t remember a single thing from the other night.

He’d gotten increasingly flustered listening to Victor describe the night throughout their meal, had declined all of Victor’s offers to show him photo proof—but he’s grown visibly contemplative now, staring down at his own half-finished plate while occasionally sneaking glances at Victor.

"Then—Are we—are we supposed to be dating right now?" Yuuri says. "I—"

"Well, yes, technically this would be our first date," Victor says cheerfully.

Yuuri looks like Victor had just shattered a family heirloom in front of him. "What?"

What's with that, Victor thinks, a little grumpily. He doesn't look happy at all.

"It was a promise, Yuuri," he says, out loud. "Count yourself lucky, I don't often remember the promises that I make." Grandly, resisting the urge to sweep a hand through the air, he adds, "But you can say no."

No one really has, though, just like Victor has never said no to anyone.

"A promise," Yuuri repeats, an absentminded mumble from across the table. He looks pensive, hesitant. "I—It's true, then? That you'd date anyone who asks you out at the beginning of the month?"

Victor knows that doesn’t sit well with most people, the idea of dating someone within a time limit. There didn’t used to be one, just that it became a pattern after the first two relationships, even if it was always the other party that ended it first, never Victor. It’s easy to let people assume that he’s being careless with even this, that the reason people come and go is by virtue of Victor’s own whims, Victor’s own boredom. It’s a side effect of growing up in the limelight—it’s always easier to take people’s assumptions and run with it.

Even now, there are people staring: at Victor, taking pictures of him as he swirls the water in his glass for the sake of doing something while Yuuri stays alarmingly shock-still. But at Yuuri, too, even if the only indication Yuuri gives that he notices is the occasional uncomfortable side glance. Yuuri doesn’t strike him as the type to love excessive attention, and Victor almost feels sorry for dragging him out here.

The first time someone had asked Victor out, Georgi had wordlessly given him a list of things one should do on a date. Where to take them out, when to hold their hand, whether or not you should pay, what kind of things to make small talk about. It reads, Victor will realize years later, like a teen magazine check list.

Shh, Georgi had said, dramatically somber as always. Trust me. Trust the list.

Victor would never admit it to Georgi, but he still uses that list.

It’s all in his head at this point, learned and rehearsed: start with a fancy first date, always at this restaurant, with good food and calming music. Charm the other person, make them laugh and feel good, kiss their hand at the end of the date. It’s like reading a script, and it works every time—even if the restaurant ambience has gotten tiring at this point, if Victor’s being honest with himself, has gotten old in all the times he’s come here.

But Victor still enjoys the idea of it, the routine that comes with dating.

"So what do you say?" Victor says. "Let me make good on my promise?"

Most people would be beaming at this point, would be enthusiastically nodding and moving the date along—but Yuuri’s still staring at Victor, distrustful and reluctant. The blush has completely gone from his cheeks now, and Victor wants to frown about that, because what is he doing wrong?

"I don’t like it when you do that," Yuuri says, so sudden Victor almost drops the glass he’s holding. "I really don’t like it when you do that."

Victor puts down the glass before he actually does drop it. "Excuse me?"

"Is it always like this for you? When you date someone?"

Victor blinks, the words surprised out of him. "Well—"

"It’s not your first time here. You didn’t even look at the menu," Yuuri points out—and he sounds like he’s grumbling, no trace of the flustered You’re Victor Nikiforov, of course I know you from earlier. "You don’t have to say yes, either, if it’s all just a game to you."

It isn't a game, though, not to him; Victor takes it seriously each time, is genuinely hopeful each time. It’s a sincere search, whenever he starts a new relationship, only it ends in disappointment each time, one way or another.

Still, he can’t help but feel optimistic at the beginning of each month, and that hopefulness must show, because Yuuri sighs, finishing up the rest of the food on his plate.

"Do you have time after this?"

Victor wants to think he’s regained from the earlier surprise, but he’s still stumped, still doesn’t know what to do with the sudden change in Yuuri’s attitude. He manages a nod, watching Yuuri drink the entire glass of water.

"We’re watching a movie."

Victor realizes his mouth’s hanging slightly open. He closes it, clears his throat, tries again, "Right now?"

"Right now," Yuuri echoes, raising his hand for the bill. "You pay for the bill on the first date, too?"

Victor always pays, for every date. But he doesn’t say that, just scrambles to his feet at the same time Yuuri does. "What movie are we watching?"

This would usually be the part where Victor helps the other person with their coat, maybe carry their bag and offer it to them—

But Yuuri doesn’t even look at him, easily putting on his own coat.

"Whatever horror movie they have available."

ꕤ

Victor has trouble sleeping the entire night.

He’s a twenty-seven year old man with a twenty-year acting career under his belt, and he has trouble sleeping after watching a horror movie.

He’s been tossing and turning in bed all night, unable to find the right position; he feels like something is looming over him from whichever part of the bed he has his back towards, makes his skin crawl and his body shiver. He can’t even stick a single limb out of the covers, for the fear of—the very irrational fear of, he’s well-aware—someone grabbing it.

The rays of white light flooding his bedroom doesn’t help, encourages his imagination as much as the dark would, and it takes about three hours of staring into space before he finally sits up, wide awake and ready to slap himself back into sound judgment.

Yuuri hadn’t flinched once throughout the entire movie, had taken casual sips from his drink while Victor yelped himself silly in the empty theater. It had been the last full show of the day, and while Victor himself has experienced what it’s like to have an entire private theater to himself, away from public eyes, it was completely different watching a crappy horror movie in what is usually a very public space.

Yuuri had also insisted on paying for the popcorn, actually swatting Victor’s hand away from the wallet in his back pocket.

But then he’d flushed, catching himself, and apologized—and Victor, honestly, hadn’t known what to do with that except let Yuuri do as he pleased. And that, he did, buying popcorn and drinks and leading them into their theater two minutes before the movie, all without Victor’s help.

If we’re doing this, Yuuri had said, just as the lights went off. We’re not doing it like a movie script.

Which is, by far, the most interesting thing anyone has said to Victor.

He’s beginning to suspect that Yuuri is a bundle of contradictions and surprises, unpredictable as he is adorable. Not once through the entire night has he reacted the way Victor expects, and it’s almost intoxicating, to look back at it at 4 A.M and remember the way Yuuri had so easily flitted from shy to passively annoyed, from flustered to near-demanding. He’s definitely not comfortable with Victor, had stayed out of reach whenever possible, had been private and reserved every time Victor tried to talk to him on the way to the movie. Yuuri had refused a ride back home, too, staunch even against Victor’s insistence.

That’s already the first half of Victor’s list so cleanly sabotaged, but Victor can’t find it in himself to be upset by the break in the usual routine.

It is, nonetheless, a little discouraging.

There are tabloid photos from the restaurant already up—Victor Nikiforov’s newest conquest?—and Victor scrolls through some of them, searching for ones with different angles on Yuuri’s face. He doesn’t know at all what to make of Yuuri, even less the difference from the Yuuri he’d met last November to the Yuuri he’d gone to dinner with last night.  It feels a lot like someone is attempting to push his world off its axis, and the feeling is so new, so unfamiliar, something he’s not so ready to adjust to after only four hours with the person.

It’s still not enough to stop him from moving on with his list, though.

He waits until 6 A.M before rolling over next to a sleeping Makkachin and scrolling down his contacts to Yuuri’s name, newly inputed before they’d separated in front of the office building. People usually appreciate a sweet morning call, Victor has realized; likes the reminder that they’re in a relationship, especially one where it’s with someone so far removed from the everyday significant other. 

Victor likes it, too, knowing it makes people feel good.

Yuuri picks up after four rings, voice raspy and groggy. "Hello?"

"Good morning, sleeping beauty," Victor croons into the line, perfectly rehearsed. "Rise and shine, love."

What meets him, however, is a long beat of silence.

The night rushing back for Yuuri, probably. Victor waits patiently, smiling at his ceiling, for Yuuri to process it.

There’s rustling on the other end. When Yuuri speaks again, his voice is much clearer. "Victor," he says, but his voice isn’t pleased, not at all. "Don't you dare wake me up like this again."

There’s a click.

It’s another long moment before Victor fully realizes he’d just been hung up on.

And then he’s the one who has to take time to process things.

He stares at his dark phone screen for another ten minutes, waits for Yuuri to call back—but there’s nothing. Not within the next ten minutes, nor the next half hour.

By the time he’s up and getting ready to head out to GPE, there’s still nothing new on his phone but e-mails.

When Victor gets off on his floor, the first thing he sees across the hallway is Mila, waiting outside Yakov’s office with crossed arms. She doesn’t look too upset, though, and when she spots Victor the first thing she says is, "Hey, lover boy, I saw the pictures. Have a fun date?"

She asks this, every time, and Victor, even if he’ll never say it out loud, appreciates that she treats his relationships as seriously as she can. She approaches her own relationships so much differently than Georgi ever has, Victor has always known that, but it’s still a good part of the usual routine, waiting for Mila to ask about it.

"I think I made him mad," Victor says, mournful if only to play up the dramatics.

"You?" Mila says, eyes wide. Then she smirks, raising one hand to wave a metaphorical thought bubble away. "Nevermind. You do say some insensitive things sometimes."

Victor sticks out his bottom lip. "Well, Yuuri does, too."

"Does he?" Somehow, this surprises Mila, her wide eyes turning from disbelief to genuine surprise. "Why, what did he—"

"He hung up on me," Victor says, a little too excited about sharing this information that he cuts off Mila. "He hung up on me after I gave him a morning call."

Mila’s comprehension process goes much faster than Victor—she goes from a frown to another smirk to full out laughter within five seconds, slapping her thighs with both hands when it clicks for her. Victor fake-pouts as he waits for Mila’s laughter to stop, listens to it fill up the silent hallway.

"Victor Nikiforov has finally met his match, huh," she says, wiping tears from her eyes. "Wow. I want to meet this person. Yuuri. It’s the pole-dancing guy, right? From the party?"

Victor exhales, heavy enough to send a few strands of his bangs flying. "I wish."

Mila blinks. "It's not?"

"No, it is, but he’s—" Victor offers a smile. "Different. From what I was expecting."

"The pretty ones always are, no?" Mila sings—just as the door to Yakov’s office opens, and Yakov himself steps out, looking between the two of them with the usual enthusiasm of a disturbed wild animal.

"What is this ruckus about?"

"Nothing, nothing," they chorus, habit more than anything. They smile at each other, at that.

"Well, get to work, Vitya," Yakov grumbles, pushing the door farther open to let Mila in. "Tons of paperwork I’m waiting on from you."

"Exciting," Victor returns, moving his fingers in a dainty wave as Yakov closes the door on him.

He gets about two steps towards his office before his phone vibrates.

He’s never thought himself capable of pulling out his phone this fast, but he pulls it off, somehow.

It’s a text from Yuuri.

R u here already? I’ll wait 4 u in d lobby?

Victor’s speedwalking back to the elevator before he can think too much about it.

It’s easy to spot Yuuri as soon as the elevator doors open on the first floor—Victor’s eyes don’t have to travel far before they settle on Yuuri, standing in front of the reception desk next to someone slightly shorter than him, with equally dark hair. They have matching lanyards, and Victor, squinting at their IDs as he walks over, manages to make out the name Phichit Chulanont on the one that Yuuri’s friend is wearing.

"I'm sorry!" Yuuri says, immediately, as soon as he notices that Victor's within earshot. He moves forward in a bow of apology, almost instinctive in how quickly he does it. "For snapping at you this morning."

Victor thinks he makes a noise, and then he’s laughing nervously, holding up his hands. "Yuuri, look up, you don’t have to—"

"Wait, what? You didn’t mention that, Yuuri," says—says Phichit, clapping loudly and shamelessly as he inspects Yuuri's bow. "No way? Staring your day hanging up on the world's hottest bachelor? That you’re dating? That's my best friend."

"You're not helping." Yuuri does straighten from his bow, though, only he doesn’t meet Victor's eyes. "Victor—this is, um—this is my roommate Phichit."

Victor opens his mouth, but when nothing comes out towards Yuuri, he turns to Phichit, holding out a hand. "Hi. Victor Nikiforov."

"Yeah, hi, of course I know you—but I’m just a lowly intern at the Broadcasting Department to you, really, just here for moral support," Phichit says, shaking the hand and ignoring Yuuri's hiss of his name. He has a firm grip, for someone so childishly radiant, and Victor doesn’t miss the way Phichit gives him a once-over, so quick he almost misses it. "Totally not freaking out right now. Totally gonna wash this hand when I get this home."

"Totally going to quiet down now," Yuuri supplies. When Victor turns to him, his smile is fond, the affection in it almost unconscious. Even the shooing motions he makes towards Phichit are tender, so visibly warm-hearted. "Okay, okay, you’ve met him—now go, you’ll be late for your sign-in."

Victor, hand flopping back to his side after Phichit lets it go, finds himself staring at Yuuri’s smile.

That man has a heartbreaker’s smile, let me tell you now, Chris had said.

The sentence plays in a loop on his head as he and Yuuri both watch Phichit skip over to the elevator. He tries not to be too obvious in sneaking glances at Yuuri’s smile, soft and gentle as it is, but he knows he fails; luckily, Yuuri’s busy waving goodbye to Phichit to notice.

A heartbreaker’s smile.

Chris is absolutely right.

"Victor?" Yuuri finally meets his eyes, only to break eye contact again when Victor perks up at the sound of his name. "I—I really am sorry. About—about this morning."

They’re earning looks from the people walking across the lobby, Victor knows, but he doesn’t look away from Yuuri. "I take it you’re not a morning person?"

"No," Yuuri admits quietly. "I still—I shouldn’t have—" Helplessly, he breaks off, only to quietly add, a second later, "I’m easily stressed."

Victor has to fight back a smile at how bashfully he admits it. He turns his body to face Yuuri fully, doesn’t bother to keep stifling the urge to stare at Yuuri. He’s wearing a scarf today, and his face is half-buried in it; it makes it easier for him to hide away from Victor, but he also looks warmer like this, even farther away from the man that had approached Victor at the party.

Victor, undeterred, keeps staring—stares until the pink blush that he remembers from yesterday returns to Yuuri’s cheeks. "Stress is a very human thing to feel," he says.

That startles Yuuri into meeting his eyes. "Do you—do you get stressed easily, too?"

It’s not a question Victor’s expecting, and for a split second, he almost says yes—but it’s too honest, for someone he’d only started talking to the day before. He flashes a smile. "Well, you’ve stressed me out very much, darling."

There is, for a moment, something in Yuuri’s eyes that look so close to being disappointment, but then it’s gone, followed by shyness at the term of endearment—and blatant guilt. "I’m sorry," Yuuri mumbles into his scarf. "You really don’t have to do this, you know."

This hesitance isn’t like the hesitance from yesterday; it’s Yuuri self-conscious instead of distrusting, and this, too, is a facet that doesn’t fit with the rest of what Victor knows about Yuuri. He thinks this over in his head, and decides—with surprising certainty—that he likes being bossed around by Yuuri Katsuki around a movie theater more than he likes making Yuuri Katsuki self-conscious and disappointed.

"I want to try dating you for a month, Yuuri," Victor says. He hopes that no one’s actually listening in to their conversation, that all of them are as eager to start their day as they look. It’s worth it, though, the blinking confusion he gets from Yuuri. It’s another new expression, welcomed when Victor’s already falling into the habit of tucking each new one away in his head. "Is that okay?"

Yuuri takes a while, hands bunching around the pockets of his coat.

Then, to Victor’s surprise, he nods.

"No morning calls," is all Yuuri says, firm.

"No morning calls," Victor repeats. "Understood."

Yuuri hesitates. "Texts—texts are okay."

"Okay," Victor echoes. "That’s a relief. I love texts." And then he has to smile again, watching Yuuri shuffle in place at that. "I want to build some trust between us, too, okay? I’ll treat you well, I promise."

There’s a sigh. It’s spoken directly into his scarf, when he says it, but Victor thinks Yuuri says, "S’not what I’m worried about."

Victor blinks at him. "Hm?"

"Nothing," Yuuri says, detaching his mouth from his scarf. "Nothing, I just—‘treat you well’—why are you—"

He breaks off, but Victor thinks he knows what Yuuri wants to ask. Why is Victor so insistent on doing things, why is Victor insistent on sticking to his checklist, why is Victor so insistent about this.

Victor doesn’t really know, either, why he’s so hopeful about it each time, why he keeps wanting to try this again and again. It’s the greed, maybe, a pathetic desperation for life and love the way other people around his age seems to have gotten it, from Chris and his boyfriend to even Georgi and his strings of meaningful heartbreak. His unconscious childish yearning for what he’s yet to experience.

He’s twenty-seven, with a twenty-year-long acting career to be proud of, and yet.

Besides—a month isn’t a lot of time, but it’s enough, for Victor to get his taste, and hopefully, hopefully, though it has yet to happen, figure his way out from there.

This part, Victor realizes belatedly, he ends up saying it out loud.

Yuuri’s mouth is opening and closing in surprise, and Victor should be offended, even embarrassed, but then Yuuri’s shaking his head, obviously more for his sake than Victor’s. "I—I get it. I don’t understand but—I get it, sort of."

That doesn’t make sense, but that, Victor’s sure of now, is Yuuri in a nutshell. He doesn’t make sense, hasn’t made sense since Victor first met him, still doesn’t make sense now.

Surprisingly, though, Victor doesn’t mind.

It’s a little addicting, he thinks, how unpredictable Yuuri Katsuki has been—how unpredictable Yuuri will be, in the next four weeks.

When Victor drops Yuuri off on the fourth floor, he doesn’t have to force himself to offer a genuine bright smile, waving one-handed as the elevator doors close between them. One would think he’s learned his lesson by now, but the hope he feels is genuine, too—hope that this is it, that this is the part where the shoe fits, that Yuuri, maybe, will surprise him more than he already has.

His phone buzzes again when he gets off his own floor.

It’s Yuuri, and Victor almost walks past his own office door.

Have a good day. I’ll c u for another dinner tonight.

And then—

I get 2 pick. Bc I’m paying.

Victor’s own smile widens into a grin at that, amused and pleased over something so small, but he doesn’t bother to try and fight it.

Chapter Text

When Yakov had first taken in Victor, discovered at an audition, Victor was seven, his English limited to the basics and his acting repertoire non-existent.

Twenty years later, Victor’s more than fluent in English and French, among others, thanks in a small part to a film festival attendance history that backs up not only an impressive filmography but also a tight hold on an international audience’s attention and interest.

When Yakov had first taken in Victor, GP Entertainment was just a fledgling of an entertainment company.

Twenty years later, the company operates as a record label and talent agency—as well as a music production company, event management and concert production company, and music publishing house, all at once. It's an empire of sorts, stretching out to corners of the entertainment world that not even Victor had tried to reach, so when Victor was offered a spot on the board last year, to be a prince to this kingdom of a world, it had been impossible to say no.

It would be a step up, he'd thought, the kind of different he's looking for. He wasn't particularly business minded, but it's a secret to no one that he's been part of the company longer than most people there, minus only people like Yakov and Lilia. He'd been raised in this world, and its customs and traditions flow in his veins, having been ingrained there for years, the inflections of its language practically native to Victor’s tongue. It hadn’t been pretty when he’d first taken the job, from accusations of temporary lapses of boredom to completely being unfit for the job, but a year into it and he hasn’t set his office on fire yet.

Switching from being a prized talent to doing the producing and managing part was predictably tough—it still is, in its own way, because Victor's much better at pretending he likes the things he doesn't want to do than he is at actually doing them. But he knows he has the means to be good at managing people the way he’s always been good at managing himself; he has the connections to get someone where he wants them to be, collected over long time exposure, and he has the charm and experience to make up for the business part that other members of the board can do for him.

It’s not a terribly good feeling to be aware of how amateur he is at this, especially after two decades of not being an amateur at anything, and often it feels like being a child playing at the life of a grown-up, even at the age of twenty-seven.

Being with Yuuri is much the same way.

It’s been two whole days since he’d last seen Yuuri; Victor doesn’t come to the building on weekends out of pure childish obstinacy to have some semblance of a break, even if he brings his paperwork home. He and Yuuri had somehow managed to establish a semi-routine since the disaster that was their first date: they text often, have dinner together, taking turns paying, and then watch a movie right after. They’d watched everything from a horror movie to an animated musical to a Christmas romcom, all in similarly empty last-full-show theaters, and Victor has never been as exposed to pop culture the way he has been for the past week, ironic as it is for someone with his career background. 

The past two days were the first break from that routine, and it’s an odd reminder of how used he’s gotten to seeing Yuuri at least once a day, even looking forward to it—looking forward to the way Yuuri always flushes slightly pink when Victor shows up at his office door, the way his face scrunches up when he picks a movie for them, but, most of all, the way he never reacts how Victor expects him to when it comes to deliberate actions from Victor’s side.

All of Victor’s attempts to be physically direct with Yuuri have all been rejected, shot down with purposefulness he wouldn't usually apply to someone with Yuuri’s sensibilities. Sure, Yuuri had flailed easily when Victor deliberately brushed his elbow against Yuuri’s arm, bridging the space between their theater seats, but he’d pulled away as quickly. Victor would accept that, except Yuuri had also allowed Victor to drop him off in front of his apartment building the night after, giving him a small, sweet smile and a quiet thank you that had Victor idling in the curb for a half hour long after Yuuri’s gone inside.

It's not that he's still frustrated with Yuuri, he's just confused.

The guilt always catches up to Yuuri whenever he shrugs off Victor, but Victor doesn’t want apologies—he wants to know what exactly he’s doing wrong this time, why he can never get a handle on Yuuri’s physical boundaries even as he’s begun to try to understand how Yuuri’s thought process works. Yuuri’s an enigma, a creature of contradictions, and Victor’s always left with a see-saw situation: understand one part of Yuuri, only to be completely stumped by another part.

Victor thinks, however, that a part of him likes it. He likes that Yuuri’s texts always make his heart jump in surprise, that Yuuri’s movie choices are never easy for Victor to guess, that the prospect of seeing Yuuri always comes with excitement, even if their routine is as predictable as it had been all the times before. It feels good, being around Yuuri, as fun as it had been the night of Yuuri’s own birthday even if dance-offs are no longer part of the equation.

It is, frankly, also a little troubling.

It’s disarming, how much he thinks about Yuuri in the week they’ve had together, how much he’s been thinking about him since the night of the party. It bothers him, try as he might to not let it show, that he’s allowed two days to go by without seeing or talking to Yuuri.

It weighs heavy on his mind, leaves him unable to read any of the folders that one of the secretaries have left on his desk over the weekend. By the time he opens the third one—Christmas Day premiere info on Yuri Plisetsky and Otabek Altin’s The Nutcracker adaptation—he’s restless enough to give up on the second paragraph, closing the folder with a sigh and leaving to go find the actors themselves.

A snappish text conversation with Yuri tells him they’re practicing in one of the dance studios on the lower floors, but when Victor gets off on the third floor—

—it’s Yuuri Katsuki that he bumps right into.

Yuuri’s sweaty, hair sticking to his forehead, one hand swiping against the bottom of his chin as he takes a couple of frantic steps back, apologizing. He's not wearing his glasses, either, and for a while, Victor just stares, half shaken with surprise, half thrown back into flashbacks from the party.

"Hi," Victor manages to say, eventually, a little breathless.

"Hello," Yuuri returns, just as breathless—though that might be because he actually is out of breath, his chest rising and falling faster than it usually should. "I—hi—What—what brings you here?"

He always hesitates; Victor's learned that it takes a while for Yuuri to warm up, that he has to thaw from scratch every time they meet up. The layers of ice are getting thinner and thinner with each day, but they're still there, and Victor has learned to work his way around them in his own right, to wait for them to melt by themselves instead of poking at them cheerfully with an ice pick.

"Victor?"

It occurs to him, as Yuuri takes a curious step forward, that Yuuri's still waiting for an answer.

"I'm on my way to see Yuri," Victor says. Yuuri's face scrunches up in confusion, and Victor's quick to add, "Plisetsky."

"Oh," Yuuri says, and the expression that crosses his face rings a little bit too close to what Victor would peg as disappointment. Victor fights the urge to close his eyes and berate himself out loud. "Right. You two know each other."

It's not a question, the way he says it, but Victor still explains, "We worked on a film together before—"

Yuuri tugs one side of his mouth in a smile—clearly teasing, but it’s still pretty. Everything Yuuri does is pretty, even like this. Especially like this. "I remember," he’s saying, and Victor has to force himself to tune back in. "A Winter in St. Petersburg. You played brothers. That was back when Yurio still had that bowl cut. Iconic snowball fight scene."

That's surprising, for Yuuri to know that. It wasn't a particularly well-written movie, more to endorse Yuri by placing him in a co-role with Victor than it was anything else, and not a lot of people know it well enough to pinpoint details like that.

Out loud, he repeats, "Yurio?"

"I—" Yuuri blinks, catching himself. "My sister's a fan of him, and because it gets confusing when she talks about it with me on Skype, we—"

"Your sister's a fan of the Russian Fairy, huh." Victor fakes a pout. That seems to ease Yuuri, because he finally takes another step forward, now within arm’s reach, his expression melting into the one he wears when things are more casual and conversational. Victor tries not to feel too triumphant. "Is she not a fan of me?"

Yuuri's laugh is half a scoff. It makes Victor’s chest clench. "Not her type."

"Oh?" Victor hums. It’s a low sound, and hearing it, somehow, makes Yuuri’s ears turn red. It’s this—this and the reminder that he’d missed out on all of it for two days—that has Victor leaning forward himself, dropping his voice and saying, around a smile that mirrors Yuuri’s own, "And you? Am I your type, Yuuri?"

It's no worse nor better than any lines he's ever said in a movie before, but something about how shamelessly he says it—in the silence of the hallway, to an already pinking Yuuri—that makes Victor abandon all attempts at not feeling triumphant. Thankfully, too, because Yuuri doesn’t bother turning away to hide his blush; Victor can clearly see the way his eyelashes flutter in surprise, in full view without his glasses on, and the way his mouth parts, like he’d been about to say something right before Victor took him completely by surprise.

That’s a pretty clear win on his part, in Victor’s humble opinion.

"I—I need to go—" Yuuri says, and that’s expected, the need for a getaway. Victor’s learned to predict that, too; he steps away as Yuuri does. Yuuri’s back almost hits the wall behind him, feet already hurrying to leave. "I have to—have to shower—can’t wait for my next class—"

"You didn’t answer my question, Yuuri," Victor says, but Yuuri’s already murmuring a shaky I’ll see you later and hurrying down the hall to where Victor can only half-assume the locker rooms are. It’s hard to tell, with Yuuri’s unabashed penchant for excuses.

Victor’s still smiling to himself, though, when he opens the door to Studio 3.

A good thing, maybe, because it’s two sets of intense stares that greet him through the mirror; Yuri, legs stretched in a warm-up split, and Otabek, sitting with legs crossed right beside Yuri as he watches him with what looks like a grimace.

It could also very well just be Otabek’s resting expression.

It smoothens out considerably as he nods at Victor. "Hello."

Victor waves, folder moving with his hand. "Hi~"

Not quite as polite, Yuri greets him with, "I heard you’re dating the pig bastard."

Victor stops, stilling. He thinks of the person he is dating—pretty Yuuri, sweaty and panting, pretty Yuuri, flushing red, pretty Yuuri, in a hurry to get away. "Who?"

"The Japanese Yuri," Yuri spits out, like it genuinely pains him to admit he's not the only Yuri in the world.

Victor blinks. "You know Yuuri?"

He gives Yuri ten seconds to reply—all of which Yuri spends grumbling incoherently.

Finally, Otabek raises a hand and says, "Yuuri teaches ballet."

"Don't call him that," Yuri snaps, growl half-hearted—though Victor doesn’t know if it’s because he doesn’t actually mean the hostility towards Yuuri, or if it’s because it’s Otabek he’s reprimanding.

Otabek lowers his hand and amends, "Mr. Katsuki."

Victor feels, all of a sudden, very silly.

It's his job now, to keep track of the talents that the company has under its wing. He knows most of the people in building by name, if only that. He's known Mila and Yuri since they were both starting out as child actors, knows them as well as he knows Georgi and Yakov. He knows that Ji Guang-Hong is a seventeen-year-old Chinese actor rising in popularity thanks to the success of Shanghai Blade, and that the contrast between the characters he plays and his real life persona is something that must be taken advantage of.

He knows that Georgi has earned a lot of sympathizers since his last break-up went public, and that this is the reason people will eat up the movie that Georgi has coming out on Valentine's Day next year.

He knows that Michele Crispino is a much calmer version of himself doing interviews without his twin sister Sara sharing it with him, and that the twenty-year-old pianist Lee Seung Gil should never be allowed on variety talk shows. He knows that Jean-Jacques Leroy comes from a Quebecois family of actors, and that he also has his own music contract within the company, with an album due for release early next year.

He even knows Leo de la Iglesia, a freelance songwriter with no actual contract with the company, and he knows Emil Nikola, who frequents the building for the Crispino twins despite being under a complete other agency altogether.

And yet—it occurs to him with resounding alarm—this is the first time he’s hearing about what Yuuri does for GPE.

"He—teaches ballet?"

It’s a beat of silence that answers him. Ever the more gracious one, Otabek says, voice deep and dry, "He’s a teacher and choreographer here. Miss Baranovskaya—"

"Don’t call her that," Yuri gripes.

"—Miss Lilia got him a full-time job here after she saw him in a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He also—" At this, Otabek breaks off to look at Yuri, who gives him a frown and a shrug. That’s apparently permission to continue, because he gives an equally wordless thumbs up back. "He helped out a lot with the choreography for our Nutcracker. Yuri trained with him a lot during the pre-production period."

Victor stares. Partly because this is all new information, partly because this is the most he’s ever heard Otabek talk outside of filming.

Yuri turns to properly face him, still in his split. "You don’t know."

"No?" Victor knows he’s frowning, but he can’t will it away, not right now. Between pole-dancing, break-dancing and leading Victor in a ballroom dance, he should have suspected ballet—should have suspected it, really, with Yuuri’s easy grace, from the way his feet skip around sometimes when he doesn’t want to bump shoulders with Victor to the way even the tips of his fingers are graceful, when he holds out a hand.

And then Victor has to wonder why he’s paid so much attention to even notice that.

But then Yuri says, audibly irritated, "You’re a shittier boyfriend than usual."

Otabek remains silent, which might as well be agreement, when you’re Otabek.

Victor can’t believe he’s being admonished on his makeshift love life by two people who haven’t even reached their twenties yet.

"Whatever," Yuri mutters, when Victor doesn’t say anything. The hair falling over his eyes is the only thing saving Victor from his glare. "You’ll break up in a month anyway."

Yuri almost sounds… angry about that, if Victor strains to listen. He’s never been happy about the monthly deadlines on Victor’s relationships, regardless of whether or not they’re voluntarily imposed; there is, however, a bizarre edge to Yuri’s accusation now, in direct criticism of Victor’s choices.

But that might be because Yuri’s sense of loyalty still has the hardheadedness of a young person, the black-and-white mentality when it comes to his approach to people—unrestrained attachment to those he’s opened his heart to, hostility to those he hasn’t. He doesn’t want to understand the concept of limited relationships, why people come together and break up the way they do. It’s all or nothing for him, when it comes to people; his friendship with stoic, silent Otabek is proof alone of that.

Victor doesn’t think he still had that quality to him, when he himself had been fifteen.

Maybe he never did. It’s concerning, knowing that no one believes any of it will last—not this month, not two months ago, not ever. They make it sound like flings, like something he does passively to pass the time—but they're not. Only Mila ever entertains the romantic idealism she knows must be in Victor, but even she never really bats an eye when the relationships do end, when they turn out to be no fairy tale after all.

Yuri’s grumble brings Victor back to the studio. It’s welcome; the studio is dead silent otherwise. "Why’d you wanna see us again?"

Victor doesn’t sigh, but he allows himself a visible shake of his head, clearing out thoughts.

"Well," he croons, opening his folder and smiling at Yuri. "I thought you’d want to know a couple of things about your film launch. First, that you absolutely can’t wear anything leopard-printed—"

Yuri’s string of cursing gets rid of the silence of the studio, but the bothered hum in Victor’s head doesn’t go.

ꕤ

Yuuri texts him to meet up for lunch.

Victor would be happy, but this is predictable, he thinks, with the guilt from running away earlier probably manifesting. He tries not to feel too bummed about being sure of that, and a part of him is optimistic—optimistic that this will end at some point, this cycle of Yuuri only ever reciprocating to make up for something. Victor doesn’t get it, personally, doesn’t get why Yuuri always feels the need to require justification to initiate things, or at least be okay with accepting Victor’s advances, but Victor’s hoping that maybe, with time and patience, he can come to understand the paradox that is Yuuri Katsuki.

Unfortunately, though, time isn’t exactly something they have.

When Victor gets to the lunch room on the first floor, he earns at least twenty pairs of curious eyes, all following him as he walks over to where Yuuri is. Yuuri’s already changed shirts, his hair still slightly damp, and Victor doesn’t miss how Yuuri smells like sweet fruit, even from across the table.

He smiles. "Ah, so you really did go to take a shower."

Yuuri winces, cheeks slightly puffed up as he rearranges two sandwich halves on the table. He’s uncomfortable, but Victor’s not sure if it’s because of the attention they’re blatantly receiving, or if it’s because of Victor himself. "S-Sorry—"

"No," Victor says, immediately. "Don’t apologize for that. You could answer the question, though."

There’s a beat where Yuuri seems like he’s poising to actually answer, but then he blinks, looking up at Victor. "Oh, I didn’t even—do you always just buy lunch?"

It’s a completely inane question, and Victor is startled into saying Yes. "I don’t—Lunch?"

Frowning, Yuuri holds up one sandwich. "I could—I could—do you want—"

Slightly confused, Victor takes it anyway. "I’ve never—"

"Oh my god." Yuuri flushes, fingers twitching as he frantically gestures for Victor to give the sandwich back. "Nevermind, give it back—"

"Oh, no, no." Victor smiles, belatedly understanding. He hurries to unwrap the sandwich. "It’s mine now, Yuuri. You gave it to me."

The noise Yuuri makes falls neatly between a groan and a whine, shoulders dropping with a heavy sigh. "I forgot who I was talking to, what am I doing offering a sandwich to—"

"Even Yakov brings his own lunch," Victor says, trying for conversational. It’s egg sandwich, and it’s no different from any egg sandwich Victor’s ever had, on-set catering or not, but he can’t shrug off the excitement at the novelty of someone giving him lunch. "It’s really much appreciated, Yuuri."

Yuuri’s eyeing him, clearly not buying it. "But still—It’s weird—I—"

"Oh?" Victor licks at one side of his mouth where the cream of the sandwich streaks, and smiles winningly when it makes Yuuri avert his eyes. "Is it that weird? Dating me?"

"We're not actually—" Yuuri stops himself, sighs. "I mean—it is weird, but not because it's you, it's more the—okay, no why would it be weird—"

Victor genuinely likes it when Yuuri talks like that, a string of words direct from his train of thought, the words tripping over themselves in an attempt to keep up with Yuuri's frame of mind. It's alarmingly honest, and it's endearing. "Well, it's odd because it's me. I'm not like anyone you've ever dated."

"Right." Yuuri rolls his eyes—actually rolls his eyes, not bothering to be subtle about it. He's blushing, though, a little bit, and Victor takes a curious mental picture. "How would you know what kind of people I've dated?"

"I'm sure none of them were as famous as I am," Victor says, still beaming. "But you're right, Yuuri—let's talk about your love life—"

"Victor." Both Yuuri's voice and stare are flatter than the files Victor's had to read all morning. "No."

"But I told you I want to build trust between us—"

Yuuri considers this, only to repeat, even flatter then before, "No."

"Okay, well, fine, I’ll talk—" Victor raises a finger to point at himself. "My first lover was—"

"Stop, stop, stop—" Yuuri holds up a hand, flustered. It lasts for about two quick beats before his face scrunches up, realizing something so visibly that Victor has to keep beaming in delight. "Um—Do you—do you still talk to the people you've dated? I mean—of course you do—they must still call you and—"

Oh.

Victor puts the sandwich down, smile dropping fast when he realizes exactly what Yuuri's asking. He clears his throat. "I don't know. I don't answer calls from numbers I don't have saved."

It's one of the first things he learned, when Yakov first got him his phone: people will always find ways to get to your number, only answer the ones you recognize.

He waits for the implication to dawn on Yuuri.

"You... You delete numbers from your phone? Or—you block them? When it's done?" Yuuri blinking fast, staring down at the table. "That's kind of—that's kind of insensitive, don't you—"

"Yuuri," Victor cuts in quietly. "Would you like it if the person you're dating keeps getting calls and texts from exes?"

"Oh," Yuuri says, as quietly as Victor had spoken. But Yuuri wears softness differently, and Victor feels admonished somehow, by how quickly he'd extinguished the part of Yuuri from minutes earlier that had been comfortable enough to roll his eyes. "I guess—I guess you'll delete mine, huh. When it's done. When my turn is done."

It's too serious, his tone. "Yuuri—"

"No—no, I get it." Yuuri's clearly lost in thought, staring out the window of the lunch room, barely paying attention to Victor. "I would—I would, too. I'd hate it a lot, too."

Victor allows his mouth to fall open a little bit in surprise, with Yuuri not looking at him. "You would?"

"I—yeah, I mean—you're mine right now, aren't you?" Yuuri mumbles, absently turning back to fiddle with the wrapper on his sandwich. Victor had picked up his sandwich again, only to stop mid-bite when he registers what Yuuri said. "They had their turn. I have mine right now."

There have been times, over the past week, where Victor had thought he'd started to get a handle on what kind of things Yuuri would say, if not do, times where Victor was confident he's learned what to expect, what to not expect—but then there's this Yuuri, who never fails to take Victor by surprise, even when he doesn't mean to.

It's too much effort to chew after that, but Victor perseveres.

Yuuri still doesn't look at him, completely unaware of what he'd said—at least until he finishes his sandwich, crumpling the wrapper, only to look up abruptly at Victor, reddening quickly and steadily.

"I mean—oh, god—I—Sorry—I said something embarrassing—"

"No," Victor says, miraculously finding his voice. He clears his throat again. "No, don't be sorry—"

There’s a beat of silence between them, and not for the first time since they’d started it, Victor sincerely hopes no one’s listening in and keeping track of what they’re saying. The building’s no stranger to Victor’s dating patterns, but this is the first time, if he’s willing to look at it as that, that Victor has wanted to be private about even the smallest of his interactions with someone, treasured and remembered, just between the two of them.

He really likes it, the way Yuuri surprises him—and the way it’s always exclusive to Victor, that feeling of being surprised and pleased and given attention all at once.

"I think," Victor says, "I’m the type that likes to be tied down."

It’s completely worth it, the way Yuuri reacts to that. Victor may like it when Yuuri surprises him, but he likes this just as much—surprising Yuuri, getting his eyes to widen like that, getting his face to look like that.

"Victor—"

"I don’t mind being yours for the month at all," Victor says, simply. "I quite like it, actually. Especially if you bring me lunch like this all the time."

It’s an easy justification he’s providing for Yuuri, and he knows Yuuri knows that, too. "I wanted to meet for lunch," is what Yuuri says, though, finally unwrapping his sandwich, "Because I can’t make it to dinner tonight."

Victor is wholly unprepared for the pang of disappointment he feels at that. "Oh?"

"Yeah, I—" Yuuri doesn’t look at him, eyes on the sandwich. "My roommate—Phichit—is still in college. He has finals starting this week, and when that happens, I usually do all the cooking? So he gets more time to study."

Victor’s chest feels weird, a little too tight, even if his heartbeat feels as steady as it usually is. He takes an experimental intake of breath.

The tightness doesn't leave.

"I see," he says. "That’s perfectly okay, Yuuri, I understand."

Yuuri doesn’t buy it for a second. He sighs, loud. "I’m sorry."

"No, no, I understand—" Victor says, fighting the urge to wave the sandwich around as he gestures. "It’s unavoidable, Yuuri, really, we can’t spend every minute together."

"But you—" Yuuri sneaks a glance at him, then another. "You want to?"

Victor blinks. Then he smiles. "Yes, I do want to spend more time with you."

"R-Right." Yuuri valiantly tries and fails to hide how flustered he is by the simplicity of Victor’s admission. "Well, I—If you want—if you want, you could come over for dinner—but only if you want to—"

"Yuuri," Victor says gently, and he doesn’t miss the way Yuuri tenses like he’s bracing himself for rejection. "I would love to."

"Oh," Yuuri says, as if he has any right to be more taken aback by this situation than Victor is. "Okay."

"Okay," Victor echoes, watching Yuuri slowly relax. He smiles. "So I’m coming over tonight?"

The realization visibly dawns on Yuuri, but he never takes things back, even when he clearly regrets them. This is no exception to that stubborn streak of Yuuri’s. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

"Okay," Victor says again, beaming now. He examines his chest for that tightness—it’s still there, but the disappointment, nagging earlier, has now been completely replaced by excitement. Out loud, he says, "I’m looking forward to it, then."

Tentatively, nervously, Yuuri smiles back.

ꕤ

Yuuri and Phichit’s apartment isn’t particularly impressive: it’s at least half the size of Victor’s, with two bedrooms on either end of the same shared bathroom, and a kitchen parallel to a living room with one L-shaped couch and, oddly enough, a rocking chair by the TV.

"Phichit came home with it last April," Yuuri had explained. "I didn’t question it."

Yuuri declines all of Victor’s offers to help; lucky, too, because Victor has very limited culinary skills, wont as he is to not admit to it. There’s never been time for it, so it’s spellbinding, watching Yuuri open cupboard after cupboard and see an assortment of pans and pots, jars of sugar and peanut butter and jam, whereas Victor’s kitchen, sleek as it is, has always remained empty save for a toaster and a coffee maker.

So Yuuri shoos him off to wander around the small apartment—but not without pointedly closing what Victor assumes is his bedroom door. "It's not—" Yuuri says, holding the doorknob so tightly that his knuckles have turned white. "Next time, okay?"

And Victor has to let it go, if it means getting that promise.

Yuuri makes quick work of whatever he’s cooking, and by the time Victor has circled the living room and examined every corner of it—the small coffee table with a half-grown jade plant, the twin bookshelves full of Blu-Rays and ballet recording DVDs, the polaroid cameras serving as bookends to the dictionaries arranged above an unused fireplace—the entire apartment already smells like good food.

Yuuri disappears into his room when he's done, changing into sweats before he joins Victor in front of the electric piano pushed to one side of the living room. There are music sheets scattered on the stand, clipped and tabbed, but Victor still asks, "Do you play?"

"Um—yeah, a little bit," Yuuri says, chewing on his bottom lip. His shirt’s a little big on him, the fraying shoulders falling a little bit lower than they should, but it looks like a well-loved favorite; the hems of the sleeves have survived a lot of spins in the wash, and the letters—spelling plié, chassé, jeté all day in white block letters—are a little faded.

It makes Yuuri look even softer, his few edges smoother and his expression more tender, and it takes Victor an embarrassing long second before he realizes Yuuri’s looking at him in question.

"Pardon?"

"I—" Yuuri hesitates. Victor makes a mental note that Yuuri doesn’t like repeating himself. "Do you? Play?"

"Oh—I had to play a pianist once," Victor begins, but Yuuri's already nodding.

"Right. I thought you didn't—I thought you didn't actually play—I though they had someone stand in for the—"

"There was someone for most of it," Victor admits. "But—I did learn some." He reaches around Yuuri, arms on either side of him, waits for Yuuri to move away. He doesn't. "For the shots they had that showed me—"

Victor’s fingers easily find the right keys. He plays the beginning slow and a little bit hesitant, but he lets muscle memory take over from there, unable to really focus on anything else but having Yuuri so close.

It's uncomfortable, reaching for the piano keys from behind Yuuri, but it's more than worth it: worth it for how warm Yuuri's back feels against Yuuri's chest, worth it for the way he feels Yuuri shiver when he speaks directly by his ear, retracting his hands, "That's about all I remember."

He feels Yuuri's laugh more than he hears it—nervous, shaky but real.

Victor hums, just to see if Yuuri shivers again. He does, but he also pulls away, moving away from Victor so abruptly that he, too, shivers at the sudden lack of warmth.

But Yuuri's kicking out the piano stool, his ears red as he sits down. "That wasn't bad," he says, and the softness of his voice is more tone than it is volume.

Timidly, he pats the remaining half space beside him.

He doesn't have to ask twice.

Victor feels, childishly, like a moth drawn to the flame that is Yuuri's warmth. His thoughts feel scattered, unable to concentrate when he can feel Yuuri through the thin fabric of his dress shirt, but he manages to say, "It's—convenient knowledge every now and then."

It's Yuuri's turn to hum. "Convenient?"

"Convenient," Victor repeats—he doesn't know where to put his hands, only knows that he wants them back around Yuuri. He settles for placing them on his lap, then his knees, like a little kid. "People are always impressed when someone can play a little piano."

"Yeah?" Yuuri says. Victor realizes, finally letting himself look, that Yuuri's smiling to himself, as unconscious as it was when he'd smiled at Phichit before. Victor recognizes the fond amusement, and it goes straight into the knot in his chest knowing that, this time, Yuuri's directing it at him. "How’s that? Do you play for the people you date, charm them with a little piano-playing?"

He runs his hands across two scales, the sound of the piano keys loud and nice in the apartment. Yuuri's smile is close-mouthed and still a bit hesitant, but it's absolutely radiant, to Victor.

Victor isn’t innocent, exactly, because he has done it; just two months ago, he'd played a little bit for his date at a five-star restaurant, had allowed photos and videos and smiled through the entire thing. It pains him to say it, but, shifting in his place on the stool, he tells Yuuri, "I’m sure I haven't ever played half as well as you do, Yuuri."

"Interesting," Yuuri says, opening his mouth in a perfect o-shape. It's clearly a borrowed expression, not one native to Yuuri, but Victor's amused anyway. "You haven't even heard me play yet."

It takes Victor a few seconds to realize he's being teased. And then he's startled into whining. "Yuuri."

It's undignified, but it doesn't matter, because Yuuri's smile widens, loses the hesitance. 

"Would you?" Victor finds himself continuing, chasing Yuuri’s smile with his gaze. "Play for me?"

He expects hesitation, but if he feels it, Yuuri doesn't really show it this time. Yuuri likes having the upper-hand, Victor is slowly realizing, likes being in control in some way, feels more comfortable when he is. Victor is more than happy to hand the reins over, if it means Yuuri letting his guard down.

"What do you usually play, Victor?" Yuuri sounds contemplative, running his fingers idly across the keys. "Do you go for a happy song off the bat? Set the mood with a bit of ragtime?"

"I—" Victor starts, only to clamp his mouth shut, nearly biting his own tongue, when Yuuri start playing—Joplin's Entertainer, the Hamlisch adaptation, recognizable to Victor mainly from all the times Yakov has made him watching The Sting as a teenager. But Yuuri makes it his own, the music jumpy and happy and bright, and Victor goes from staring at Yuuri's fingers, hopping from key to key, back to staring at Yuuri himself, all soft cheeks and bright eyes and fluttering eyelashes from this up close.

Then Yuuri stops playing, turning to Victor expectantly.

"No?" he says, when he sees Victor's expression. Yuuri’s still teasing, Victor knows, but he’s wholly defenseless against it. "That's not it?"

Victor opens his mouth, but nothing really comes out.

"No, I got it," Yuuri says, snapping with his left thumb and index finger. He places his hands back on top of the piano, and Victor feels hyper aware of every movement, primed for the dancer's grace he knows to expect from Yuuri now. "Jazz. Jazz is always attractive in the movies. You definitely do jazz, don't you, Victor?"

He doesn't give Victor a chance to answer, because then he's breaking off into Fly Me To The Moon, running his hand dramatically across two octaves before getting to the one he wants and starting. His teasing smile softens as they go along, and this time, Victor can't look away at all.

Especially not when Yuuri starts singing a bit—half humming, half doing an exaggerated Frank Sinatra imitation, crooning dramatically and inserting too much vibrato. And Victor finds himself trying not to laugh behind a hand, but he's failing miserably, chuckling so badly instead that he jostles Yuuri's elbow.

He likes this Yuuri a lot—this warm and soft Yuuri, at home right here in this living room, more comfortable than Victor's ever seen him. He likes this Yuuri, who has all the brightness of the dancing Yuuri from the party, fun and comfortable and unabashed and seductive and self-possessed, and yet more.

Just Yuuri, entrancing Victor all over again.

He likes this Yuuri, who doesn't flinch away when their shoulders touch, who smiles at Victor like they're sharing a private joke as he slows the song down to a stop.

"That's not it, either, huh?" Yuuri clucks his tongue, tilting his head. The blacks of his eyes look like they're glittering behind his glasses, and Victor stops trying to look away. "Okay—hm—"

Victor calms his laughter down to a smile. "Yuuri—"

"No, I can guess it," Yuuri says, and he's clearly enjoying his own teasing so much that Victor can't even feel ruffled about being the subject of it. "You're a 90s film guy. Not my first choice, but it's the only option I have left. A little Breakfast Club ‘Don't You Forget About Me’? No? Ferris Bueller ‘Danke Schoen’, maybe—no, wait—" Yuuri's fingers return to the keys, and his smile really is infectious. "Some 10 Things I Hate About You. Definitely."

Victor, helpless, just waits.

It's a few seconds into it before Yuuri starts singing—starts really singing, breaking off into ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’ all slow and pretty and saccharine, shedding all of the exaggeration and playfulness from earlier.

And then Victor's not smiling anymore.

He doesn't know what face he's making, can't even be bothered to school his face back into a more controllable expression.

Yuuri's singing is even softer, even lighter, than anything Victor has heard of his voice; even this is elegant, the way his voice rises over you'd be like heaven to touch, dips at can't take my eyes off you.

It sinks into Victor's bones, Yuuri's voice. It climbs inside him and stays there, curling in and swirling around—and he feels his throat dry up at the way Yuuri pronounces I need you and I love you, feels it get even drier at the way Yuuri's mouth, sweet, moves around oh pretty baby.

It's a song made for Yuuri, for the way he sings, for his temperament, and Victor thinks, half-dazed, that the lyrics—there's nothing else to compare, the sight of you leaves me weak, there are no words left to speak—might as well be about Yuuri.

Victor, all of a sudden, wants to touch Yuuri's mouth, trace his fingers along the way his lips move when he sings.

And then his mind empties, leaving one thought behind: I would really like to fall in love with you.

That train of thought halts abruptly. "Yuuri," he says, before he can help himself. Yuuri stops playing immediately, and Victor wants to scold himself, for robbing the living room of the sound of Yuuri singing.

"Yuuri," Victor repeats, and this time it comes out strangled. "You know I'm taking this seriously, right?"

Yuuri swallows. Victor's close enough to see the way his throat moves when he does. "Are you?"

"Very much." Victor doesn’t know what else he could say, to make Yuuri understand, to let Yuuri know that he can trust Victor. "I can be whatever you want me to be for you."

When Yuuri doesn't immediately reply, Victor's left to contemplate all the rejection he's received over the past week, left to wonder if, after all, it hadn't been patience on his part more than it was just stubborn persistence. "You can end it any time you want, Yuuri. I said that."

Yuuri's fingers fall from the keys to his lap. "Why would you say that? At a time like this?"

Victor's mouth opens—again, nothing comes out.

Yuuri doesn't look at him. "Do you want to end it?"

Victor brushes his hair back from his face, straightens his back. This feels more like a business deal than relationship negotiation, and he knows that's what Yuuri feels, too. "What do you want—"

"No," Yuuri says, voice sharpening. It's a cacophonous sound, sandwiched between the quiet of the living room and the pretty echo of the piano from earlier. "I want you to be you, Victor. I—I don't want to—if you're not—"

The words turn gentle as easily, as abruptly, like Yuuri’s not used to raising his voice. He looks frustrated—only less with Victor, more with himself. "Victor—I can’t—I want to know what you want, for me to be okay with telling you what I want. If you’re okay with—with this—" He gestures, all-encompassing, around them, but Victor doubts he means the apartment. "If you’re okay with me. I can’t—"

I can’t put myself out there without really knowing where I stand with you, is what Victor thinks Yuuri’s saying.

But Yuuri stops there, just stares back down at the piano, shoulders dropping, curling in himself, guards already pulling up before Victor can even give an answer.

No one ever asks Victor what he wants, and maybe this is why he never learned to say what he wants. It's always a yes that people expect, and it's always just a yes that he knows to give now, never anything else. With role offers, with dating requests, with Yakov offering him a place on the board, with everything else. There’s always a part of him that knows what people want, what people expect, the part of him that would rather just give them that, knowing it’s what pleases them. He’s impulsive, maybe, but he does think, when it comes to how he wants people to see him.

Or it could be that Victor's gotten lazy, allowing people to decide his life for him. Maybe he doesn't like routines at all, just that it's easier to justify never getting the chance to control anything if he calls it a routine.

Still. It should be enough. It had to be enough—but it isn't, for Yuuri. He's looking at Victor now like he wants to understand him, and it's disconcerting how, for once, Victor wants to let himself be knowable—knowable to this warm Yuuri and his warm apartment, who dances and plays the piano and sings and makes dinner for his roommate, but also snaps at Victor for calling too early and recoils when Victor pushes too hard.

And maybe Victor's been selfish, been ignorant and assumptive about this; he'd expected Yuuri to open himself up for Victor just like that, the way he'd done so freely at the party, had sulked when Yuuri hadn't responded the way Victor wanted him to. He'd expected things from Yuuri—things that Yuuri saw as personal vulnerability—without ever questioning once if he should be reciprocating in that regard.

It's Victor's problem, the tendency to default to physical action as a language, to get upset when that's not welcomed, and he's aware of it—it doesn't make it any less startling, though, being called out on it.

"I don't want to end this at all," Victor finds himself saying. "I like this, Yuuri."

I do want this.

It feels, out loud, more true than Victor ever expected it to be.

Yuuri blinks, at the piano, first, then at Victor. And oh—he's surprised, more surprised than he was earlier in the hallway, less flustered and more just taken aback.

It takes him a long beat before he replies. "I want to believe you."

Victor understands this—understands that it's not easy for Yuuri to open himself up to people, but what Victor hadn't understood up until now is that he does have options, that he doesn't have to wait or work around Yuuri when he can just meet him halfway.

So he does.

"Then," Victor says, picking up Yuuri's hand and gingerly dropping it on top of his. When Yuuri doesn't resist, he tightens his hand around Yuuri's. "Please do."

He watches, quiet, as Yuuri stares down at their hands.

But the jingle of the door lock startles Yuuri's hand out of Victor's—and Victor, equally startled, finds himself chasing after Yuuri's touch.

It's Phichit's voice, loud and outgoing and distinct, that rings out.

"Yuuri? Do we have a guest? There's a coat—wait, oh my god—" Then Phichit himself is sliding into the living room in polka-dotted socks, eyes wide. "Oh my god. Victor Nikiforov is in my house, I gotta—"

He pulls out his phone, but then Yuuri's walking past Victor, their arms brushing, and taking it out of Phichit's hands.

"Nope," Yuuri says, pocketing the phone in the same movement. "No SNS during dinner."

"But—but Victor Nikiforov—"

"—is here as my boyfriend," Yuuri says, and if not for the way his face flushes a little, it wouldn't have been noticeable how his voice trips over the word. Victor stares anyway. "So please respect his privacy, okay?"

There's a look that Phichit and Yuuri exchange at that, fleeting but loaded, but whatever Phichit sees seems to satisfy him, because he holds up both hands, pout more playful than it is genuine.

"Okay, Yuuri," he sings, giving Victor a hundred kilowatt smile, warm and honest, before disappearing into his room.

When Victor turns to Yuuri, Yuuri has both hands on his face, his eyes wide.

"Yuuri?"

"Yeah!" Yuuri snaps into attention so fast it looks like it hurts his body. When he sees Victor smiling, though, he relaxes. "Did that offend you?"

"Not at all," Victor says, leaning against the nearest wall to angle his head and look at Yuuri. "You weren't wrong. I am here as your boyfriend."

Yuuri exhales, and it's good, knowing he can make Yuuri feel as shaky as Yuuri constantly makes him feel. "You are so—Will you ever stop staying lines like that?"

Victor pretends to consider it. "Maybe if you keep making me lunch, I’ll spare you for a bit."

That earns a genuinely amused smile—and Yuuri really is most beautiful like this, wearing the warmth and comfort of his home like a second skin. "Fine."

Victor blinks. "Really?"

"Really what?" Phichit says, coming back out of his room in his own sweats. He raises an eyebrow at Victor, then at Yuuri, all without pausing on his way to the kitchen. "What's happening? I'm starving, guys."

He sure recovers easily, and Victor has to appreciate the look Yuuri gives Phichit.

"I was just saying," Yuuri says, eyes flickering back to Victor, "that Victor should set the table."

Victor's mouth falls open at that. "Me?"

Phichit's laughing, dragging the entire pot over to the round dining table. "Cupboard to the right of the stove, Mr. Nikiforov."

The informality of the order rivals only Yuri Plisetsky’s tendency to talk down to Victor, but—standing in this small apartment, still feeling the warmth of Yuuri’s hand in his as he gets ready for his first shared home meal in what has to be years—Victor has no reason to feel upset.

None at all.

Chapter Text

In retrospect, the whole problem began with Love & Life.

Or, more accurately, it began a year ago with Stammi Vicino. The drama film now remains Yakov’s last feature as producer and director with Victor in the leading role, but it was, at the time, widely regarded as the film that gave Victor his fifth winning Awards season in a row and cementing yet another Academy record.

The screenplay had been adapted from a book about a pianist traveling the world in a greedy search for the ‘perfect song’, haunted in his dreams and convinced that the person who had played him the song in Florence was out there waiting to be found and reunited with him. Despite the Cinderella echo of the story, both the novelist and screenwriter were quite cynical in their romanticism, and the film played with themes of chasing the idea of love more than the reality of it, the inevitability of the helplessness that comes with love—and yet the dependence on it.

The film open-ends with the pianist unable to find the person but still getting ready for the next step in his search: desperate, stubborn against heartbreak and steadfast in his own idealism.

With dialogue and narration adapted from a critically acclaimed novel, Yakov’s penchant for heavier imagery and a nuanced artist-type character played by Victor Nikiforov, Stammi Vicino was the kind of formula that guaranteed countless accolades by the time the first full trailer came out. Yakov had been vocal about his disapproval of Victor’s portrayal of the role, turning the film from a dream-like narrative to something heartbroken and miserable, but the public had eaten up that kind of image—the image of a man with a waiting sensitive heart, seeking desperately for true love—and whatever massive amount of fame and attention Victor had already accumulated by that point only catapulted thrice over.

The success of the film led to talk of whether or not Victor will do more drama films—and maybe, if Victor had other kinds of talent to him than just looking pretty, the press had said, he’ll try his hand at producing or directing his own—and there was even a pitch from the same screenplay writer that had adapted Stammi Vicino, with Victor in mind for the role.

But then Yakov had been offered the company spot. Victor cannot recall now if the decision had been hard for Yakov, but, all the same, nearing seventy-years-old and grudgingly satisfied with Stammi Vicino being his last original film after fifty years in the field, Yakov had ended that year announcing his retirement from directing altogether.

Victor, curious and impulsive and malleable to speculations of him taking on producing, had bought the script in Yakov’s place. The working title was Love & Life, the story of a career-driven man approaching his 30s and finding that he has neglected what the script calls the ‘two important Ls.’ Victor, twenty-six at the time, had been around the perfect age to star in it, and Love & Life should have been the perfect film for Victor to ride the momentum from Stammi Vicino and bring his career even higher, all before he even turns thirty.

It should have been.

Only Yakov had gruffly offered Victor a management position, not necessarily outright retirement but a break, if he wanted it, and Victor hadn’t said no to that, either.

As it is, the script sits in Victor’s bedside drawer, tucked under a folded list of offers for tons of other things—roles, stage productions, talk show suggestions, the possibility of an autobiography, all from people who had contacted him despite his announcement to take a break from acting.

Yakov had given him an out from all of that, and Victor had taken it as impulsively as he had with most other things.

A year later and Victor has to wonder if both films were the catalysts to everything that followed—

Victor throwing himself into everything but acting despite the sting that comes with watching other movies and other actors rise to the spotlight.

All the dating; the hopeful desperation and stubborn insistence that comes with it every time.

The sudden obsession with life and love, haunted by the idea like it's his own perfect song.

A year later and Victor has to wonder if maybe, in playing the pianist, he’d realized the aimlessness of his own non-existent search for the very thing Love & Life would focus on, if only Victor had found a producer and director for the script.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

For all the things he likes filing under daily routines, there’s a lot of unpredictability and uncertainty still swimming around in Victor’s life.

This all occurs to him as he waits on the set of Tales Of A Sleeping Prince.

How a fairytale movie can prompt the existential bone in Victor more actively than the concept of two drama films, he doesn’t know.

He’s willing to bet it has to do with Georgi, though.

Victor drove over to the filming location later that morning mainly to check in, but Mila had found him surrounded in one of the costume design stations and happily dragged him over to watch Georgi film a scene.

It's an event, as most things are with Georgi. Victor can be easily amused, can be enthusiastic about the smallest of new things, but even he can only take so much of Georgi yelling I am an evil witch! in different takes before it gets ridiculous.

Mila herself is a disjointed sight, her makeup glittery and her short hair pinned back under a shining crown even though she’s wearing black workout clothes. She seems comfortable enough like that, though, humming as she leads Victor out of the warehouse and to her trailer.

It’s only her second time playing the lead role, this time as a young queen on the search for a princess—played by Sara Crispino—after being tasked to do so by a corrupt and ill-meaning royal council determined to take the throne. The evil witch that had kidnapped the princess out of an agenda against love is played by Georgi, perfect for the role in wearing the bitterness of heartbreak better than he wears his costumes.

It’s a lot of elements going on in one movie, and it's the kind of movie that Yuuri would drag Victor out to see, knowing his penchant for picking the most eyebrow-raise-inducing thing off the list.

They have, however, stopped the movie routine altogether; Victor spends dinner at Yuuri’s apartment every day now, being absolutely no help to the fact that Phichit uses finals season as an excuse for doing nothing around the place. Victor has tried, he really has—he’s done everything from offering to cut carrots to washing the dishes, but it has all ended, one way or another, with him sitting on the couch watching recordings of Yuuri’s ballet performances, all of which Phichit is always more than happy to provide him with, categorized into types and arranged in chronological order.

If Victor’s asked, though, he’d rather watch Yuuri dance for years than settle for any movie ever again.

Mila waits until Victor has made himself comfortabke on one of the recliners before plopping herself down, cross-legged, on the couch parallel to it. "So," she says, reaching over to drag a bowl of grapes to her lap, "Are you coming to my movie premiere this Thursday? Or—does Victor Nikiforov need official invitations to premieres?"

Victor blinks.

Before he can recover from the surprise, Mila pops a grape in her mouth and smugly chews. Her crown glitters, menacing. "My Cutting Edge is premiering on the 15th."

"Oh," Victor says, his mind blanking. "Yes, of course it is."

"You forgot about my movie," Mila cheerfully points out, and it’s not a question. Victor nods with the grace to at least look apologetic. "Now you really have to come. No one cares about it except the people who want to speculate about my love life."

It takes a while, but Victor remembers—Mila had been filming a Cutting Edge remake with her then-boyfriend, playing a figure skater while he played the hockey player opposite her. Their break-up had been public precisely because it happened during post-production and alongside Georgi’s own public break-up—only Mila had taken her situation much more calmly, not giving the media anything at all and smoothly moving on to a consecutive lead role in Tales Of A Sleeping Prince.

"It doesn’t matter," Mila continues. "I’m showing up with Sara anyway. ‘Dating or co-acting?’ Let’s see them speculate about that."

"Oh?" Victor puts his finger to his lip in mock contemplation, leaning back on the recliner like he would on his office leather chair. It always makes him feel superior doing that, like he's had more years in that office than he actually has. It doesn’t work as well in Mila’s trailer. "You're bringing Sara as your date? What does Michele have to say about that?"

"Nothing at all! I mean—Mickey and I have an agreement," Mila says, blinking wide and innocent in a way that reminds Victor of Yuuri. It doesn't work quite the same way on Mila, considering she pronounces agreement in a tone that implies it involved a lot more threats than she wants it to seem. "Besides, he's off filming, um, what's that medieval movie—"

Victor is lucky enough to have read the paperwork for that, at least. "Destiny of Knights?"

"—yeah!—somewhere in Europe. With Emil." Mila shrugs. "So what's he gonna do? Teleport to the premiere and drag Sara away?"

"I wouldn't put it past him," Victor says, mock solemn. 

"You know," Mila chides, clucking her tongue. She raises a hand and, in dramatics only learned from longtime exposure to Georgi, closes it into a fist right in front of Victor. "You have to fight for love."

Victor raises an amused eyebrow, tapping a finger against his knee. "Which you would know a lot about, yes?"

"More than you, surely," Mila sings, lowering her fist with a smile. "Though our Yuri tells me you're enamored with your person of the month."

Victor finger stills against his knee for a brief second; he continues tapping as quickly, hoping Mila hadn't noticed. He offers her a hum, non-committal, even as he tries to fight back a smile at the thought of Yuuri. "I’m sure he added 'disgusting' or 'gross' somewhere in there."

"He actually used ‘revolting’—being friends with Otabek is really expanding his vocabulary," Mila says, smiling. It's an angelic image—until she slaps her hands on her own thighs and leans forward so abruptly, jostling her bowl of grapes, that she makes Victor flinch. "So then, why haven't I met the guy?"

"Ah," Victor says, realization dawning. He tries to imagine Yuuri meeting Mila, only for his train of thought to stop at the shy and polite smile Yuuri would give her over introductions. Clearing his throat, he fixes Mila a proper look. "That's why you're so eager about this."

When Mila laughs, it's a close-mouthed giggle that does nothing to hide her mischief—not that she ever bothers to try. "So? Are you coming? Please say yes. It's good publicity."

"For who? Me and Yuuri?"

"No, my movie," Mila sings. "Good enough if it’s just you, but even better if you bring a date with you. Reporters always flock around when they're trying to figure out how your relationships are going. It's impressive how interested they are, all the time."

That's ironic, coming from her. "That’s not how it works, Mila, I’m fairly certain." Victor doesn't sigh, out of instinctive hold on his composure, but it's a near thing. "How about this? If Yuuri says yes, we'll go. If he doesn't want to, we won’t—"

He breaks off, the notification sound from his phone loud enough in the quiet of the trailer to interrupt him.

It’s a text from Yuuri.

Did u not come 2 GPE 2day?

Victor’s phone tells him it’s a bit past noon—meaning Yuuri had come to Victor’s office to bring him lunch more than half an hour ago, like he’s been doing all week, only to find Victor not there.

He’d also probably spent the next half hour debating whether to text Victor about it.

Yuuri’s message reads like any other normal text, but Victor still feels slightly scolded.

When he looks up, Mila’s blinking at him, considering. "He gets to decide, huh. You’re so gracious."

"I honestly cannot tell if you're mocking me," Victor tells her. She shrugs, smiling. "Why are you so interested, Mila?"

"Because you've never been like this about—this," Mila says, sticking out her bottom lip. "I want to meet the person who made Victor Nikiforov look like—" At this, she points, her silvery nail polish glinting in the fluorescent trailer lights. "—that."

Victor leans his chin against one hand, propping his elbow on the arm of the recliner just for something to do. He feels, all of a sudden, too eager to go back to GPE, too restless to settle for just replying to Yuuri.

"You just seem... so much less you—" Mila waves her hands, overdramatic jazz hands. "But more—" She stretches out her hands, laying her hands out flat and pointing at Victor like she's displaying him to the world. "—you."

"Mila," Victor starts.

"I don't have Georgi's talent for poetics," Mila says. "You just seem—more present, lately. I wouldn’t be having this conversation with you two months ago, for one—you wouldn’t have let me drag you here. You get excited, you get playful—" She gestures again, at the trailer and Victor and the phone in Victor’s hand. "It’s like you’re remembering you have an actual life to live and an actual person to be. Even Yuri said so."

Victor blinks. "Yuri?"

"Yeah, our Yuri," Mila says. "He was telling me the other day about the look on your face when he and Otabek told you—"

"Oh dear," Victor says, raising a hand to signal her to stop.

She doesn’t. "And I was like, wow—I thought Georgi and I were the only ones susceptible to love life issues in this little family—" Victor, Georgi and her, she means, all of them known for being in Yakov-directed films more than three times each. Victor fights the urge to wince. "—but even Victor Nikiforov can be so awful at being a boyfriend—"

"Mila—"

"Maybe it’s a Yakov thing." Mila hums. "Do you think our Yuri will have love life problems too when his movie with Yakov comes out?"

"Perhaps when he’s older," Victor says, long-suffering. "Or not—Yakov’s retired."

"Then maybe when you direct him, he’ll have love life problems."

That stops Victor. He drops his hand back to his lap. "Me? Direct him?"

"I’m joking," Mila immediately chirps, but Victor doesn’t miss her own wince. "Besides, it’s completely normal to have love life issues. If it’s all idyllic and romantic all the time and everyone's happy without dealing with things, it’s not much of a two-way relationship at all, is it?"

"I—" Victor blinks, realizing that his heart had seized when Mila had brought up the prospect of directing. It eases in his chest now. "No, I suppose not."

"If the person makes you happy, though—" Mila says, smiling as her fingers chase around the last grape in her bowl, "—which he clearly does, getting you all excited and restless like that—you gotta fight to get to keep it."

She does her fist-clenching gesture again, if only to drive the unnecessary point home.

When Victor still hasn’t replied by the time she swallows, Mila widens her smile. "Or at the very least bring him to a premiere."

Victor has to laugh, a one-note laugh that sounds oddly like Yuuri’s scoff-laugh—and Mila seems pleased by that, by how easily she extracts it out of him.

"You sure like to stir up trouble, don't you," Victor says.

Mila hums, brushing a lock of hair back the way Victor tends to do with his own bangs. She grins up at him, tilting her head towards the trailer door in what might be an indication to Georgi. "I learned well from my big brothers, don't you think?"

Victor can’t deny her that, really, so he doesn’t even bother to try, getting up and brushing non-existent lint off his pants. "If Yuuri says yes, Mila," he reminds her.

"Sure, sure," she replies.

But when she closes the door behind Victor, cheerfully singing her goodbyes, she’s smiling like she’s already won.

ꕤ

Victor had been ready to take the stairs to the fourth floor if the elevator doesn’t come fast enough, but when he gets back to GPE, he sees Yuuri coming empty-handed out of the connecting first-floor coffee shop.

"Yuuri!" Victor calls out, his voice cheerfully and easily carrying across the lobby.

Yuuri jolts, but the way his eyes are lit up in recognition as he turns around has Victor running over to hug him.

"Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri," Victor sings, arms wrapping gratefully around the familiar warmth. "Hello."

Yuuri allows it, and Victor takes full advantage of the chance to rest his cheek against Yuuri's head. His hair smells sweet and fruity, as always, and Victor's overwhelmed with the urge to either bite him or kiss him.

He settles for hugging Yuuri more tightly.

"Stop, you’re like a child in a playground," Yuuri murmurs, but he doesn’t move away, even wiggles as he settles in more comfortably in Victor’s arms.

After a while, he adds, "Hello."

Yuuri has been much more accepting of physical affection since Victor’s first time at his apartment. It could be the prolonged exposure to it, the prolonged exposure to Victor, who is, with every passing day, getting greedier and greedier about chances to touch Yuuri. Or it could be that they spend every minute together that they don’t use up working or sleeping, with them eating lunch and dinner together and Victor taking every opportunity not to leave Yuuri and Phichit’s apartment until he absolutely must.

Victor would like to think, however, that it’s Yuuri beginning to seriously open up to him and let him in.

As a side effect, Victor’s developing a sort of obsession with hugging Yuuri from the back—developing a sort of obsession with touching Yuuri in any way, really, whether it's holding his hand or touching his adorable cheeks or fixating on the fact that Yuuri’s lips look soft enough to touch and even softer to—

"Oh," Yuuri says, and Victor's regrettably forced to detach his face from Yuuri's hair to look. "Yurio."

Yuri Plisetsky needs only one look at them before his face sours. He turns away with a click of his teeth, clicking insistently at the up button on the elevator controls.

Ever eloquent, he says, "Die."

Yuuri chuckles. Victor's still close enough, arms loosely around Yuuri's, to feel the nervous vibrations of it. "How did the practice run go?"

Yuri snorts, turning away completely from both of them. "Perfect."

"That's good," Yuuri hums back, and Victor reluctantly lets go as the elevator doors open.

It doesn’t stop him from grabbing onto Yuuri’s sweater, though; Victor might as well be connected to Yuuri as they both walk in.

"Third floor?" Yuuri asks, giving Yuri a sweet, sweet smile—

—that Yuri blatantly refuses to appreciate. He snorts his yes at Yuuri, derisive.

Victor has to admire the stubborn unconditional hostility of fifteen-year-olds.

Yuuri takes it all in stride. "Back to practicing again, huh," he says, and his voice sounds different, none of the hesitation that usually marks his sentences when he’s thinking too fast to wait for it to translate smoothly into words. "You sure work hard, Yurio. Don't forget to stretch properly."

"I know, god," Yuri grumbles. He's slumping away from Yuuri, his body turned away in something more a product of stubbornness than it is instinct. "You’re not my mom, shut up."

"True enough," Yuuri continues, undeterred. Victor hadn't noticed it as much before, but Yuuri holds his back very straight, even when he hesitates, like his poise is so ingrained it would take a lot more for his body language to sacrifice it—it’s more apparent now, next to Yuri. "But reminders help, considering how much ballet you put your body through in such short time, you know?"

Yuri doesn't reply. He keeps stealing glances at Yuuri, though, biting the inside of his cheek so angrily and so aggressively that it hurts to watch. His eyes say something else, every time they land on Yuuri, but Victor can’t place the familiarity of the expression.

He watches it all contemplatively, fingers to his mouth.

Then Yuri catches sight of Victor. He glares.

"What, old man?"

Victor thinks Yuuri stifles a giggle at that.

"Don’t be mean, little fairy." He pouts at the elevator doors. "Are you going to the premiere?"

Victor has all of Yuri’s angry attention now. "Of Baba's movie with her ex? Fuck no."

Victor hums, channeling all of his contemplation from earlier. "A shame. It would have been nice to get a photo with both Yuri's on the red carpet."

It takes a second for Yuri to understand. By the time it does, the elevator has arrived on the third floor—but Yuri jams his finger against the Hold button. "You're bringing the katsudon with you?"

Victor blinks. Yuuri does, too.

"The what?" Victor says—

—at the same time Yuuri asks, "Bringing me where?"

There’s silence.

And then, in the next beat, they chorus, looking at each other, "It's a long story."

That earns them a groan from Yuri, who lets go of the button and stomps out of the elevator.

Just before the doors close, Victor hears Yuri scream; They're starting to talk in tandem, Beka!

When he turns to Yuuri, there's a lot of confused blinking waiting for him.

Victor smiles, all teeth. "You first?"

Yuuri reddens. That much hasn’t changed, even if his comfort level with Victor has improved; Yuuri still gets flustered and embarrassed easily, even if, more often than not, he’s found it in him to poke fun at Victor.

"Don't laugh," he says, trying to sound stern and failing.

Victor indulges him with an obedient nod anyway.

"I—I had to give a lesson on how to convey—u-uh—seduction—through dancing—once," Yuuri says, and the hesitation is back, for a second, his body language closing in as he trips over how to tell his story. "And—and there was a lot of—you know, image training?—involved—like—who you want to seduce, how you want to—um—seduce them, and I—someone asked me about what kind of—what kind of desire I personally wanted to project and—my first thought was—"

At this, Yuuri swallows, eyes flitting very briefly towards Victor before fastening back on the ground. "Okay—my second thought was—was katsudon. And I sort of just—blurted it out—"

Seduction. Through dancing.

Yuuri.

"Katsudon," Victor repeats.

"Y-Yeah. A pork cutlet bowl?" The elevator doors signal their arrival on Victor’s floor, but neither of them move. "It’s—it’s my favorite food. And I just—I told them—that’s how I want—I want to enthral someone the way I’m enthralled by—by katsudon and—oh my god—why am I telling you this—"

Victor thinks of Yuuri sliding down on that pole, half-dressed and assertive.

Victor thinks of Yuuri drunkenly taking off his pants and digging fingers into his tie to unknot it.

Victor thinks of how Yuuri had felt pressed close against him, every movement sensual, his body erotic against Victor’s even if his smile towards him, dazed in a drunken stupor, had remained sweet as ever.

Victor feels very weightless, standing there in the elevator.

"I don’t think you need a lesson at all," he says, with feeling, "If I do say so myself."

Yuuri gets even redder.

Victor watches, fascinated.

"I’m done," Yuuri says, almost vicious in its insistence as he finally steps out of the elevator. Victor, ever magnetized, follows. "Y-Your turn."

It’s a short walk from the elevator to Victor’s office, but Victor manages to fit the bare bones in there, starting from where he’s been to explaining Mila’s invitation. He watches Yuuri’s face closely the whole time, looking for signs of resistance in any form. There is hesitance, as the blush recedes, but Yuuri doesn’t look too bothered.

In fact, by the time they enter Victor’s office and Yuuri helps himself to Victor’s coffeemaker, he almost looks pleased.

Victor could be imagining it, so he asks, cornering Yuuri by the console, "I told her it’s up to you. What do you think?"

Yuuri does look slightly thoughtful, but he smiles sheepishly as he leans away. "I don’t really mind?" he says, voice surprisingly stable as he waits for the mug to fill. He looks at Victor. "Do—do you?"

That’s still odd, when Yuuri asks things like that. Victor gives it genuine thought. "I don’t feel very strongly about going or not going," he says, when the coffeemaker goes silent. "But I promised Mila."

Yuuri nods once. "Right."

"It would be a much better night, though," Victor begins, dragging a finger against the surface of the table. It would be a self-conscious habit, if it had been anyone else doing it. "If you come with me."

It’s too soft, but he thinks Yuuri exhales at that. Then he’s smiling at Victor, closed-mouthed but bright, bright, bright. "Okay, then."

Victor blinks, and then he’s smiling back, feeling oddly like Makkachin getting more tummy rubs. "Really?"

"Really," Yuuri echoes. "We’ll go."

He's wearing a sweater today, slightly big on him, his hands bunched around the part of the sleeves too long for his arm as he cradles the mug. It’s an even farther image from the pole-dancing Yuuri than usual, but something about the fact that this Yuuri is in Victor’s office, pouring himself coffee in one of Victor’s mugs, fills Victor with a surprising kind of warmth altogether.

So he reaches over to brush hair off from around Yuuri’s glasses, feeling his own smile turn soft. "Whatever you’re okay with," he says, quiet but smug, when Yuuri lets him, too busy mid-sip to move away or lean into the touch. "Will you let me buy you a suit for the premiere?"

All he gets in response to that is a flat no in the form of Yuuri’s glare, piercing over the rim of Yuuri’s mug.

Victor keeps smiling at him anyway.

ꕤ

"You’re just using me!"

This is the first thing Victor hears, two seconds after knocking. There's a long moment where he's sure he has the wrong place—but that was definitely Yuuri's voice, anguished, and this is definitely Phichit and Yuuri’s apartment. He knows this for a fact, because the girl all the way down the hall is sticking her head out, unabashedly staring at Victor and taking pictures like she always does when she knows he’ll be coming up with Yuuri.

He straightens his tie and smiles winningly at the direction of her camera.

"You’re using me—even though I give you my everything—"

The door's opening before Victor can hear the end of the sentence or see the girl’s reaction, and then Phichit's sticking his head out, sheepish. He’s dressed to go out already, beanie on and one arm sliding into a hooded sweater. He looks so much more child-like like this, smiling apologetically as he opens the door farther for Victor. But he sticks out his tongue, laughing a little, and the image breaks. "Hey, hey, hey, Victor, looking spiffy there in your suit. Come in, come in—sorry, sorry—"

"Hi," Victor says, cautiously stepping in. "Is everything alright?"

Phichit hums, closing the door behind him, wincing when the beep of the automatic lock startles him. "Mostly? Yuuri's—" He breaks off, just as Yuuri comes rushing into the living room, squeaking triumphantly as he grabs something off the floor with two hands. "—having his weekly fight with the hamsters."

"It’s not a weekly fight," Yuuri says, panting as he straightens. He does a double take when he sees Victor—Victor who, preening slightly, doesn’t miss the full-body glance Yuuri gives him. "H-Hi."

"Hi~" Victor says, casually peering at Yuuri’s hands—it’s a hamster indeed, blinking innocently up at Victor. He frowns. "This is a student housing neighborhood, no? Are you allowed pets in here?"

"Nope," Yuuri and Phichit chorus.

"I asked really nicely," Phichit immediately says. "I’ve had hamsters since before I first moved in with Yuuri, so—"

"Begged really hard, more like," Yuuri mutters crossly, giving Victor an exasperated look before disappearing into Phichit’s room, presumably to put the hamsters back in their cage.

"Yuuri’s really weak to when people stare him right in the eyes when they ask for things," Phichit confides, when Victor turns to him. "But I think you know that. He’s really excited about the date."

Victor did not, in fact, know that. "He is?"

"Yeah—okay, maybe stressed is more accurate," Phichit says, hopping around as he puts on his shoes without support. "We, uh—we’re running a little late, see. So Yuuri’s in a bit of a, uh, bad mood? Because the hamsters got out of their cage and then we—"

"I," Yuuri corrects testily, coming out of Phichit’s bedroom and making a beeline for his. He’s still in his work clothes, and his socked feet are practically sliding on the floor in his hurry as he slams his bedroom door closed behind him.

"—fine, Yuuri had to track them down and get them back in their cages, one by one," Phichit says, mock somber. "But we’re still both running late."

Victor looks him up and down curiously. "And where are you off to?"

"Overnight study group with my friends. Not doing so hot in the class and we have a 2 PM exam tomorrow," Phichit explains, unhooking a jacket from the coat rack. "I—oh, here they are."

He moves towards Yuuri’s bedroom, only to catch sight of the clock and double back, shuffling towards the front door and turning sheepishly to Victor instead. "Victor?"

Victor blinks down at him, slightly taken aback. Phichit just seems so much larger than life that it's startling to register the height gap. "Yes?"

"Okay, so—I borrowed Yuuri's keys when I went down to get the mail this morning? Our front door auto-locks and I couldn't find mine but—" Phichit's suddenly speaking really fast, barely pausing for air as he holds up a set of keys, fished out from the pocket of the jacket he's putting on. "They're right here. Oops. Tell Yuuri I left his on top of his desk, okay? Don't forget."

Victor nods.

Phichit gives him a thumbs up. "Cool—then I'm off," he says, raising his voice to yell, "Bye, Yuuri, have fun on your date!"

Yuuri's reply is too muffled for Victor to make out, but Phichit doesn't bother for clarification, waggling his eyebrows one more time at Victor before he's running off, the automated door lock clicking pointedly behind him.

As if to punctuate that, Yuuri’s wrenching his bedroom door open, so hard that it slams on the wall behind it.

Victor’s back straightens out of instinct cultivated from being around Lilia in the years that led up to her divorce with Yakov, but Yuuri, having changed into his formal wear in record time, only brushes past him to stomp over to the bathroom.

He doesn’t bother closing the door behind him this time, and Victor gets a to watch Yuuri take off his glasses and snap open a contact lens case. He leans in really close to the mirror as he puts the first one in, taking a moment to blink rapidly at nothing before turning to Victor.

And then it’s Yuuri at the party all over again—Yuuri in a suit, tie still untied, no glasses and hair falling messily over his forehead.

It’s hard not to stare.

"Sorry," Yuuri says, completely oblivious to Victor’s plight. "I—I didn’t mean to be running so late—"

"It’s fine," Victor says, leaning against one of the bookshelves in an attempt to look more casual than he feels. He knows he’s successful, but only by virtue of being Victor Nikiforov. "I like to be fashionably late."

"Of course you do." Yuuri rolls his eyes. "We’re not taking a limo, are we?"

"I managed to restrain myself," Victor returns, gracious. "We’re still just using my car. But with a driver."

"I—are they waiting downstairs? Right now? Am I making them wait?" Yuuri doesn’t bother listening to Victor’s It’s fine, he’s getting paid by the hour, groaning instead when his tweezers drop the second contact back into the fluid. "M’almost done, I promise—I—These are always a pain to put in, but I can’t see without them."

Victor blinks. "You don’t have to take your glasses off."

"People are going to be taking pictures," Yuuri says, the irritable impatience from earlier making a return. "Pictures that are going to be online. I’d really rather not have a hundred pictures of the camera flash reflecting off my glasses."

There’s a pause. Victor finds himself holding his breath as Yuuri struggles with balancing the tweezers on top of his index finger. And then—

"Yuuri," Victor says, realizing, "you're nervous."

"Of course I'm nervous," Yuuri's mutters, looking frazzled as he finally gets the second contact in. "I’m going to a movie premiere with you."

"You said it was okay—"

"Going is okay," Yuuri says, somehow coming up with a comb and a tube of hair gel in the same movement. "This is not."

"This?" Victor says, his voice steady even when he feels the exact opposite, watching Yuuri slick his hair back, the movement second nature. He’s seen what Yuuri looks like during his performances, has seen him in everything from simple black danseur ensembles to elaborate Swan Lake costumes, but it’s entirely different seeing the practiced actions behind the scenes—Yuuri slicking his own hair back, turning both sides of his face critically at the mirror and clicking his teeth together.

"The running late part—where is it—is what I hate," Yuuri says, and this time, Victor knows to listen in for the anxious breathlessness. Yuuri’s breathing fast now, frustration evident in every part of his body as he roots around the shelf behind the sink mirror. "God—where is it—"

"Where is what—" Victor says, but then Yuuri slams the sink mirror closed, too, rushing back to the living room to grab his shoes and plop himself heavily on the couch. Victor, briefly, reprimands the part of himself that still commends Yuuri’s grace in even this. "Yuuri, what’s wrong?"

It’s probably a bad thing to ask, because it sends Yuuri fumbling, flustered, through the shoelaces of his dress shoes. And then he’s mumbling to himself, "What’s wrong, he says. My hair's a mess, my lips are chapped and I can’t find a single chapstick, famous people are going to be there—"

If Yuri and Otabek's descriptions were anything to go by, Lilia's attention alone suggests Yuuri isn't exactly a nobody on his own part of the entertainment world, either. Victor has seen for himself the extent of Yuuri’s dance repertoire, has even watched dance tutorials back when he was a student choreographer at Okukawa Minako's studio.

Okukawa Minako, who Google tells Victor had won a Benois de la Danse.

He doesn't point any of that out, and the fact remains that Victor doesn’t know what to do for Yuuri, with Yuuri like this.

He goes over, kneeling tentatively in front of Yuuri.

Yuuri doesn’t even look up, staring agitatedly down at his untied shoes. "I can’t even remember how to tie ties or shoelaces—"

Victor breathes out "Okay, okay, Yuuri, baby—" The nickname falls out of his mouth instinctively, and he gets ready to take it back, but Yuuri doesn't even seem to hear that, either, doesn't even seem to notice anything until Victor finally catches his hands and places them directly back on his lap. "Let me—breathe, Yuuri—let me do it."

Carefully, ready to retract his hand if Yuuri so much as winces, he brushes Yuuri's hair back more neatly. But Yuuri leans into Victor's touch as the hand passes by his cheek, making a conscious effort to slow his breathing down.

Victor takes that as a good sign, so he lets Yuuri lean back on the couch, reaching over to tie Yuuri’s shoelaces. He doesn’t know what to say to Yuuri, right now, but physical action has always been Victor’s default when it comes to seeing people like this, even worse when they’re crying, and it’s what he falls back on now, sitting up straighter and taking Yuuri’s tie next.

"This is quite the ugly tie, Yuuri," he murmurs, and that earns him one of Yuuri’s scoff-laughs, though it is a little bit half-hearted. "You should have let me buy you one."

Yuuri doesn’t say anything, lets his narrowed eyes do all the talking.

There’s so much of his face in full view, so much for Victor’s eyes to take in all at once—Yuuri’s cheeks, flushed from all the rushing, Yuuri’s jaw, turned towards Victor as Victor knots the tie, Yuuri’s eyes, even darker with the contacts on. And Yuuri’s lips—chapped, indeed, but so, so close.

He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out his own lip care pot.

"Oh? You carry around your own Chanel lip balm? Why’s that?" Yuuri raises an eyebrow, but the teasing stops there when he straightens, staying still as Victor reaches over to apply it on his lips.

"Don’t tease. I’m helping you, aren’t I?" Victor says, his voice a half-unconscious whisper as he traces Yuuri’s lips with his finger. "Perhaps I can see into the future."

When Victor pulls away, standing up, Yuuri says, "Do you do this for all the people you date?"

Victor would pout and whine, but Yuuri doesn’t sound like he means it much—he’s even smiling, looking infinitely more relaxed than he had just minutes ago.

Victor, despite himself, swallows at the sight. He’s known from the get-go that Yuuri is pretty; he wears delicacy like a second skin, only inferior to his natural grace, and his features are effortlessly soft, lovely in stillness and entrancing in movement. But like this—leaning back against the couch, smiling up at Victor with glossy lips, eyes teasing and only looking at him—like this, Yuuri Katsuki s the most beautiful thing Victor has ever seen.

"Not all," Victor finally says, somehow working around the dryness in his throat. There is, however, nothing to stop him from adding, "Only the ones I really want to kiss."

It’s worth it, for the split second it takes for Yuuri’s eyes to widen.

"We don’t have to go," Victor says, playing the blasé card as he holds out a hand towards Yuuri.

"I—I know." Yuuri looks away, eager to pretend his voice hadn’t tripped. Victor lets him, curling his fingers around Yuuri’s when he takes Victor’s hand. "I already got ready, though."

Victor smiles, letting go of Yuuri’s hand to extend a crooked arm towards him instead. "Are you ready?"

Yuuri spares him a judgmental glance.

But he takes the arm offered to him, sighing. "As I’ll ever be."

ꕤ

Victor’s fixation with keeping his relationship with Yuuri private has admittedly only gotten worse since the week before, but this movie premiere is not helping it at all.

Yuuri had been nervous the entire ride, visibly and audibly so, his fingers drumming on the arm of the car door, his knees restless to the beat of the song playing on the radio. He’d let Victor take his hand and squeeze it, briefly, when they arrived, and at the time, Victor had taken that as a telltale sign of Yuuri’s urgent anxiety.

But when someone had opened the door for them, Victor bracing himself for Yuuri’s hesitation, all that Yuuri had said was, "Stay by my side the entire night. Don't—don’t leave me alone at all, okay?"

Victor couldn't leave Yuuri alone, even if he tried, so he’d replied, firm, "I promise."

He’d been prepared for the barrage of questions the press would surely send his way, had even gone over potential questions and answers in his head. He’d been ready to steer Yuuri away at the first sign of potential trouble, been prepared to take as little time walking across the red carpet as possible—only for none of it to prove necessary, because Yuuri, Victor finds out, is an elegant performer at heart, and it shows.

Victor should have seen it coming—should have suspected he’s not alone in being so enthralled by Yuuri Katsuki. Yuuri makes such a point of making himself scarce that it’s easy for Victor to forget how much Yuuri basks in attention when given it, how much he glows, completely in his element, when he knows he can be in control. For all that Yuuri’s smiles are sweet and his sweaters make him look small and soft, he is, also, more premier danseur noble than he is simply just nervous Yuuri, who panics about movie premieres like someone going to prom and attaches himself nervously to Victor like a barnacle.

For all that Yuuri himself is so unaware of it, Yuuri has this undeniable vitality to him, this quiet spark of life that grows into a steady flame when fed, drawing Victor—and everyone else—to it.

So Victor doesn't blame them, doesn’t blame the press for flashing their cameras at them, doesn’t blame the one live anchor Victor hears trip over their own words in a flustered effort to describe Yuuri.

Victor doesn’t blame them, not when Yuuri is a sight to behold. It's hard enough to look away from him on a good day, but Victor can't even let him go tonight, can't even relinquish his hold on Yuuri without his palms itching to touch Yuuri again.

Luckily enough, because it means fulfilling his promise to Yuuri is no trouble at all.

It's a curious kind of ache, what Yuuri's beauty makes Victor feel. It throbs in his chest and makes his stomach feel warm and cold at the same time, only for everything to cement into something hot every time Yuuri turns to fix Victor a glance, a stare, a smile that's only for him.

It's never been like this, before, all the times that came before Yuuri. It's never felt this present, this instinctive, this irrational. If it has, he’s never been this aware of it. It's something that consumes him if he stares too long; a vicious cycle, too, when he can't even look away in the first place.

He knows he's being very obvious about it—knows it in the twinkle in Mila's eyes when Yuuri politely shakes her hand, knows it in the way Sara keeps curiously looking between the two of them, knows it in the way that tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, when the fairytale quality fades, every picture of Victor from tonight will have him staring at Yuuri, unable to look away, not now, probably not ever, from here on out.

Then again, he hasn’t been able to look away, not since the night of the party.

Victor can't help but wonder if this is what Prince Charming had felt, when he'd seen Cinderella—if this feeling was the reason that he'd been so desperate to find her, to see her again, even if it meant searching every house to see where the shoe would fit.

If, maybe, this was what the pianist in Stammi Vicino was supposed to feel: this longing, this yearning, and not the lonely restlessness that Victor had felt, had put into the role, when he'd played the part.

Victor would have felt the same, he thinks, if years of stubborn searching would have led him to this—to Yuuri clutching at his arm and smiling nervously, restless as he leans against Victor. He’s a living glow of a person, almost, like he, too, is perfectly content being there by Victor's side.

It's a fairytale, if only for one night, if only for the rest of the month.

Yuuri doesn’t turn to talk to him until they get off the red carpet. "What?"

Victor looks at him—at the glittering eyes, at the easy smile. "Are you enjoying this, Yuuri?"

"Me?" Yuuri says, grip on Victor’s arm finally loosening.

He doesn’t really let go, though, and Victor is grateful. "You look happy."

Yuuri makes a face at that, but it’s brief, smoothing back into the smile when he gets a look around as they approach the actual theater. His arm readjusts around Victor’s, and god, he’s so, so beautiful and so, so warm.

"It's nice," Yuuri says absently, his cheek practically resting against Victor's arm.

Victor blinks down at him, but Yuuri is looking ahead. "What is?"

He feels more than hears Yuuri hum.

"Getting to show the world you're with me."

They stop behind the line going into the theater—perfect timing, because Victor himself would have ended up wrenching the two of them into a stop. When he looks at Yuuri again, Yuuri’s just staring away, and Victor knows he’s blushing, his words catching up to him, and Victor really, really wants to see it.

He hooks a finger under Yuuri’s chin and coaxes his head back, gently, to face Victor. "You’re way too different today, Yuuri," he says, quiet enough to be just between the two of them.

For his part, Yuuri stands his ground, though the blush remains, even in the dimness of the waiting hall they’re in. It takes him a few seconds, but then he says, "You’re the one who said you’re the type that likes to be tied down."

He says it like he thinks Victor is ridiculous for thinking that, like he can’t imagine why Victor would ever think such a thing.

Yuuri has no idea, the kind of magic his presence can bring, the kind of brightness in his smile. He doesn't know—how much of Yuri's grudging admiration he's earned, how much of Mila and Sara's fondness he'd gained in the few minutes they’ve had to talk, how much it hurts, for Victor to look at him like this, so lovely and so close.

"Yuuri," Victor says, letting go of Yuuri’s face as the line moves forward, "You will be the death of me."

Yuuri doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t need to—not when his pretty, bashful smile, slightly in disbelief and slightly flustered, is all the confirmation Victor needs to know he’d been right, all those days ago, to pursue Yuuri. It’s all worth it, for the chance to sit beside Yuuri and have him, for the first time, reach out to hold Victor’s hand.

The first time they’d watched a movie together, they’d both been tense, a complete armrest’s width away from each other—Yuuri uncomfortable, Victor out of his element. But in this theater, ten times more crowded than any theater they’ve been in together, it’s shy Yuuri and vivacious Yuuri all at once, close enough for Victor to touch without trying hard.

Close enough for Victor to know, even without thinking it through, that this man—this man who forgets the things he does while drunk, this man who so effortlessly drags the ground from under Victor’s feet and puts it back as he pleases, this man who has no idea how warm and lovely he is—has brought Victor a step closer to his two important Ls.

Victor will apologize to Mila later, for not paying attention to the movie.

But just as he can’t blame all those people so easily enamored with Yuuri, Victor can’t be blamed, either, for looking at Yuuri Katsuki and being so wholly, irrevocably unable to look away.

Chapter Text

Victor is a forgetful person.

It’s not that he never remembers things, it’s that he’s selective about the things he does remember, if only because there is only so much room to contemplate things while keeping track of everything else.

He knows this, anyone who knows him knows this—even Yuuri, who’s known him for two weeks, knows this.

Phichit does not know this.

Victor likes facts, and these are the facts he knows about his current situation:

1. Phichit had asked him to remind Yuuri about the keys.
2. Victor, seemingly distracted by every breath Yuuri takes tonight, had forgotten about the keys altogether.
3. Yuuri can’t go home without his keys.
4. Victor had offered his place as a temporary solution, half-expecting Yuuri to flat-out refuse.
5. Yuuri had not refused.

All of this leads to the sixth and most important fact of all: Yuuri Katsuki is in Victor’s condo.

There are, admittedly, a lot of ways Victor had imagined this would happen. Most of which involved taking Yuuri out to a proper dinner that didn’t end in a movie theater, and most of which, one way or another, do not involve a tired, restless Yuuri.

Victor has imagined this scenario many, many times—just not quite like this. Not with Yuuri rummaging through Victor's kitchen and blatantly judging him for the absolute nothing that's in it.

He feels like he’d miserably failed Georgi’s list.

Yuuri hasn’t gotten any less predictable since the first day, but tonight is the biggest testament to Yuuri’s unpredictability thus far—he’d swung from being nervous to poised all night, from shy to almost assertive, catching himself mid-glance at Victor one moment but leaning into him the next. Victor hadn’t been a participant in his own night so much as just a patient wallflower, waiting for Yuuri’s approach and making the most out of it when it happens, only to seek his touch every time Yuuri so much as pulls away to shift in his own theater seat. He hadn’t been Victor Nikiforov, the entire night, just Victor, Yuuri’s date. Yuuri’s Victor.

He doesn’t mind that at all.

The realization has Victor feeling both dazed and crazed, and it doesn’t help that Yuuri seems as easily excitable tonight as he is easily displeased; he’d been quietly impressed with Victor’s place, had gone from shelf to shelf and big window to big window with childish wonder, but had arrived to the kitchen teetering on signs of visible anxiety. He doesn’t seem to genuinely mind having to be there, but he also doesn’t look comfortable, staying completely out of Victor’s reach and switching from utter silence to soft murmuring.

Victor doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand if Yuuri’s annoyed with him or the situation as a whole, or if perhaps he’s restless because he’s out of his element and Victor’s doing nothing to make him more comfortable. It might also be that Yuuri had already tried calling Phichit on his phone, only for all five calls to go straight into voicemail, leaving him without any other options.

Yuuri has abandoned the fridge now, moving on to start opening the cupboards with one hand. He’d taken off his jacket and left it in the coat rack, empty save for Victor’s own coat, and his other hand is digging fingers into the knot of his tie now, ill at ease as he tries to untie it.

Victor tries not to stare at the hollow of Yuuri’s throat.

"Yuuri," he says instead, and Yuuri jumps about a foot into the air. "Are you hungry?"

"N—No?" It comes out a question. It’s back to this Yuuri now, with the hesitation every other word and the fidgeting body language, the stumbling over Victor’s name and the vulnerability to being flustered. The Yuuri that Victor’s sure only he really gets to see this way, as shy and hesitant as Yuuri can be to the general public. But if Victor has been happily Yuuri’s the entire night, then this—the Yuuri in his kitchen right now, with the loosened tie and the refusal to look Victor in the eye—this is Victor’s Yuuri.

"Are you sure?" Victor says, voice casual. "We usually eat around this time. What about something to drink?"

Yuuri keeps his eyes on the kitchen island. "I—What do you have?"

"Good question, let’s see," Victor hums, walking over with three easy steps. Yuuri sidesteps out of the way, and Victor lets him, though their arms brush as he eases the fridge back open. "You won’t want something alcoholic, would you?"

He sees Yuuri shake his head in the periphery of his vision. "Didn’t think so," Victor says, nonchalant as he moves on to one of the cupboards.

Yuuri practically plasters himself against the counter in an attempt to avoid Victor.

It doesn’t do much, because Victor’s equally determined, and Yuuri’s attempts at escape are rendered futile as Victor reaches around him, one hand against the counter on one side of Yuuri’s hip, and the other one reaching above Yuuri, opening the cupboard. He leans in until their chests are a width apart, effectively caging Yuuri between his arms, his mouth close enough to Yuuri’s ear. "In the mood for coffee?"

He can feel Yuuri’s nervous exhale at that, breath ghosting past Victor’s neck. "N-Not really."

"No?" Victor says. He knows his voice is too loud in the quiet apartment, but it’s worth it for the way Yuuri jolts against him. "Then—hot chocolate?"

"That’s—that’s fine—" Yuuri says, and Victor hears him swallow. "Can I—can you let me go now?"

Victor has to smile at that, but he does step back after grabbing the box, and he doesn’t miss Yuuri’s sigh of relief as he, too, moves away. "You’re not just saying that because you want me to move away, are you, Yuuri?"

"No, I—" Yuuri tries, only to break off as his back hits another countertop. "I like hot chocolate, I—especially—um—the stove kind."

Victor frowns. "The stove kind?"

"Yeah, you—" Yuuri gestures, and Victor follows it to the box in his hands.

Hot Cocoa Baking Mix.

"Oh," Victor says.

"You—" Yuuri continues, breaking off one more time. This time, his pause is contemplative. "You do know how to make it, right?"

Victor has no idea.

He turns over the box, skimming over the instructions—and it doesn’t look that hard, it really doesn’t. So out loud, he says, "Of course I do. I bought it."

He doesn’t remember ever buying this kind. He doesn’t even know why he has hot chocolate.

"Okay," Yuuri says, but he sounds skeptical, like he doesn’t believe Victor one bit. When Victor looks at him, Yuuri’s eyeing both Victor and the box in concern, his top teeth worrying on his bottom lip.

Just for that, Victor walks over with new purpose, grabbing a pot he didn’t know he had and filling it with water.

He manages to turn the stove on with no incident, and that much appeases Yuuri—at least enough to make him comfortable with raising himself up to sit on the nearest counter, his eyes curious. It’s a different kind of attention than what Victor is used to getting from Yuuri, but this, too, is intoxicating in its own way; knowing that Yuuri’s waiting on him, watching, even if it's just for a beverage.

"Five tablespoons of baking cocoa," he reads out loud, clearing his throat mid-way. "Four to five tablespoons of sugar."

Yuuri hums. "Don’t you remember how to make it?"

"I—" Victor starts. He clears his throat again. "I just want to do it perfectly for you."

That earns him a double eyebrow raise. "You’ve never made it before, have you? Stop lying to me."

"You wound me, my Yuuri," Victor says, in an attempt to fluster Yuuri. "Of course I have. Please don’t doubt me."

His attempt works, but feebly; Yuuri rolls his eyes, and it’s in odd juxtaposition with the way his cheeks have turned slightly pink. "Just admit you’ve never done it before."

"Don’t say such hurtful words," Victor chides, reaching behind Yuuri for the sugar. Yuuri doesn’t move away this time, though, his eyes searching. "Perhaps I simply don’t remember."

"Just like you simply didn’t remember to remind me about my keys?" Yuuri says, but there’s no bite to it. He starts swinging his legs as soon as Victor moves away to add the sugar to the pot, mischievous, and Victor realizes Yuuri’s biting down on his lip not out of concern, but to stop himself from smiling. "Is this your plan all along? Is this part of your date ritual?"

"To take you to a premiere and woo you into my home so I can make you hot chocolate?" Victor says, trying for nonchalant even as his heartbeat skips, hearing Yuuri giggle at that. It’s the same giggle he’d done at the party, unabashed, and sure enough, when he turns back, Yuuri’s looking much more comfortable on that countertop.

As shy as he had been earlier, Victor knows that Yuuri is always different at night, after dinner. Less inhibited, more likely to tease and flirt back.

It also means he's harder to take by surprise, harder to please, so Victor has to dig deep.

But he suspects Yuuri just enjoys watching him stumble around manually making hot chocolate.

Victor smiles anyway—a small one, more instinctive than it is something he can help. "Of course. It’s on my list."

"Oh?" Yuuri bites around his own smile. "You have a list? Does it tell you what to do when you finally get your date into your home?"

Victor pretends to think about it. "It probably does."

Yuuri blinks. "You actually have a list?"

"I’m flattered you think I reached this level of effortlessly debonair without help," Victor says.

Yuuri's looking downright incredulous now, even his amusement caught by surprise. "And what does this list say about having someone over?"

Victor’s never made it past the etiquettes of dating on Georgi’s list. Turning away from Yuuri’s disbelieving smile, he adds, "I wouldn’t know. I never made it that far. You’re the first one I’ve ever had over."

Victor never does this—he’s impulsive with his actions, yes, but never with his words. His words may at times be candid, forthright, but behind them is always a series of thoughts, of whether or not it is appropriate to say something, if he can be honest enough, or if he has to hide behind greetings and small talk instead. Verbal language is too unreliable, to Victor, for it to come to him without thinking, but this time, he acknowledges the frankness of his statement too late, looking up at Yuuri and almost missing the surprised look on his face, round eyes and round mouth, cheeks dusted pink and feet stilling mid-swing.

Quietly, he says, "I am?" Victor watches as he swallows. "You’re joking."

"Not at all." Victor’s voice, as always, ends up matching Yuuri’s level of quiet. "So you’ll have to excuse me for not being guest-ready."

Yuuri’s mouth opens, closes, opens and closes.

When he finally speaks, though, it’s not the question Victor’s expecting.

But really, that should have been unsurprising.

"Victor," Yuuri says. "Why did you take a break from acting, really?"

Victor stops mid-stir. He’s still in his own jacket, his tie still knotted tight, and it’s suddenly too hot, in front of the stove, with a pot of hot cocoa powder he’s waiting to come to a boil. He waits for Yuuri to elaborate on his question, to go into specifics, for that to at least make the question easier for Victor to muddle his way through—but he doesn’t.

Victor’s quiet for too long, though, because as usual, it catches up to Yuuri.

"I—you don’t have to answer—Sorry, I didn’t—It’s just that—you made an official announcement and everything—people don’t—people don’t usually do that so I—"

"Yuuri," Victor says, turning to Yuuri so abruptly that he forces both of them into startling eye contact. "Have you seen any of my movies?"

"I—Yeah," Yuuri replies, wrenching his gaze away, voice a little strangled. "S-Some—of course. Who hasn’t?"

Victor keeps watching him, though. "Do you have a least favorite?"

"I—I—No? Why are you—"

"I have one," Victor says, voice surprisingly calm as he lowers the fire on the stove.  Yuuri’s legs are still against the counter drawers now. "Stammi Vicino. Do you know why?"

"But—" Yuuri’s blinking very rapidly down at his own lap. "People—everyone loved Stammi Vicino."

"I didn’t," Victor says, voice quiet enough under the simmering sound of the liquid chocolate in the pot. "Because I never understood the character I was playing."

Not before they filmed, not while they were filming, not after.

When he’d first read the script, he had thought, for the first half-day stewing over it, that he could relate to the character, immerse himself into the pianist’s head and long for that perfect song as much as the narrative wants Victor to. But it hadn’t taken long for the realization to settle in—that he had no idea what it felt like to crave and yearn for something the way the pianist did for something he’s only heard once, for someone he’s only seen once, how desperate he was despite the heartbreak that could be waiting for him.

How ready the pianist was to jump into anything, if it meant being together with the one he longed for, how open the pianist was to love and life and to all that could be waiting for him, even if it was at the cost of what he already had.

"Yakov said so, too," Victor continues. "He said—" He lowers his voice into a perfect imitation of Yakov, but Yuuri doesn’t laugh. "He said, ‘Vitya, you don’t know what you’re doing. You can act out a story you’ve never experienced, but you can’t do a role you don’t understand.’"

Acting was always something he’d been good at, and it had been an unsettling thing to hear—constructive criticism during the filming portion is a constant, and Victor has endured his fair share of directors, but it’s another thing for it to come from Yakov, for him to seat Victor down and say; these are the emotions you’re not able to feel, and it shows.

It’s something that Victor knows Yakov has always favored Georgi for—it was always Victor who got the award-winning roles, the Byronic heroes and charming Raskolnikovs and pretty main characters, but it was Georgi that was casted for the passionate secondary characters, the supportive roles, precisely because he didn’t need whole, fleshed-out narratives to embody a character. Not the way Victor did, filling in holes if there are any, improvising for the character when he needs to—it’s his genius, his brilliance, that ability to create the story for his own self, in playing the role, but it’s also his weakness, that need to rely on fabrication to be able to connect with a character, because what has always been readily available to Georgi in terms of love is foreign territory to Victor.

Your hands, your legs, starts one of the lines from the film, spoken as a monologue, Victor praised for the Shakespearean soliloquy quality of his delivery, my hands, my legs. Words of a hungry man, hungry for the one he loves, the one he longs for, but Victor had sat during the premiere of that movie and realized what no one else seemed to—that Victor sounded lost, speaking to a non-existent entity, unable to comprehend the love the pianist felt so intimately.

And maybe that would have been it, if Love & Life hadn’t happened, too. Maybe Victor would have sat there and moved on, restless in the knowledge that romantic desperation wasn’t an emotion he experienced, but nonetheless accepting. Only when that script had come, when Victor had read it, it left behind doubt—restless and gnawing, keeping Victor up at night. It made him think about all the things he’s neglected, in his eagerness to live the life he’d been given at age seven, in his eagerness to live all these other lives through film, through his career.

It’s easy to be seven and getting to know fame and glamour for the first time.

It’s not quite as easy being twenty-seven, looking back at all the years that had come before and wondering where all of it went, if it was all for nothing—all those luxuries, all those momentary bouts of pleasure, all the happiness he thought he was supposed to feel—because he’d sacrificed love and life for it.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, it still is, the realization that his entire acting career, to which he’d poured twenty years of his life into, might as well be another role, too—something he’d tried to embody, something he’d filled in the plot holes for if it came to that, something that he did because he was good at it, but also something he’d have to shed at some point, only to realize there’s nothing left behind.

It’s a bitter pill to swallow, realizing that the thing you’ve been living your life for is the very thing strangling you.

"Victor," Yuuri says—so soft and sudden it comes to Victor like a clap of thunder. "The pot’s overflowing."

"Fuck," Victor mutters, the vehemence of the rare curse surprising both him and Yuuri. He yanks the stove controls off. The pot has spilled over the stove, and Victor has to wrestle with the urge to sigh. "Yuuri—"

"Victor," Yuuri says again. "Do you regret it?"

He doesn’t specify. Victor doesn’t look at him, for once, watching the foam on the hot chocolate recede. He doesn’t quite want to see it just yet, what Yuuri’s face looks like, how he’s responding to this. "Decades of my life went into it, Yuuri," Victor tells him quietly. "Wouldn’t I have regrets, no matter what?"

Yuuri doesn’t immediately answer, but then there’s a hand around Victor’s tie, tugging, and Victor lets Yuuri pull him forward, pull him until Yuuri’s knees are digging against either side of Victor’s waist.

Victor, unable to help it, finally looks at Yuuri.

Yuuri steadily looks back at him.

"One thing I’ve learned," Yuuri says, fingers deftly working Victor’s tie out of its knot, all without breaking eye contact, "is that if you have to make excuses like that to justify feeling bad about something, then maybe you weren’t very happy about it at all in the first place."

Victor swallows. "Maybe."

When Yuuri gets the tie free, he pulls at it, waits for it slide out from under Victor’s collar. "Are you happier now?" he murmurs, so quiet Victor almost misses it, even from this up close. "Now that you're not acting anymore?"

Only because he knows Yuuri will scold him if he lies, Victor murmurs back, "I don't know."

There’s the smallest beat of hesitation, but then Yuuri’s free hand reaches up against Victor’s cheek, touch feather-light. Carefully, so gentle it tickles, Yuuri brushes his thumb under Victor’s eye. His eyes are still searching, and whatever he finds in Victor’s face has him saying, "I see."

Victor can’t look away.

Leave it to Yuuri—to force his way into Victor’s vision, to make Victor look at him, in even this, to wipe Victor’s mind clear of anyone but him, just like that.

"If my mother was here," Yuuri says, hand still on Victor’s cheek, "She’d tell you to go soak in a hot bath."

It’s such a sudden digression that it surprises a small sound out of Victor, part confused gasp and part amused laugh. "What?"

"Hot baths are my parents’ solution to everything." Yuuri, tentative, smiles up at him. "I’m sending you to the bath because I have no idea what on Earth I should be doing for you right now."

Victor, half-seriously, says, "You could kiss me. I’ll feel better."

The hand on Victor’s cheek tightens so abruptly that Victor doesn’t even register the movement until his cheek’s being pulled. "That’s never the right answer," Yuuri scolds, rolling his eyes.

"Right—right—I’m sorry, Yuuri—let me go—" Yuuri does retract his hand, but Victor finds himself missing the warmth of his touch right away. And then he feels silly, when the sting on his cheek registers. "I’ll go take that bath."

Yuuri pats the cheek he’d been pulling, looking sheepish now as he hops off the counter, elbowing Victor out of the way, cheeks dusted with his delayed embarrassment. "And I’ll pour my own hot chocolate. Where are your mugs?"

Victor has about five mugs, tops, but Yuuri doesn’t question that any further, shooing Victor out of his own kitchen. Victor lets himself be shooed, struck, for a moment, by the oddness of having someone else in the place with him, making himself at home, in his own Yuuri way, in Victor’s kitchen.

By the oddness of the entire ordeal, really, as he waits for his tub, never once used for a bath, to fill up with water.

Yuuri hadn’t apologized for asking after he’d gotten an answer. Yuuri hadn’t comforted outright, either, hadn’t offered a hug or allowed Victor a kiss. And yet Victor feels weirdly comforted anyway, weirdly light—like something about this makes sense, even as his mind refuses to work around the situation enough to register anything but the hot water.

But Victor allows himself that weird light feeling anyway—allows himself to appreciate the novelty of it all: Yuuri in his kitchen, Victor taking a bath, his chest feeling like it’s been emptied out halfway.

It’s a very, very novel feeling, the newness of opening up, but he thinks he could get used to it.

ꕤ

When Victor gets out of the bath, he finds Yuuri standing by the bed, both hands on his hips. He’d stripped down to his undershirt, the rest of his clothes neatly arranged on top of one of Victor’s console drawers, and that shouldn’t be as captivating as it is—but Victor’s utterly weak at this point to every new version of Yuuri he sees, and this one, charming and tempting and arresting in just a white shirt, is no different.

Victor clears his throat before he enters his own room.

"How was your hot chocolate?"

"Authentic," Yuuri returns, eyes sliding towards Victor’s. He takes in the robe first, Victor sees that he does, and then he’s looking away. Victor will never get tired of that, making Yuuri blush. "I—"

Trying not to sound too eager, Victor says, "Do you want to borrow some of my clothes to wear to bed, Yuuri?"

Yuuri stops moving altogether. "N-No, thank you."

"No? You’re welcome to strip to your underwear if that will be more comfortable."

Yuuri, ceaselessly valiant, tries to look Victor in the eye, only to look away immediately. "Are you not going to wear clothes?"

"Off with this robe and I’m good to go," Victor tells him cheerfully, walking over to the other side of the bed.

Yuuri’s bright red now. "I’ll sleep on the couch—"

"Nonsense, Yuuri," Victor sings, making a show out of running a towel through his hair. "It’s a huge bed."

"I can tell," Yuuri mutters, more for his sake than Victor’s. "I mean—I guess it’s fine—right—I—" It’s clearly not fine, because Yuuri has both hands on either side of his face, torn. "We—we are supposed to be dating, right?"

Supposed to be. A couple of weeks in and he's still giving Victor a verbal out every time he brings up the relationship.

Victor exhales. "Something like that, yes."

"I think," Yuuri says, loudly, ignoring Victor’s tone, "that we should put up a border."

He doesn’t wait for Victor to answer, grabbing two of the many massive pillows Victor has lined up along the headboard, and arranging them across the middle of the bed. The bed’s big enough that the makeshift border still leaves enough space for both of them, but Victor still pouts at Yuuri.

"Are you against touching me that much, Yuuri?"

"No, you—" Yuuri starts, narrowing his eyes as he tentatively climbs into the bed. "Yurio told me, okay? Stop playing."

Victor blinks. He stays standing over by his side of the bed. "Told you what?"

"N-Nothing," Yuuri’s quick to say. He gestures at Victor. "That’s your side." He gestures at himself. "This is my side."

"Technically," Victor says, sitting down on the bed as well, still in his robe and towel, "They’re both my sides. It is my bed."

Yuuri looks away. "Cross the border and I won’t be here when you wake up."

"Yuuri," Victor starts—only to be interrupted by Yuuri’s phone.

He thinks he should be offended, by how excitedly Yuuri pulls it out to check, but Yuuri’s face sours quickly, his eyes hurriedly scanning his phone screen.

"Phichit?" Victor guesses.

Yuuri sighs, letting his phone bounce off his lap and face-down onto the bed. "He has no sympathy for my situation."

"May I?" Victor says, holding out a hand for the phone. "I won’t read messages before that."

Yuuri hesitates, visibly, but he nods, watching warily as Victor picks up the phone.

Phichit’s message is unexpectedly brief.

Cool! Have fun ;)

"Ah," Victor croons. "Was this your plan all along, Yuuri? To seduce me in my own home? With the blessing of your best friend?"

Yuuri stares back at him, unamused. "Right. Because I’m particularly ravishing in my undershirt."

He says it like it’s supposed to be the punchline—as it is, Victor just blinks at him. "But you are."

Yuuri groans. He sticks out a hand. "Give it back. I’ll reply."

"Oh, no, no," Victor suddenly says, idea dawning. "I’ll do it—"

The sound Yuuri makes isn't quite a squeak, but it’s a near thing. "What?"

Victor’s already typing—hi~ this is victor—fighting away Yuuri’s swats with his elbow.

He ignores Yuuri’s protests. "Give it back—"

"I," Victor reads aloud as he types, "will be—stealing—Yuuri—away—for the night—"

He barely registers Yuuri's gasp before there's a warm weight thrown over him.

"What happened to the border, Yuu—"

"Wait, you are not texting him that," Yuuri says, affronted in his gasping, trying to singlehandedly wrestle his own phone out of Victor’s hands. "He'll never let me hear the end of it—Victor—"

Between the pillow border, the few centimeters he has on Yuuri and Yuuri’s refusal to actually touch Victor, it’s not that hard to keep the phone away. "Yes, but a simple 'Yuuri's staying over' text will accomplish much the same, I imagine—"

"That's because you're gonna add a winky face," Yuuri says, just about whining now. "I know you will! It’s my phone, too, let me—"

"No, but isn’t this quite effortlessly romantic?" Victor says gleefully. "Couples answer calls for each other all the time."

"This isn’t the same thing—" Yuuri cuts himself off to heave a sigh, giving up and plopping back down against his own man-made border.

"Victor." He tilts his head, leaning his cheek against the pillow in a half-hearted, last ditch effort. "Please?"

Victor freezes, and his first thought is to demand himself to look away.

He keeps looking.

Yuuri’s hair has gone back loose around his face—half from the gel losing its freshness and half from Yuuri nervously digging his own hands into his hair—and Victor, as always, cannot deny himself the need to stare, to take in this Yuuri: this soft-edged Yuuri in Victor’s bed, dark hair and dark eyes arresting against Victor’s white bed linens and Yuuri’s own white undershirt, eyes wide in a childish plea.

Is it true, Yuuri had slurred, all those days back, that you date anyone who asks you out at the beginning of each month?

His eyes had looked the same, almost jejune in how unsure Yuuri had seemed, back then, about what exactly he’s asking of Victor. And maybe that was it—not his need to keep promises, because Victor has never been good at that, nor his desperation for a relationship—maybe it was just that Yuuri’s eyes had looked like this, when he’d asked, and with the way he’d giggled, the way he’d clung to Victor, maybe Victor had stood no chance from the beginning, if only to try out what it’s like to be Yuuri Katsuki's.

"You," Victor says out loud, poking Yuuri's nose with the tip of his index finger, "are learning my weaknesses too well and too fast. That is very dangerous, Yuuri."

Yuuri’s eyes narrow, the moment breaking, and then he’s switching tactics altogether. "I have a recording of you screaming in the movie theater from when we watched that horror—"

"Yuuri," Victor whispers, scandalized. "No, you don't."

Yuuri blinks innocent wide eyes at him. "You don't know that."

"You are being so petty," Victor says, slightly awed.

Yuuri sticks out his tongue, aiming for the phone one more time. Victor doesn't even flinch before moving it easily out of the way. "Victor. Give it. Give. It."

Victor pretends to consider it. "Now what do I get from that?"

There’s a beat of hesitation.

"I'll kiss you," Yuuri says, flat, his tone a far cry from the self-conscious expression on his face.

Victor still feels the exact moment his throat dries up.

"My," he says, his voice coming out smooth only out of practice, "you sure become very different after midnight, my Cinderella."

"You're not exactly Prince Charming," Yuuri says. "If you won’t even give me my phone back."

Victor pretends to be wounded by that. "No?"

Yuuri shakes his head. "No. You're more like—"

Experimentally, Victor pokes Yuuri’s side.

The sound Yuuri makes is positively anguished. He sits up abruptly, clutching his side, hand covering where Victor had poked.

Undeterred, Victor pokes the other side.

Yuuri is alarmingly quick-footed in the least likely of moments, and he’s trying to scramble away from Victor’s touch within seconds, so quickly his legs get tangled up in the disturbed comforter. Victor’s instincts aren’t too bad themselves, and it’s not hard to grab Yuuri by the waist with one arm and pull him back, Yuuri letting out a sound that’s equal parts gasp and laugh as he collapses back against the bed, trying to swat Victor’s hand away and failing.

"Victor—" Yuuri gasps, fighting back a laugh. "Victor—stop—this isn’t fair—"

Victor’s smiling as he bends down around Yuuri, fingers playing pianos against Yuuri’s torso. He’s rewarded with an absolutely delightful peal of laughter, high-pitched and breathless, Yuuri’s swats aimless as he tries to push Victor off.

"Time out, time out—"

And then Victor’s laughing, too, hesitant at first, only to turn into full laughter when Yuuri erupts in an annoyed squeal, knocking Victor off successfully—only to send Victor toppling right on top of him.

It takes Victor a couple of distracted seconds—checking if the phone’s still in his hand, finding a way to support himself against Yuuri, suddenly being very aware of how close they are—to realize that Yuuri’s staring up at him, mouth open in surprise and eyes for once unreadable.

Victor doesn’t miss the way Yuuri’s eyes travel down to Victor’s lips, back to his eyes, and then away from Victor altogether.

Unable to help himself, Victor says, "What did you just think, Yuuri?"

Yuuri, not bothering to be subtle, closes his eyes tightly. When he opens them, he turns back to Victor with considerable effort. "I—I never see you laugh, that’s all," he says. "N-Not like that."

Victor blinks, surprised. "Laugh?"

There’s a pause, but then Yuuri nods. "You should—you should do it more."

It’s such a simple thing to say, and yet so characteristic of Yuuri—this habit of blurting out thoughts without regard for the fact that no one else is privy to what’s going on in his head, this habit of saying things and leaving people wondering what kind of train of thought led to that.

Victor smiles back at Yuuri, waits for him to blush and look away—all while keeping his right hand outstretched, thumb hovering over the send button. The second Yuuri averts his gaze, he presses it.

"Oops," he sings. "Sent."

Yuuri pushes Victor off of him with one hand.

He’s a lot stronger than he looks, he really is, and Victor topples over easily, having to drop the phone to support himself with his other arm, collapsing right beside Yuuri, their shoulders squished against each other and the border pushed aside.

Yuuri’s exhale is downright exasperated. Victor beams at him.

"Has anyone told you you’re like a child?"

"Yakov has, I’m sure," Victor replies, cheeky, pushing himself up to lean on one elbow, one hand on the side of his face. It allows him to look down at Yuuri—Yuuri who’s visibly torn between being annoyed and flustered by the proximity, Yuuri who looks up at him like Victor’s being difficult on purpose.

He is, sort of.

There’s a certain joy in seeing Yuuri respond to him like this; it’s so simple, so juvenile, and yet Victor wants more, wants more of the way Yuuri rolls over on his side to face Victor, so close Victor could probably count his eyelashes, if he wanted to.

So close Victor could probably kiss him, if he wanted to.

And god, does he want to.

"You’re so different," Yuuri murmurs, suddenly, absently.

It’s the same tone he’d used earlier, when he’d touched Victor’s cheek. Victor raises an eyebrow. "So different from Prince Charming?"

Yuuri rolls his eyes. "So different."

Victor hums, reaching out a free hand to brush back strands of Yuuri’s hair; it’s a poor imitation of what Yuuri had looked like at the premiere, but it’s still Yuuri, still unpredictable and comely Yuuri, Cinderella back from the ball. "Is that a bad thing?"

He sees Yuuri swallow. "No. No, it’s not."

And, much slower, much more deliberate this time, he sees Yuuri’s eyes flick back to Victor’s lips, up, away, back again.

Victor feels the sight go straight into his lungs and rob it all of air.

It’s a slippery slope, not knowing where Yuuri’s boundaries lie, not knowing what Yuuri will allow him. There was a period, during the first week, where Victor had been hurt by it, had been confused by Yuuri’s rejections, unable to understand; he doesn’t mind it as much now, leaves it to Yuuri to establish their relationship for them, to guide Victor.

He’s more than happy to be led by Yuuri, to give in to the part of him that’s so entranced by Yuuri that nothing else matters—but he can’t deny himself this want, overwhelming now with Yuuri so close, with a heart sensitive from Yuuri’s question, with a body that craves for touch from Yuuri more than it does for anything else right now.

Yuuri functions differently, Victor knows that, knows that Yuuri’s tendencies for self-imposed isolation translates to a lack of dependence in physical affection unlike the way Victor defaults to it, but he’s so beautiful that it’s dizzying, and Victor craves, feels his chest hollow out with how much he, all of a sudden, yearns to kiss Yuuri.

He’s never kissed a date before—has been kissed, has gone farther than a kiss, but it’s never been by his own initiative, never been this thing in his chest, sitting low in his stomach, an ache, wanting and yearning.

"Then," Victor says, leaning in, a whisper against Yuuri’s lips, a near silent breath. "Do I still get that kiss?"

He’s close enough to see Yuuri’s eyes widen, his pupils dilate, his eyelashes flutter—and if Victor could catalogue every part of Yuuri’s face so that he never has to forget it, he would. He would commit all of this to memory: Yuuri in his bed, lips still a bit glossy with Victor’s lip balm. Yuuri in his bed, pretty and waiting.

Waiting for Victor to kiss him.

"Yuuri," Victor says, softer than he’s ever said Yuuri’s name, softer than a prayer, "I won’t kiss you, if you don’t want me to."

At least three different emotions flit through Yuuri’s face, and Victor commits all of that to memory, too, tucks it all away for later contemplation.

But then Victor’s mind whites out, because Yuuri is kissing him.

It’s a slight brush of mouths, Yuuri hesitant in kissing Victor, but Victor feels the warmth of the bare touch rush through him, feels the way Yuuri shakes, nervous but wanting, and Victor doesn’t think at all, doesn’t register anything but Yuuri when he moves his hand from Yuuri’s hair to his cheek—and pulls him in.

Victor counts two heartbeats, erratic, before Yuuri is kissing him back, allowing Victor to tilt his head back so he can fit his mouth better against Yuuri’s, can feel more of that warmth, can taste him better. The hot chocolate is bittersweet, but Yuuri’s mouth is warm and pliant, and when Yuuri parts his mouth of his own accord, Victor takes the chance, his tongue brushing Yuuri’s.

A distant part of Victor’s mind registers that he’s been wanting to do this since November, has been longing for it from the moment he’d seen Yuuri—that maybe Yuuri had stolen away more than just Victor’s interest that night, and now Victor’s left without defenses, completely weak against the way Yuuri kisses him back, soft and pleasant and Victor’s.

The smell of Yuuri clings, and Victor’s hyper aware of it all—of the way Yuuri clutches at the front of Victor’s robe, the way Victor can feel Yuuri’s fingers brush against his bare chest,  the way Yuuri suddenly gasps into Victor’s mouth, the way he trembles as Victor comes in deeper.

Victor moves his hand from Yuuri’s cheek to the back of his neck—

—only for a notification noise, combined with an ungodly vibration, to ring out from somewhere within the bed sheets.

And then Yuuri’s springing away, the same hands clutching at Victor’s robe pushing him away, and Victor could feel Yuuri’s disappointment roll off him in a wave, disapproving and crestfallen all at once.

It’s not quite as easy for Victor, who sees Yuuri’s lips, spit-slick, sees Yuuri’s hair, messy from Victor’s touch, sees Yuuri’s eyes wide and his cheeks so beautifully pink, and wants to kiss him again.

And again and again.

"I—" Yuuri says, but the phone chimes one more time, and he bites down on his own lip, so hard it would have turned red, had it not been already swollen.

Swollen from Victor’s lips.

Victor, dizzy with something incomprehensible, looks at Yuuri and realizes; I did that.

"My phone," Yuuri says, and Victor delights in the rasp in his voice. "My—"

The pinkness of Yuuri’s cheeks doesn’t fade even as Victor pulls away to search for the phone, and even this, Victor wants to remember forever.

Yuuri’s already rolling away, turning his face away from Victor’s sight. Victor lets him, if only to watch Yuuri’s red ears as he says, clearing his throat as he reads off the screen, "Phichit says ‘Good night.’"

Yuuri doesn’t answer.

"The next message is a winky face."

Yuuri makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a stifled groan.

"I’m texting back — ‘Good luck with your exam!’—" Victor continues, voice a little too casual. Yuuri still doesn’t look at him. "—and a heart emoji."

Yuuri mutters something incoherent, pulling up the comforters around him. His ears are pink. "He can find himself a new best friend."

He sounds petulant, and it shouldn’t be amusing—only it is, because Victor feels overwhelmingly giddy, his heart dancing around.

But he goes for a nonchalant hum, pauses, settles for the playful approach, "Are you mad because he interrupted us?"

"There was nothing to interrupt," Yuuri shoots back, and Victor blinks at the sudden intensity. "Stop playing with me. Stay on your side of the bed."

Victor keeps blinking. "Yuuri—"

"Yurio lied to me," Yuuri’s muttering, gathering more and more of the comforter around him.

"Yuuri—" Victor says, his laughter a little nervous as he pulls at the sheets, tries to get Yuuri out back from under them. "I’m not playing with you."

"Prince Charming," Yuuri scoffs, when Victor finally manages to extract him from under three layers.

Yuuri won’t look at him, and Victor doesn’t want to force him to, but he wants to know—wants to know what Yuuri’s face looks like, if he’d hated it, if he’d liked it, if his chest feels the same way Victor does, right then, his heart still catching up, still trying to climb down from his throat.

He feels like a giddy schoolgirl, in how new and wonderful it feels, having kissed Yuuri.

"Yuuri," Victor says, as gentle as he can make it. "What did Yuri—what did Yurio tell you?"

There’s a pause. And then—

"Nothing."

It’s exactly the stubborn reply Victor was expecting, but he still has to sigh.

"Can you trust my word that whatever it is isn’t true?" Victor murmurs, moving the last of the pillow border away carefully. "Or that it’s an exaggerated version of truth?"

"You don’t even know what he said," Yuuri says, but he lets Victor rearrange the sheets around him.

"Because you won’t tell me," Victor replies simply.

It’s Yuuri’s turn to sigh; he softens for a brief moment, only to tense up again, as if chastising himself for feeling comfortable. He still doesn’t say anything, rolling away one more time.

"Well, that’s fine," Victor chirps, even though it’s not fine, if Yuuri refuses to talk about it this stubbornly. "I, on the other hand, will make sure to tell Phichit all about tonight—"

Yuuri exhales loudly.

"How it was you who kissed me first—"

"Vi—"

"And how I enjoyed every second of it," Victor says, snapping the mischief out of his voice. "And would love to kiss you again."

Yuuri's completely still—doesn't move, doesn't say anything.

He doesn’t want this to be the last time he kisses Yuuri, but he knows it’s not an easy task, that the impulsiveness of it will backfire; but Victor is a romantic, an idealist, at heart, and if he needs to meet Yuuri halfway by speaking his love language, then Victor is more than happy to do so.

Eventually, Yuuri says, "I don't think he would want to hear about that."

Victor admits defeat at that, sighing one more time and leaning over to turn off the light. "No? But I mean it."

He hears Yuuri’s sharp inhale, but it's too dark now, the light coming in from outside not quite enough yet, for him to see Yuuri.

Soft and sudden, Yuuri says, "I can't believe you."

Victor wants to twist over and look at him, see the way his face is squishing against the pillow, the way there's hesitance in his voice now, though not unkind. Victor knows, can hear it in Yuuri’s voice, can practically feel the way he softens one more time, an arm’s length away.

Victor wants to touch him, but he knows when he’d overstepped, even when he doesn’t quite know what lines there were in the first place.

"You might just be the first person to tell me that in a negative way," Victor says, when the silence stretches too long.

He waits for Yuuri to bring up RottenTomatoes reviews and scathing tweets, entertainment reporters with vendettas against Victor. But what Yuuri says, mildly peevish, is, "I’m sure Yurio's said it tons of times."

"Huh. You're right." Victor hums, discarding his robe and rolling on his side to face Yuuri. Yuuri’s back is turned to him, but Victor stares at it anyway, revels in the fact that tonight, he’ll be falling asleep next to Yuuri.

A man of simple pleasures, when it comes to Yuuri.

So Victor clears his throat again. "Let me try again, then: you might just be the first person to tell me that and not mean it."

A beat of silence.

"I do mean it," Yuuri eventually says, but he, too, sounds as overwhelmed as Victor feels. 

Victor doesn’t bite back his smile. It feels a little like being forgiven, getting a reply. "You'd have to do a better job at convincing me of that, sweetheart."

Yuuri, again, doesn’t answer, not within the next minute, nor the next five, nor the next ten.

"Good night," Victor tries anyway, turning his face towards his ceiling.

He doesn’t expect an answer, not really, but for the first time in years that he can recall, he gets a response, hesitant and confused and tired as it may be;

"Good night, Victor."

And it's enough, because it's Yuuri.

ꕤ

Halfway into the night, Victor wakes up to a room filled with moonlight, wakes up to a sleeping Yuuri turned towards him, breathing even and face serene.

It feels like a dream, lying there drowsy, half-asleep, everything forgotten—the past, the future, everything in between; nothing but his room and Yuuri, and the promise that awaits, if Victor’s willing to continue treading carefully.

But Victor doesn’t go for the things he wants half-heartedly, and when he reaches out to hook a finger around one of Yuuri’s, it’s with a sudden, inexplicable certainty that he wants to see this through more than he’s ever wanted anything. That whatever Yuuri decides in the end, that whether or not this entire night ends up just a distant memory, Victor won’t forget it—won’t forget lovely, confusing Yuuri, asking Victor abrupt questions and sending him for baths and taking delight in watching Victor fail at making hot chocolate.

For tonight, it’s easy to just want this, to not have to think about the why’s or how’s and the fact that despite all his history, he doesn’t know anything about how this is supposed to work. It’s easy to just look at Yuuri and all the newness that comes with him being part of Victor’s December, and appreciate it for what it is.

Once the weekend passes, it will be the dawn of another week—his third with Yuuri, his second last with Yuuri, if Victor fails at this one too.

But tonight, it’s alright. Tonight, it’s okay to fall back asleep knowing Yuuri will be there when he wakes up, that they’ll go to work together, have dinner together, that Victor doesn’t have to be alone the way the pianist was in Stammi Vicino, the way Victor might have been in some way, all this time.

He still doesn’t comprehend the desperation, the hunger, that the pianist felt, still doesn’t quite completely get the greed and need and love—but with Yuuri, with Yuuri and all the things he makes Victor feel, with Yuuri and all the things he makes Victor think and worry about and reevaluate—

—Victor thinks he’s starting to understand. 

Chapter Text

"Look who it is," Chris greets, opening the door with a smug smile. "The world’s most eligible bachelor, come to play."

Victor hears Makkachin before he sees him, and then he’s skipping past Chris and kneeling with arms outstretched, barely registering the blur of brown fur before Makkachin’s in his arms, licking his face with disarming enthusiasm.

"Hello, hello, hello," Victor sings, hugging as tightly as he can without suffocating his own dog. "How are you~"

Victor had left Makkachin at Chris’ before heading to pick up Yuuri for yesterday’s movie premiere, meaning to pick him up that Friday morning. But between having to tweak his morning routine for an extra person in his apartment and swinging by Yuuri’s apartment to pick up his glasses and somehow being roped into picking Phichit up from his study group’s so he can be dropped off early on campus, Victor hadn’t been able to swing by Chris’ place at all until this Friday night, worn out from work and Yuuri weighing on his mind.

"He didn’t give you a hard time, did he?" Victor says, cooing as he rubs Makkachin’s ears, accepting a few more ecstatic licks before he stands up to accept Chris’ handshake. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," Chris replies in French, pulling Victor in by the hand for a hug instead. Switching back to English, he purrs, "I do believe my little kitten gave him more trouble than he did me."

Victor tries his best to look sheepish as he pulls away a bit too quickly from the hug, stepping back so abruptly he almost hits Makkachin. "You know Georgi would usually be my first choice for dogsitting," he says. "But he’s filming—"

"Sleeping Prince. I know." Chris looks amused; he’s wearing his glasses today, and the effect is him looking more perceptive than roguish, eyeing Victor with eyes a little too observant for someone holding a glass of wine. "He’s your dog. You know that, right? You’re not even away for filming as much anymore. You can afford to spend some time with him—or else he’ll forget he doesn’t actually live with Popovich or me." 

It’s not a scolding he’d been expecting from Chris, and Victor has to take a moment to blink. Chris takes that time to wander into his kitchen to pour Victor his own drink.

"I—I know," Victor manages, tripping over his words in an uncharacteristic show of hesitation. He glances down at his glass as Chris walks back to hand it to him, stares down at his reflection on the dark liquid. "I’m working on it."

Chris hums a close-mouthed little jingle in response, clearly not believing him. When he kicks out one of the dining table chairs to sit, Victor takes it as invitation to do the same, Makkachin running after him and settling down by his feet.

Victor has visited Chris in trailers more than he’s visited Chris’ actual home, and it never fails to strike him how homey the place is, how cozy and comfortable, despite the fact that half of it is perpetually in darkness, the lighting always purposefully dim. It’s the exact opposite of Victor’s apartment, always bright with all the light coming in through the huge windows, but never homey.

It had felt comfortable, though, in its own way, when Yuuri slept over.

"You don’t look good," Chris points out. "Trouble in paradise?"

Victor blinks at him.

If Georgi tends to speak in poetics, Chris has a penchant for making everything sound like metaphors even without meaning to, his questions incomprehensible out of context and his statements confusing—which means Victor has to try very hard to keep up when Chris is in the mood for an actual serious conversation.

Which he apparently is, if he’s blatantly ignoring Victor’s preference for beer over wine.

"I saw the tabloids when I went to buy cat food this morning," Chris continues, nonchalant, like every celebrity goes out to buy pet food during the holidays. "Some pretty telling photos of you and your boy. You’re not with him today?"

"He had—work to do," Victor says, sincere in the reserve in that creeps into his voice. "I’ve been keeping him from pulling late hours these—these past couple of weeks."

Yuuri’s smile had been, though small, genuinely apologetic when Victor had come down to say goodbye, but it doesn’t get rid of the heavy weight that comes with the sudden break in routine.

Chris clucks his tongue, a tsk that echoes in the entire house. "Any new developments, though? Or still stuck in limbo?"

"He—" Victor hesitates, questions whether or not he wants to be saying this; but his only alternatives are Georgi and Mila, and if anyone’s more likely to hear him out with minimal teasing, it’s definitely Chris. "He slept over last night."

He’s met by silence. When he looks up, Chris’ eyes are wide with mischief.

"Non," Victor immediately says. "No, no, no—nothing—nothing happened."

When Chris raises an eyebrow, he always ends up raising both of them; it would be funny on other people, but on Chris, it’s just doubly teasing, doubly judgmental. "Nothing at all?"

"I—" Victor thinks they’re both too old to be carrying out this conversation like this, so he drinks half of his glass before pushing out, "We kissed. That’s it."

"Oho," Chris coos. "With tongue?"

Victor decides to drink the rest of his glass.

Chris is laughing when he refills it. "Oh, this is precious, no? Did you kiss him first?"

"I—Yuuri kissed me first—" Victor absently presses the back of his palm against one cheek; it feels warm, and it’s definitely not the lone glass of wine. He lowers his hand with an exasperated exhale. "Can we not talk about this?"

"No, no, tell me," Chris says, leaning back on the chair. "What’s the problem, then? Why the ‘I think’?"

Maybe it’s not the glasses at all, maybe it’s just that Chris really is perceptive, as good as he is at playing up at the flirtatious aspect of his persona. "I don’t think," Victor says slowly, "that Yuuri feels the same way about this relationship as I do."

Chris shrugs. "How’s that?"

"He—" Victor doesn’t know why he’s still talking about it, but he needs it out, needs it translated into words for it to make sense, for it to be more than just him overthinking. "I don’t understand Yuuri. I don’t understand what he wants from me."

Chris seems completely unfazed, though his eyes are thoughtful, if Victor stares hard enough. "But you? What do you want from him?"

"I—" Victor starts, stalls, stops.

He’s thought it over enough the past twenty-four hours to realize that he hadn’t pursued Yuuri out of mild interest: he’d been attracted to Yuuri from the get-go, a feeling still unfamiliar but perfectly manifested in how he wants to kiss Yuuri, wants more than to kiss Yuuri, wants the Yuuri from the party back. It’s always been there, that attraction, just something unnamed until the night before.

But what he doesn’t understand is why Yuuri’s still so touch-and-go after two weeks, why Victor can almost believe Yuuri can feel the same way back, only for Yuuri to prove Victor wrong by putting his guards back up.

It goes beyond what Victor wants; he wants to know what Yuuri wants, what Yuuri needs, what Victor needs to do to get rid of this tension between them.

Chris’ smile at his silence isn’t unkind. "Hm. That’s unlike you."

Victor can’t help it—he frowns. "What is?"

"You never think about your relationships like this," Chris says, swirling the wine around in his glass without taking his eyes off Victor. "Usually, it’s—why can’t they love me—" This, he says in French, and Victor’s brain parses it reluctantly. "Why won’t they love me, I’m trying so hard, what am I doing wrong, I’m doing everything perfectly—but it's never in more specific context, do you see?"

Again, Victor just blinks at him.

Eventually, he manages, childish, "I am trying hard."

"Hm," Chris repeats. "Trying hard to do what?"

Victor runs a finger down the side of his glass. It takes a while for him to fish the words out, but he mumbles, "To get Yuuri to accept me."

He doesn’t expect the silence that follows—expected a laugh at best, a scolding at worst—but it’s a sudden quiet, pregnant with contemplation, that Victor gets.

When Chris speaks again, his voice goes low, grave. "Pardon me if someone already gave you this lecture but—love isn't about finding someone whose life you can belong to. You know that, right?"

"That’s not—"

"It is," Chris interrupts, in a voice that chastises Victor as much as it is sympathetic. "It is what you do. It is what you expect. You think that because you spend time together, that because no one ever has their defenses up against you, that because you are good at pleasing people—it would somehow lead to the love you want to know, even when—no, especially when you do not even understand it."

He’s using his interview voice, a distant part of Victor’s head registers. Chris’ voice has adopted the cadence it uses when he’s responding to stock questions, a tone born out of such well-thought-out answers and such thorough understanding of the material he’s talking about that it sounds pitying to the person being lectured.

Victor doesn’t want to be pitied. He takes a long pull of his wine. "I didn’t come here for a lecture, Chris."

Chris pouts more than he frowns, childishly pulling at his lips as he gives Victor a look that's all too disapproving. "I am giving you one anyway," he says, draining his own glass. "Because that is not what relationships are about. You do not insert yourself there like an extra limb and expect it to work out simply because you are being a useful extra limb. That is as bad as expecting love from just lust, perhaps even worse than just chasing the idea of love. You are expecting them to make you feel validated because you are showing them your love out of, what, a sense of obligation?"

"That's not—" Victor tries again.

"It is," Chris repeats, his voice approaching tenderness this time. "This is not like you with other things. It is not like you learning things quickly for roles. You do not magically understand feelings by throwing yourself into a relationship the way you do to a script."

"I don’t expect myself to," Victor says, soft as he refills his own glass. He watches the liquid trickle down, chest heavy. "I just want to understand Yuuri."

"Then," Chris says, "Stop viewing him through a generalized lens. You’ve known from the first day that he is not like anyone else you’ve ever tried dating. Why think your standard expectations out of a relationship would still apply here?"

It’s such straightforward logic that it almost isn’t, and Victor scrambles for a dignified reply.

"But I don’t—"

Know what else to do, he wants to finish, but he can’t bring himself to.

"You're a romantic, Victor, admit to it," Chris says. "An idealist, too, when it comes to love. So I do not understand why you keep wrestling with that side of you. Wanting to be loved because you think you’re missing out on something isn't the same thing as wanting to be genuinely in love—to genuinely love and be loved."

"I know that," Victor murmurs.

"Often, I don’t think you do," Chris says. "But I get it. It is your first time not being secure in what the other person’s feeling. It is easy to think about love when you have all this romanticized disappointments in your head—but choosing to accept the fact that you’re desperate for someone to love you back, even if they might not feel the same way?" He shrugs. "That takes some getting used to. But it is a gamble people live with."

Chris empties the rest of the bottle into his glass.

"Wow," Victor says, because the silence feels too suffocating after that, and it comes out a breathless huff. "You’re almost as bad as Georgi."

The smile Chris gives him is uncharacteristically tight as he gets up with the empty bottle. "Unlike him, I have the advantage of knowing what it’s like to date you."

It’s rare for Chris to bring up his own turn, and it cuts Victor into complete silence.

For the next five minutes, the only noise in the entire house is Chris rooting around for another bottle.

"You couldn't fall in love with me," Chris says, when he’s sure Victor isn’t going to say anything. "You were interested because I had more experience than you and because I was interested in you, but that was it. Do you want to know why that is?"

Victor frowns. It’s a question.

"Because you wanted someone that needed you," Chris answers, so simply he might as well be reading off the bottle label, "but you didn't want to acknowledge that that meant you'll need them back, for it to be a relationship."

"Yuuri—" It even feels different on Victor’s tongue now, Yuuri’s name. "Yuuri doesn’t need me."

"You shouldn’t have to need someone for a relationship to work," Chris chastises, sitting back down. "Do not measure your relationship with someone by how much they need you, is exactly what I am telling you. Otherwise, you will have to keep relying on the concept of deadlines for the relationship to work, no?"

Victor runs a hand through his hair, leaning his elbow against the table and letting himself slump around his freshly refilled glass. "I don’t know what you want me to do."

Chris sighs, a heavy and abrupt huff of breath that is its own lecture enough in itself. "That shouldn’t matter, should it? Physically reaching out to Yuuri the way you think you should to show the world you’re in a relationship—that is not the same as reaching out to Yuuri himself to convince him of that, knowing you."

Victor’s head feels like it’s been filled with cotton. "I don’t understand."

Chris, surprising, doesn’t sigh again. "Listen—anyone can see your interest in him is different from the interest you’ve showed anyone. But does he know that? You are not trying to woo an audience here anymore. You are trying to get one person to like you, regardless of what has worked before."

The one syllable feeling it’s been slapped out of him, Victor says, "Oh."

"I am perfectly okay with the no strings attached business," Chris breathes out, "but you are not. Stop acting like it doesn't take a toll on you, watching your relationships fail every time."

"Is it my fault," Victor asks, voice too meek to be his, "that they fail?"

"In a way," Chris tells him. "But it is not as if all those people are innocent, either. Even I idealized you, when I had my turn."

Victor waits until he finishes another glass before he trusts himself to speak more than one word. "Past tense?"

"Past tense," Chris confirms, leaning back on his chair. "It is a lovely thing, though, to see Victor Nikiforov struggling through these things like the rest of us."

It’s the same thing Mila had said, all those days back. Victor recognizes the odd sentiment behind the words now, the mix of confusion and relief. "It’s not as easy," Victor says, and they don’t sound like his own words, despite how soft and hesitant they already are, "As the movies make it seem."

"C’est la vie." Chris doesn't miss a beat, blinking away the thoughtfulness in his eyes. "Lucky for you, you have me to guide you through it."

Victor raises an eyebrow. "Guide me?"

"I am far superior in terms of love expertise," Chris says, refilling Victor’s glass to the brim. "Now be a good friend and keep drinking with me so I forget about this conversation altogether."

Victor has to lean down to sip a bit off the top of his glass. He frowns. "Chris—"

"Don’t worry about it," Chris assures him. "No work tomorrow, yes? Consider this an early birthday gift."

Makkachin chooses that moment to jump up, front paws on Victor’s lap, tail wagging.

Victor sighs, rubbing behind dog ears, and reaches to take the glass.

ꕤ

Victor is a forgetful person, and, more often than not, he forgets small things—small things that become important in the grander scheme, such as the fact that he’d driven to Chris’, and he can’t very well drive back drunk.

Three and a half bottles of wine and two articles of Victor’s clothing on the floor later, Chris’ solution rings the doorbell.

"Ah, it’s my favorite pole-dancing friend," Victor hears Chris say, the words taking way too long to register in his head. And then he’s unsticking his cheek from the wood of the dining table, turning around in his seat so fast both his head and his torso muscles complain.

"Yuuri," Victor gasps, throwing out his hands.

Unlike Makkachin, Yuuri doesn’t run into Victor’s arms. He hovers by the junction between the living room and kitchen, eyes traveling between Chris and Victor with undisguised reluctance. He’d come straight from GPE, Victor can tell, even through the haze—Yuuri always wears the same navy coat, wears the same scarf and the same color of jeans, the outfit probably utilitarian to him but to Victor has become something of a default mental image of Yuuri.

Yuuri looks warm, as he always does, and he looks like he would still smell like Victor’s shampoo and body wash, and Victor wants Yuuri in his arms right now.

"Yuuri," Victor repeats, pushing his bottom lip out into a pout. He distantly registers Makkachin running around his chair, privy to his eagerness. "Please?"

Yuuri relents, walking over with frustratingly slow steps until he’s close enough for Victor to grab him by the waist, pressing his cheek against Yuuri’s chest.

And then there’s a hand carding through Victor’s hair, and Yuuri’s voice, soft, from above, "Where’s your shirt, Victor?"

"On the floor somewhere," Victor says—or thinks he says; he’s not sure if his mouth is moving. He nuzzles against Yuuri, delights in how overwhelmingly happy that makes him feel. "Yuuri, you should try the wine."

"I don’t think that’s a good idea," Yuuri murmurs, and his voice is so quiet and so calm, Victor wants to float on it, swim in it, drown in it. "Let’s get you up—can you stand up?"

Victor manages about three steps, Makkachin following, before he trips on nothing, and he’s laughing sheepishly when Yuuri catches him, letting Victor fall sidewards and against him.

He thinks Yuuri asks Chris about coats, but he misses the question entirely. The next thing he knows, Yuuri’s knuckles are brushing against his skin, Yuuri putting the dress shirt back on Victor—attempting to, arm by arm, Yuuri’s fingers nimbly working the buttons with a kind of concentration that Victor’s buzzed brain fixates on.

It reminds him of Yuuri’s hands around his robe, fingers clutching desperately while Victor—

"Coat," Yuuri murmurs next, and Victor raises both arms, lets Yuuri put that on him, too, sleeve by sleeve. It’s a nice feeling, Yuuri fussing around him, and Victor lets his eyes flutter shut.

When he tunes back in, vision swimming, he’s being guided into the back of a cab with Makkachin, Yuuri’s hand on his back. Victor almost sprawls all over the seat, but he scrambles to a sitting position, eyes heavy, a blanket of something fuzzy on the edges of his vision. "Yuuri," he manages, eyes catching on Yuuri still outside the cab. "Yuuri."

"I’m right here." Yuuri slides in after Victor with his usual grace, and Victor beams at him, throwing his arms back out around Yuuri while Yuuri does final goodbyes to Chris for both of them. Yuuri’s tense for the first few beats, but he relaxes into the touch eventually, sighing. "Did you tell the driver your address?"

"Hm," Victor murmurs against Yuuri’s hair. He does smell like Victor’s soaps, smells exactly like he’d spent the night at Victor’s. The realization settles oddly in his stomach. "Take me home."

"I don’t know your address," Yuuri says, and even through a layer of intoxication, Victor can tell he’s genuinely trying to be patient, sparing an apology to the front of the cab. "You have to tell the driver yourself—"

"No, no, no, take me home, Yuuri," Victor repeats, stubborn, because Yuuri doesn’t understand. "Take me to your apartment."

Yuuri doesn’t immediately say anything—or maybe Victor just doesn’t catch it, because the next time Yuuri turns back, the cab is lurching forward, sending Victor’s stomach rolling.

"Are you sure?" Yuuri whispers, squirming around in Victor’s hold. "Is it a privacy issue?"

"Yuuri," Victor whispers back. "Stop moving so much. I don’t want to throw up."

"What?" Yuuri exhales, exasperated. "Victor, I swear—"

"Yuuri," Victor says again, his chest and stomach aching. "I really want to kiss you."

Yuuri sighs, but he shivers a bit—so subtly that Victor would have missed it, had Yuuri not been in his arms. "You’re drunk, Victor."

"‘A drunk mind speaks a sober heart,’ is what they say, my Yuuri." Victor laughs softly, his own apparent joke lost on him and his syllables a garbled mess to his own ears. "Do you think that’s true?"

Yuuri shivers again, this time without any subtlety whatsoever. Two heartbeats later, Yuuri’s audible to Victor’s, he says, "I do."

He doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the ride.

They’re a tangle of limbs out of the cab and in the elevator, Yuuri somehow managing to support Victor as Victor leans heavily against him, unwilling to let go, as well as guide Makkachin into the building. Victor’s eyes are closed in an attempt to ward off nausea by the time they actually make it into the apartment, and Victor narrowly manages to complete a hi at a bemused Phichit before he’s being led into Yuuri’s bedroom, its stark white bare walls unfamiliar.

He has to lean against the wall to get to the bed, barely registering Makkachin’s barks from the living room and unable to comprehend Yuuri’s hushed words to Phichit altogether. He collapses against Yuuri’s comforter, soft, downy, and he rubs his cheek against it, sighing.

The contentment is short-lived, because there’s hands pulling the comforter from under him, rolling him out like he weighs nothing. He feels asphyxiated all of a sudden, his collar and cuffs too tight, his pants too restricting.

"Yuuri," he tries, his eyes heavily shut now. "It’s so hot, I’m suffocating—"

And just like that, Yuuri’s hands are on Victor’s collar buttons, patiently murmuring, "No, you’re not." When Victor manages to open his eyes halfway, it’s to Yuuri supporting his weight with a knee on a corner of the bed as he peels the shirt off Victor, cheeks pink but eyes determined.

"Phichit went to get you water," Yuuri says, pulling the comforter around Victor. Victor sees him swallow, and he smiles. "Drink it, okay—" He breaks off, catching Victor’s smile. "What?"

"I like it," Victor says, even though it feels like he has to punch the words out with an imaginary hammer. It probably comes out an unintelligible bundle of syllables. "I like being taken care of—by you." He readjusts himself under the comforter, sticking out an arm to take Yuuri’s hand when Yuuri moves his knee off the bed. "Don’t leave, Yuuri."

Yuuri doesn’t say anything, but he tightens his hand around Victor’s, doesn’t let go even as Phichit comes with the water, doesn’t let go even as Victor settles back into the covers.

Victor feels simultaneously like he’s floating in water and rolling in gravel, everything too heavy, but he keeps his hand around Yuuri’s, sitting on the edge of the bed now, leaning over Victor with a concerned furrow of his brows.

Victor reaches up to smooth it out for him. As he retracts his hands, he says, stubborn and incoherent, "Don’t leave."

Yuuri frowns. Victor’s hazy, half-asleep vision barely registers the expression. "Victor, I—"

"Don’t leave," Victor repeats, only he doesn’t know if the word actually makes it out as he finally gives in to sleep.

ꕤ

Victor wakes up to Makkachin curled up next to him.

He rolls on his side with a groan, something godforsaken pulsing in his head and behind his eyes. He expects to see big windows and the familiar bulbs hovering above his bed, but it’s white paint on a low ceiling that greets him, faded and definitely much more uneven than his own wallpaper.

Yuuri’s alarm clock is a glaring thing by the bed, and it’s the next thing Victor registers, the neon red numbers proclaiming a time way too early for him to be awake with a headache, a rolling stomach and a mind not quite equipped for figuring out how he got there.

Yuuri’s walls are completely bare—no wallpaper, no posters, no nothing, in contrast to all the other knick-knacks crammed into corners—but a hundred different images still whirl around in Victor’s vision as he sits up, grabbing the glass of water on the bedside table and chugging it down with willpower he doesn’t particularly have at 7 A.M.

He’s stripped down to his underwear, but he still feels heavy and sticky and disgusting; it’s his only motivation for getting up and stumbling into the hallway, accidentally jostling Makkachin in the process.

"Oh, he’s alive and kicking!" Phichit’s alone in the kitchen, cutting himself off mid-hum to turn to Victor. "Did I wake you up?"

"No—No, you didn’t," Victor says, blinking rapidly until the rest of the apartment comes better into focus. He opens his mouth, suddenly very aware that he’s standing half-naked in the kitchen with his boyfriend’s roommate. Self-consciousness doesn’t come naturally to Victor, but frustration does. "I’m—"

Phichit’s already turning away, poking at a pan on the stove with a spatula. "Do you think you’re up for breakfast?"

Victor’s stomach rolls in response. "Not—really."

"Didn’t think so." Phichit laughs a little. "You can use the shower now, by the way. Might make you feel better. There’s a change of clothes by the keyboard there for you."

Phichit strikes Victor as too wise for someone his age and temperament, and it holds true, because Victor feels vaguely more human after a shower. The v-neck that had been left out for him would have been comfortably oversized on both Yuuri and Phichit; on Victor, it’s only slightly loose. The sweatpants are a little short, ending just above his ankles, but the change of clothes makes Victor feel a lot less sticky and disgusting, and he comes out of the bathroom in a much better mood than he did coming in.

Phichit’s still in the kitchen when Victor gets out, looking busy bent in concentration over a chopping board. Makkachin’s jumping around him, and when Victor steps out of the bathroom, Phichit stops in the middle of what Victor suspects might have been a one-sided conversation with the dog.

Phichit’s dressed to go out now, attire more formal than Victor’s used to seeing on him; it’s the same thing he’d been wearing, though, when Victor had first met him.

"Do you—Are you going to GP today?"

"Huh—oh, yeah, interns don’t really—you know—get Saturdays off. Even if school’s done. Gotta work for that resume experience." Without looking up, Phichit adds, "Do you think you can eat bananas?"

Victor blinks. "Yes."

"Pretzels?"

A pause. "Yes."

"Cool." The smile Victor gets at that is positively radiant. "You can sit down, you know."

Movements stilted, Victor does.

Makkachin comes over, jumping up to the seat beside him, and Victor lets one hand absently run through soft fur. It needs trimming, and Victor makes a mental note to take care of that.

Phichit resumes his happy humming.

Victor’s not the type of person to feel awkward—he wears attention like a second skin, revels in performing well—but something about being alone with Phichit makes him feel uncharacteristically conscious, not exactly of himself but of the situation as a whole. It has nothing to do with how he looks or what he says; it feels more like how it did when he’d first had to get used to all the cameras, unused to having his movements so closely followed and observed.

And it’s what Phichit does. He’s not obvious about it at all, and his easy-going smile never leaves, but he watches Victor with a wariness that is, though not quite like Yuuri’s, a little bit offensive in that it’s clearly not rooted in Victor being, well, Victor.

"Where’s—Is Yuuri out?"

"Yeah, about that—" Phichit’s laugh is an amused set of noises, more a puppy bark than anything else. "We kind of got in trouble with the building superintendent, but Yuuri’s down at the office settling it right now."

Victor sits up a little straighter. "In trouble?"

"Yeah—because of the dog—" Phichit waves a dismissive hand. "Whose name, by the way is—?"

"Makkachin," Victor says, watching as Phichit peels a banana, laying it out on the chopping board. "Is Yuuri alright?"

"Yuuri’s never alright." Phichit finally looks up to grin at him, going back to his task just as quickly. "But no, he’s fine—It’s just—the pet—"

"Ban," Victor finishes, realization dawning with mild horror. "Right."

"No worries, he’s an expert at this now," Phichit says, as dismissively as he’d waved. "He’s had to defend, like, twenty of my hamsters at this point. Yuuri will be fine—or, uh, if he’s not, he can always just say hey, that’s Victor Nikiforov’s dog—" He beams at Makkachin, who wags his tail in clear agreement. "—and I’m sure it will all be okay."

Victor’s not sure what he should say to that.

Luckily, he doesn’t need to think too hard, because Phichit’s putting down his knife, so abruptly that Victor thinks he should be alarmed. His expression, however, when he does turn to Victor, is soft enough. "You know, you're not what we were expecting."

We. Victor plays with the table mantle, his voice and expression smooth but his mannerisms turning nervous. It’s a surprise, how much he suddenly cares about what Phichit thinks. "Is that a good thing?"

"You're kinda like Yuuri," Phichit says, wonderingly. "Kinda. He sucks at acknowledging he's good at things. You’re not like that, but you’re not vocal about it, either—or not as much as we thought you’d be, you're just—I thought you'd be—more—you know—"

He breaks off, brushing his hair back and leaning against the counter, elbow sliding on a banana peel.

"More ‘I'm Victor Nikiforov, bow down before me'," Phichit intones, lowering his voice in what must be an impression of Victor's. "'Kiss my feet, serve me, I have five hundred Oscars and ten million Golden Globes. I have a house in each continent and I have a private jet that takes me to Roma for authentic pizza. You can have all of it if you let me fuck—'"

"Please," Victor says, raising a hand to his mouth in horror. "You thought I'd be like that?"

"No offense but you sort of pursued my best friend after he grinded on you at a party. Drunk." Phichit puffs up his cheeks—a very Yuuri-like habit, apologetic. "People usually let it go when the other person doesn't remember. Unless there's, you know, hidden motives."

Victor doesn’t lower his hand. "Is that what I—"

"Nope, not at all," Phichit says. "That's what I'm saying. You—you seem like you don't even think about the actor thing, you know? Sometimes, you avoid it altogether? Like you don't wanna talk about it? You only ever bring up the actor thing when you wanna tease Yuuri—which is cool! I like that."

Victor's aware of his accomplishments. He just doesn't make a habit of bragging about them unless it's something he can use in conversation with someone. People generally don't like that sort of attitude. But it's enough; Victor knows what his presence does to people.

Unless it's Yuuri involved—or, in this case, his equally surprising roommate.

"You like that," Victor repeats slowly.

"Yeah. I like that you love making Yuuri smile," Phichit says, holding up a thumb. One by one, he lifts a finger for each new thing he ticks off, "I like that you wait for his permission before you really touch him. I like that you smile when Yuuri smiles. I like that you look at him and sort of just get stuck staring—that always leaves more dinner for me. And—" At this point, he's holding up a full hand, palm to Victor like he's swearing an oath. "I like that I can trust you not to break his heart, no matter what happens."

It's not the first time he's given this speech, clearly.

It's a vote of confidence Victor hadn't been expecting.

His hand wanders back to the mantle. He clears his throat, an attempt at nonchalance that would have had him failing an audition for the first time in his life. "Why's that?"

It’s disarming, how Phichit doesn’t even have to think about his answer.

"I wasn't expecting Victor Nikiforov to be such a gentleman, you know?" he says, smile cheeky. "Courting Yuuri and all. I think you'd have bought him flowers if you knew he'd let you."

Victor can’t deny that. Tentatively, he smiles back. "I still would like to."

"Do it," Phichit says, smile widening, like they’d just shared a private joke.

The smile has Victor’s conversation with Chris from last night coming back in pieces, though, and then he’s viewing Phichit in a new light, recognizing the wariness as a mix of both Chris’ disapproval and Yuri’s protectiveness.

"Did Yuuri say something," Victor asks, unable to help himself. "To you, I mean, about—"

Phichit picks the knife back up, smile fading into something close-mouthed if not unkind, the slicing resuming without the vigor from earlier. "Are we really doing this?"

Victor can only look back at him.

"I just thought you were—I thought you were beyond this," Phichit says. "The—whole—talk to the boyfriend's best friend thing." He clears his throat. "Well, he hasn’t touched Mario Kart at all, so I’ll take that as a good sign. And he did sleep next to you the whole night."

Victor blinks; leans into the table, shoulders slouching. "He did?"

"He did," Phichit confirms.

Victor tries to think of the Yuuri from last night—and it’s frustrating, that nothing substantial comes up, nothing but quiet unintelligible murmurs in Yuuri’s voice and Yuuri’s hands and Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri. As it always is nowadays, sober or drunk, dreaming or asleep.

He strokes the top of Makkachin’s head. Makkachin blinks up at him, almost questioning.

Quietly, easily misheard, ignored, Victor says, "I think I've been very unfair to Yuuri."

But Phichit has had years to deal with Yuuri’s own quiet, and it’s no problem, it seems, for him to parse this. "I think," he says slowly, "that I'm not the person you should be saying that to."

Maybe the alcohol from last night has done something to Victor’s head, because he still can’t string together a response.

"I know Yuuri can be unfair, too, though," Phichit continues, as breezy as it would be if he were describing how to properly slice a banana. "You two aren’t too different in that, either."

"Yuuri?" Victor says, sure he’s misheard. "Unfair?"

"You don’t think so? Really? Yuuri isn’t sweet by nature." Phichit glances at Victor like Victor had told him the moon landing was faked. "I know he can come across as selfish and insensitive but—Yuuri's just—it's complicated. He softens easily, though, when it comes to the people he treasures."

Makkachin lets out a little whine, and Victor realizes his hand has stilled. He resumes stroking, but his heart is beating, all of a sudden, erratically in his chest. "What?"

"They told me actors are perceptive." Phichit doesn’t look at him, transferring the sliced bananas—a mountain of them—into a bowl, but the way his teeth click together is a very audible sound of exasperation, an echo of Chris from last night. "But you're a bit of a slow one, aren't you?"

Victor blinks very rapidly. "I’m sorry?"

"Yuuri is, too." Phichit sticks out his tongue, winking, and it would be joking, if not for the way a genuine smile stays behind. "You know, for as long as I've known Yuuri, the whole making friends and keeping up relationships thing hasn't been his forte. He barely contacts his family. He always views things through a lens that—I don’t know—no one really gets. It isn’t, like, something you learn to get, no matter how long you’ve been around him. So if he's comfortable with you, it's a big thing. If he’s soft towards you, it means he has reason to hesitate—to, you know, care."

When he sees Victor’s expression, the smile softens. "Yuuri wouldn't understand it," he says, as soft as the set of his lips, "unless you make it very, very clear to him how you feel. Even then he'll doubt it, but—don't give him an out, you know? Sometimes you gotta force him to come to terms with the fact that yeah, people can like him without him having to find a way to, like, justify it for them."

Victor stares at Phichit. "You—"

"I’m not blind," Phichit says, making a face. "I know the effect Yuuri has on people, even if he doesn’t."

There’s a story there, one not to be opened to a near stranger just yet, but Victor nods, watching Phichit busy himself with opening a pack of pretzels, dumping it into a separate bowl.

Not quite aware of what he’s saying, he says, "Yuuri’s very lucky, to have you as a friend."

"I know!" Phichit chirps, coming over with both bowls and leaving it right in front of Victor, tutting as Makkachin reaches for them. "And you are, too."

Victor blinks, suddenly not comprehending. "Me?"

"Sure!" Phichit says. "There's only so many times I can rock-paper-scissors with someone over who has to do the dishes before it's no longer in the acquaintance stage."

It takes him completely by surprise, and Victor stares—at the bananas, at the pretzels, at Phichit.

He recovers eventually, coughing back his incredulity and taking a banana slice. "Yuuri never did do the dishes."

The fruit’s too sweet, a bit too ripe, but the way Phichit gives him a thumbs-up is more than worthwhile. "Why would he when he can get A-list star Victor Nikiforov to do it?" He grins. "If it bothers you, you’re always free to get us a dishwasher."

It’s not a joke, not even a pun or anything particularly witty, but Victor laughs—laughs until Phichit joins in, until Makkachin starts barking at them.

If someone were to tell the Victor from a year ago that he would spend the week before his twenty-eighth birthday in a student neighborhood apartment, sitting in the kitchen with borrowed clothes and nursing a hangover while his dog watches him eat elementary school lunch-type pretzels—he’d say that would be ridiculous, even for someone who grew up literally in movies.

And yet here he is.

Here he is.

ꕤ

"Oh," Yuuri says when he gets back, Phichit having long left for work. "I—I didn’t think you’d be up until way past noon."

Victor has relocated to the couch, both bowls on the coffee table and Makkachin somehow having found a way to curl up on the rocking chair. "I can’t sleep—when—"

Yuuri nods, awkward. "I just—I was down at the main office."

Victor smiles around a pretzel. "How did it go?"

Yuuri makes a face. "Uh—our last warning before we get fined. So if Phichit can just stop smuggling hamsters in—"

"I can cover it," Victor says, automatic. "The fine. Did you tell them it was my dog?"

Yuuri stares at him, disbelieving. "No, ‘course not. I said I was dogsitting temporarily—I mean, the cameras caught you, too, but they don’t need to know it’s you—"

Victor blinks. "Why not? I don’t mind. It’s me."

Yuuri’s stare shifts, turns strange. "What—oh, well, I—it’s just—it’s going to be awkward, next month, when I—when I have to explain why I had your dog—"

"Yuuri," Victor says. "There are pictures of us from the premiere all over."

Yuuri visibly cringes at that, but offers no commentary. He’s still staring—at Victor, at the bowls, at the entire living room with Victor and Makkachin and the bowls in it. "Um, is that—"

"Phichit said it would help with the hangover," Victor explains, generously falling for Yuuri’s subject change.

"No, I know—"

Victor pops a pretzel and a banana into his mouth at the same time. "I didn’t."

Yuuri frowns, padding into the kitchen and turning on the electric kettle. "What do you usually do when you have a hangover then?"

Stay in bed until he’s no longer too dizzy to get up and get a glass of water, mostly. Sometimes, if he’s feeling a change of scenery, he’ll drag himself to the bathroom or the living room with Makkachin to feel disgusting outside of his bedroom. It’s the same routine for when he’s sick—wait for it to pass, hope for the best, get used to the silence of the apartment.

Victor, half-serious, replies, "Wish for mercy and timely salvation."

That startles a laugh out of Yuuri. The sound jerks Makkachin out of half-sleep, and then he’s hopping off the chair to get to Yuuri, his loyalties apparently having changed overnight while Victor was out of commission. "Don’t be dramatic."

Victor beams anyway. "I’m always dramatic. It’s not just the hangover."

"True," Yuuri agrees, but his voice softens abruptly near the end, eyes flitting to Victor while he leans against the counter and over to pet Makkachin. "You, um—that was Christophe Giacometti, right? Last night?"

It’s an abrupt reminder that Yuuri doesn’t remember the party, probably doesn’t even know that Chris has videos and photos of the two of them pole-dancing. It also triggers a memory—of Chris, last December 1st , sitting in Victor’s office and, if Victor is willing to be generous with the credit, motivating Victor to approach Yuuri to begin with.

Time flies, but it didn't used to feel this heavy, being so aware of that.

"He was dogsitting for—" Victor turns against the couch, leans against it as far as he can to see Yuuri better. Yuuri looks restless, uneasy. "Did he make you uncomfortable?"

"No, he—" Yuuri’s hands are in front of him now, thumbs twiddling. "He was really nice. I didn’t have his number saved, but he texted—before he called—and—" He pauses, only to repeat, "He was really nice."

Nice, when applied to Chris, could mean any number of things, the range of which includes being polite and friendly towards Yuuri to being a little bit too open, both in speech and manner. "Did he—did he say anything—peculiar to you?"

"Pecu—no, no, no," Yuuri says, half-hearted in waving away the assumption. "But—he—you used to date, didn’t you?"

It’s so typical of Yuuri to throw a screwball mid-conversation, and Victor, in retrospect, should have seen this coming.

Keeping his voice casual, he says, "We did."

"I—I see."

Yuuri has never brought this up past the one time in the lunchroom, and Victor has assumed that it means they didn't have to talk about it.

But Yuuri’s hardly ever this kind of hesitant, either—he’s soft or hard, resolute in whatever mode he’s in, but this Yuuri is another contradictory Yuuri, body language subdued and restive, juxtaposed with a rigid expression, considering Victor with unreadable eyes.

Turning away from eye contact completely, he adds, voice muted, "I thought—I thought you broke off ties—with people you break up with."

"Well," Victor says, slow. This situation feels like the conversation equivalent of quicksand—and so he does the verbal counterpart to slowly moving his legs to get out of it. "Chris is a friend."

It feels strange, saying that out loud. It’s not up for judgment from Yuuri, of all people, who, Victor knows from hear-say, sticks to Phichit at office get-togethers unless he himself is drunk. But Chris is a friend in the way that Georgi is a friend—not something pursued, but something natural, out of proximity and time spent together and the inevitability of a bond forming out of shared experiences.

He knows Yuuri knows that, too.

"Right," is all Yuuri says, though. He's just fiddling with the hem of his hoodie now, too thoughtful.

Victor desperately wants to know what he's thinking.

The kettle starts whistling then, and Yuuri turns away to grab two mugs from the cupboard, apparently ready to drop the conversation.

Victor isn’t. Dusting pretzel crumbs off his borrowed sweatpants, he goes over to stand by the kitchen, watching Yuuri without bothering to be subtle about observing.

Yuuri, pink ears aside, ignores him.

"Yuuri," Victor says, careful. "Are you jealous?"

"No," Yuuri automatically says, like he’d been prepared for it, even as he almost knocks over a mug. "No, of course not, I have no right to be—"

"You do," Victor says, simply. "I am dating you."

"And you're allowed to have friends," Yuuri returns, miraculously not thrown off-kilter by Victor’s frankness. But, unable to help himself, Yuuri adds, "Friends that you used to date and go out with to drink and get naked around just because I was unavailable for one night—"

"Yuuri," Victor laughs the name more than he properly pronounces it, catching Yuuri by the waist and pulling him back, away from the kettle and against Victor's chest. Yuuri goes willingly, but the set of his mouth isn’t happy. "Don't be jealous. Please?"

"I'm not," Yuuri insists. "Let me go."

"Absolutely not," Victor says. "Yuuri? I'm sorry."

Yuuri groans, trying to pry Victor’s hands off from around him finger by finger. "Stop, don't apologize—I know I'm blowing this out of proportion, don't enable it—"

"I like it, though," Victor says, honest.

"Victor." Yuuri says his name like a warning, and Victor, reluctant, lets him go.

Yuuri takes about five whole steps away, and Victor feels like he should be offended.

Then Yuuri’s pushing a mug into Victor’s hands, a tea bag steeping in it, a poor attempt at looking casual when his face is all scrunched up in effort. "Peppermint tea. Helps with the hangover, too."

Victor wants to ask why Yuuri and Phichit are such experts on obscure hangover remedies, but what comes out is—

"Yuuri," he says, hushed. "Tell me what’s wrong."

Yuuri doesn’t answer; he starts drinking his own tea, even though there’s no way the leaves have steeped properly just yet, no way it’s not too hot, when Victor can barely stand holding the body of the mug.

Victor sighs. "Should I kiss you again or—"

"No," Yuuri cuts in, incredulous, punctuated by the rattle of his mug as he puts it down. "That’s not how you solve problems—"

"Well, I can’t solve anything if I don’t know what the problem is, Yuuri," Victor says, flat.

There’s a beat of silence—long, tense.

When Yuuri speaks again, his voice is low, with a sudden edge that Victor doesn’t expect, "The other night, when you—Did you really mean it, when you—"

Oh.

Oh. Yuuri thinks—

This isn't Yuuri teasing; it's Yuuri attempting to distance himself immediately.

Anyone can see your interest in him is different from the interest you’ve showed anyone.

But does he know that?

It’s always unsettling, when Chris is right.

Victor puts down his mug on the nearest counter, too, counting to ten in his head. It’s not until he reaches fifteen that he opens his arms towards Yuuri. "Come here."

He’d meant it to sound firm, but it comes out a question, tentative, and the hesitance seems to speak to Yuuri differently than the actual words do, because within moments, he’s within Victor’s reach, allowing himself to be pulled in.

"Yuuri, listen to me," Victor says, trying to channel Chris’ interview voice as he wraps his arms around Yuuri. "Listen to me and just me, okay?" 

It takes a few seconds before Yuuri nods against Victor’s shoulder, hands coming up, timid, to reach around Victor, too.

"Not once, this entire time," Victor says, and he doesn’t know if he’s slowing his words down for the sake of Yuuri’s understanding or his own, "did I say or do something that I didn’t mean."

He hears Yuuri take a deep breath, sharp. "I know that—"

"I know," Victor says, tightening his hug. "I know. But you’re hearing this from me anyway. I meant the kiss. I meant every word I’ve said. I don't know what you're thinking. I don't know what Yuri Plisetsky told you. But I am telling you that I have never once attempted to play with you."

He’s just mimicking Chris’ speech patterns, but the sentiment holds true, beats in his heart as steadily as he feels Yuuri’s own heartbeat.

Yuuri sighs, shaky. "I—"

"I’ll keep saying it, Yuuri," Victor says, because he can be as stubborn, if he needs to be, if he has to match Yuuri. "As much as I have to. You promised you’ll try to believe me."

"I do believe you," Yuuri says, soft, and it’s not the admission Victor had expected. "I just—it’s not—"

"I know," Victor repeats, when Yuuri breaks off there. He keeps saying it, even when he knows nothing, feels everything instead.

Yuuri fits so well in Victor’s arms, so right, and it’s frustrating, that he doesn’t seem to understand how good it feels, for Victor, how calm and steady it makes him feel, to be able to reassure Yuuri and mean it, to feel and be able to understand that feeling, bit by bit.

It’s new territory for him, all of it uncharted waters, but the way Yuuri looks a little bit relieved when he pulls away makes Victor feel like he could learn this, too—that though it might not be as easy as learning to play a few bars on the piano in preparation for Stammi Vicino, it’s something he could do.

Something he could do, because Yuuri—Yuuri whose roommate doesn’t hesitate to deal with Victor’s hangover, Yuuri who’s so wary about giving his heart away, stubborn Yuuri with his fears and his insecurities and worries that Victor both understands and yet not—Yuuri is worth it.

"If I make us lunch," Yuuri says, so out of the blue that Victor thinks he’s misheard, "will you wash the dishes?"

Victor blinks rapidly for a long time. Barely recovering, he says, "Phichit said I could buy you a dishwasher instead."

Yuuri laughs, and it’s sunlight and moonlight and starlight contained in a jar, a lovely tenor warmer than the mug Victor picks back up. He’d looked, earlier, Victor realizes now, almost close to tears—but he doesn't now.

Victor feels lighter, somehow.

Yuuri is worth it—because he smiles at Victor now like he’s seeing a completely different Victor than everyone else sees, like he’s seeing parts of Victor that Victor himself has yet to completely meet, like he’s seeing Victor and thinking—

There he is.

ꕤ

"You have an impressive collection."

Yuuri makes a face, but he doesn't say anything, idly stroking the top of Makkachin's head. They're on the couch, sprawled lazily, and Victor would join them, if Makkachin hasn't completely betrayed him and left no space on the two-seater.

Yuuri had, for once, lost the rock-paper-scissors battle for dishwashing duty, though the novelty of the defeat is non-existent when this is Yuuri’s first time actually participating. He doesn’t seem all that annoyed about it, though—and Victor’s getting really good at that, sensing Yuuri’s annoyance before it manifests on his face—and all Yuuri had done is send Victor off to the living room, where he’d spent all five minutes it takes Yuuri to wash the dishes inspecting the apartment’s movie treasury for the first time.

And it really is impressive; there are VHSs for Spielbergs and Scorseses, Blurays for more recent ones, limited edition DVDs for films ranging from Wright to Dolan to Ayoade, apparently curated over time by both Yuuri’s eye for releases on sale and Phichit’s frequent visitation of rental movie stores about to shut down. Everything’s categorized by genre, animated films getting an entire shelf to themselves—everything except for the copies of Victor’s own films, housed in the TV console instead, separated from video games by a fake plant.

Victor’s never had alone time with this area before, always—willingly—trapped by Phichit’s tendency to shove ballet recordings and home videos, much like a mother all too glad to show baby photos. It was Yakov who’d told him, once upon a time, that a person’s taste in movies is as telling as how they treat a restaurant waiter, but all he can think about, reading through the titles on each spine, is how surreal it is, having to acquaint himself with the part of Yuuri that, undoubtedly, likes watching movies, if nothing else.

Movies have always been deals and scripts and auditions, launches and Awards nights and meetings, just like being part of GPE has made him more aware of its members as names and deals, contracts to double check and pass on to Yakov for further checking.

It’s a surreal reminder, then, seeing Blu-ray copies of his own movies tucked in its own special place in Yuuri’s home—a surreal reminder that that he's been one of those formulas at one point, that he still somehow is, every time he comes out of his shell to remind the media he still exists.

Such as last night, with all those pictures from the premiere circulating now, Yuuri on his arm. The media no doubt having identified Yuuri by now as a member of his ballet company, complete with his entire dance history.

Yuuri still hasn’t said anything about it, though, and Victor’s fine with that.

"Is Yakov your favorite director, Yuuri? Those DVDs get their own little space," Victor says now, finally giving in to immaturity and physically moving Makkachin to make space on the couch for both of them. The dog whines quietly, and Victor can relate, ending up shoulder-to-shoulder with Yuuri—who, unexpectedly, neither tenses nor moves away, apparently lost in thought over something else.

"Yuuri?"

"What? I mean—no, no, not really—" Yuuri says. He looks sleepy, and it occurs to Victor that this is supposed to be Yuuri's day off; Yuuri who hates being woken up any earlier than 8 A.M, and Yuuri who looks at Victor now like he can’t quite believe how he doesn’t want to nap, too. "Um—I don’t really have one? Do—do you?"

Victor hums contemplatively, pretends to consider it.

"You can't say Feltsman," Yuuri rushes to add. He narrows his eyes. "You're in 80% of his films anyway."

"Exactly why I love them so much," Victor says.

When Yuuri doesn't look impressed, Victor laughs, relenting, "Fine. Baz Luhrmann."

Yuuri tenses up this time, but it’s matched with the look of panic he sends Victor. "What—really? But you—you're—"

"You don't like Baz Luhrmann?"

"And you do?"

"I don’t understand the problem, Yuuri," Victor says, cheery and patient. "Mr. Lurhmann directs very romantic films, and I respect romance in all its forms. Don’t you?"

"Romantic," Yuuri repeats. "You call that romantic."

"Moulin Rouge is classic romantic cinema, sweetheart."

Yuuri’s eyes narrow at the pet name. "No one ever gets a happy ending in his films," he mumbles. "Someone always dies."

"Strictly Ballroom ended happily."

"I mean—I mean, I guess—" Yuuri blinks. "Is that your favorite?"

Victor pretends to consider it, biting around a smile now. "No, Romeo + Juliet is."

Yuuri looks downright scandalized at that, blinking and blinking and blinking even more, then his eyes widen, and he’s slapping Victor’s arm, gasping. "You’re messing with me." 

Victor lets the smile take over his face completely, and then Yuuri’s giving him this look—of childish distaste, like Victor had just told him he prefers apple or orange juice over the other. "Of course I am," Victor says, laughing low and light. "He isn't actually my favorite director. I don't have one."

Yuuri puffs up his cheeks, pushing up his glasses half in embarrassment, half in clear playground disapproval. "Aside from—"

"Yakov, yes. Because I’m in them." Victor widens his smile. "Would Baz Lurhmann have been grounds for a break-up?"

"Obviously." Yuuri rolls his eyes, and it’s relieving, somehow, that he takes that for the joke that it is. "This is like—this is such a—this is exactly a mocking SNS post Phichit would show me. Like—When you find the man of your dreams and he likes Baz Lurhmann."

"Oh?" Victor’s smile is starting to hurt his cheeks. "Am I the man of your dreams, Yuuri?"

It will never get old, how easily he can make Yuuri flush pink. "It was an example."

Victor nudges him. Yuuri rolls his eyes again. "Is it that bad?"

"I just—" Yuuri mutters, picking non-existent lint off the jeans he’s yet to change out of. "I don't believe in—in that idea of love."

Victor hums, hand reaching to play with Makkachin’s ears, who’s near asleep sprawled across both his and Yuuri’s legs. "What kind of love?"

"Okay, it’s more—" Yuuri sits up straighter, and Victor notices, absently, that Yuuri’s had his body angled towards Victor this whole time, even if his eyes had always strayed away. "His films make it seem like love has to be fated or dramatic to be romance—you know? Everything has to be grand and poetic and tragic to be real romance, and I don’t think—I don’t think that’s how it should be—love shouldn’t be heart-breaking like that. That’s not—that’s not the kind of love we should—I don’t know—aspire to?"

It’s the most Victor has heard Yuuri speak about the same thing in one go, only challenged by the one time Victor had asked Yuuri about his relationship with Lilia and had gotten a breathless crash course on the history of the Bolshoi and Lilia’s background with it.

Victor loves it.

"If you don’t like fated love, then," Victor says, humming. "What about soulmates?"

The question seems to startle Yuuri into the reality of what he’s doing, and he deflates back into calmness, a little. But he meets Victor’s eyes, and whatever he sees there must reassure him to continue. "I—I don’t know? I believe that love is something you have to choose? Not something chosen for you? You get to choose such few things in life, in the end—is what I think—but love is one of them, for sure. It’s something you—you figure out? And choose, if—if you want it."

Victor’s not entirely sure if they’re still talking about love in general.

He clears his throat. "Okay. Alright. So no to Baz Lurhmann epic romances and no to generic soulmate expectations."

"I—I mean—I mean—" Yuuri breaks off, too rushed to find coherence. "I don't know, it just feels—cheap? Because—you don't—" His eyes flit to Victor. "It's always a personal thing—what you end up liking the most about someone. It's just weird to me that some higher force gets to decide that you like the way someone says your name, or the way someone la—" He breaks off hastily. "You know? Love isn't just about the, um, predetermined chemistry. You—it's a step by step process that has to be chosen, is what I think."

Yuuri pauses, expecting Victor to say something. Victor doesn’t, just keeps waiting.

He’s not disappointed.

"I—Some people don't feel that romantic attraction, right? But the people who do—in the end it's just attraction, in the beginning. You have to—to choose to pursue and hope you somehow arrive at love….Something... like... that... What?" He trails off, noticing Victor's stare.

You're a romantic, Victor, Chris had said last night, certain.

"Nothing," Victor says. "Just that we're not too different about that, after all."

With that, Yuuri has apparently reached his rant limit for the day, because the fight leaves him abruptly. He slumps back against the couch, so close Victor could lean over to kiss his forehead.

More muted now, he continues, "But I don’t—I don’t understand love perfectly, and there isn’t just one way to love—But I—I’m figuring it out. I just—I just know it doesn’t all have to end in, you know, death, tragedy, heartbreak, to be—to be full and real and—sometimes, it’s enough, when it’s—it’s—"

"Comfortable," Victor murmurs.

He sees Yuuri swallow as he nods. "Yeah."

Victor has never thought about it that way—that other people don’t have the same perspective of love as he does, that it’s not all a path to happily ever after, for people whose expectations of love are constrained by real life instead of influenced by Oscar-winning films.

It explains a lot of Yuuri’s attitude towards him, though, from the Yuuri that had been so annoyed about their first dinner date to the Yuuri sitting beside him now.

"Yuuri, do you think I'm a romantic?"

Yuuri stares at him. "Is that a question?"

Victor stares back.

"This isn't—it's not a think thing. You are a romantic." Yuuri yawns, settling back even further. He’s practically melting against Victor’s side, Makkachin’s sleepiness catching. "The first day, you took me out to dinner, tried to hold my hand, tried to drive me back here."

Victor huffs, amused. "Wasn't very successful in any of those, was I?"

"You're not a romantic in just—romance stuff, though," Yuuri says, eyes contemplative as they blink up languidly at Victor. "Sometimes, when you look at other people, you get this—I don’t know, it’s like secondhand passion? You like seeing people be—be good at things."

Victor frowns.

It’s Yuuri’s turn to huff, adorably frustrated. "Okay, no, it’s just—when we bumped into Yurio that one time and you were obviously taking count of his ballet experience compared to mine. Or—when you tell me about work and you end up getting really excited talking about Georgi Popovich’s new movie or The Nutcracker. And—and the other night, when you were introducing Mila to me and talking about how that movie was her first time as lead—" Again, Yuuri breaks off, frowning up to meet Victor’s eyes, even if he’s clearly unsure how to deal with all this attention from up close. "What now?"

It’s a bit strange, unreal—that Yuuri brings up all these moments like they’re nothing, like he, too, had been cataloguing moments so freely. It’s nothing new, for Victor to be aware of being watched, but it’s never been like this; it’s never come in Yuuri’s earnest voice, never come with Yuuri’s thoughtful eyes, never come with Yuuri, looking back at Victor while Victor had been watching him.

Smiling, he leans forward to kiss Yuuri’s forehead with a loud smack, smoothing out Yuuri’s frown. He moves slow enough for Yuuri to pull away if he wanted to—but he doesn’t, though whether or not it’s because he’s too sleepy to move away from Victor’s body warmth is up for debate.

Laughing a little, Victor says, "You never fail to surprise me, you know that?"

Yuuri just sighs, pink cheeks turned down to his lap.

"Victor," he ventures quietly. "Speaking of surprises—you—do you—want anything for your birthday? I mean, of course you do, but what—"

"I don't want anything," Victor says automatically, blinking. "How do you know it’s my birthday soon?"

"Um—Google," Yuuri says, and it doesn’t sound untrue. "No, but—you have to want something. Or, I guess—maybe not—" He mumbles the rest of his sentence, incoherent past What would Victor Nikiforov even want?

Victor puts his chin in his hand and leans back to think about it carefully, if only because Yuuri looks so serious about it. He has, truthfully, never really thought about his birthday in the context of gifts; December was always a busy time, active actor or not, and he’s never had time to—

"Time," Victor says, lowering his hand into his palm with a force only exhibited by the enlightened. "A break would be wonderful."

Yuuri blinks, but Victor has his attention now. "Like, a vacation?"

"Yes!" The more Victor thinks about it, the more appealing it sounds—only his default image seems to be this exact place right here, sandwiched between Yuuri and Makkachin on an old couch. "A vacation."

"Are you—are you sure?" Yuuri looks dubious, but Victor can see gears in his head turning. Victor is, all of a sudden, very hopeful. "Where would you want to go?"

Again, Victor blanks out. He has no particular travel destinations that he hasn’t already visited, and the image remains the same: Yuuri, this apartment. "Here is quite ideal."

Yuuri sighs. "Victor, be serious."

"I am being serious," Victor says—it comes out a bit too firm than it sounded in his head, but looking around the apartment, he finds that it’s appropriate, him being steadfast about it.

It feels like a vacation as it is, a dream, so far removed from all that has come from his life before this—and yet so much more present, in that it climbs into Victor and makes a home out of his bones, as warm and as comfortable as it feels, just sitting there beside Yuuri.

"Victor," Yuuri says, and Victor, coming out of a half-daze, realizes that Yuuri has been staring at him the whole time. "Do you—do you want to sleep over tonight, too?"

Victor stares, sure, once again, that he’s misheard.

He waits a beat, two heartbeats, three.

When Yuuri looks red enough to start taking it back out of embarrassment, Victor laughs and says, "If you’ll have me."

The delay is worth it, if only for the way Yuuri looks so visibly relieved, like he had when he’d first asked Victor to come over for dinner.

As if Victor will ever say no, for a chance to spend more time with Yuuri.

A month flies by, after all, when both of you are adults with busy lives.

But he gets Yuuri to himself for the rest of the day; he lets Victor put The Great Gatsby on because he refuses to explain why he has a Baz Lurhmann Blu-ray in his collection, lets Victor order take-out so neither of them have to get up to root around for dinner before Phichit gets back, lets Victor snuggle in close until they have to sleep, and Victor’s head, though still mildly throbbing, swims with contentment.

Phichit comes back with a pharmacy-bought kiddie toothbrush for Victor, and no one says anything past a snicker, when he leaves it in the bathroom, the cardboard packaging thrown away.

Yuuri doesn't put up a pillow border, this time, either.

He sleeps with his back to Victor, again, but this time he doesn't say anything when Victor pulls him close.

It’s a lot of new things to take in over the span of a couple of days, but Victor, surprisingly, doesn’t stay up thinking all night about it. Instead, he listens to Yuuri’s even breathing, the sound of the TV from the living room where Phichit is still catching up on Project Runway, and falls asleep like that.

He doesn’t wake up in the middle of the night, either.

Instead, Victor sleeps and sleeps, Yuuri and Makkachin around him, and he feels more calm, more grounded, more at home than he has in years.

Chapter Text

"Stop," Yuuri says, mild. There’s immediate silence in the room, and whatever sound Yuri’s shoes make goes unheard through the soundproofed glass. "Otabek, you can rest for a bit."

"You don't have to do this, you know," Yuuri adds. "It doesn't have to be perfect."

Yuri doesn't even look at him. "But it will be."

"Sure." To the pianist, he says, "A little shorter, if you could."

Victor hadn’t known that there was a dance studio on the top floor of the building, twice the size of any of the ones on the third floor, with white walls and nothing but small rectangular windows running across each of them. There’s even a ceiling window, leaving the room bright and allowing rays of noon sunlight to come into the room and fall upon Yuuri’s face—which really does nothing to discourage Victor’s chronic staring.

The pair of glass doors leading into the room is slightly ajar, and Victor waits outside of it, alone in the empty hallway and slightly out of view from the room’s wall-length mirror. He’d considered coming in, but it had felt impolite to interrupt; Otabek and Yuri had already been in the middle of rehearsing when he’d arrived, the piano loud, and Yuuri’s face was yet to smoothen out from its concentrated frown.

"Too fast—too fast—okay, that’s it—stop, stop, stop—" Yuuri never once raises his voice, only ever does so in volume above the piano. "Yurio, I need your arms tighter—like in the final shot—" Then, almost an afterthought, "That was nice, though."

"Don’t baby me," Yuri mutters, ever irritable, but he goes back to where he started anyway, chin up in the air.

Otabek, walking back from where he’d been drinking from his water bottle, stops as he catches sight of Victor.

Victor, immediately, raises a finger to his mouth.

Otabek nods, imperceptible, as he goes to stand by the piano. Sweaty, back straight, eyes a little unfocused. He looks so much like a soldier like this, never at ease until allowed to be.

It fills Victor with a bit of a thrill, to see someone deferring to Yuuri, however indirectly.

"I need you to be tighter," Yuuri says, walking to the edge of the studio. "You hesitate a little bit after your last jeté, see—" He leaps with one leg thrown out, twice, all the while talking, "—and then you lose a bit of the tightness in your arms when—"

He starts turning, 360 degree turns with arms raised to his chest, occasionally throwing out hands and fingers before pulling his arms in to lithely come back down on his heels.

He might as well still be dancing, for all that Victor’s unable to look away.

"—you do your chaînés. Do you understand?"

It comes to Victor belatedly that the pianist’s hands hadn’t even been anywhere near the keys the whole time; the studio is dead silent, even Yuuri’s quiet murmuring barely audible had the door not been slightly open for Victor.

And yet he can almost hear it, with the way Yuuri dances, his innate grace translating into something else, something that embodies the dance, the music, and steals Victor’s attention without even trying.

"Make your arms come in tighter," Yuuri says, eyes carefully watching as Yuri attempts it. "Watch your shoulders. Tighter, Yurio."

"I’m doing it," Yuri snaps.

"Not enough," Yuuri says, as toneless as Yuri is exasperated. "Are you tired?"

"Hell no."

"I didn't think so. Don't be angry," Yuuri says quietly. It borders on unsettling, how soft his voice is. "You can do better than that. From the top. Like we practiced."

Just like that, they start again, unrelenting.

Yuuri doesn't quite have the appropriate personality for teaching, and it shows no matter what he does. When he tells Yuri what to do, there's always hesitance in it, mixed with something monotoned—until he demonstrates, and the hesitance melts away, gives into firm and practiced control of his body, Yuuri’s thoughts visibly melting away as muscle memory takes over.

He is, at the very least, steadfast in his quiet advice; it becomes apparent how critical Yuuri can be when he has to be, and how much he trusts Yuri to be able to handle his muted suggestions. He is, at times, also prone to abrupt compliments—which, while true and thoughtful enough, all fall a little bit short of enthusiastic, spoken always as an afterthought, like Yuuri has to remind himself to say them.

The music stops abruptly.

"What was wrong there, Yurio?"

The sound Yuri makes is almost feral. "I did an extra turn."

"You did an extra turn," Yuuri affirms. He has his arms crossed now, index finger on one hand tapping on his bicep. "Watch your expression, too."

"We're just practicing."

"And practice always has to be considered like the real thing," Yuuri says, clearly a conversation they’ve had before. "Or else it wouldn't be much of practice, right?"

Victor knows that Yuri, by virtue of being young, isn’t good with authority; but Yuri nods now, wiping sweat from his chin without genuine complaint, completely accepting of what he did wrong, even as he bristles at Yuuri’s nitpicking.

There's a look in his eyes that Victor so rarely sees; determined, eager to please Yuuri, even more to outdo Yuuri.

If Yuuri’s dancing is soft, graceful, often sensual in how the music seems to embrace him if he so much as evokes it with one movement, Yuri is an aggressive force even without meaning to—he struggles with matching the music exactly because there’s an almost childish fervor that sneaks its way into every movement he makes, bordering less on just enthusiasm and more on impatient dedication.

It should not be an unfamiliar feeling, to look at Yuri and see a shadow of who he was, all those years ago. Victor’s heard Yakov slip up enough times to know that he sees it, too, in Yuri.

What little detail Victor has on Yuri Plisetsky’s background remains vague—breadwinner, discovered at an open cast call where he’d auditioned with a scene from Finding Neverland at six-years-old—but Victor knows his own sense of motivation hadn’t been that set in stone at fifteen. Pride and the determination to prove something sits at the very core of Yuri, even at his age, and it is both his strength and weakness. It’s not the best motivation, as far as motivating factors go, but it will suffice, for now.

It’s strange, to think about that too much. Victor thinks himself long past the age of regretting things he hadn’t done, things he hadn’t been, when he’d been a child, but it’s still a strange realization to make, watching Yuri.

Yuuri had said, the other day, that Victor was a romantic about other people's passions.

Victor has to wonder, then, why he’s so rarely a romantic about his acting career. His roles, surely, maybe even a romantic about the image projected onto him by the media. But not quite the act of acting itself.

He may have loved it at some point, may have basked in how good he is at it, a natural, but it was never like that—never something worn, never something embodied, the way Yuri approaches this role with single-minded greed, almost.

Or maybe it was, just that it’s been so long since that he scarcely remember what it feels like, to love something for his own personal purposes.

Yuuri claps, signalling the pianist to stop. It effectively snaps Victor out of his reverie.

"Good," Yuuri says. He sounds mildly relieved, both hands on either cheek like he’d been worried he’d have to send Yuri on another lap of turns around the room. "Good, Yurio."

Yuri doesn’t preen, because Yuri Plisetsky never preens, but he smirks, rolling his eyes.

"You've picked up some of his habits."

Yuuri frowns. "His?"

When Yuri says his name, it sounds like he’d rather be spitting it out. "Victor's."

Otabek’s eyes blink at Yuri before flitting over briefly towards Victor. He looks away without making proper eye contact, though, straightening his back once more.

Yuuri has let his arms fall back to his sides, self-conscious. "What do you mean?"

Yuri grumbles something that Victor doesn't catch, before saying, louder, "How much time do you even spend together? Why are you starting to act like him?"

"Well, we—" Yuuri blinks. "We try to see each other every day."

Yuri scowls at that. "What?"

Yuuri keeps blinking. "What?"

"Does he—" Yuri looks horrified. "Does he actually spend time with you? Since when does he have the time to do that?"

"Victor—" Yuuri says, and Victor, for a terrible moment, almost mistakes it for Yuuri calling to him. He bites back an instinctive response. "We don’t spend all day together, or—or anything like that. But—I mean—"

"Do you go on dates?" The horror is creeping into Yuri’s voice. It would be amusing to see what his expression looks like, if Victor isn’t watching Yuuri’s face so closely. "Wait, no, don’t answer that—"

"Yura," Otabek says, clearing his throat.

It startles all of them out of the conversation, and it takes Victor a couple of seconds to note that Otabek has given his position away, tilting his head towards Victor without making eye contact with anyone. He keeps his eyes on the floor, and Victor would search for signs of an unspoken apology, if he hadn’t already been sure Otabek’s loyalties will always favor Yuri.

It’s probably why that friendship works so well.

Swallowing back a sigh, Victor beams, waving with his fingers as he inches one glass door farther open. "Hi~"

Yuri's face sours so fast it's comical.

Yuuri’s frown had given way to an expression that perfectly mirrors Yuri’s from earlier, somewhere between panicked and scandalized. "How long have you—"

"I just got here, my love," Victor sings, layering his tone on the last two words just to see Yuri’s eyes widen in disgust. It’s worth it, too, for Yuuri pinking, as he tends to do whenever Victor so much as brushes his hand in public, or tries out a term of endearment they both know is more performative than instinct. "A bit too early to invite you out for lunch, though, I realize?"

He waits for Otabek to call him out on the lie, but Otabek doesn’t say anything, still looking down at the floor like he wants to be able to see through it. Victor suspects Yuri will hear the truth later, but for now, all is well; Yuuri visibly relaxes, hiding his twitching hands behind him.

It doesn’t quite do the job, with Yuuri’s back to the dance mirror.

"I—I still need to work with Otabek," he says, and Victor tries not to delight too much in how tender his voice sounds compared to long minutes of firm suggestions directed at Yuri. "Twenty minutes?"

"That’s absolutely fine. Take your time," Victor chirps, moving his gaze towards Yuri, who makes eye contact as forcefully as he does most things. "If you’re done with Yurio, then, may I have a word with him?"

There’s an awkward beat of silence.

"Don’t call me that," Yuri mutters, but he grabs his water bottle and goes, pointedly closing the door behind him. "How much did you hear?"

Victor takes a few steps back so that they’re away from the door. He’s tall enough to be able to see through the windows, at least. He watches Yuuri visibly compose himself before gesturing at the pianist to begin, the sound completely lost through the soundproofing now.

"If I’d known you talk about me with Yuuri so often," Victor says, turning to Yuri, "I would have dropped by a lot more often."

Yuri doesn’t answer; he can’t seem to make up his mind about whether he wants to glare at Victor or the floor.

Victor tries another tactic, leaning against the wall to evoke nonchalance. "What is this practice for?"

Yuri eventually chooses to glare at him, unimpressed. "There’s some publicity event on the 31st ," he grits out. "Beka and I are doing a small scene from our movie."

"Publicity event?" December 31st. Publicity event. The Nutcracker. "I haven’t read anything about a publicity event."

"No shit," Yuri says, eating his words like he’d rather do anything but have this conversation. "It’s not exclusive to the company. Ask Katsudon. It’s his farewell event with the dance company. Sorta. Whatever."

Victor’s frowning before he can wonder if he’d misheard. "Farewell," he repeats, his voice all of a sudden feeling like it’s coming to him through soundproofed windows, too.

Yuri’s eyes narrow easily, his expression settling into something practiced in its incredulity. It’s the same look he’d given Victor, all those weeks back, when Victor had found out about Yuuri doing ballet.

"You know he's leaving the company after this year, right?"

Victor knows his mouth moves, but he’s not sure what makes it out.

Yuri takes that for the no that it is. "You were at his goodbye party, the fuck."

"His—" Victor finally manages. "That was a birthday party."

"Where have you ever seen a birthday party that big?" Yuri's looking at Victor like he's grown a second head. Victor, appropriately, feels like he has. "I mean, sure, whatever, it was, but if we threw parties like that for everyone’s birthdays—"

"Yuri—" Victor says, staccato.

Yuri remains unsympathetic. "You’re hopeless," he mutters, but Victor doesn’t miss the touch of genuine irritation. "This is why katsudon needs to listen to me."

That, at the very least, snaps Victor back into the conversation.

"Yuri," Victor repeats. "Have you, by any chance, said something very important to my Yuuri?"

"Nothing that wasn't true," Yuri automatically says, like he’d been prepared for it. "And he's not yours—you're gross, I'm leaving—"

Victor doesn’t give him the chance to even try turning away. "What did you tell him?"

There’s no immediate answer.

"Yura." Victor inhales. "What did you say?"

Yuri's stance has gotten defensive already: arms crossed, chin jutted out. "I told him you never touch any of the people you date. That’s it, okay? Calm down."

Victor closes his eyes tightly; when he opens them, Yuri’s taken a step back, ready to raise his guards as high as they can go if Victor so much as poses to strike.

Victor forces himself to soften. It doesn't quite work. "Yura."

"I'm not wrong," Yuri says, sticking out his chin further. "You don't touch anyone. You’re never actually interested. It’s disgusting to fucking watch. Katsudon needed to know that."

Victor has to groan, hand pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off a headache. "Yuri, you—"

"I know you want to act all smooth and shit," Yuri says, a broken dam now that Victor has given him cause—not that that was ever necessary, to warrant his hostility. "But we both know you're not the flirty whatever playboy whatever bullshit, ew—" At this, he shudders. "—that the press always makes you sound like. So stop acting like it. It’s nasty."

"Yuri," Victor tries again. He’s sure he’s said Yuri’s name more than anything else this entire conversation.

To no avail. "Every time I have to hear someone call you approachable and—what the hell did the Daily Mail say, 'free with your charms'—I just—" Yuri holds out a hand, just to clench it into a fist right in front of Victor, who doesn't dare ask why Yuri keeps such good track of what tabloids think of Victor. "Katsuki's stupid and pathetic but he's not that dumb. He can't be dumb enough to believe all that bullshit. I won't allow it."

It takes Victor a beat before he realizes that Yuri hadn't said katsudon this time, just a grudging hushed murmur of Yuuri's name, punched out from the sheer force of his rant.

And then it clicks, along with Yuri’s opinion of Yuuri—which, apparently, Victor has unfairly underestimated.

He stares thoughtfully at Yuri, sees the boy obstinately trying to protect someone else’s heart without seemingly realizing it, sees the student that had looked at Yuuri with grudging respect, even if he had, at the end of the day, expressed it in a way inherently his.

It is, maybe, Yuri's own sense of kindness, of loyalty, in telling Yuuri all of that.

"Yuri," Victor says, after two long minutes, lowering his voice into what he hopes stops short of pleading but remains genuine enough to convince. "I'm taking this very, very seriously. And I need you to understand that."

"You're doing a shit job at proving it," Yuri mutters, but he doesn't sound like he means it all that much anymore, just stubbornly standing by his earlier claims. "You're not the one who'll have to put up with the pig crying and moping when you break up with him."

Victor blinks. When, not if. "Why are you sure—"

"Because you always do?" Yuri snaps back. "What do you think?"

Victor's trying very, very hard to be patient.

He takes a deep breath. Two. "Because I always do what?"

Yuri scowls; he hadn’t been expecting Victor to ask, that much is clear, and it stumps him now, the need to answer.

"You always do whatever you want and you don't think about the people who have to clean up after you," he mutters, after a while. "You have your head in this—in this fucking fairytale world where you expect every damn thing to go your way just because they always do. It's annoying. Don't drag down the pig with you."

It’s an unexpectedly mature thing, coming from Yuri; Victor would expect it from people like Chris, would expect it from Yakov, but not Yuri, whose problem with Victor tends to range from Victor and Georgi being too annoying together to—to this, apparently.

Yuri’s ambition and determination might have its roots in a sense of responsibility, a sense of loyalty too solid for his age—and it’s a sense of responsibility and loyalty that he, obviously, doesn’t trust Victor enough to have.

Only it isn’t because he thinks Victor is as free with his charms as people peg him to be. Yuri seems well-aware of the opposite, judging from his tabloid rant.

It might be, instead, because he thinks Victor too controlled, too closed-off, to fully understand the weight of the responsibility that comes with a serious relationship.

Even less with Yuuri involved.

Victor still feels like he should be hurt, just a little bit.

"I'm trying, Yura," is what he says, in as quiet and steady a voice as he can make it. It's low enough that he sees Yuri flinch instinctively at the sudden hush, and Victor sighs internally. "I'm getting there."

It’s the second time he’s so obviously taken Yuri aback in this conversation, only the expression on Yuri’s face is unreadable this time. He’s not pleased, but it isn’t anywhere near as angry as he’d been earlier, either.

He’s also looking at Victor like he doesn’t quite recognize him.

When he speaks, it’s just a dull, "I don't care."

Both of them are quiet when the doors open to Yuuri and Otabek. Yuri jerks into attention, and Victor straightens up from the wall, plastering a wide smile on his face.

Yuuri frowns at the two of them. "Is everything okay?"

Yuri slants his eyes towards Victor, and when Victor just smiles back and doesn't say anything, he huffs. "I was just asking your boyfriend—" This, he spits out. "—about whether you’ve told him about the pre-launch thing."

Victor raises an eyebrow, but he accepts Yuri's lie and plays along, n ot missing a beat, "And I was telling Yurio that you have mentioned no such thing to me."

Yuuri gets shy enough at that for it to serve as distraction; he doesn’t question it, just stepping back to let Otabek and Yuri pass him, absently murmuring his goodbye’s and good job’s as he watches them go.

When he turns to Victor, though, the frown is back. He immediately reaches up to poke at Victor's mouth, and Victor realizes he's still smiling, painful and too bright.

"Don't do that," Yuuri murmurs.

Victor chases Yuuri’s warmth when Yuuri moves his fingers away, and it’s more absent-minded than anything, the way he catches Yuuri’s hand, half his head still stewing in his conversation with Yuri.

"I’ll wait for you after you shower?"

Yuuri’s peering at him a little too closely, a little too searching, but he nods, and doesn’t take his hand out of Victor’s.

"Then lunch?" Victor coaxes his own smile into something more normal. "So you could tell me all about this ‘pre-launch thing’, as Yurio so eloquently put it?"

That gets a small, soft giggle out of Yuuri, and if Victor could only bottle up that sound, fleeting as it is, he would.

"Deal," Yuuri says.

"Deal," Victor echoes, and finds that he doesn’t have to force the sincerity in his smile.

He never does, with Yuuri.

ꕤ

The "pre-launch thing" turns out to be a much more formal affair than Yuri had made it sound.

And Yuuri, too, for that matter, who’d dismissively described the event as "this black-tie thing that Lilia convinced—more like scared—Yakov into allowing."

This, too, is a publicity event for The Nutcracker, if more private; the guests are mostly the staff and crew, which, really, consists of hundreds of dancers, from Otabek and Yuri’s more formally trained dance doubles to instructors like Lilia and Yuuri to members of the on-screen corps de ballet.

There’s a camera crew filming idly as well, and Victor suspects there will be Preparing for The Nutcracker Launch and Behind the Scenes videos released as soon as the movie itself gains momentum after the Christmas Day release.

Still, Victor has to fight delight at every little thing.

"Is that a choreographed waltz?"

"It’s really fancy," Yuuri murmurs, eyes never leaving the pairs twirling on the dance floor. "It’s a big event, though, I guess."

"The Nutcracker?"

"Yeah, it’s—it’s been a couple of years in the works, isn’t it," Yuuri says, blinking up at Victor. "Some of these dancers have been working on this movie for a year and a bit now, even since you’ve been filming Stammi Vicino—" Victor has to raise an eyebrow, always surprised by behind-the-scenes information he never expects Yuuri to have. "—so really this is more of a, um, yay, we’re done—" His voice never rises above a semi-monotone. "—celebration."

Lucky winners of a Yuri’s Angels draw have also been invited, and both Victor and Yuuri watch, amused, as Lilia hovers by a disgruntled Yuri, forced into playing nice with each of them.

"Have you been training Yurio for that long, then?"

"Oh—no, no," Yuuri says hastily. "Lilia’s his main instructor, really. Otabek had his own, too—his relationship with ballet’s really complicated. My job was mainly to coordinate them, add the finishing touches, all that. So I’ve only been working with Yurio for the past, I think, seven or eight months?"

"Huh." Victor considers that. "He’s awfully attached to you."

Yuuri blinks. "To me?"

"Yes?" Victor frowns down at Yuuri. "Do you not see?"

Yuuri laughs, but there’s an edge to it—confused, nervous, disbelieving all at once. "Why would he be attached to me?"

Every time Yuuri talks about these things, Victor has realized, there is always a deliberate push away—at the person, at the thing, as well as at himself.

When Yuuri talks about a collective, he always puts himself outside of it, isolates himself voluntarily and directly. When he talks about Phichit’s friends, it’s always Phichit and his friends. When he talks about people in the company, it’s always the people in your company. When he’d talked, just seconds ago, about the dancers, it was some of them, not some of us. It’s always self-imposed, though, that isolation.

It should be no surprise, then, that he’s largely oblivious to Yuri’s grudging opinion of him.

But Victor will never stop having to wonder at that, the extent of how unaware Yuuri is of the effect he has on people.

"Yuuri," Victor says, just to get Yuuri to turn to him. He’d left his hair down tonight, the contacts and black suit more out of the formal dress code's sake. Victor finds a question waiting in his tongue, though, watching the concentration from Yuuri’s eyes fade as turns away from the dancing to regard Victor. "Why did you start ballet?"

"To avoid people," Yuuri says, so quickly and so deadpan that Victor assumes it’s a joke. "I’m serious, Victor."

Victor chokes on a half-laugh. "I beg your pardon?"

"I wasn't supposed to stick with it," Yuuri continues. "But I'm not—I wasn't good at making friends. People didn’t like me much." Lie. That has to be a lie. "And it sort of just became—a thing? Every day, I would run away to the studio. And then I got introduced to other forms of dance—"

"Like pole-dancing."

Yuuri flushes. "Yeah. Like pole-dancing. Phichit’s fault, really."

"Well, then," Victor says. "I’m ever thankful to Phichit Chulanont for indirectly giving me a half-naked you—"

"Victor." Yuuri nudges him, ears red now. Victor’s aware that there are eyes trained on them, as inconspicuous as they should be just standing on the edge of the ballroom dance floor. Victor’s never inconspicuous, though, but there is a part of him, still, even now, that wishes he was the only one who got to see Yuuri like this, amused and flushed and adorably flailing. "Who’d—even—who’d even be happy to see me—"

"Naked?" Victor tugs his lips up in a smile, completely heartfelt. "At the very least, I would be."

Yuuri doesn’t look at him, steadfast. "Don’t—don’t be so dramatic."

Victor gasps, wounded. "I am never dramatic, Yuuri."

It’s so easy nowadays, to get Yuuri to look at him. "Really? That's not what you said the other day when you—"

"I was hungover," Victor reminds him. "I didn't know what I was saying. Never in my life have I ever been dramatic—"

"You were hungover, not drunk."

"I was leftover drunk—"

"That is not a thing, Victor."

"Then explain—"

Yuuri rolls his eyes, already fed up with the conversation. "If you're done being dramatic," he says, body language nonchalant even as nervousness crawls into his voice. "Are you free—are you free from the 25th to the 28th?"

Victor blinks.

"I can be free," he says immediately.

Yuuri, clearly, hadn’t been expecting such a quick reply. "Oh," he says, soft. "Oh, okay. That’s—that’s—okay."

"Okay," Victor echoes, watching Yuuri. "What did you have in mind?"

"I—" Yuuri shifts in place now, body giving in to uneasiness. "Well, um, I—Phichit—" He speaks the name with a degree of relief. "—gets free things sometimes. And—you mentioned wanting a vacation—um—the other day—so—"

"Phichit got a free holiday vacation of sorts," Victor translates, contemplative even as his face splits into a pleased smile. "And you want us to go? For my birthday?"

"I—"

Victor doesn’t give him the chance to take it back, knowing Yuuri. "We’re taking a staycation from the 25th to the 28th , then," he finalizes, cheerful. "It’s settled."

"Only if you want to!" Yuuri manages, holding up both hands. Victor fixes him a look at that, and Yuuri sighs. "But I—I want to. So it'd be nice. If you wanted to."

"I want to," Victor says. "Whatever you want to do, I want to do. As long as it’s with you, of course."

That has Yuuri biting down on his bottom lip. Victor can practically see him backtracking in his head, grabbing at more casual threads of conversation.

"God, see, you—" Except he’s biting over his words now, too, and he huffs, taking a moment to compose himself. "See, I’m not good with words like—like you."

Victor wouldn’t call himself particularly good with words, just unfiltered—which is, he knows for a fact, a trait Yuuri is equally guilty of. Out loud, he prompts, "But?"

"But," Yuuri says, reluctant. "My body—my body, I can control. Most days. When—when my mind’s cooperating—I guess. It’s—it’s a really good feeling, when that happens. Especially when—" His eyes flit towards Victor, before fastening back on the dance floor. "When people can feel great, watching me."

The music stops, then, and Victor registers belatedly that the dancing has also stopped. There’s a long moment of constant applause, polite but deafening with so many people, and then the tinkling of the piano starts back up, more playful this time.

"Then," Victor says, "What—"

—are you leaving the company for, he means to say, but then Yuri’s there, out of nowhere. His hair’s up in a braided ponytail tonight, the effect angelic, but it’s not much of an image when he can’t maintain it, frazzled as he speedwalks so fast he practically barrels into Yuuri, tugging at his arm.

"Katsudon," he grits out. "Dance with me. Right now."

Yuuri blinks. "Me?"

Victor looks past Yuri and at the group of girls coming towards them, a couple of whom were playing rock-paper-scissors.

"Ah," Victor says, understanding. "Where’s Otabek?"

"I don’t know," Yuri grumbles, impatient. "I wouldn’t be here if I did, dum—"

"I’ll dance with you," Victor cuts in, courteous.

"No," Yuri hisses, tugging at Yuuri’s arm again with newfound urgency. "Anyone but you. Katsudon—"

"Okay, okay," Yuuri says, laughing a little as he removes Yuri’s hand. "Victor? Excuse us?"

"I can’t believe this, sweetheart," Victor says, mock woeful. "Why are you not dancing with me? What shall I do? Stand here consumed with want while you dance with Yurio—"

"Don’t call me that," Yuri snaps, drowning out Yuuri’s And he says he’s not dramatic. "And don’t be gross. If you want to find something to do, go find Beka for me."

He drags Yuuri away after that; Yuuri who goes willingly, though not without throwing a sheepish half-grin at Victor.

Victor watches them go, more amused than he is anything else. Yuuri moves differently in a space he’s comfortable in—his apartment, his own office as opposed to Victor’s, this party. He thrives in a place where he has the excuse to be comfortable, where he can bask in attention by his own terms.

It shows in the way he smiles at the dancing pairs he and Yuri have to elbow around to find a space on the floor, the way he smiles at Yuri as he guides their hands and arms into position. It shows in the way he falls into step with the music so easily and so effortlessly, as absentminded as it is purposeful.

It thrills Victor, to know that he’s been seeing more of that Yuuri, the Yuuri that hesitates only out of habit and instinct.

It’s a nice thought, that he’s become something Yuuri can be comfortable with.

"Why are you watching them with that look on your face?"

Victor blinks—at the two Yuris dancing, Yuuri doing as much giggling as Yuri is doing grumbling—and turns to his side, where Georgi greets him with a champagne flute and a wary frown.

"Georgi!" Victor beams, pushing warmth into his name.

Warmth that Georgi clearly doesn’t buy, for all that it makes the wariness in his expression thicken instead of wane.

"Thank you," Victor continues, accepting the flute and half-toasting it. "Just the person I wanted to see!"

"Don’t," Georgi says, cautious.

If Georgi was the type to narrow his eyes, Victor suspects they would be slits right now. Victor doesn’t let that get in the way of his smiling. "I was just going to tell you to expect your birthday gift in the mail."

Georgi doesn’t even blink, though he looks more like a kicked puppy than someone who doesn’t care. "You forgot it was my birthday, didn't you."

"Nonsense!" Victor didn't. "I'm hurt you'd even think that, Georgi."

They've been around each other long enough that Georgi has patented a look that he only ever gives Victor—a mess of something exasperated, frustrated, upset and yet slightly fond. It's a testament to his skills as an actor, Victor supposes with smug graciousness, that only he's able to pull that off. "Then why are you sending my gift to my house?"

"Well," Victor says, letting the smugness creep into his smile. "Yuuri has arranged for us to be away on a four-day vacation for my birthday, which I’m afraid includes—"

"My birthday," Georgi sulks. "Our Yuri?"

"My Yuuri," Victor clarifies, shamelessly pointing across the room.

"Ah," Georgi says, and Victor should be the wary one, really, at the understanding that dawns on Georgi’s face. "Your Yuuri."

Victor pouts around a sip of champagne. "Your expression is diabolical."

Georgi stares at Victor for a long moment before turning to watch Yuuri—or Yuri, or both, Victor’s not sure. He turns back to Victor. Then to the dance floor.

He does this for several more beats. He doesn’t answer.

Georgi always answers.

When he finally does something that isn’t staring, it’s a sigh, excessively wistful, and his eyes are as excessively soft when he regards Victor.

Georgi is, if Victor's in the mood to be sentimental about people he's seen cry about relationships too many times to count, a brother he never asked for but got anyway.

A brother he didn’t want, a brother he paid attention to in the rarest of occasions, and only ever objectively. But someone who was always there, nonetheless; whining for what Victor takes from him, considering himself much too close to Victor, for someone whose main link to Victor lies in nothing but what is, essentially, coincidence.

While Phichit and Yuuri's relationship is clearly rooted in a mutual desire to protect and care for each other, borne out of Phichit's ability to allow Yuuri's defenses to let him through, Georgi and Victor's is more out of similarity and proximity than it is anything else. Though there is Chris, who'd grown up under Victor's watch, graduating from a newcomer to a friend, Georgi had grown up alongside Victor, privy to the same traditions that he is.

And yet they'd turned out so differently. Maybe it was that Georgi was so much more eager, so much more open, about his loves, about his life, much more likely to wear his heart on his sleeve. Dramatics is his nature, genuine and sincere, where for Victor it was a learned art, a reflex that grew into a persona, and, eventually, a personality.

Victor likes grand gestures. Georgi, on the other hand, hardly ever seems aware that his gestures are grand.

Like the look he’s giving Victor now, stealing the smugness off of Victor’s lips.

"Vitya," he starts, and had Victor been any less of the man he is, he would have been speedwalking away already. Georgi sighs again, dramatic, wistful. "You sure fell in love fast this time, huh."

The champagne almost, almost goes down the wrong pathway. 

"Must be nice," Georgi breathes, putting a hand on top of his chest. "The joys of our Victor's first love."

Victor pulls the flute away from his mouth so fast it would have spilled, had there been just a few drops more left in it. As it is, he stands there for a moment, holding out the flute in a way he knows would look artful only because it’s him holding it.

When he swallows, his throat still feels like he’d swallowed something down the wrong way.

"I'm not in—" He can't even say it. It would be embarrassing, if it had been anyone else but Georgi, who, by virtue of being Georgi, tends to be embarrassing without doing anything else. "With—with Yuuri."

"Maybe not yet," Georgi says, and Victor takes a step to his left before Georgi can do something like try to pat his arm. "But you, my innocent friend, are getting there."

Victor lowers his flute. "Innocent."

"Innocent," Georgi repeats—and god, Victor thinks Georgi might be cooing at him. "So clueless, our Vitya."

He’s enjoying this. "On second thought," Victor says, serene, "You will not be getting a gift in the mail at all."

Georgi does pat his arm, awkwardly reaching out. The awkwardness of the gesture is lost on him, though, as he smiles, close-mouthed and entirely too shrewd. "This is gift enough."

"How much did Yuri Plisetsky pay you," Victor says.

"I would pay to see you more like this," Georgi tells him.

"Susceptible to having words put in my mouth, you mean?"

Georgi is completely unfazed, looking out wonderingly at Yuuri now as he twirls a hissing Yuri. "You wouldn't know what falling in love was like even if you were doing it," he says, solemn. "Which you are. I see it in you eyes."

Victor wants to pretend his heart doesn’t jump in response to that, he really does.

As it is, he swallows the last left of his champagne, waits for it to go down hotly, before he says, "That’s a line from one of your movies, no?"

"I wouldn’t be surprised," Georgi replies easily, gracious, shameless. He raises his flute in a toast to nothing in particular, pretending to wipe non-existent tears from his eyes. "There is some truth to love as they are in the movies. But only the best directors and actors—" At this, he takes a huge gulp of his drink. Victor’s sure that the only thing keeping this conversation general now is the lack of Anya’s name. He watches distastefully as Georgi clenches his fist. "—know how to show love as it really is—frustrating, all-consuming, greedy, but not heartbreaking, no—"

"Don’t give him any ideas."

Victor, it seems, is a magnet for people tonight, despite not having moved from his position at all since he and Yuuri had gotten here. When he and Georgi turn around, Yakov is behind them, attire unusually formal, and face more disgruntled than usual.

"What ideas?" Georgi says, face melting into horror. "Are you having ideas?"

"I have more ideas in a minute than you’ve ever had in your life, I’m certain," Victor returns charmingly, before turning to Yakov. "What ideas?"

"You tell me," Yakov mutters, already clearly regretting coming here.

Yakov is, by name, still the director and producer of this version of The Nutcracker, except he’s always been picky about this sort of thing—even in releasing Stammi Vicino, he’d taken extra care to remind people that it is, at the end, an adaptation of something he hadn’t written himself. In this case, the credit is shared with Lilia, whose role in the movie goes far beyond than just that of a Ballet Mistress.

Victor doesn’t think it’s Lilia causing Yakov to look this aggrieved, though, this time.

"Ah," Victor says. "Is this about me directing?"

"What—No." Georgi takes a step away from Victor. "Mila read a tabloid column to me on set the other day. That was true?"

Yakov’s long-suffering sigh suggests he, too, was privy to that column.

Victor thinks he should have a sit-down talk with his labelmates about their—apparently ongoing—habits of checking tabloid articles about him.

As usual, though, he denies nothing. "What if it is? Will you produce one for me?"

He sees the emotions flick through Yakov's face: irritation, frustration, settling into gruff fondness. For all that he's good at dealing with actors, he's never bothered with applying the same rules to himself.

Still, he says, "No. I won’t even greenlight it."

Victor’s ready for it. "But Yakov—"

"You'll get bored of it of it halfway if it's not perfect and then all that money will go to waste."

"But if it's me trying it," Victor points out, "why wouldn't it be perfect?"

The sigh that Yakov heaves is even more long-suffering than the last. Georgi’s practically wilting next to him.

"Why are you so impulsive," Yakov gripes, but he doesn't sound all that angry, to trained ears.

"It's just a hypothetical scenario," Victor points out.

Georgi has resorted to biting the rim of his champagne flute. "That’s what you say about everything."

"You always do what you want anyway," Yakov adds, weary. "You never think about anyone but yourself."

"Well, I've never had to," Victor says. The up until now sits unspoken, and unwittingly, he watches Yakov's eyes travel to Yuuri across the room. The song has ended, and Yuuri’s now taking Yuri through unnecessary old-fashioned partner bows.

"That your Flavor of the Month?"

"Yakov," Victor gasps, as Georgi chokes on his champagne. "Don't be crude."

"A dancer, is he," Yakov says, eyes growing more and more resigned by the second. "It’s always the ballet dancers you have to watch out for."

Georgi nods, mournful. "They dance their way into your heart and leave with it."

They’re not exactly the right kind of people to be hearing this from, considering that Yakov’s romantic history with dancers begins and ends with Lilia, and Georgi’s own is too layered with heartbreak to be anything but objective. It’s still a perplexing reminder, though, that—between Yakov and Georgi and Chris and Mila—Victor is surrounded by people that have experienced their fair share of what first love feels like.

Of what love feels like, really.

It’s very rare, for Victor to have to flounder his way while everyone else does it so effortlessly, so acceptingly.

It’s usually the other way around. It should be the other way around.

And yet.

"If you’re serious," Yakov says, sudden, clearing his throat at the same time Georgi makes another mournful noise. "You commit to it. You think about it. You work for it. If you’re really serious about it, I want you to be sure. I don’t want it to just be ‘a hypothetical scenario.’ You can’t play at being a director."

Victor had, for a second, thought Yakov was talking about something else entirely.

"I do think about things," Victor says.

"Only when you have no choice but to think about them," Yakov returns, gruff. "It's not simple or easy, Vitya. Things don't always come easy."

Only they do, if Victor really wants them to. Only they do, for people like him.

Yuuri's coming over, waddling in between sets of guests in what is probably an attempt to seem casual, visibly hesitating when he realizes Victor’s no longer alone.

Victor has to bite back a smile.

"There are harder things," he says, and he means it.

"They grow up so fast," Georgi returns, the wistfulness back.

Yakov grunts in response.

Yuuri stops a couple of meters away, standing still, not daring to take another step towards them. Victor raises an eyebrow when he catches Yuuri’s eyes, but Yuuri just looks away, shoulders close together and shyly moving up and down.

"Yakov."

Another grunt. "What?"

Victor smiles. "You didn't say no."

As he always does, Yakov says, "Do what you want. You’re too old to be coddled."

Victor beams, handing Georgi his empty flute. "Then, gentlemen, excuse me."

Georgi sniffs.

When Victor walks over to Yuuri, he keeps one hand outstretched; he keeps walking as soon as soon as Yuuri takes it, though, tugging him back onto the dance floor.

"You’re supposed to ask ‘Can I have this dance?’" Yuuri points out, voice wavering when Victor puts a hand around his waist, averting his eyes even as he puts his own hand on Victor’s shoulder. "Can you—can you even dance?"

"I can dance," Victor says, affronted. "It’s not my first time dancing with you."

Yuuri flushes. "That doesn’t count."

"How rude," Victor returns, lacing their hands together. "It happens to be one of my fondest memories."

"It’s not a memory for me at all," Yuuri murmurs, apologetic. "Um—People are staring."

They’re still standing, unmoving but close together, earning interested stares from the pairs around them.

Victor doesn’t particularly mind, honestly, when he’s the one that has Yuuri this close.

"Let them look," he says, cheerful. "I already gave away one dance to Yurio. I’m not giving any more."

"Victor, you really—" Yuuri sighs. "Should we dance some pasodoble? Will that make you feel like we're in Strictly Ballroom? Since you love Baz Lurhmann so much?"

"Yuuri, I was joking," Victor complains.

"Less joking, more dancing," Yuuri says, but he’s biting back a giggle, raising their entwined hands higher. "Do you want to lead?"

Yuuri had led, the first time. So Victor complies, tightening his hold on Yuuri’s hand.

The music is old-fashioned, tinkling and chime-like, nothing like it had been during Yuuri’s party; but it comes distantly to Victor, removed from his current reality. Yuuri has a talent for doing that, consuming all of Victor’s attention, even more so now while dancing, his presence alone so much more compelling than the music itself, lulling as it is.

Victor has never felt so aware of time, has never felt so privy to how slow or fast it can go. He's never learned to take things slow, but for once he wishes he does.

"Yuuri," Victor says, as Yuuri starts moving them in a circle. "I need to set some ground rules."

Yuuri frowns. "For what?"

"For our little trip." Victor taps a finger against Yuuri’s waist, which earns him an immediate shiver and a glare. "Number one—"

"Victor—"

"One!" Victor repeats, gleeful. "We tell each other if we want to do something. Or if we don’t want to do something."

"Obviously," he mutters. "I don’t want to hear that from Mr. Checklist."

In retaliation, Victor taps against Yuuri’s side again, a more deliberate poke. Yuuri squirms, trying to coax Victor’s hand away from where he’s most ticklish, almost tripping up their step. "Two, we do everything together."

Yuuri's eyes narrow. "Everything."

"Everything," Victor confirms. "Even baths."

"Victor," Yuuri begins.

"I'm kidding." Victor doesn't want to be kidding. "Everything except bathroom events—" He pauses. "No, I take that back, we have to brush our teeth together."

"Victor," Yuuri sighs. "Has anyone told you you're a romantic?"

"We’ve established this," Victor reminds him.

Yuuri sighs again, but he looks up at Victor, eyes bright behind dark eyelashes. "Is that it?"

Victor really likes the way Yuuri looks at him at times like this, both surprised and pleased. He looks at Victor like he understands him a little better, like he's happy to be understanding him a little better, and that makes Victor feel as intoxicated as he had been, the first time.

Instinctively, he twirls Yuuri, keeping his hand held tight.

Yuuri responds to it as gracefully as expected, no sign of surprised fumbling in his body whatsoever.

"Victor," Yuuri says, exasperated, as soon as he comes back around.

One of these days, Victor will record that, Yuuri saying his name. Victor, Victor, Victor, in all the ways it can be said by one person.

When Victor presses their bodies closer again, though, Yuuri’s looking at him with something unreadable in his eyes.

It takes a whole beat to sink in.

It's fondness, Victor realizes.

Yuuri's fond—staring at Victor with his own non-verbal affection, tilting his head.

"One more rule." It barely comes above a whisper, Victor’s voice. Yuuri shivers again, though, so he knows Yuuri hears him, somehow, above the music. "You’re not allowed to bring it up."

Yuuri blinks—first at a spot just past Victor’s shoulder, then at Victor himself. "It?"

Victor waits.

"Oh," Yuuri says, whole body stilling. The music stops then, too, the last notes tinkling in the air before there’s silence between the two of them, both of them lowering their arms. "For all three—four days?"

"For all four days," Victor says, watching as it dawns on Yuuri more fully.

He doesn’t let go of Yuuri’s hand.

When they come back, there will be four days left. In the year, in this.

"When we come back," Victor murmurs. "We’ll talk about it."

They would have to, at some point.

But Victor’s beginning to tire of it—of having to think about it, of having to worry about it, when he’s the one that had cornered himself into this situation to begin with.

For once, now that he can, he just wants to feel.

It’s such a simple want, and Victor doesn’t understand why he’d want to deny himself that. Not when Yuuri’s here, real and lovely and confusing, and Victor really wants to keep him there, just there, in Victor’s arms, in Victor’s hold.

"Do we have a deal?"

"Yeah," Yuuri says, breathless. "Yeah, okay. Bring Makkachin."

That startles a short laugh out of Victor. "I will."

"Okay," Yuuri repeats, eyes stuck on Victor.

"Then," Victor says, raising Yuuri’s hand to his lips and earning himself an instinctive eye-roll, at odds with the way new music starts, slow this time. "Can I have this next dance?"

Yuuri’s expression softens into a smile, so visibly and genuinely that Victor’s chest tightens. "Since you asked so nicely."

He doesn’t question it, when Victor pulls him a little too close than necessary, doesn’t squirm when Victor moves his hand from Yuuri’s waist to his back, pushing him forward, against Victor’s own chest.

Yuuri fits so snugly against Victor’s shoulder, and his hands are no longer as hesitant, his body more comfortable, when he willingly tucks himself into the embrace.

"This is hardly a dance," Yuuri whispers.

"No? I suppose you could say my steps are not strictly ballroom."

Victor feels it, the exact moment the laugh gets startled out of Yuuri, and he smiles against Yuuri’s hair, sliding his fingers farther entwined with Yuuri’s.

People are staring, and somewhere, Georgi is knowingly wiping wistful tears away, Yuri probably ranting to Otabek about them.

But Victor has never minded that, and especially not know, when, every time he stares at Yuuri, Yuuri stares back.

It’s a far cry from their first dance—less clapping, less alcohol in their systems, less surprises. This Yuuri’s different, too; more inhibited, easier to fluster, more prone to disapproval than Victor’s ever been used to in any relationship.

But the man in Victor’s arms now isn’t just a promise of something that could be, a potential daydream come true. Yuuri is real, and everything that came with him even more so.

This Yuuri is real, and he responds to Victor in ways that Victor will, probably, never learn to expect from him; smiling at the oddest moments, laughter so unpredictable, always so addicting to get a genuine smile out of, disbelieving eye-roll sometimes included, through grand, cheesy gestures.

A heartbreaker’s smile, is what Chris had called it, all those days back.

Victor thinks he understands.

They dance their way into your heart and leave with it.

If it means getting to keep this, then Victor doesn’t think he minds that at all, either, letting Yuuri take his heart.

Chapter Text

"This is my boyfriend," Victor says, beaming as he wraps an arm around Yuuri's shoulder and pulls him in. "Isn't he beautiful?"

"Victor," Yuuri hisses, but the lady behind the cashier is already laughing her agreement.

Victor gives her his biggest smile.

It’s no longer snowing when they get outside, the sky pink-orange with an impending sunset—which is a shame, because Victor had been quite enjoying the snowflakes catching on Yuuri’s dark eyelashes, pretty behind his glasses. The roads and roofs are covered in a blanket of white, though, blinding after the dimness of the chocolate store they’d been in, and Victor’s delighted gasp at the sight of it is genuine.

Makkachin is even more delighted, jumping at the snow and barking when his paws sink in just a bit.

Yuuri’s not quite as easily pleased.

"What am I going to do with all of this," Yuuri says, rattling around one of the four paper bags he’s carrying. Five now, with the newly bought chocolate. Makkachin’s ears perk up at the sound. "When we—"

"Ah, ah, ah," Victor interrupts, holding up a finger. "Saying that would break Rule Three."

Yuuri's ugh is full and unrestrained, and it’s hard to even mind it, when it's adorable, the way he puffs up his cheeks to breathe in, out, calming himself down.

He is, apparently, an instigator if it means seeing new expressions on Yuuri, because Victor adds, "So now I get to buy you something else."

"Victor," Yuuri just about hisses. "Why do you insist—"

"Yuuri," Victor returns. "Let me do this."

"It’s your birthday."

"Yes," Victor says, patient. "And this is what I want to be doing."

Yuuri stares at him like he doesn’t even want to know what’s going on in Victor’s head, but he doesn’t push it anymore. Instead, he extends two paper bags towards Victor. "Then help carry them."

Victor’s more than happy to comply.

It's been half a day since they've gotten to the winter resort, Victor barely allowing time for them to drop off their luggage at their cabin before he’s tugging them both out the door, targeting the resort’s shopping plaza first and foremost. Out of Victor’s attempts to keep buying things, Yuuri has only so far managed to fend off an expensive watch and a pair of sunglasses he claims he’ll never use because, "Can you imagine wearing sunglasses with my eyesight?" to which Victor had offered to pay for a new set of contacts for Yuuri, or maybe sunglasses that would accommodate Yuuri’s eye grade.

He’d lost that fight badly, so he retaliated by buying Yuuri an overpriced scarf.

Phichit had praised Victor last week for never rubbing his fame into their faces; he can’t help but wonder what Yuuri’s best friend will think now, with Victor this close to buying Yuuri an entire winter cabin of his own.

Within the last few hours, Victor has developed this inexplicable need to buy Yuuri things—not because he feels the need to shower Yuuri with good things, though that is a factor, nor because Victor would give Yuuri the world if Yuuri were to ask for it, though that is probably true as well. He has this need to buy things he knows Yuuri will keep, will remember well enough to associate with this trip and this trip alone, and the implication behind that want isn't lost on him. 

Not being a bragging brat about his celebrity lifestyle is one thing, Victor reasons, but this—senselessly spending money on things for Yuuri out of some intrinsic need—is another thing.

It makes sense, though. He’s willing to spend as much on himself.

It’s only understandable, then, that he’s willing to spend his entire fortune on Yuuri. 

Yuuri, however, doesn’t seem to understand that it fills Victor with genuine joy to give him things.

It’s gotten dark when they wander into a mini Christmas Market in the center of the plaza, but Yuuri’s eyes are sharp and bright—as they tend to be, Victor has learned, when Yuuri is searching for something. He’s distracted, and the single-minded focus doesn’t waver even as Victor takes Yuuri’s free hand, pulling him close so they don’t get separated through the crowd.

Victor can feel Yuuri’s dissatisfaction; he’s aware it’s directed more internally than it is at Victor, but it’s palpable enough that it makes Makkachin restless, running so excitably around both of them that had he been on a leash, he’d have wrapped it around Yuuri and Victor a la 101 Dalmatians.

Victor doesn’t mind waiting, though.

Victor knows Yuuri had been expecting how crowded the resort would be on Christmas Day, but it feels oddly new to Victor; there are families and couples everywhere he looks, and it’s clear, looking at some of them, that this is a tradition of sorts. It isn’t their first time here, obvious in their body language, and that settles in weird with Victor—the idea of routine so expected, especially on a day that, for him, should have been set apart from the rest.

It isn't all that different, though, in retrospect. His birthday it might be for Victor’s fans and Christmas it might be for most people, but December 25 was just December 25. The novelty of birthdays had rotted early on in Victor’s life, always buried among other things, and it wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the idea of birthdays, it just hadn’t felt special. Victor has heard people Yakov’s age talk about how birthdays lose their appeal the older one gets, but Victor can’t even remember if his own birthday has ever had its appeal, to him.

He can’t help but wonder, then, what it would have been like if this had been tradition—walking hand-in-hand with Yuuri, knowing he has all this to himself for the next four days, knowing that anyone who looks at them now would have no doubts that they’re together-together. People have taken photos, but no one has approached them yet, miraculously, and Victor relishes in the unexpected privacy, voluntarily trapped in this little bubble of a semi-vacation with Yuuri.

Victor thinks birthdays would have been much more special, if he’d always felt this content, this quieted, every year.

He also can’t help but wonder what it would be like for all the Decembers that will come after—next year, the year after that. How it would all hold up next to this memory he’s still only forming.

How anyone would hold up after Yuuri.

He doesn’t want there to be anyone after Yuuri.

Victor stops that train of thought before anything can come out of it—it feels hypocritical, to break his own rule, even if it had been in his head—and he busies himself staring at the booths, trying to put himself inside Yuuri’s head, to wonder what he’s looking for.

His eyes catch, at first absently, at a booth selling snow globes—shelf after shelf of snow globes, the bases as white as the snow around them. The figures inside are made of something crystalline, visible even from a few meters away, and when Victor’s eyes fall on a snow globe on the highest shelf, it’s his breath that catches. He stops walking.

Victor feels Yuuri’s hand tighten around his.

"Victor?"

Victor immediately points, the bags hanging from his wrist rustling in complaint.

It takes a while for Yuuri to realize what he means. "Oh."

"Give me a second," Victor says. "I will buy it—"

"Really? No, wait." Yuuri tugs him right back. "I—I’ll—"

"Nonsense, Yuuri."

"You gotta let me buy you something," Yuuri complains. His grip on Victor is tight, and Victor feels a little dizzy with the aggression in Yuuri’s voice. But then he softens his tone, lowering his eyelids so he’s looking shyly at Victor through his eyelashes. "Please?"

Unfair, because Victor can’t say no to that face. Not now, not ever.

Yuuri’s face lights up—and oh, he’s been searching for a gift. "Okay. Wait here?"

He lets go of Victor’s hand, and Victor almost takes it back, just so Yuuri wouldn’t have to go, but then Yuuri’s off, leaving the bags by Victor’s feet while he tries to squeeze his way through the crowd around the booth.

"Um—excuse me?"

Victor doesn’t immediately realize he’s being addressed until Makkachin noses at his leg. Then he blinks, turning to see a boy and a girl, no more than Phichit’s age, nudging each other and gesturing towards him.

"You’re—You’re Victor Nikiforov, right?"

Responding to it is instinct. He smiles. "That’s me."

They share a disbelieving giggle before the boy is pushed forward, phone in hand. "Do you—Can we take a picture?"

Victor re-angles his body, Makkachin padding a few steps away from him. "Why, it will be my pleasure."

This, here, is routine, muscle memory as much as his own autograph. They take turns taking pictures of each other with Victor, and he smiles his best smile for each of them, standing close enough to each of them that if they leaned back, they’d be met by Victor’s arm, pressed against the small of their back.

Victor knows the effect he can have on people even in moments like this, knows that the right cologne can fluster, that the slightest brush of hands as he pleasantly asks to see the photos can take him from being intimidating but approachable to being completely personable. He knows that charm can be strategic, and there’s nothing he knows better, nothing he’s more comfortable with, than how to please, at the simplest and most predictable level.

"Are you here for—for filming or anything?"

Victor blinks, giving the phone back to the girl. They must be a couple, he notes distantly, seeing the brush of their arms, and the way the boy leans in, somehow entranced with the girl’s courage to ask.

"That sucks," the boy adds, buoyed by the opening his girlfriend has left for him. "On your birthday, too."

It should be strange, Victor thinks, for someone’s birthday to be public knowledge like this. Yuuri had been able to Google it. These people know it, too.

Strange, really, that such a personal occasion can be accessible to millions.

Victor’s never really thought about it that way before.

"No, no," he says. Three-second low laugh, he used to narrate in his head. Cut it off with a pretty, close-mouthed smile. Pay attention to your body language. Make sure it remains open. "Nothing like that."

He locates Yuuri easily, smiling nervously as he accepts a box from the booth seller.

Victor points at him.

"I’m with my boyfriend," he says, a heavy layer of pride in his voice. "My beautiful Yuuri." Then, because he can’t bite the words back, "We’re in the middle of a little vacation. His idea."

It’s the couple’s turn to blink at him.

They’ve known each other for a while, Victor can tell from the way their movements mirror each other’s, and the way one moves to accommodate the other, accustomed to sharing their personal bubble.

Victor used to long for that, for those quiet telling signs of a solid relationship, or even the history of such. He’s seen it when Chris had been picked up by his boyfriend, he’d seen it in how sometimes Lilia and Yakov would exchange a look, grudgingly paying homage to an inside joke they should have forgotten by now. Otabek, too, sometimes, in how his whole body language changes when he adapts to one of Yuri’s fits, or how Yuri softens, lets his guards down, when it came to his best friend.

It’s not quite longing for that anymore that Victor feels now. It’s something more specific—less want for what promise that sort of behavior holds—but longing, mostly, to have Yuuri next to him so they can be like that, too. So he can exchange a private smile with Yuuri, so he can absently brush hair away from Yuuri’s face the way the girl does for her boyfriend now, the two of them reflecting apologetic glances at each other, then at Victor.

Voice perfectly complementary, they say, "We’re so sorry."

Makkachin barks, and when Victor turns, instinctive, Yuuri is there, box in hand.

He blinks at Victor, then at the couple. Victor sees the emotions cycle through Yuuri’s face: surprise, panic, regret about coming over—then something else.

"Hello," he eventually says, to the couple, quiet. To Victor’s surprise, Yuuri reaches out an arm, hooking it around Victor’s and pressing himself close. It isn’t possessive, exactly, but it’s wary, guarded, in a way almost covetous. "Is everything okay?"

It’s Yuuri preparing himself to be forgettable, Victor knows, putting up his guards, but it has the opposite effect; instead, to people who don’t know him, he seems soft-spoken, gentle and comely, tender charm personified next to Victor’s practiced charisma.

Victor very nearly preens, when he catches the couple looking between the two of them.

What a pretty picture Yuuri makes—lovely enough alone, but it’s Victor that feels lucky, to be caught with Yuuri by his side.

"H-Hello," the girl says, at the same time the boy adds, "We didn’t mean to interrupt your vacation."

"Oh." Yuuri blinks. Questioning, he looks at Victor, who feels his stomach flip-flop at that, the knowledge that he and Yuuri have their habits, too. "No—No, that’s okay."

There’s a beat of silence, probably more awkward for Yuuri than it is for any of the rest of them, before the girl blurts out, "Can we have a picture with both of you?"

Yuuri, of course, is surprised, but he doesn’t say no, his hand moving from Victor’s forearm and slipping to curl around Victor’s hand. It was already nice, at the premiere, having photos of him and Yuuri taken—but it’s even nicer, like this, subdued, straddling the line between public and private, Yuuri’s body language clearly propelled by something not quite governed by his usual hesitance.

Yuuri watches the couple go in a bit of a daze, like he has trouble registering what had just happened.

"Are all your fans that nice?"

"Some less than others." Victor hums. "I can’t very well decline photos, though, could I?"

"You can, if you want to," Yuuri says, frowning at Victor like this should be common sense. "You don’t have to stick to a—to a—"

A public persona, he means. Victor knows, because this is the same man that had taken a while to warm up to the idea of believing that Victor hadn’t approached him with the intention of heartlessly toying with him, for Victor’s own entertainment.

"Yuuri?" Victor says quietly, as Yuuri retracts his arm, catching himself in the act.

Yuuri tilts his head in question, a slight furrow in his brows.

"Why did you think I was so insincere?"

"I—I didn’t—I didn’t think you were insincere," Yuuri says, voice hesitating just the smallest bit as his arm falls back on his side. "I mean—You just—When you—The first week, you said you would ‘treat me well’—" He pauses, obviously uncomfortable. Victor had underestimated, it seems, how much Yuuri had been paying attention, too. "—and you said you can be whatever—whatever I want you to be. It wasn’t that you were insincere, I just—you were so ready to be whatever will make me like you more? And I didn’t—"

His eyes are sharp when he makes eye contact with Victor, and it strikes him that Yuuri looks almost helpless, like this, vulnerable in the kind of honest he’s so rarely aware he can be. "It just didn’t seem like you were in it for—for the person? Just—for the relationship. Which—" He pauses again, before allowing himself a restrained sigh. "I just wanted you to be you, Victor. I still just want you to be you."

These last sentences, he says with surprising firmness, and Victor feels transported to all those days back, to Yuuri’s hand on that piano, to Yuuri telling Victor that it’s okay to want—to want selfishly, to want something personal, and not just to be wanted.

It feels like an admission of sorts, too, Yuuri’s words.

"I am being me," Victor says. He’s getting there. He’d promised Yuri Plisetsky that much.

Yuuri smiles, a tiny quirk on one side of his mouth, and it’s so much easier to recognize his fondness now. "I know," he murmurs.

Victor reaches up to brush non-existent lint off Yuuri’s face, thumb brushing against his cheek. "Do you still doubt me? Do you still think that?"

"I think that you care a lot about what people think about you," Yuuri says softly, leaning into Victor’s touch. "Those fans. What people expect from you. But I—I get that, though. So—so no. No, I don’t."

Victor smiles, tapping a finger lightly against Yuuri’s cheek before letting go. He doesn’t want to, but there could be people taking pictures, still, and as much as Victor wants to keep Yuuri in his coat, wants to keep Yuuri, period, there is a time and place.

"Good," he says. "Because it’s not everyday someone buys a snow globe for me. Consider me wooed."

Yuuri graciously rolls his eyes, handing the box to Victor before picking up the paper bags he’d left earlier. Victor opens the box anyway; he doesn’t take the globe out, but he peers in, watching as the Christmas lights reflect off the crystalline figure.

"Are you sure?" Yuuri asks, uncertain. "I can probably still give it back. Buy something else."

It’s a male ballet dancer, caught in an arabesque, lovely and fragile and elegant. There’s a knob on the back side of the globe, and Victor makes a mental note to turn it when he gets some time alone.

Gently, Victor says, "It reminds me of you."

He pretends not to notice Yuuri’s red cheeks as he closes the box, even as he secretly delights in it. He tucks the box away into a bag with leftover space, before turning to Yuuri. "Let’s head back for the night?"

Yuuri doesn’t even wait for express invitation before he takes Victor’s hand.

Victor secretly delights in that, too.

ꕤ

Their cabin is warm and homey, and Victor couldn’t be more pleased.

It’s a small rustic cottage of sorts, but it has two stories—a mini-kitchen and a living room with a fireplace downstairs, and a barn door at the top of the short set of stairs that leads into one bedroom with an en-suite bathroom.

They have their dinner delivered, because it feels wrong, after weeks of home dinners, to go out for it. They lay out the food on the bar in the mini-kitchen, only to end up eating on the couch, seated around the fireplace. Yuuri stretches out his legs onto the coffee table, and Victor watches him eat, taking note of the way Yuuri takes a moment to shiver and hum appreciatively when he eats something he particularly likes, or how his tongue darts out to lick something off the corner of his mouth.

Dessert is a particularly torturous affair, because Victor can scarcely focus on his own cake when all he wants is to kiss whipped cream off of the corner of Yuuri’s mouth.

He hasn't kissed Yuuri on the lips since Yuuri had slept over—he'd settled for kissing him on his cheek, his forehead, everything but where he really wants to kiss him the most, taste him again.

It keeps him bold, knowing that Yuuri wouldn't push him away, if he tried, but he doesn't want to give Yuuri reason to move away, not when he's so pliant nowadays, so ready to be held, so ready to reciprocate physical touch.

Victor wants anyway.

He hasn’t even touched his hot chocolate by the time someone drives around to collect their tray, and Victor cradles the mug protectively while Yuuri goes to give out their plates.

"How is it?" Yuuri asks now, coming back as Victor takes an experimental sip of the hot chocolate.

"Instant," Victor reports, mournful. He puts down the mug on the coffee table, settling his whole body back on the couch before stretching both arms towards Yuuri, needy. "A shame. I wanted it authentic and baked."

Yuuri rolls his eyes, but, still to Victor’s mild surprise, falls voluntarily into his arms.

Victor has to adjust the way he’s sprawled on the couch to accommodate Yuuri’s body, but he’ll honestly gladly learn contortion if it means getting to cuddle with Yuuri.

It’s a huge couch, though, and they fit for the most part, Yuuri’s legs tangled around his for a more stable position. Victor’s arms are gladly left no choice but to go around Yuuri, who settles against the crook of Victor’s neck, yawning.

"Victor," he mumbles, his breath tickling Victor’s neck. "Do you like it when fans approach you?"

Victor absently cards through Yuuri’s hair, his fingers playing with the strands. "I like it when fans think I’m approachable, even more when they feel appreciated," he says, honest enough. "Do you not like it? When I’m approached by fans?"

Yuuri laughs a little. "I don’t think that’s something you can help."

"But you didn’t seem very happy, earlier," Victor says, thinking of the skittish, guarded way Yuuri had stuck to him immediately upon coming back. "Did it upset you?"

Yuuri pauses, eyelashes fluttering as he blinks. He’s so close Victor could count them, probably, if he wanted to. "No," Yuuri says, a soft hush. "It was just weird."

"Why’s that?"

There's a pause, contemplative.

Then Yuuri pushes himself up with a hand on Victor’s chest, so that he’s looking down at Victor, who feels his breath catch. "Because—this is supposed to be your vacation, you know?"

"That sort of thing is unavoidable, Yuuri," Victor says, patient, hoping Yuuri can’t feel his heartbeat underneath his hand. "I’m lucky enough that they were the only ones like that we encountered today."

"Yeah, but, I don’t—" Yuuri visibly wars with himself. "I don’t like seeing you like that."

Victor frowns, as Yuuri settles back in where he was earlier. He picks back up on where he’d left off, playing with Yuuri’s hair. "Like what?"

"Like—" He can’t see Yuuri’s face now, hiding his expression at the crook of Victor’s neck. "Like you’re sad, kinda?"

When Yuuri had said I still just want you to be you, earlier, his voice had wavered on the you, like it was something specific, like there’s a version of Victor that Yuuri knows, and the one that had been there, at that point, hadn’t been it.

Victor has never made the distinction. It was still him, in front of the fans; he just hadn’t realized that in all these weeks, he had stepped over that line, with Yuuri, that he is more than just Victor the public figure. And that Yuuri can tell, however intuitive it might be at its core.

"Sad?" Victor’s hand stills against Yuuri’s head. "I’m not sad."

It’s an interesting word choice, coming from Yuuri, and Victor has to take a moment to turn it over in his head. Sad. Sad. It doesn’t feel right, for what Victor feels, in those moments where he lets himself think about the reality of it all—it doesn’t feel right, because Victor feels nothing, doesn’t feel anything particularly strong to be labeled like that.

He thinks of traditions he doesn’t have and public birthdays and always having to keep track of routines so that he could be the opposite of what people expect and still meet the right expectations. He’s a paradox of his own making, a product of so many things that he feels, at the end of the day, nothing for.

Sad isn’t the word for it, because there isn’t an emotion to pack into a word to begin with.

Yuuri shifts beside Victor, leaning his head back so he can see Victor’s face as much as Victor can see his. Yuuri searches his face for a long moment, his eyes bright like it had been earlier, searching for something only he knows how to find.

Victor’s wholly unprepared, when Yuuri kisses him.

It’s a soft brush of lips, but it stays until Victor kisses back, just as chaste.

Sad isn’t the word, because sad sits on the extreme end of an emotional spectrum, and what Victor feels, what Victor doesn’t feel, doesn’t come close to the way emotion sparks back up even at this small touch, the way he feels found, anchored, around Yuuri.

Yuuri’s gaze is still searching, when he pulls away.

"What ever happened to kissing not solving anything?"

"It still doesn’t," Yuuri murmurs against Victor’s lips. "I just wanted to do it."

Victor feels his stomach bottom out at that. "Does that mean I get to kiss you when I want to?"

"Rule number one," Yuuri reminds him, blinking fast as it catches up to him.

"That’s fair enough," Victor says, voice as blasé as he doesn’t feel he is. "Is that it?"

Yuuri hums, arm settling over Victor’s waist. "I don’t like not having your attention, either," he whispers, so low that had he not been so close, Victor would have missed most of it.

Victor has to laugh. "You never have to worry about that, I assure you."

He doesn’t know how Yuuri reacts, because Yuuri doesn’t really answer. Victor knows Yuuri’s silence when he doesn’t want to answer, though, and knows that this is different from the silence now, the kind of quiet Yuuri gets when he’s thinking.

Victor plays with the hair around the back of Yuuri’s neck. "Yuuri?"

"Just think of me," Yuuri says, muted, "if you don’t want to think about anything else. That’s what this vacation is for."

Victor closes his eyes. When he opens them, Yuuri is still there, warm against him. The fire is a soft orange, and Makkachin’s curled up next to it, already asleep.

Not a dream. Not a movie.

"Okay," Victor says. "Talk to me, then?"

"About what?"

"Anything," Victor says, and means it. "Talk to me about anything, Yuuri."

Yuuri sighs.

But he does—about his old teacher Minako, about his first meeting with Yuri, about the first time Phichit had brought a hamster home. He talks about his family, about how his father is much like him when drunk, about how he looks more like his mother, really, while his sister is the opposite.

Victor listens in silence, lets Yuuri’s voice, subdued and sleepy, wash over him. Yuuri falls asleep mid-sentence, too stubborn to admit he’s too tired to keep talking, and his last words, right before his breathing evens out, is a quiet Happy Birthday.

Victor stares up at the ceiling, feeling Yuuri breathe beside him, and replays it in his head the entire night.

ꕤ

He wakes up wondering if this was, after all, a bad idea.

Sleep had been hard to come by, partly because he’d been distracted, and partly because Yuuri was so close, closer than he’s ever slept next to Victor before, that every time he shifted in his sleep, he would move right against Victor, his occasional sigh hotly brushing Victor’s neck.

He’d done everything—had counted the bars holding up the roof of the cottage, had even counted beats between each quiet breath Yuuri takes. But most of the night passed by with him awake, Yuuri and Makkachin both fast asleep, and Victor alone with his thoughts.

He opens his eyes the next morning to warm sunlight coming into their cabin and dead embers in the fireplace. He's alone on the couch now, but when he closes his eyes, he can make out the sound of the shower running upstairs, Makkachin nowhere in sight.

He stretches on his feet after a few more minutes, yawning. There’s breakfast already on the bar table, but Victor settles for a glass of orange juice, wandering with it up the stairs, where he finds his dog curled up on the huge bed.

He has to smile, reaching down to rub the top of Makkachin’s head.

"You slept well, didn’t you, my sweet," he murmurs.

Makkachin nuzzles against Victor’s hand.

There’s a bookshelf, on one wall of the bedroom, filled from side to side with books. Victor has yet to check if they’re actual books, or if they’re there with empty pages and hollow insides for Ikea decoration purposes. Standing over Makkachin, it reminds him of his own apartment—of a dog and books that have served as companions more concretely than anything or anyone else.

This is the first vacation he’s taken where he’s had Makkachin with him; all the ones that came before can hardly count as such, not when the sight-seeing happened in between filming, not when a lot of it haven’t been taken alone, or with any semblance of peace and relaxation.

It’s disconcerting, then, to be standing there, in a place that resembles what should have been home, and finds that it’s all the same, that maybe it’s not the place, after all, that makes a home.

Victor hadn’t noticed the shower stop, and when he looks up at the sound of the bathroom door rattling, it’s to Yuuri coming out in a borrowed bathrobe, drying his hair with a towel. There’s leftover mist on his glasses, the tips of his hair still wet, and Victor watches, too aware, as a droplet of water trickles down Yuuri’s jaw and falls against an exposed collarbone.

"Good morning," he manages weakly. "Did you order breakfast?"

"I got some on my way back," Yuuri says, looking at Victor oddly. "I went out for a run."

"This early? In the snow?"

Yuuri frowns, bending over where his suitcase sits open on the floor. "It’s eleven in the morning. I got back at nine."

"I—" Victor watches as he’s treated to a glimpse of Yuuri’s skin, visible with the way the robe hangs forward. "Why did you have to go for a run?"

Yuuri avoids Victor’s eyes, straightening up with jeans and a sweater. "I have a ballet thing, on the 31st," he says, a bit too quietly as he throws the clothes onto the bed, still drying his hair. Makkachin immediately goes over to nose at the free hand Yuuri offers him. "I mean, it's not the same but—I just feel like—not moving my body for four days is something that’s going to bite me back. So."

Victor doesn’t question it, sitting down by the headboard. "Am I invited?"

"No," Yuuri says, immediate. Victor frowns. "I mean—It's really just—a publicity thing."

"I've attended most Nutcracker publicity events," Victor points out.

"No, not for the movie. It's—" Yuuri’s hand stills against the towel. He keeps looking down at Makkachin. "It’s like a—anyone can dance and so can you sort of thing. Otabek and Yurio were only invited to be in it because they’re receiving a lot of attention for the amount of training they, you know, had to do for the movie, despite not being—" He sighs. "You know what I mean."

"So why can’t I come?"

"It’s like an exhibition, Victor," Yuuri says, sighing, letting the towel flop down to the bed, too. "Why would you even want to go?"

"To watch you dance, of course." Victor leans back against the bedframe, hooking one leg on top of the other and drumming his hand against his knee. He doesn’t take his eyes off Yuuri. "You’ve never even danced for me."

The stare Yuuri gives him at that is withering. "Okay, now you’re just being greedy."

"I’m allowed to be greedy on my birthday vacation," Victor says, smiling—even as he sits distracted watching Yuuri put on his jeans without taking off his robe, slipping them under the fleece. It feels too private, watching Yuuri go about his morning routine like he probably usually does, and Victor can’t exactly look away. "I can’t believe a snow globe figure will dance for me before my own Yuuri does."

Yuuri rolls his eyes as he straightens back up again, but it's affectionate, almost.

Victor almost feels bad, when he says, "Yurio told me it was a farewell event."

To his credit, Yuuri doesn't freeze.

He doesn’t look at Victor, but his hands still on the front knot of his bathrobe. "It is."

Victor plays along with the nonchalance, remembering he has a glass of juice with him. "Farewell for what?"

There’s a pause, during which Yuuri tugs at the knot, unraveling it.

Victor gulps down a mouthful of orange juice.

"I’m—I’m joining a new ballet company," Yuuri says, finally, still staring down where the knot was. "That’s it."

"That’s it," Victor repeats. His throat feels dry, but he doesn’t clear his throat. "Were you dissatisfied with the arrangement before?"

Yuuri looks up at that. "What, teaching and assisting?"

Victor nods, searching Yuuri’s face for any signs that he’d upset him.

There are none.

Yuuri’s expression turns soft. "I'm not cut out for the whole teaching thing," he says. "Being nice to little kids at my old teacher's studio is one thing, but—Yurio—"

Victor huffs a laugh, the headboard digging into his back wrong. "I do think he counts within his own category."

"I guess." Yuuri smiles, but it falls a bit short of his usual ones, his eyes turning thoughtful. He picks up the sweater, putting it on and letting it hang around his neck. He turns his back to Victor before slipping one arm of the robe off, the other arm readjusting his glasses. "I got bored, Victor, that’s all."

"Bored," Victor echoes, watching the muscles of Yuuri’s back move as he shrugs on one arm of the sweater. His skin’s so pale, so smooth, and it looks so soft, to the touch.

Victor wants.

His voice is stable, though, when he says, "Got bored of what?"

Yuuri lets the robe drop to the floor as he slips the other arm into the next sleeve, turning around as he pulls the sweater down over his torso. Victor watches the cotton fall over Yuuri’s navel.

Yuuri’s eyes are sharp, when Victor looks up to meet them. "You know," he says, and it feels like they’re having two conversations altogether. "You said in an interview once that to live without inspiration is to be as good as dead."

His voice is thoughtful, mild, the voice he’d used, watching Yuri practice.

Victor feels ruffled, to be on the receiving end of that tone.

"I don’t remember," he says.

Yuuri hums, shrugging with one shoulder. The sweater is loose enough on him that it falls slightly down his neck. "It is torturous to live a stagnant life without the comfort of a stable life," he says. "That’s a line from Stammi Vicino."

He pronounces his words with a hush that falls on Victor with odd warmth.

"I got bored with being dissatisfied," Yuuri murmurs, turning back to his suitcase to rummage around, coming up with a pair of socks. "It’s one thing to feel lost inside—inside my own head. I don’t want my life to be aimless, too." He gives Victor a slight smile at that. "I feel stuck. Static. You get bored of that feeling."

It’s so like Yuuri, to criticize his own mental tendencies in the same breath he uses to admit he has enough pride in his system to push himself forward. That stubbornness, unaware as Yuuri might be of it sometimes, is what makes him so much more grounded than he seems, so much more strong-willed, a presence that Victor feels magnetized to.

Victor doesn’t think he’s ever viewed his life exactly in those terms, being static, being stuck.

But it feels like an answer in more ways than one, nonetheless.

Yuuri doesn’t wait for a response from Victor, wordlessly picking up the robe from the floor.

"The bathroom’s yours, if you want it," he says, pushing up one corner of his mouth before he’s on his way down the stairs, Makkachin springing into action to follow after him.

Victor finishes the rest of his juice before he follows.

ꕤ

Four days alone with Yuuri is nice in theory—but it is a very trying affair, in practice.

For all the proximity he’s had with Yuuri these past few weeks, he’s always had moments to backtrack and think about it in the privacy of his office or his home, or even rationalize through it in conversations with Chris or Mila or even Phichit, that one time. But there’s none of that now.

If Yuuri has been a crawling thought always running in the back of Victor’s mind, he’s a constant thought in its forefront now, inescapable, heady.

It doesn’t wane throughout the day.

They try skiing, and it goes surprisingly okay, considering they’ve both been passive about it going in, not too happy about leaving Makkachin behind temporarily. It’s awkward for Yuuri at first, who Victor pegs correctly to be never good at first times if he has so much attention on him, but whose ingrained natural balance kicked in after twenty minutes of flailing.

Victor can’t complain, because Yuuri holds on tightly to his hands for ten of those twenty minutes.

There’s a thrill in this, too—in trying something new with Yuuri, who doesn’t seem to expect Victor to be immediately good at it. Victor’s not bad at skiing, per se, which seems to disgruntle Yuuri in a way almost Yurio-esque, but Yuuri’s staring turns tender the second time Victor returns to him after a successful trip down, holding his arms out for yet another hug.

It’s four in the afternoon when they go back to take Makkachin and grab some late lunch; it’s a little colder when they leave the restaurant, Yuuri shivering just the slightest bit against Victor, and they end up, with the night still too young, settling for the first indoor activity they could find.

It happens to be an arcade.

It’s a melting pot of a lot of things, really, the first floor to an inn on the other side of the resort. There are signs that direct them to a bowling alley, others to a spa, others to a casino.

But Yuuri’s eyes catch on something inside the arcade, and it stays locked on that target.

It’s a no-brainer, then, to tug Yuuri in after him.

The last time Victor had been in a setting like this—bright lights, loud sounds—was on a photo shoot with a newly debuted Yuri Plisetsky. It wouldn’t have been possible otherwise, with the kind of image that Victor had been cultivating even then, and it was even more impossible, to be caught going to a place like this. A place so boisterous, so removed from the soft princely grace of Victor’s image when he was younger, and even more from his current one, with his clean-cut pants and starched shirts and golden bands.

He can’t feel all that out of place, though, because Yuuri seems to know what he’s doing.

Victor lets Yuuri do the pulling this time, listens with a smile as Yuuri talks about how he and Phichit had gotten close, years ago, over air hockey games and Dance Dance Revolution machines.

And then Yuuri stops, Victor almost running into his back.

He’s looking at a claw machine.

Yuuri looks at Makkachin, trailing along after them.

He looks at the claw machine again.

Victor follows his gaze this time, and immediately understands.

There is a stuffed toy sitting at the very top of the pile—a dog that looks exactly like Makkachin had, as a puppy. The same color, the same texture.

Victor feels like he’s seeing double. "Yuuri," he says, tugging at Yuuri’s hand. "How do I get that?"

"Forget it," Yuuri says. "You don’t get anything from a claw machine—"

But Victor’s already walking over, taking a disbelieving Yuuri with him.

"Victor—"

Victor jams a finger against the glass, pointing. "Look at it, Yuuri," he says, imploring, sticking out his bottom lip. He pitches his voice higher, "‘Help! Save me, Yuuri, give me a home—Look, even Makkachin wants you to help out his little brother."

Yuuri frowns—at a curious Makkachin, then at Victor, so shamelessly judgmental it's comical. "Cute," he deadpans. "Real cute."

"You know what would be cuter?" Victor says. "If you tell me how—"

"Okay," Yuuri says, talking over him. "Okay. I get it. Three tries, okay, and then you have to give up."

"That is not in my vocabulary," Victor says.

"Giving up?" Yuuri fishes around his pockets for coins, inputting them into a nearby machine. "Yeah, I know."

Victor considers faking a wounded sigh at that, but Yuuri comes back with a handful of—of different-looking coins. He holds up one of them for Victor to see, before pointedly placing it on top of the claw machine’s coin slot.

"First try," he announces, droll.

It seems straightforward enough: move the controls to navigate the claw, secure the prize he wants, drop it back into the slot in one corner.

Except it isn’t straightforward at all, because he could swear the claw purposely doesn’t close all the way, as it should.

Victor watches, incredulous.

"Why isn’t it—"

"I told you," Yuuri says, patiently. A little smugly, too, if Victor cares to listen for it. 

"Next one," Victor insists.

"Ah, jeez—How did you get this far in life?" Yuuri mutters, not meant to be spoken out loud judging by his tone. He drops the second coin in.

This round is even more frustrating than the last. This time, Victor watches as the claw—despite him pressing down on the hold button—drops the dog back into the pile just before Victor can make it into the slot.

"I cannot believe this," he declares.

When he turns to Yuuri to ask for the last round, getting ready to try and coax him for more tries if this one fails, too, he finds Yuuri hiding his mouth behind a hand, his face turned away.

"Yuuri," Victor says.

Yuuri still doesn’t turn to him.

Victor reaches out to forcibly turn Yuuri to him, tugging the hand away, and then Yuuri’s laughing, really, really laughing, the other hand reaching up to cover his mouth. Victor catches that one too, and Yuuri laughs like that, both wrists in Victor’s hands.

Victor has seen Yuuri laugh so many times before, from giggles to surprised laughter—but not like this, loud and sunny, volume and pitch all over the place, his body shaking as he laughs, cutting himself off to wheeze, in between peals of laughter, "Your face—when the dog—fell—oh my god—"

Victor knows that as a self-respecting adult he should take offense at this, but he’s never seen Yuuri quite like this, just feeling so much he can’t help it, even if it’s laughter at Victor’s sake. He’s laughing so hard that he can’t help the way his shoulders shake, and though it’s not quite loud enough to attract looks, because apparently Yuuri can be soft-spoken in even this, it’s still so animated, so alive, perfectly reflective of the Yuuri that had pointed at Yurio all those weeks ago and challenged him into a dance-off.

The Yuuri that had Victor so insistent to pursue him, in an attempt to channel that same life, the way he’d made Victor feel.

It had been difficult, last December 1st, the idea of giving this Yuuri up without even trying with it.

But it was the emotion he'd been pursuing—the spark of something that he'd felt, the night of Yuuri's party. It was the tiny twinge of hope that that spark had lit ablaze, and the tiny twinge of hope that became personified in the way Yuuri had surprised him, from the very beginning.

It was impulsive, maybe, but it hadn't been unfounded.

It’s even more difficult now, thinking about giving this up, not when Yuuri laughs like this, patting Victor’s bicep so Victor can let him go, giggling out I’m sorry’s that he doesn’t mean.

Yuuri’s still failing at biting back a smile, when he moves to put the third coin in—

—and drops it.

Victor stares at it, blinking up at Yuuri, who offers a close-mouthed smile back, eyes bright.

Victor bends over to pick it up—

—only to feel a finger at the top of his head.

Victor swipes the coin in one go, before he’s straightening up. "Yuuri," he whines, injecting as much of the betrayal he feels into it.

Yuuri’s smile is as close to dazzling as Victor has seen it, beatific, and god, does he make a sight for sore eyes. "Yurio told me it was a sore topic."

It’s very strategic, Victor thinks. He can’t be mad when Yuuri looks like that. "You really have to stop listening to Yuri Plisetsky over me, Yuuri."

Yuuri blinks innocent eyes at him. "But is he wrong?"

"You are one cruel man," Victor says, solemn.

Yuuri laughs—more a giggle than anything else. "Not as cruel as this claw machine is to you, I’d say."

Victor huffs, turning to the claw machine and sullenly putting the coin in himself.

This time, Victor regards the stuffed dog with newfound focus.

He can still hear Yuuri snickering.

Victor’s done some pretty nerve-wracking things in his life, he likes to think, but they all seem to pale in comparison now, watching the dog shake in the claw’s grip.

It stumbles down, back into the pile—

Before sliding down, catching on another stuffed toy, and falling down the hatch.

Victor stares, mouth falling slightly open.

Makkachin barks.

And then Victor’s raising both hands in the air, turning to happily hug a surprised Yuuri. "Yes!"

"Wait—oh my god," Yuuri says against Victor’s shoulder. "Oh my god—I can't believe you—"

When Victor lets him go, Yuuri’s staring at the claw machine like he’s not sure he trusts any of his senses anymore.

Victor’s positively beaming as he reaches down to pick up the dog, riding the highs of fresh triumph he’s never experienced before.

He hands it to Yuuri.

Yuuri blinks at Victor, then at the dog, carefully taking it. "Is this—are you giving it to me?"

Victor beams.

He’s always wanted to do this, he could say, has always wanted to win something for his date. It always happens in 90s movies, part-and-parcel with offering his jacket when they’re cold, or sharing a milkshake.

It’s too cold for a milkshake, and he doesn’t think Yuuri will appreciate Victor offering his jacket when Yuuri obviously has his own coat.

Yuuri wouldn’t react like this to those, either, staring down at the stuffed dog the way he must have, when he’d first met Makkachin, Victor too drunk to have been too aware of it at the time. His cheeks are pink, pleased, and his smile serene as he experimentally squeezes the dog.

Victor’s sure he would have tried the claw machine again and again, just to be the one responsible for this look on Yuuri’s face.

"Thank you," Yuuri murmurs. It’s strange, that this is the gift that does it, out of all the ones Victor had bought for him yesterday. "I’ll treat him well."

Victor raises an eyebrow. "Him?"

Yuuri nods. Then, a whisper, "Vicchan. I’m going to call him Vicchan."

Victor’s mouth parts in surprise.

"Because you gave him to me!" Yuuri immediately says, turning red. "I mean—is that weird—but I can’t change his name now, I’m going to give him an identity crisis—"

"It’s a toy, Yuuri," Victor says, but he’s smiling.

"I know," Yuuri says, stubborn. Quieter, "And you gave him to me."

"Don’t make Makkachin jealous now," Victor tells him, to which Makkachin responds with a wag of his tail.

Yuuri’s naming it after him. Yuuri’s keeping it.

Victor has to wonder when he’d started to take this much pleasure in the smallest things.

He exhales, heavy, but tinged with amusement.

Victor curls a hand around Yuuri’s shoulder and steers him forward, Yuuri meeting him halfway to press himself against Victor’s side.

"Which shall we try next?"

ꕤ

Victor falls into bed that night more tired than he was the day before, his arms sore and his body heavy. It’s a good kind of tired, though, the kind that makes lying down so much better, the blankets so much softer, the bed so much more comfortable.

How funny, to be feel fulfilled by exhaustion.

Chris likes to call Victor a workaholic, but it isn’t by choice, exactly; just refusing to have to come to terms with the feeling of being aimless, of having to acknowledge that he isn’t interested, that he’s relying on an alleged appreciation for routines to keep him going forward, because it’s fine, Victor Nikiforov can do anything he wants to, just like he always has.

It’s just the wanting part that has fallen short in the past few years, stuck.

Maybe he and Yuuri aren’t too different in that, either.

The door to the bathroom is open, and Victor can see Yuuri staring down at his own toothbrush.

"Yuuri?"

The toothpaste falls over from the toothbrush then, splattering onto the sink, and Yuuri shivers into attention. He squeezes out a new dollop of toothpaste, looking up. "Yeah?"

"Do you think I can produce, direct and star in a film?"

Yuuri’s forced into prematurely spitting into the sink. "What?"

Victor repeats his question.

This time, Yuuri’s quiet for a long moment, brushing his teeth thoroughly. He makes even gargling look thoughtful.

"Clint Eastwood's done it, I think," he says, as soon as he’s done. "Gran Torino."

Victor considers that. "But do you think I could do it?"

Yuuri pats a towel across his mouth, considering, too. When he hangs up the towel and turns off the light in the bathroom, though, he says, "That’s not like you."

Victor’s lying on the side of the bed by the bookcase, and he stares at it, passively reading off the spines. "Directing?"

"No," Yuuri says, turning on the bedside lamp. "Hesitating."

They've slept on the same bed enough times now that it should have lost its novelty, but it feels remarkable every time, to Victor, who turns to watch, entranced, as Yuuri gingerly removes his glasses before slipping under the covers.

"As long as you don't start making pretentious epic romances," he says, rubbing his eyes. "I think I might be interested in watching them."

"Might be?"

Yuuri shudders contentedly as the warmth of the comforter takes over. "If your heart’s in it, I’m sure you’ll be able to do it. You’re Victor Nikiforov."

It sounds different, when Yuuri says his name, more a prayer of thanks than it is a plea, less worship and more acceptance. Victor can’t get enough of it.

He wants to be that, wants to be Yuuri’s Victor, without even trying.

"But—" Yuuri hums, rolling over on his side to face Victor. "You'd ruin romance with your one liners. Valentine's Day will be canceled because of Victor Nikiforov."

"Yuuri." Victor rolls over on his side, too. "That's mean."

Yuuri looks right back, merciless even behind sleepy half-closed eyes. "’How To Get Someone To Like You, by Victor Nikiforov: Start with the fanciest—"

"Don't make it sound so superficial. We’ve been over this, sweetheart—"

"Sure." Yuuri yawns, stretching his arms in front of him. "You do have weird ways, though, of showing me how you feel."

Victor blinks.

Yuuri’s eyes fix themselves somewhere past Victor—the bookshelf, probably, just so he won’t have to look at Victor himself.

It was definitely absentminded, unthinking, no room to overthink when he's sleepy. Typical Yuuri.

It’s as close to acknowledgement as he can get, though, to accepting Victor’s advances.

Victor knows that.

"You have more books," Yuuri murmurs. "In your apartment."

"You have more DVDs." Victor doesn't look to follow Yuuri’s gaze, keeps his eyes on Yuuri himself. "In yours."

Yuuri yawns again. "Yeah, well, who doesn’t like movies?"

"A lot of people don’t," Victor says. "I wouldn’t say I like movies."

"Yeah? Except your own?"

"Not even that," Victor says quietly. "I watch for the reasons that I read fiction."

"That’s so meta of you, almost."

Victor smiles, stretching out an arm—he means to pull Yuuri in, but Yuuri moves, too, lifting his head so that it’s cradled in the crook of Victor’s arm, and so that it’s so much easier, for Victor to move closer, back in the position they were in on the couch yesterday.

Fingers in Yuuri’s hair, Yuuri’s head just a bit lower than Victor’s.

Victor can get used to this.

Yuuri looks like he can, too, eyes already falling shut at Victor’s hair-playing.

Victor doesn’t quite want silence just yet, though, as selfish as it is to keep Yuuri awake even more. "What got you into movies?"

Yuuri’s eyes don't open, but there’s a loaded second, as he wallows in the question.

"My first love, I guess."

Victor’s fingers almost stop—but Yuuri’s visibly lulled by the movement, and he’s rarely so ready to volunteer information. He’s never offered to pick up their conversation all those weeks back, about previous partners, Yuuri’s attempts at doing so with Victor beginning and ending with the one time they talked about Chris.

He waits for Yuuri to continue.

It’s a long pause before the rest comes, Yuuri’s eyes opening a fraction, probably to check if Victor really wants to hear about it.

Victor really, really does.

Yuuri sighs. "My sister used to take me to the movie rental store, back when you could still do that, because she was convinced I was lonely when my only two friends were a bit older than me, and I—" He pauses, having trouble choosing his words. "I would always see them there, I—I guess. It was just—it was curiosity, at first."

Victor swallows. He's seen this sort of infatuation with Chris, when they were younger, and it's hard to apply that starry-eyed gaze to a young Yuuri.

"Did you get the movies they liked?"

Another pause.

"Something like that," Yuuri says softly.

Victor can’t bite back his own curiosity. "Were they—did you date?"

"Hm," Yuuri's eyes, usually so honest, are unreadable tonight. "That's a hard question to answer."

But that, Victor thinks, is not an answer at all.

Victor doesn't stop carding through Yuuri's hair. He doesn't know whose sake he's doing it for, anymore. "Were there others?"

"Yeah." It's slightly breathless, when Yuuri replies. "A couple others. Nothing serious."

Victor badly wants to ask why, but Yuuri looks so tired, so ready to sleep, and he ends up biting his words back, allowing Yuuri a moment of quiet, lying there in the warm glow of the bedside lamp.

"Did they—" Victor starts anyway, only to bite it back, too, when he sees that Yuuri’s eyes are closed.

He doesn’t even know what he wants to ask.

Being aware of his own yearning is a scary thing. Being aware of how irrational it is, how unpredictable, how much he can’t make heads or tails out of where his feelings begin and end, when it comes to this.

He settles for looking. Yuuri in his arms, right there for Victor.

Yuuri is so, so beautiful, and Victor, in some distant, childish, selfish part of him, doesn't want anyone else to have this—this beautiful Yuuri and the happiness, the contentment he makes Victor feel, so unrestrained, nothing he'd ever thought he could have, where there has been nothing for so long.

In the end, he doesn't finish the question, doesn't ask for an answer—he leans forward instead, fitting his lips against Yuuri's, tasting Yuuri's little gasp of drowsy surprise, and swallowing that back. He presses one more kiss, chaste against Yuuri's jaw, before settling back.

"Good night, Yuuri," Victor murmurs, safe in the knowledge that this, maybe, would be the last thing Yuuri remembers, before he falls asleep for real.

Yuuri blinks, sleepy, but he smiles, nodding against the arm Victor still has around him.

ꕤ

Victor sleeps better that night—thankfully, because they wake up the next day to shrill ringing.

Victor is jostled awake by Yuuri groaning, irritably pulling the pillow from underneath his head and smacking Victor with it. And then Makkachin’s on his feet somewhere at the bottom of the bed, barking in response to all the noise.

"Victor," Yuuri grumbles, muffled from under his pillow.

Victor fumbles around with one eye open until he extracts his phone from underneath his own pillow. He doesn’t check the Caller ID before he answers, sitting up, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Hello?"

"Vitya." It’s Yakov’s voice, disapproving. "I said I needed an answer as soon as possible."

Victor frowns at a wide awake Makkachin. "What?"

A pause, equally loaded with disapproval. "You didn’t read my-email."

The comforter had fallen around Victor’s waist, leaving his bare skin defenseless against the morning cold. He shivers, yawning. "No one uses e-mail anymore, Yakov," he says.

Yakov wastes no time replying. "Have some sense of responsibility, for the love of God." 

"Okay, well?" Victor says, like Yakov hadn’t said anything, letting Makkachin lick his hand. "What did the e-mail say?"

Victor not awake enough for this conversation; he listens to Yakov go on for a solid minute, giving nods that Yakov can’t see, eyes closing every now and then. Yuuri shifts beside Victor, and, absently, Victor reaches out to reassuringly pat the nearest lump he could make out under the covers—Yuuri’s knee, probably, or his thigh.

Yuuri grumbles something incoherent.

Yakov finishes his tirade with a heavy exhale. "Do you want to go?"

His tone makes it sound like Victor doesn’t exactly have a choice. "Aw, Yakov, I would love to go."

He makes a mental note to check the e-mail later.

Yakov knows Victor well enough, though, to suspect he has no idea what they’re talking about. He grunts, but lets it go. "And an extra seat?"

Victor opens his eyes, stopping mid-yawn. "What for?"

He stops, backtracks. January’s coming up—there are usually events in January, isn’t there? Golden Globes? Some other sort of televised event? Is Yakov asking if Victor wants to present an award? Isn’t it too late for that?

Mournfully, channeling Georgi, he adds, "It’s too early, Yakov, I don’t understand."

Yakov sighs—a half-groan so loud into the receiver that the sound crackles. "If you’re going," he says, each word more gritted out then the last, "Do you want an extra invitation? For your little danseur noble? Or whatever poor thing you’ll be with, then?"

Victor chances a look at Yuuri.

Yuuri’s curled around Vicchan; his eyes are fluttering open and closed languidly, watching Victor, not quite conscious, but not quite asleep either.

The prospect of anything happening in January is, frankly, unwanted right now. Victor doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to wonder how he could ever give this up and bounce back to everyday life. He doesn’t want to think about returning to routine—a routine that had existed without Yuuri, before, and a routine that Victor had thought would work, if he didn’t think about that, either.

He doesn’t want a routine at all, if Yuuri’s not in it. Yuuri and the little surprises he brings. Yuuri and the life and hope that Victor feels—

Yakov clucks his tongue. "Vitya."

"Yes," Victor says. "Yes, I’d like one."

There’s silence on the other end that could be interpreted as surprise, if Victor really listens for it. "Fine," Yakov mutters.

And that’s that, Yakov hanging up with something that feels a lot like the look Yuri had given Victor yesterday; like Victor has surprised them, has done something detached from the Victor they knew.

Or maybe he’s just over-interpreting the click of his phone.

He falls back with a heavy exhale.

"Please don’t tell me we have to get up right now," Yuuri says, as Victor rolls over to throw his arm over Yuuri’s waist.

"This is a vacation, sweetheart."

"So we should be sleep-deprived?" Yuuri half-heartedly pokes Victor’s side. "No, thanks. It’s a break, Victor."

"Things to try, places to go, Yuuri," Victor murmurs against the top of Yuuri’s head.

Yuuri makes a noise too pitched to be a groan. "Do you actually want to go do something right now?"

"God no." Victor laughs against Yuuri’s hair. "We should just stay here."

"Here?"

Victor hums. "In this bed. Forever and ever."

Yuuri sighs. "Victor."

"You’re right," Victor agrees. "We’d have to go up to eat at some point."

"That’s not the problem here, I don’t think."

"I don’t see any problems but our basic survival needs, Yuuri," Victor says, honest.

Yuuri shoves at Victor’s shoulder, lightly, not enough to do much. "You’re so—you’re unbelievable."

"I did win you a dog on my third time with the grabby machine."

Yuuri groans, pushing away from Victor and turning around in his arms. Victor is an adaptable man, and he’s undeterred, just pulling Yuuri in by the waist so the two of them are chest-to-back.

Yuuri’s ears are pink. "I’m going back to sleep," he declares.

Victor barely hears it. Yuuri’s neck is very distracting, the smooth skin so close that Victor could—

Yuuri shivers, and Victor realizes that he’d reached out to run a thumb up Yuuri’s neck, a casual trail up to Yuuri’s jaw. Victor wants to see his face, wants to see his mouth parted, his eyes stuck on Victor’s, like it had been before, his first time in Victor’s apartment.

Victor presses a kiss on the back of Yuuri’s neck, and is rewarded with another shiver, Yuuri unconsciously moving in Victor’s arms, not quite sure if he wants to move closer or away. Victor doesn’t give him the choice, tightening his hold around Yuuri’s waist as he kisses just under Yuuri’s ear.

"Victor—I—"

His last kiss is on Yuuri’s temple—and this one is doting, delicate.

"Sleep, then," Victor murmurs. "We’ll figure it out later."

When he pulls away, he feels Yuuri’s body jerk with surprise—relief, too, a little bit, but as much disappointment.

"You know—" Yuuri’s voice is even softer than his usual when he speaks, like he doesn’t trust himself to be talking at all. "You don’t—you don’t have to keep doing it, if—"

"I’m doing it because I want to," Victor says, matching Yuuri’s volume. "I’m just taking advantage."

He hears Yuuri swallow more than he sees it happen. "Victor?"

Victor hums.

"What are you thinking?"

Yuuri says it so fast under his breath that Victor almost doesn’t catch it, and it takes a moment for the question to register.

And then his head’s spinning with answers.

He’s thinking that he could spend hours kissing Yuuri like that, tender presses of lips on Yuuri’s hands, Yuuri’s cheeks, Yuuri’s shoulders. That he could spend forever in this bed, January and birthdays and the future be damned.

That he wants to stay like this, where he’s sure none of his feelings are temporary, where none of his feelings are muted.

That he wants to stay like this, where he feels alive just by breathing, just by lying down, without having to get up and do something to remind himself there’s more to life.

Why, Yuuri had asked all those days ago, did you take a break from acting, really?

Because, maybe, he’d wanted more. Because, maybe, he, too, had been chained down by the idea of remaining in that static place forever.

Maybe, maybe, maybe, even now.

"Nothing," Victor eventually says. "Just that I don’t know what I did, to feel this lucky."

Yuuri sneaks a glance over his shoulder to eye Victor judgementally at that, and Victor smiles back, indulging the disbelief.

He means it, though.

Yuuri isn’t a maybe.

He had been a what if, at the beginning, but he isn’t, anymore.

Yuuri is a resounding I want this, a piercing yes, and for the first time in so long, Victor’s sure he’s unable to say no not because he doesn’t know how to, but because he doesn’t want to say no, not at all.

It’s not so bad, to feel removed from reality like this.

Victor is a romantic, sure, and his expectations unreal, but his feelings—for Yuuri, for this—is as real as an emotion can get, a soft, pulsing thing, but a heady, overwhelming need.

It makes sense, that even his feelings for Yuuri would be a contradiction, like that.

It makes sense.

ꕤ

We’ll figure it out later turns into staying in bed until mid-afternoon.

It’s Yuuri that eventually drags them out, ignoring Victor’s complaints about hunger while they haphazardly get ready to be presentable for going out. Victor makes a big deal out of getting to wrap the scarf he’d bought around Yuuri’s neck, who accepts Victor’s ministrations with unreadable eyes.

Eyes that follow Victor’s movements closely—as they leave the cabin, as they enter the restaurant, unwavering even while the server takes their orders, unwavering even as Victor looks back, raising an eyebrow in an attempt to let it pass as playful.

Yuuri pinks the littlest bit, but the sharpness in his gaze doesn’t go.

He doesn’t talk much, offering little complaint when Victor takes both of them back to the shopping plaza after dinner, just hums through most of Victor’s talking. He’s not annoyed, nor is he disinterested or bored, and Victor has trouble placing it, unsure if he’d done something.

Yuuri’s still sneaking looks at Victor now as they move leisurely through the Christmas Market crowd. He’s listening to Victor’s story about Georgi as much as he is not listening to it, clearly distracted by something else entirely—something else that is about Victor, somehow, because Yuuri seems hyper aware of every move Victor makes, from the lift of one hand to the way Victor reaches up to readjust his own scarf.

Yuuri doesn’t even decline, when Victor offers to buy cider for him.

There seems to be some sort of event going on; there’s a crowd gathered around the middle of the plaza, where two girls are singing along to a street musician quartet, people around them clapping and jokingly calling out encore, encore!

Yuuri stares curiously, so Victor tugs him to the front of the crowd and watches Yuuri distractedly bite around his styrofoam cup, taking contemplative sips from his cider while he listens to Victor’s story.

Their arms are digging into each other’s, and Victor can feel Yuuri’s frustrated energy right beside him, the concentration behind whatever he’s thinking about. They’d left Makkachin asleep in the living room after giving him food, though, and Victor can’t be sure if the restlessness is real, or if he’s imagining it, calling on Yuuri’s restlessness from the last time they were here.

He doesn’t ask, accepts that this is another Yuurism he’ll have to acknowledge but not poke at.

"—and he cut out pictures of his ex with her new boyfriend out of this magazine, right," he’s saying, enjoying the way Yuuri’s smile, curled under slightly flushed cheeks, is just a little bit on the side of incredulous. "And Mila was worried he might throw a bonfire party so he can ceremonially burn those pictures—"

Yuuri frowns. "Oh, stop—No—"

"Yes," Victor says. "And—"

He breaks off, cutting himself into silence as familiar music starts up. He jolts, looking up to the front of the crowd—where a new singer had come up, the street band happily indulging his choice.

He’s singing ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’.

Victor stares.

The man reminds him a little bit of Chris when he wears his glasses—a younger Chris, hair corn yellow and eyes a little too accustomed to childish mischievousness. Or it could be that the man curls a little bit too much around the mic stand, holds the mic a little too suggestively, like Chris tends to do, when playing it up for fans.

It’s an odd song to be singing so seductively, and Victor has to smirk into his own styrofoam cup.

It’s amusing, really; the singer—clearly more drunk than he is sober—presses his thigh against the stand as he croons And let me love you, baby, with passion that would be more impressive if Victor hadn’t been desensitized to Georgi.

It’s amusing, until Victor thinks of how Yuuri had sung the same song to him—

—and then it isn’t, anymore.

Victor finishes the rest of his cider.

The singer, merciless, puts all his passionate vibrato into his Oh pretty baby’s, swaying his hips off beat.

Victor wills himself not to look at Yuuri.

Victor wills himself to think of how Chris would react, if he was here. He’d be snickering, too, probably, making jokes about doing the same for his boyfriend.

Or making jokes about the kind of things Victor thinks about while watching a street performance in the dead of winter.

Yuuri has other ideas.

The cup almost slips a bit down Victor’s hand when Yuuri reaches out to touch Victor’s hand; it’s only the tips of their fingers touching at first, but then Yuuri’s hand is sliding up, touch feather-light, across Victor’s palm, stopping to trace circles, so light it’s almost ticklish, on Victor’s wrist.

"Victor?"

Victor lowers his cup. "Yes. Sorry. Where was I?"

Yuuri’s eyes are piercing. "What stopped you?"

"I—" Victor scrambles for a response. He never scrambles. "The singer—he looks quite a bit like Christophe Giacometti, no?"

Yuuri’s face doesn’t change, but it’s quick, the way his eyes flit to look at the singer, before it’s back on Victor, shrewd. "I see it, a little bit."

Victor doesn’t know how Yuuri manages to sound hushed, even above all the noise.

His fingers don’t stop with the circling around Victor’s skin.

It’s awfully distracting.

"Yuuri—" Victor begins—to say what, he doesn’t know get to find out, either, because then Yuuri’s jerking into attention, moving to take a step back, hands now guardedly clasped in front of his chest, as the Chris lookalike comes forward, pushing the mic near Yuuri’s mouth.

"You, you, I choose you—"

"Um—" Yuuri says, the mic broadcasting his voice. "What?"

"Those ladies picked me earlier—" He points at the two girls that were singing earlier. "So now I choose you? Here—take the mic—"

"I don’t—I don’t sing—"

Victor would beg to disagree, but then the street band’s calling out too, drowning out whatever anyone else would have said, "You don’t have to be good! Just have fun!"

They probably think they’re helping, but Victor can see Yuuri paling by the second; he can tangibly feel Yuuri’s panic spike, and he moves forward to say something, only to register the whispering around them.

They’re whispering his name, the pointing getting bolder until people are clapping encouragingly, the way one might for an encore, and Victor has never wanted to curse his ability to be recognized more than he does at that moment, watching Yuuri try to quietly process it all in that small pocket of time.

"Yuuri," Victor tries again, catching Yuuri’s arm.

The stranger thankfully takes the mic away from Yuuri’s face, which relaxes Yuuri some. His next words aren’t very accommodating to Yuuri’s obvious refusal, though, "You don’t have to sing!" he says, word endings slightly slurred, and he’s too close, way too close to Yuuri. Victor wants to catch his arm instead. "Juggling? Do you juggle?"

"No—No?" Yuuri’s blinking very fast, a quiet half-inaudible hitch in his breath. "I don’t—"

"What about dancing?"

"Oh," Yuuri says, strangled. "I—I—"

The blond lights up. "What’s your name?"

"Y-Yuuri."

"Yuuri!" The guy repeats, ecstatic, before turning to the crowd, half-yelling into his mic, "Yuuri here is going to be dancing for us—give him a hand—"

Victor’s getting a headache from how loud the lookalike is, and he can only imagine how Yuuri feels. Victor looks at him, concerned—but Yuuri’s exhale comes out even, his gaze fixed on somewhere Victor can’t follow.

"We’ll get out of here," Victor says. "If you don’t want to do it."

"You don’t have to say it like that," Yuuri sighs, a touch ruffled.

He’s not listening, though; Victor watches, half-awed, as Yuuri chugs down the rest of his cider. He can almost see the thoughts rushing through Yuuri’s head: would it be rude to decline—I wish we didn’t come here—what do I do?

When Yuuri slips his cup on top of Victor’s empty one, though, there’s resignation in his eyes.

"I just have to dance," Yuuri mutters, taking off his glasses and putting them into his coat pocket with shaky hands. "No biggie."

Victor, absolutely no help, nods.

But Yuuri had probably said that more for his own sake than Victor’s, because Yuuri stops, staring down at the hand Victor still has around his arm.

Victor blinks, loosening his grip and preparing to retract his hand—

—but then Yuuri tugs at him, pulling Victor down so he can whisper in his ear, his lips brushing against it.

"You’ll watch me, won’t you, Victor?"

Yuuri’s voice is soft, just the slightest bit on the side of shy, but Victor, somehow, can’t form a single syllable back. He nods.

Yuuri’s smile is sharp as he moves away, letting go. "Don’t take your eyes off me."

Victor’s mouth is very, very dry, all of a sudden, coherence deteriorating as he watches Yuuri come forward, slipping off his coat and unbuttoning the first two buttons on his collar—outside, in winter, Victor notes absently—while the crowd erupts in semi-drunken, uproarious cheer.

The applause around him comes distant, and he’s vaguely aware he joins in, palm against crushed styrofoam, watching Yuuri talk to one of the band members.

He’s not quite seeing things right, not quite registering anything that isn’t Yuuri right.

Yuuri stretching his arms over his chest, visibly talking himself into the dance.

Yuuri swallowing, Adam’s apple bobbing.

Yuuri taking a deep breath.

Yuuri nodding to cue the music.

It doesn’t get any better from there, when he starts.

There shouldn’t be anything new for Victor to not know how to prepare himself—he’s seen Yuuri practice, he’s seen countless recordings, he has vivid memories of Yuuri pole-dancing, doing the tango, breakdancing. He’s danced the waltz with Yuuri.

But there’s always something new with Yuuri, and when the saxophone begins, slow to a steady beat, Victor doesn’t know, doesn't understand, how Yuuri could have ever thought Victor would be able to look away.

Yuuri starts slow. He moves his arms first, the top of his body finding the beat before the rest follows—he bares his neck, rolls his shoulders, the motions as graceful as they are sensual, hips following the sway of the music.

Yuuri stomps once, and the music pauses.

When it picks up again, the music has changed, the beat quickening. It comes back charged, and Victor sees the exact moment Yuuri slips into it, the exact moment the music curls around Yuuri, every note completely at his mercy as he moves, not a single body part ever unsure.

He wishes he had more in him to appreciate it—but it’s hard, when Yuuri snaps his hips, turning his back to the crowd and throwing his head back, and Victor’s vision wobbles, processing everything and nothing at the same time.

He feels hot, as charged as the music itself, and he tugs distractedly at his scarf, loosening it.

Yuuri spins in a few continuous loops, one leg moving out, arms raised above him—meant for the crowd, it seems, because that gets a delighted collective gasp, spellbound.

When he comes back to face the front, skin glowing with a sheen of sweat, though, Yuuri’s eyes snap up to meet Victor’s.

Victor stills.

The music slows again, changing into a velvety rhythm, thick and sultry and hypnotic.

He watches one of Yuuri’s hands come down from its arc above his head, watches him slick his hair back, hips rocking, before the hand slides back down—down the side of his face, pressing against the spots Victor had kissed this morning, before moving further down to his bared neck, his chest, his stomach.

Victor bites down on his lip hard, when Yuuri’s hands ghost around his hips, playing with his own belt loops.

Making no secret of noticing, Yuuri—slightly pink from vague awareness of what he’s doing—swipes his tongue over his own lips.

Quick. Almost unconscious.

Dizzying.

Victor barely notices, when the music stops.

He registers, mind miles away, that a hush has fallen upon the crowd.

He doesn’t even startle, when that same crowd erupts into applause; it starts with one stilted clap, jerking out of Yuuri’s spell, and then there’s cheering, whistling, shutter sounds going off.

Victor has eyes only for Yuuri.

Yuuri blinks—once, twice—before he comes back, the relief blooming beautifully on his face as he bows out of habit, the flush in his cheeks turning shy and charming just like that.

But there’s something sitting low in Victor’s stomach—the need to wrap Yuuri up in his arms and kiss his throat, the need to hold and touch Yuuri, right now.

It’s agonizing, watching Yuuri make his rounds, declining offers for another dance—Victor’s torn over being glad about that—and picking a random girl off the crowd as he puts on his coat, huddling into it for warmth, shoulders shuddering.

It’s adorable, but the heat in Victor’s gut doesn’t go.

Yuuri won’t meet his eyes as he comes back, breath coming out in visible huffs.

"That was so embarrass—"

Victor surprises them both when he cuts him off with an open-mouthed kiss, pulling Yuuri in with hands on either side of his face, the styrofoam cups clattering to the pavement.

The heat of Yuuri’s mouth is hardly any comfort; if anything, it makes Victor more aware of the warmth that keeps spreading in his body, swirling around in something intoxicating.

Yuuri melts against him, right in front of all these people, and Victor feels something even hotter settle in the pit of his stomach—and then lower, his heart skipping a beat when he realizes.

Yuuri’s the one to turn the kiss slower, gentler, putting a hand on the back of Victor’s neck, cupping Victor’s cheek with the other hand, until Victor slows down, pulling back for Yuuri to murmur something incoherent against his mouth.

When Victor pulls away, keeping his hands on either side of Yuuri's face, he’s met with Yuuri's eyes, wide and glassy.

There’s nervousness there, too, anxious about what Victor thinks.

"Victor?"

"Remember," Victor says, slightly breathless, uncaring of all the eyes no doubt trained on them, "when I said you will be the death of me?"

It doesn’t quite cover everything Victor wants to say—I want you is probably more apt, or maybe I will take apart the universe to have you, to give you anything that will make you smile.

Yuuri laughs, a little desperate, a little off-pitch, and Victor thinks, most certain of all: god, I think I love you.

ꕤ

Victor is going to die before the night is over.

He’s sure of it, watching Yuuri change out of his dress shirt and into one of Victor’s dress shirts; a baby blue one he’d brought along as an extra option, in case they go anywhere fancier than expected, but one that he willingly gives to Yuuri now, who’d miscalculated his luggage and only brought one pair of nightwear.

Victor had suggested sleeping naked, to which Yuuri had blushed and said, "I’m not like you."

Victor’s not sure what Yuuri means by that.

Yuuri’s squinting at a piece of paper now, face getting more and more unreadable by the second.

He’d already removed his jeans, leaving it on top of his suitcase, all packed up and ready for final additions when they check out tomorrow morning.

Victor’s almost thankful, that he’s not in any mental state to be thinking about leaving just yet.

The problem is—Victor’s seen Yuuri exactly like this before, when Yuuri had slept over at his place.

It hadn’t driven him this up the wall, though, that time.

He can barely think straight.

He can’t think at all.

"Victor?"

"I’m listening," Victor says, immediately. He wasn’t, really, but it’s no fault of Yuuri’s.

Not at all.

Maybe.

"Do you want the coupon?"

Victor’s sprawled on the bed, his shoes the only things he’s taken off. He doesn’t trust himself to speak as it is, much less move, so he doesn’t. Just lies there, warily waiting for Yuuri to finish him off with one more smile.

But Yuuri’s voice is off, weird, the cadence all over the place. "The street band people gave me this—" He holds up the slip of paper. "—as some weird, uh, participation prize—I guess? I—I don’t really—"

He sounds like Victor does when he wants to channel Chris and Georgi, like maybe he’d be less responsible for what he’s saying if he uses someone else’s tendencies.

"What is it?"

"A coupon," Yuuri says, slow, definitely overthinking his words. "It’s a free movie—um—on Valentine’s Day? Free movie for two—with free popcorn, wow, because we’ve had a shortage of those, ha—"

It’s Phichit. It’s Phichit that he’s attempting to copy. Except easygoing, go-with-the-flow cheer doesn’t quite suit Yuuri as well.

"Shouldn’t we just go together?"

"It’s—um—" Yuuri chances a look, then visibly regrets it. "It’s on Valentine’s Day."

It takes a long moment, still stuck staring at Yuuri, for Victor to understand.

February. Next year. Too many weeks from now.

It’s a few more moments before Victor realizes he’s been quiet for a few seconds too long.

The bed dips, and Victor looks up to Yuuri sitting demurely in one corner, uncertain.

"What are you thinking?"

That question is really becoming a habit of sorts, for Yuuri.

Victor exhales, fighting the urge to reach for Yuuri in any way. He knows what Yuuri’s thinking, knows that it’s the same thought he’d been fighting away since Yakov’s question this morning.

Victor turns his head to look at him. "I’m thinking that there are going to be videos of you up all over the Internet tomorrow."

There’s relief, at the diversion, palpable on Yuuri’s face. It’s rare, for Yuuri to not want to press when something bothers him, but they did promise not to talk about it. And Victor doesn’t want to, not yet.

To his surprise, Yuuri says, "I know."

Victor raises both eyebrows.

"It’s not like—It’s nothing new, videos of me dancing," Yuuri says, studiously not looking back at Victor. "And I’m sure there’s a video of me doing that dance, already. So."

Victor blinks. "What do you mean?"

"I—" Yuuri’s still not looking. "I’ve done that dance before? Kinda? I thought that if I did something my body already knows, I wouldn’t be so—so—I’d be less aware—"

There’s a video of Yuuri out there.

Dancing like that.

It’s even more unfair, then, that in the middle of something that he’d wanted to tune out of, Yuuri had looked at Victor.

Out loud, Victor says, the softness of his voice the only thing masking the way it rasps in the end, "There’s more?"

Stiffly, timidly, Yuuri nods.

There’s a beat of silence.

"Do you—" Yuuri swallows, flushed. "Do you want to see?"

Victor doesn't immediately register the question. He watches, mind blanking, as Yuuri plays with the front buttons of his borrowed shirt. He's red—ears, cheek, his neck and the skin that disappears into the white collar.

Victor pushes himself up on one elbow. "Yuuri," he says, and he's not sure he recognizes his own voice. "There is nothing I want to see more."

It’s the sort of thing they do—Victor says something he’s well aware is insufferable, Yuuri will roll his eyes, maybe make a joke about it being a cliche movie line, and they would move on.

But something sits heavy and tense and missing, and Yuuri wears that feeling like a second skin when he nods, getting up with one last search for reassurance in Victor’s face.

Victor offers no wavering in his decision, sitting up further on the bed, smiling expectantly as he throws his legs over to one side.

He really isn’t going to make it to tomorrow morning.

Yuuri nudges at the barn bedroom door, closing it almost all the way. When he sees Victor’s questioning frown, he pinks and says, "Makkachin."

Victor grins, cheeky.

Yuuri huffs out a sigh, like Victor’s being too much, and that, at least, feels like his Yuuri.

It relaxes Yuuri, too; his hands are surprisingly steady as he scrolls through the music on his phone, even as the balls of his right foot drum on the ground restlessly.

It’s nothing he’s unused to, dancing for an audience—anyone who takes one look at Yuuri right now can guess as much. A part of Victor still wonders, though, if Yuuri had ever offered to dance for anyone else quite like this, if anyone had ever asked Yuuri to dance for them and gotten that soft, lovely yes.

Did they—he’d started last night, without trusting himself to finish the question.

It sits stuck to his throat, too much to ask, too much to wonder about and still come away from with some semblance of rationality.

Victor doesn’t want to think rationally anymore, though.

Yuuri starts, and he doesn't have to.

It hadn’t been apparent before, with the way the street band was playing it, but the song has a steady bass beat, almost lulling, if Victor pays too much attention.

But all his attention is reserved for Yuuri, and the beat falls to the back of his mind, pulsing through his body instead as Yuuri starts moving, the exact same motions from earlier.

Except he keeps his eyes on Victor this time, unfaltering.

It had felt intimate as it is, in the middle of a crowded plaza, but it’s a completely other story now—Yuuri a few steps away, the music echoing against the floor where Yuuri had left his phone face-down, Victor’s own heartbeat pounding loud in his ears.

Yuuri doesn’t lose himself in the music this time, even if the cold concentration remains. His eyes flutter half-closed, but they never leave Victor, his movements gaining momentum, his hips swaying a little more than it did earlier, his hands wandering a lot more.

When Yuuri’s arm comes down from above his head this time, he doesn’t slick his hair back—he fists a hand in it and pulls.

Hard.

Victor sees the movement and feels it go straight to the heat pooling in his gut.

It’s sensual, enchanting, how tender Yuuri’s hand turns when he lets go of his own hair, fingertips running skittishly down his body next, shifting his hips as his fingers run above his waistline.

Victor can see Yuuri’s skin, visible through the material of the borrowed shirt, clinging onto Yuuri now, less like clothing, more like skin.

Skin that Victor desperately needs to touch.

He’s vaguely aware that he has the bedsheets fisted in both hands.

Yuuri’s other hand starts its own path up, starting from his his lower thigh, just where the shirt ends, and going up, tracing a spiral way up the front of his body.

Then, without warning, it slips under the material.

Victor feels himself make a sound more than he hears it.

Yuuri shivers—hard to miss, because he unbuttons the top of his shirt as he does so.

His mouth opens, instinctive in response to the cool air, but before he can finish his long exhale, the music reaching its end, Victor’s tugging him forward.

"You're lying to me," he manages, in a subdued voice that feels bodiless, as Yuuri scrambles for leverage on his lap, arms coming up around Victor's neck in surprise. "That's not part of the original dance at all, is it?"

Yuuri blinks fast. "I—"

Victor means to let him finish, he really does, but he can’t stop himself from wrapping his arms around Yuuri’s waist and catching his mouth. He smells so good, so warm and pleasant, and Victor feels dizzy with want, with yearning, as he angles his face, kissing harder until Yuuri opens his mouth.

But Yuuri’s hand catches in Victor’s hair, tugging until Victor pulls away, left to stare at a breathless Yuuri, lips pink. "Victor—"

"Tell me," Victor murmurs, reaching up to rub under Yuuri’s mouth with his thumb. "Did you think of me when you danced earlier?"

Yuuri's eyelashes flutter when his eyes widen, and Victor thinks he might have given Yuuri an answer to an unspoken question.

Instead of answering himself, Yuuri kisses Victor again, pushing him a little bit back so he can lean over to take off Victor’s coat for him. His knees dig into the soft mattress on either side of Victor’s hips, thighs hugging Victor’s as he lowers his weight, unforgiving.

When Victor’s mouth parts in a moan, Yuuri doesn’t hesitate to lick into his mouth, running along the back of Victor’s teeth.

"Tell me," Yuuri echoes, when they pull apart again for air, disbelieving hesitance written all over his face, eyes and cheeks dark, "if I’ve misread anything."

Victor huffs a laugh he doesn’t quite mean, pressing his forehead against Yuuri’s, drawing swirls against Yuuri’s cheek and kissing the corner of his mouth. "I think it’s pretty obvious you haven’t, my Yuuri."

Yuuri tilts Victor’s chin up, away from his face, hand cold and unsteady—completely at odds with the way he grinds down against Victor, the hesitance giving way to nervous anticipation.

"Is this okay?" he whispers, as hesitant as he is commanding.

"Yes," Victor rasps. "More than okay."

Yuuri moves against him one more time, and Victor has to bite down to stifle another moan. Yuuri’s not having any of it, though, lips moving against Victor’s neck as he finds a rhythm.

Victor nudges at him until he looks up, catching the corner of his mouth again as soon as he does.

"Victor," Yuuri manages, in between, "you’re—"

His voice sounds so nice, breathy, uncontrolled.

"I’m what?" Victor slips a hand under Yuuri’s shirt, pressing him close to slot their mouths together, abandoning attempts at being gentle or careful, just desperate for contact. He feels lightheaded, aware that Yuuri’s shaking against him, biting into Victor’s mouth as much as he is allowing himself to be pliant.

He hasn’t ever wanted, like this, hasn’t ever needed someone’s touch so much that he feels like he’s been lit up in flames, licking at him until the heat is sated.

He groans, when Yuuri pulls away.

"You’re—Victor, let me—"

Yuuri palms him—and oh, Victor arches into Yuuri’s touch.

"Let me?" Yuuri tries again, shy had it been anyone else, tugging at Victor's belt loops. "I—I’ve never—but I can—"

Victor's not sure how he says yes, just that he does, and Yuuri's sliding down, slipping between Victor’s knees and unbuttoning his pants for him.

"Yuuri—"

Whatever it is dies in his throat as Yuuri takes Victor’s tip into his mouth. Victor doesn’t register his own whimper until it’s out, doesn’t register his own hand moving until it’s in Yuuri’s hair. Yuuri glides a hand down to Victor’s base, the other reaching up to curl around Victor’s hipbone, before his mouth slides back down.

"Yuuri," he repeats, the rasp in his voice harsh in his throat. He thinks he’s rambling. "Yuuri, you’re so—"

Lovely. Beautiful. Perfect. There aren’t enough words, haven’t ever been enough, probably, and it doesn’t help that Victor’s entire body is reduced to feeling, helpless against the heat in Yuuri’s mouth, every sound he makes tripping over themselves, his every movement in complete surrender to Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri.

Victor feels his gut tighten, and then—instinctively—he’s guiding Yuuri up, tugging at his hair. He doesn’t mean to be rough with it, but it takes Yuuri by surprise, a half-squeak forming in his throat as he lets himself be pulled up.

"Sorry, I’m sorry," Victor murmurs, kissing a path from Yuuri’s cheek to his lips as he settles back into Victor’s lap.

He doesn’t hesitate in pushing Yuuri’s shirt up mid-kiss now, letting his hands wander up Yuuri’s back, letting his hands touch smooth skin, Yuuri’s soft sides, warm to the touch, the back sweat-slick.

He drags another hand down, past Yuuri’s waist, Yuuri’s hip, and when he brushes against the front of Yuuri’s underwear, Yuuri’s surprised into a moan, absolutely delightful against Victor’s mouth.

He gets another moan, when he cups Yuuri, sliding his hand down slow, and he detaches his mouth from Yuuri’s to watch Yuuri throw his head back, shaking slightly.

Victor's hands are unsteady, brushing up Yuuri's thigh, not quite sure what he wants to do except to touch—but Yuuri's hand is there, too, shakily pushing down cotton.

"I—I want—"

"Yes?" Victor kisses up Yuuri's jaw and bites at the junction by his ear, shivering when Yuuri lets out a surprised noise. "What do you want, Yuuri?"

"Don't—don't stop—" Yuuri gasps, as Victor bites again, this time sucking immediately after. He drags a hand down Yuuri's back and under the shirt to cup one cheek, running his hand down until he has a hand between Yuuri's legs from the back, before dragging it back up again, hungry for more contact, hungry to touch more, hungry for gasps that don't stop, soft and lovely and intoxicating. "Keep—keep—"

Victor's free hand manages to feel around for one of Yuuri's, guiding it up between Yuuri's legs, hearing Yuuri's sharp inhale as both their hands brush against the front. "Vi—"

"Touch yourself?" Victor breaks away to whisper, unrelenting on the spot under Yuuri's ear, kissing, sucking, licking indiscriminately, a single-minded focus to keep drawing out those soft gasps from Yuuri. "For me? You're so beautiful—so pretty, so sweet—my Yuuri—"

He hears Yuuri's whine right by his ear, and Victor murmurs back, moving his lips against the side of Yuuri's neck, where he'd wanted to kiss it so badly this morning, where he wants to kiss it so badly now, Yuuri a beautiful, shivering creature in his arms.

He thinks Yuuri might be saying his name—a litany of Victor's name, whispered, groaned, as Yuuri works himself off, putting his face against Victor's neck as he shakes.

Victor's Yuuri. His Yuuri. His beautiful Yuuri.

What had he wanted to ask last night, Victor thinks distantly, a mad undercurrent of thought, coaxing Yuuri's head up and tilting his mouth into a kiss. What had he wanted to know, about Yuuri’s first love, about all the people that had experienced what it was like to have Yuuri in their lives, while Victor had spent twenty years not even recognizing love and life.

Did they get to kiss you when they wanted to?—Victor tries in his head, as Yuuri parts his mouth for him.

Did they get to press their lips against your neck?—he wonders, as he greedily moves his lips against Yuuri's, hungry, craving—Did they get to wake up to your lovely smile?

Did they get to feel you under them, shivering and whispering their name?—he thinks, as Yuuri drags the nails of one hand down Victor's back and murmurs Close, close, and Victor murmurs Anything, anything for you, right back.

Did they get to have all of that for more than a month?

Victor’s close, too, when he reaches up to dip his hand between where Yuuri has his, curling around Yuuri’s hand, sliding his fingers up to the head before dragging down, rhythmic. Yuuri’s shaking more noticeably now, and Victor doesn’t tease him, stroking indiscriminately while Yuuri accepts each and every one of Victor’s kisses, murmuring incoherently.

"Victor, I’m—Can I—I’m gonna—"

"Yes—Yes, of course—" Victor kisses Yuuri’s temple, pulling him close until they’re chest-to-chest, all his senses unable to take anything in but Yuuri. He kisses him, held tight, as Yuuri comes undone, back arching against Victor’s hand.

Victor follows soon after, forehead leaning against Yuuri’s shoulder, listening to Yuuri whisper his name, drinking in Yuuri’s warmth and smell and voice and presence.

Yuuri guides Victor’s mouth up to meet his right after, and it feels like the rush that comes with good champagne, Victor’s mind going fizzy as Yuuri falls against him, waiting it out as they both come down.

Victor seizes him close, thinks about nothing but now, now, now; he thinks, instead—

—I love you, I love you, I love you.

He doesn’t know, if he ends up saying any of it out loud.

ꕤ

Yuuri doesn’t talk at all.

Not when they clean up after, not when they go to bed, not when they wake up.

He lets Victor touch him, embrace him, kiss him, lets Victor dry his hair after his shower, but he doesn’t say a word, just spending all of it staring up at Victor, expression indecipherable, eyes lit with something Victor doesn’t recognize.

He doesn’t let go of Victor, though, always the first to touch when Victor initiates a kiss, always the one to hold on to Victor’s sleeve, for a fleeting moment, before letting go, like he’s only just remembered he hadn’t meant to do that.

It leaves a lump in Victor’s throat.

Victor doesn’t press him, takes as many kisses as he can get instead, while he still has an excuse not to think about it, lets himself drink in and memorize the taste of Yuuri’s mouth, the curve of his neck, the way he responds to Victor, the way Victor responds to him, like it hasn’t ever been before.

There is a wistful feeling that comes on the last day of shooting, especially when it coordinates with the entire crew's last day—nostalgia for a place, a mini-world, a mini-life you're just about to leave, an odd tugging that makes you want to stay.

This is what Victor feels, looking around the empty cabin.

It's a cruel thing, letting Victor have a taste, only to snatch it out and dangle it in front of him instead.

"Victor?"

Victor blinks.

Yuuri’s standing at the doorway with Makkachin, startled by his own first word in the last twelve hours. He swallows, and Victor wants to kiss along Yuuri’s throat, hear Yuuri sigh and be safe in the knowledge that it hadn’t been a dream, that this is Victor’s—this life, this world—like no movie role has ever been.

Except no—the cabin weekend may have been a daydream come true, a movie left to play in a mind theatre, but Yuuri's real, eyebrows furrowed in concern, hand almost absently stretched out towards Victor, the other patting a restless Makkachin cuddling into his leg.

Victor feels all sorts of undone, just standing there, looking back at Yuuri and Makkachin, and knowing that he has to have lucked out, to have known what it’s like to have them.

And then he has to shake himself for being so sentimental, after days of refusing to think about it at all.

Victor doesn’t know what he’d been searching for, in taking a break from acting; he doesn’t know what he’d wanted to pursue, in stepping back from that life. He’d thought he was pursuing love, thought that love will bring happiness the way it always seems to in the movies. He’d been looking for a solution, maybe, because of that, a quick fix—but what he’d gotten in Yuuri was an answer instead, a certainty he hadn’t been sure he could have, just three weeks ago.

He wants this.

He wants this, more than he’s ever wanted anything.

When Yuuri locks the front door of the cabin and places the key in Victor’s hand, Victor curls his hand around Yuuri’s, tight.

Unwilling to let go.

Chapter Text

FADE IN:

INT - VICTOR’S APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - DAY

VICTOR, a strikingly handsome retired actor, sits alone on the couch, sipping coffee. He is silhouetted against the sunrise in a dark living room, watching a figure turn on a snow globe, humming along as it plays a music box version of ‘LA VIE EN ROSE.’

Imagining his morning as the opening sequence to an art house film, Victor supposes, is not a very effective way of coping with the inevitable—but it does, at the very least, sate his hunger for the melodramatic. He basks in the pretentious escapism of it all, sighing out lyrics in French to the silence of his apartment, watching the clock across the room approach 6 A.M.

He’d woken up almost an hour ago cold and alone, Makkachin for once curled up on his own dog bed instead of beside Victor. The apartment had been twice as stifling after four days in a winter cottage and two days of long hours at the office, and the silence is relentless even now, as the snow globe finishes another round, slowing down to match the stillness of the living room.

Victor reaches over and spins the knob again.

La Vie En Rose starts back up, the danseur slowly spinning along, hypnotic. He’d expected it to calm him, but thoughts of Yuuri just seem to make his restlessness worse, like something he wants to claw out of his chest.

Victor feels unnaturally heavy, caught between restlessness and fatigue, and he walks laps around his living room while waiting for the sunrise, not fully convinced himself that it would help.

It doesn’t, and by the time he sits back down on his couch, his stomach feels even worse, insistent on riding a roller-coaster of its own making.

He’s not ignorant to why he feels this way, but thinking about it only makes his stomach churn faster, more insistently, and Victor throws his whole body down the rest of his couch, sighing.

Just like that, it’s no longer the opening sequence to a film; he can’t imagine a Michael Haneke character doing something so childish, can’t imagine Xavier Dolan opening his film with such a juvenile sigh from an adult.

Just like that, it’s just Victor, alone in his apartment, up too early on the last day of the year.

It takes him a few seconds to realize his phone’s vibrating underneath one of the couch cushions.

He’s sure he must be misreading the contact ID, when he swipes to answer.

"Hello?"

There’s silence on the other end of the line.

Victor pulls away to check if the call is still connected. It is.

And he hadn’t misread the ID.

"Oh my." He doesn’t bite back his smile, leaning back against the couch. "Is this a morning call?"

Yuuri’s sigh of relief comes loud. "Hey."

It should be illegal, should be outlawed, the way Victor’s heart responds so easily to one syllable from Yuuri. "Hi," he returns gently. "Six in the morning? You’re up early today."

"So are you," Yuuri says. "I—I didn’t wake you up, did I?"

"No," Victor murmurs. "Of course not. I was awake. Big day today, you see."

"Yeah," Yuuri says, subdued. "Me—me too."

Victor hums. "Nervous?"

"Always." Victor can almost see Yuuri pacing, hand tight around his phone, can almost hear Phichit no doubt singing in the shower. "You’d want to meet up tonight—right?"

"Right," Victor echoes. His stomach flip-flops in complaint. "What time does your event finish?"

"It starts at eight, so I—" Yuuri pauses. "I should be done by ten? Eleven at the latest? Do you—" Another pause. "Do you want to meet me at the—"

"Yes," Victor says, a little breathless in his haste. "I’ll pick you up."

He expects resistance, but there’s a second of silence, where he’s sure Yuuri had just nodded at thin air, before, "Okay. Yeah, I—I’ll text you the address."

"Yes," Victor repeats.

Three heartbeats pass.

Neither of them hang up.

"Yuuri?"

The answer comes fast. "Yeah?"

There's a split second where he almost says it, almost says "I don’t want to wait until tonight to see you," without thinking. But talking to Yuuri this early, on a day like this, feels like walking on egg shells, and he sighs instead, turning away from the phone.

"Good luck tonight."

"Right," Yuuri says. "Thank you. I’ll—I’ll see you tonight."

Victor has to push the word out. "Yes."

He knows he’ll stay on the line the entire day if he lets this go on, so he forces his goodbyes out, focuses on the crackle of Yuuri’s voice from the other end, before hanging up.

It didn’t used to be this hard, didn’t used to leave such a bitter taste in his mouth, making plans for the last night.

He allows himself one last sigh before getting up to pad over to the window. The city’s on the verge of wakefulness, the roads below his building starting to fill up with cars, the sidewalks with people.

Each of them going about their routines, even on the day before the new year. 

He keeps his eyes down, at slushy sidewalks and the beginnings of rush hour traffic, while he dials another contact.

Shh. Trust me.

That’s exactly what Victor’s doing now.

The call gets picked up after three rings. No one says hello.

"Did you get my gift?"

"I haven’t been home in three days," Georgi says, harried. "Is it that important?"

"No," Victor chirps. "I don’t even remember what I got you. But good to hear you’re working hard on Sleeping Prince!"

"Did you call to bug me about not getting you a gift?"

"Nonsense."

"You only ever call me once a year to collect, as if I could ever give you anything you don’t already have—"

"The last time you gave me a gift," Victor says, all cheerful emphasis, "was when you gave me the checklist—"

"It was a useful gift."

"That it is, that it is," Victor says, looking over his shoulder at where the snow globe is slowing back down into silence, stillness. "But I no longer have use for it."

Georgi so rarely quiets down without his silence being faux contemplation at best, and this one comes loaded.

"So," Victor continues, when Georgi shows no signs of prompting him, "I did indeed call to collect."

Georgi sighs, rueful. "You’re talking in circles. I need sleep. Talk directly."

That’s Georgi Talk for you’re stalling, and Victor, in a rare moment himself, feels properly chastised.

He takes his time answering, though.

Georgi still doesn’t prompt him.

Victor chalks it up to the fact that Georgi can't see his face when he says, quiet, "I don't know what to do."

He braces himself for something wistful, patronizing, maybe even smugly condescending. He’d called on impulse precisely because thinking about this possibility would have discouraged him from calling to begin with, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s here, he’s on the line—and Georgi doesn’t say a single wistful word.

"Have you ever been in love before, Victor?" he asks, simply, voice dropping so low and serious that it strips Victor of all his need to pretend otherwise.

Quietly, Victor rephrases, "I don't know what I'm doing."

It's a vulnerable thing to admit.

He can only hope Georgi knows him well enough to understand that.

If he does, he makes no comment on it. "It sucks, yes?" Georgi says, immediately back to sighing, forlorn. "You don’t know anything for certain about it, but you keep feeling it anyway. A thought you cannot shake." 

"Now," Victor says, "you’re the one talking in circles."

"I’m not," Georgi returns, patient. "You don't know for sure what the other person feels, and talking about it—directly addressing it—feels like a make it or break it situation. I know you know what I mean—now, at least."

Victor doesn't dignify that with a response.

Georgi sighs again. "You know why I love being in love so much? Why I keep trying?"

Victor presses his lips together; again, he doesn't answer.

Georgi doesn’t wait for him to. "Because it’s always worth it. Uncertainty and all."

"How romantic," Victor tells him, curt.

He sounds like Yuuri, when his voice turns flat, bemused. The thought sends a pang through Victor, and suddenly, he no longer has the energy to keep up the nonchalance.

Georgi clucks his tongue, aggrieved. "I don’t know why you’re waiting for someone to tell you what to do. Everyone thinks you do what you want anyway, why not just do exactly that?"

"Has anyone told you," Victor says, "that you give terrible advice?"

"No," Georgi says. "Because I don’t."

"Wow," Victor murmurs. "Touché."

The near-agreement automatically puts Georgi is a better mood. "I’m not your solution, nor is he your solution. I’m not your answer—but he is, if, you know, you just asked yourself the question," he says, and Victor can hear both Yuri and Yakov’s groans, always the flip side to Georgi’s own self-satisfied delight at delivering a line like that. "Which is quite the terrifying thing, sure. But isn't this the whole point of you pursuing love? And you’ve found him! The Psyche to your Cupid, the Daphne to your Apollo—"

Had he been anyone else, had he been less desensitized, even, Victor would have rolled his eyes. "Daphne asked to be turned into a laurel tree to escape his advances, no?"

Georgi’s sigh makes no secret about being pitying this time. "Something tells me Yuuri Katsuki won’t be asking for the same thing."

Victor sighs, too, but he doesn’t have anything to say to that.

Georgi accepts it. "Well, then," he says. "Have a good morning. I’ll see you—"

"Do not—"

"—next year."

"—make a New Year’s joke."

Georgi lets out a cackle, a delighted hah, and hangs up.

Victor huffs, disgruntled to find that the stomach churning has lessened. It leaves in its wake a more profound sort of apprehension—apprehension that, if he inspects it too closely, does feel a little too much like fear.

Rejection has never been an issue before, and rationality is powerless against it. He wonders if this how Yuuri feels every day, if this is how he’d felt from the first day.

The sky’s equal parts blue and yellow now, the sidewalks starting to get crowded, and it leaves no way around the fact that the day will start whether or not Victor wants it to. This isn’t a movie, and time and location and scenes aren’t things he can control, can ignore, can move around as he wishes, all according to a script.

This is real life, all of it, and Victor should, maybe, start living it.

It’s still a scary thought, though.

Makkachin’s ears perk up when Victor walks back into the bedroom, and he sits up in attention as Victor nudges his bedside table open, rummaging around loudly until he finds what he wants. He tucks it under one arm before bending down to hug Makkachin.

He takes a deep breath before he lets go, smiling and rubbing behind one ear.

Makkachin blinks curiously at him.

Victor plants a kiss on the top of his head.

"Wish me luck today, okay?"

ꕤ

Victor bumps into Phichit by the elevator—actually bumps into him, almost knocking over the cardboard tray he’s carrying.

Phichit is apparently a miracle worker, because he saves two coffee cups with ease, moving the tray at the last minute and catching the ones about to spill over, like he does this every day, no problem.

He beams at Victor, not a strand of hair out of place, ID lanyard swishing back into place. "Hey, heartbreaker!"

Victor can’t help it; he winces. "Interns work on days like this, too?"

"Interns work as long as there’s someone higher up working," Phichit replies, jamming a finger against the up button, tray balanced against one bent elbow. "You don’t look so good."

Victor can’t decide who got what from whom, but Phichit and Yuuri certainly share that unpredictable streak of honesty. He manages a small smile. "Not much sleep, I’m afraid."

Phichit clucks his tongue. "Was that you Yuuri called this morning? Woke up early for it, too, and everything."

Victor blinks. "Did he?"

"Between you and me, I don’t think he slept too good, either. Up all night playing something in the living room." Phichit yawns, as if to make a point. "But I mean—he hasn’t been sleeping well since you guys got back."

"Oh." Victor hasn’t, either, but he doesn’t exactly have a performance coming up. "Is he—should I—"

"Nerves," Phichit explains. "Nothing we can do about it except let it happen." He pauses, looks somewhere past Victor, contemplative for all of three seconds before he flashes a toothy smile—fleeting and doing nothing to hide the way his voice turns serious when he says, "I don’t think it’s about the ballet thing, though."

Victor stills, but the elevator dings open at that exact moment, and he gestures for Phichit to go in first.

The smile turns a few notches brighter.

Yuri Plisetsky is the last person this smile should remind Victor of, but he thinks of him anyway, of him gritting his teeth and saying, You're not the one who'll have to put up with the pig crying and moping when you break up with him.

He wonders if Phichit’s preparing to do the same, too.

His hands feel clammy as he raises one to press for his floor. "Listen," he starts—

—at the same time Phichit says, "Listen, Victor—"

Victor immediately bites down on his own tongue.

Phichit’s smile softens into something tender, sympathetic, when Victor turns to him. "I, uh, I think—" he says, and Victor blinks down at the envelope that Phichit is holding out, produced out of thin air. "—that you might want to have this."

Victor doesn’t take it out of the envelope, just slides the flap open—but he sees the top, rosy and glossy. A slip of paper. A ticket.

He jerks his eyes back up to Phichit. "Is this—"

"Yeah," Phichit says, looking away in an uncharacteristic moment of bashfulness. "It’s—They usually have an exhibition every year. I always go. So I thought—I thought you might want to go this year, since, knowing Yuuri, he didn’t—"

Victor nods, stiff, a lump in his throat.

"Yuuri will want to kill both of us when he finds out," Phichit continues, oddly muted. "But I'm trusting you to, like, make sure that doesn't happen. By the end of tonight."

Victor keeps staring down at the envelope.

He thinks, idly, that maybe Phichit isn’t preparing to do the same as Yuri.

It would have been so easy, to have given Victor the same talk—but Phichit hadn’t. He had every right, every responsibility, to swat Victor away, to eye him warily, to make sure Victor knew his intentions hadn’t been accepted at face value. And yet Phichit hadn’t batted an eye the first time he came home to Victor there, hadn’t been anything but warm and pleasant in all the times that followed.

He’d had the chance to do everything but—and yet he’d accepted Victor’s feelings before Victor had accepted his own. So easily, so thoughtlessly, like catching a coffee cup from falling.

He’d trusted Victor, all those days ago, all those times and in all those dinners.

And Victor wants to be worthy of that trust, no matter what Yuuri decides.

"Phichit," he says, and he’s embarrassed to hear the rasp in his voice. He clears his throat. "You already gave us your free vacation, I couldn't possibly—"

"Hold on." Phichit holds up a finger; Victor notes distantly that all he's missing is a bluetooth earpiece. "I—what?"

"Yuuri said that... you..." Victor thinks back to Yuuri's relief when he'd first snagged on Phichit's name, the same cadence to his tone as when he'd been trying to do an impression of him over their vacation. "You didn't win a free vacation."

"I wish," Phichit chirps, taking the realization with a lot more practiced grace than Victor has managed to accumulate in over a month of dealing with Yuuri. "I can’t afford—what was it Yuuri got? A winter resort cabin for basically four days?"

Victor closes the envelope gingerly and nods again.

Phichit smiles, this time private. "A broke college student is a broke college student, no matter where they might be interning—and whoever their best friend might be dating."

Victor’s words aren’t working very well today, it seems, because whatever he wants to say gets stuck in his throat, joining the rest of the lump he can’t seem to clear away.

The elevator releases a quiet ding as it stops on Phichit’s floor.

Before stepping off, he pats Victor’s arm, awkward with the height gap had the gesture been from anyone else.

As it is, it’s oddly comforting, knowing that someone’s more sure in what Victor wants to do than Victor himself is, at the moment.

Phichit doesn't say anything, just flashes a peace sign.

The doors close before Victor can muster up a response.

When he gets off at his floor, the hallway seems so much smaller, narrower. There’s no one around, but Victor still feels the same apprehension climb up his throat as he walks over to stand outside Yakov’s office, listening in for sounds from inside.

There aren’t any.

He takes a deep breath, a moment of personal reassurance he’s allowing himself because there’s no one to see, before he untucks a Manila folder from under his arm.

And knocks.

He hears the squeak of a chair. "Come in."

Victor’s hand pauses in the middle of turning the knob.

He feels, all of a sudden, seven again. Waiting for Yakov, not quite sure what’s in store.

But—but that is never a certainty, for most people. Most people go through life not knowing what’s in the future, and it’s something they live with, something they accept, may it be with a penchant for the dramatic like Georgi, or may it be with unquestioning ease like Phichit.

It’s part of living, in ways that Victor, now that he thinks about it, may never have been forced to acknowledge and understand until recently.

For someone who always presents himself so demurely, so shyly, Yuuri sure has a way of setting out for the things he wants. It’s his ego fighting to be heard, his desires fighting to be met despite all the factors against it. This—this apprehension, this uncertainty—is something Yuuri always has to wrestle with, and yet Victor has never met anyone more stubborn, more familiar with their regrets, nor someone more clear about their goals, when given the push.

Yuuri arranging the vacation. The indecision when he’d asked. Yuuri taking the plunge and dancing for Victor. The way his voice had trembled when he’d said: Tell me if I’ve misread anything.

For someone who never gives himself the credit, Yuuri has been so brave—about this, about all the things around it. He’d opened his heart to the possibility of this, and had, despite everything, trusted Victor to meet him halfway.

Because it’s always worth it. Uncertainty and all.

Victor thinks it’s only right he took a leap of faith himself.

Hands steadying, he turns the knob and opens the door.

ꕤ

Victor makes sure to sit as far away from Yuri’s Angels as possible.

Phichit had gotten a fifth row seat, right behind what Victor is assuming are the rows reserved for family of the students performing. He’d arrived at the exact time the doors have opened, and he feels relatively inconspicuous, his brown coat mixing in with the rest of the crowds piling into the theater.

He’d only just sat down when someone drops a hat into his lap and sinks into the seat beside him.

It takes a lot of blinks before he recognizes the undercut.

"I would advise keeping the hat on until the start of the show," Otabek says, face hidden behind the darkest pair of shades Victor has ever seen. "Yura is very frustrated that you seem to be so unaware of how distinct your silver hair is."

Victor obliges sheepishly, grieving his temporary breaking of common theater etiquette as he puts the hat on. "Yurio sent you all the way down here to tell me this?"

"He isn’t avoiding you, exactly." A corner of Otabek’s mouth quirks up, almost imperceptible. He tilts his head the slightest bit towards the direction of Yuri’s fans. "But he is also very concerned that news will spread backstage before the show."

"About me?"

"Yes." How Otabek manages to look somber and thoughtful even with half his face hidden, Victor will never understand. It’s uncanny, after years of spending time around people as expressive as Yakov and Georgi and Yuri can be. "We have… soloists on our show tonight whose performance might be compromised by knowing you’re here watching."

"Ah." Victor readjusts his scarf around his face, sinking further into his seat. He chews on the thought, before sighing. "I didn’t think this through very well, did I? It was very last minute, you see."

"He’s not asking me to get you sent out, if that is what you’re thinking," Otabek says, ever solemn. "Yura’s very supportive of the fact that you’re here, really."

Victor raises an eyebrow. "He is?"

"In his own way," Otabek amends. Another mouth corner quirk. "I was sent, in fact, to tell you that the performance you’re here for is the first up after the intermission."

"That’s unlike him," Victor says, before he can help it. "What else did he say?"

"Something I cannot repeat back to you," Otabek says, and this time, his amusement is tinted with embarrassment, as if he’s only remembering who he’s talking to. "But I do think an appropriate way to paraphrase would be to say, ‘Stop thinking ridiculous things.’"

"Oh dear," Victor says. "I can only imagine what that sounded like in Yurio-speak. I imagine he called me dumb."

"Very close," Otabek returns seriously. "Should I carry a message back?"

Victor considers that. The front rows are starting to fill up, and if he stays any longer, Otabek would have a hard time excusing himself past seated people without being recognized.

"Tell him not to worry so much," Victor says. "He’ll get wrinkles at such a young age."

Otabek nods and accepts that, though Victor suspects the message will have a very different tone by the time it makes it to Yuri.

He’s just about to turn away when Victor, instinctively, calls him back.

"Yuuri," Victor says, soft. "How’s Yuuri?"

Otabek doesn’t have to ask which one he means. "Nervous. From what I hear, it’s been a long time since he’d last performed in front of an audience."

"Not that long," Victor almost says. Almost.

He just nods, murmurs, "I see. Thank you."

"Yura," Otabek says, the two syllables tripping over themselves in a sudden hurry to get out, "wouldn’t say this to anyone, but I’m certain he wishes you luck."

"My," Victor says, pushing his lips in a smile he doesn’t mean. "Everyone’s acting like their favorite TV show is about to get cancelled tonight, no?"

Otabek doesn’t respond to that—just nods, in a way that’s neither affirmation nor assurance.

Victor watches him go, politely excusing his way through a pair of middle age ladies about to sit down.

He turns away before he can do something like wave at them out of instinct as soon as they make eye contact. He pulls his phone out instead, scrolling down to Yuuri’s name.

He stops, thumb hovering over the Call button.

He ends up opting to send a message, typing and sending the text so fast that he’s not quite sure what he’d sent by the time he locks his phone.

He gets an immediate answer.

It’s a picture.

A picture of Vicchan perched on top of a dressing table. Behind it, Victor can see a part of Yuuri’s reflection in the mirror. He saves the picture immediately.

This time, he doesn’t hesitate to call.

"How do you feel?" he says, in lieu of a hello. "It’s starting soon, isn’t it?"

"Yeah." Yuuri sounds a little breathless. "I—I feel okay. Kind of. I don’t know. Where—Where are you?"

"I just got off work," Victor says, smoothly. It feels more like their usual conversations than the one from this morning. He pokes at a loose thread on the knee of his pants. "Yuuri?"

There’s a mumbled sound in response.

"You’ll do great," Victor says. "You always do."

"I—" Yuuri cuts himself off, and Victor hears rustling. Yuuri sitting down, it sounds like. "I wish you were here."

Victor’s hand stills on top of his own knee.

"I—I know I said you weren’t invited," Yuuri rushes to add. "You—You’re still not. I mean—I just—It would help if—I don’t know. I don’t know."

"I wish I was there, too," Victor murmurs. "But Vicchan’s there to keep you company, no?"

That gets a hummed laugh out of Yuuri, and the sound falls charmingly on Victor, bathes him in warmth. He’s getting better, at surprising bursts of laughter out of Yuuri.

"Yeah—Yeah, I guess."

The theater’s near full now, with three minutes to eight, just pairs and trios here and there shuffling in.

"I’ll be here," Victor says, the only one privy to how literally he means his words. "I’ll be here waiting for you."

"Okay." It’s a comforting thought, to hear that Yuuri doesn’t sound as frazzled anymore, not as keyed up as he’d been earlier. "I’m off to battle, then."

"I’m sure you’ll win," Victor says. "Not a bad concept. You as a dashing knight—"

"Victor." Victor can envision Yuuri’s smile so clearly, can envision the way he’s biting back a laugh. It still fades in comparison to the real thing. "I’m not the one trying to be Prince Charming between the two of us."

"Oh, yes," Victor says, smiling up at the paintings on the theater ceiling. "My Cinderella, off to battle."

"Sure," Yuuri says, and the breathlessness is back. "Yeah."

Victor hums.

Yuuri hangs up just as the lights dim.

Victor slips his phone back into his coat pocket and settles in.

ꕤ

It takes Victor all the way into the intermission to realize that the performances have a recurring theme.

Each of them is prefaced by the dancers introducing themselves, one by one, and taking turns introducing the piece they are about to do. The performances have so far ranged from Manon to Romeo and Juliet to Sleeping Beauty and even The Firebird, and the diversity of the choices has deluded Victor into thinking that they were all chosen at random.

Musing over the introductory speeches now, though, it occurs to him that they all have something to do with love.

He feels vaguely like he’s being mocked by the universe.

Heartbreak, star-crossed love, reunion—the approach varies from one to the next, but love remains at its core, whether it be the fifteen-year-old ballerina dedicating the performance through gritted teeth to her ex-boyfriend or the principal dancer evoking the feeling of reuniting with his long-distance love.

It’s a very specific thing, for each of them, and it’s surprising, that they all seem to embody their dance so well, no matter how removed it might be from the mood of the ballet it was taken from. Curious, too, how people interpret things so differently when they’re in and out of love, the difference between a happily sighing Georgi and a Georgi tearing up over everything from his phone wallpaper to a straw wrapper.

It’s strange, but Victor thinks he can relate.

He’s the one, however, that feels all sorts of keyed up by the time the lights dim again, and he realizes, stomach bottoming out, that—if Yuri is to be trusted—Yuuri is up next.

He is.

Victor feels wholly unprepared when the curtains slide open.

He registers the applause distractedly, deafening from all around him. Yuuri has a lot of fans, it seems—a lot of them, all used to coming to his performances, because they have a chant of Yuuri’s name ready as Yuuri bows.

Curtsies more than bows, really, cheeks pink as he waves reluctantly at a crowd he probably can’t see with all those spotlights trained on him.

Victor, meanwhile, is having a lot of trouble breathing.

Yuuri looks radiant up onstage—he’s not wearing an elaborate costume like all the ones that came before him, just a white undershirt, but it’s in strike contrast to his black dance tights, a startling sight in such a big stage, an everyday daydream come to life. He hadn’t slicked his hair back, and it falls neatly on a hesitant face. His lips look unnaturally pink, too, and Victor thanks his sense of self-preservation, however limited, that he doesn’t call out to Yuuri right then and there.

He’s much more torn over being thankful about getting the fifth row when he could be watching Yuuri dance from so much closer.

He’d already gotten that privilege, though. Twice.

But Yuuri has always had a way of coaxing greediness out of him.

Yuuri doesn’t look nervous, exactly, but he swings his legs in front of the other restlessly, stretching them as he takes the mic out from the stand at the front of the stage, flushing at the generous giggles he gets from the audience when he struggles with it.

"Hi," he tries, tapping the mic. "Hi, I’m Yuuri Katsuki."

There’s immediate applause—that Victor joins in on, because he feels a little outdone by the fans, somewhere in the theatre, cheerily whooping Yuuri’s name. He’s pretty sure that shouldn’t be allowed in theaters, but maybe it’s an exception, for public exhibitions.

"I’m a twenty-three—no, twenty-four-year-old now, sorry." Yuuri laughs nervously, adorably. "I’m a twenty-four-year-old dancer with the company, and this is my last end-of-the-year gala."

The audience really is a lot more interactive than Victor was expecting, because this gets Yuuri a sympathetic collective aw and another round of applause.

Yuuri’s starting to look sheepish. "I’ll be moving on to a new staging of Côté's Le Petit Prince, new, um, choreography and everything," he says, wryly waving a hand before the audience can applaud again. "But for now, this is my last performance on this stage, so I—" He pauses, clearing his throat audibly. "I really want to make this one count."

More applause. Victor’s palms are starting to hurt from the force of trying to keep up with at least a hundred cheering devotees.

"I’m doing a short little bit from Act Three of Prokofiev’s Cinderella," Yuuri continues, when the audience settles down. "It’s right after the ball, Cinderella has just run away from The Prince the night before. In this sequence, she—" His voice wavers slightly, before he plows through. "Cinderella wakes up the next morning, and she’s—she believes that the events of the night before was just a dream. Something she couldn’t have, but experienced in a beautiful dream."

Victor curls his hands around each other, holding them tight on his lap.

He doesn’t take his eyes away from Yuuri.

"She starts dancing the dances from the ball, and she realizes it was all true," Yuuri’s saying, mellow. "She did have a night with The Prince, and all the things she has in her head—they’re not from her dreams. They’re memories. It actually happened."

Victor’s mouth feels dry, his hands clammy. He knows where this is going, but his heart’s in his throat anyway, the reality of this—of what he has with Yuuri, of the fact that it’s something not only Victor has to confront—settling in fast and steady.

Yuuri’s staring off in a fix point somewhere above the audience, both hands around the mic. "A lot of the performances tonight were about love—past loves and current loves. They’re all love stories, and I—My performance is about that, too." He stops, visibly gathering his thoughts. "It’s a bit complicated, though, because I—I fell out of love at the same time I fell back in, as my best friend would say."

He pulls his mouth into a grin, performative, fleeting and out of place on his lovely face. "See, my first love was a poster."

Victor stills in his seat.

At odds with the way the audience erupts into laughter, a cinema audience responding to a movie one-liner.

"I know," Yuuri says, licking his lips nervously, but indulging the laughter. When he speaks again, it’s absentminded, only half-conscious, turning off his filter and just talking, without care of how it comes across. "It was a really good one, too. I used to stare at it all the time when I went to the movie rental store until the cashier lady noticed and gave it to me." 

There’s a small smile to match a small pause. "But this was—this was my first experience with love. The fairytale kind. Looking from afar at Prince Charming—dreaming, hoping." He smiles, a little helpless, and it goes straight into Victor’s chest. "Idealizing. I was more like one of the stepsisters than Cinderella, probably, because I was—I was blinded? By this Prince. Just like everyone else. I mean—I didn't realize this at the time, obviously, but—a few things have made me realize the difference."

The audience has fallen into a hush now, respectful, and Yuuri smiles gratefully to himself, planting both feet back on the ground, legs still, as he takes a deep breath, the exhale crackling into the mic. "I didn’t fall out of love with that idea until recently. I fell out of love because I—Someone else came in. Someone else made that image—" He breaks off, searching for the words, shaking one hand to mimic the gesture. "—shatter. And then it wasn’t a fairytale anymore, because—because fairytales don’t come with this much uncertainty. They're not supposed to. You never wonder if the other person feels the same way, because you never question if Cinderella’s going to end up with the Prince. It’s always happily ever after."

Half of it has been rehearsed, Victor can tell. The lilt of Yuuri’s words is something practiced.

The other half is unaware of how he sounds. It’s Yuuri how he only ever gets when he’s sleepy. Yuuri how he only ever gets when he and Victor are somewhere private and there’s no way out.

Victor tries to picture Yuuri murmuring to himself, trying out the words, mouth hidden in his scarf.

His chest really, really hurts; it feels like someone had stuck something sharp in it, and it’s only getting worse, but he can’t look away from Yuuri.

"This person—this person is nowhere near as untouchable as the Prince Charming I’d been expecting," Yuuri says, and his small laugh is so bittersweet. His voice is trembling. "He screams at horror movies. He sulks. He whines about doing the dishes. He’s clingy when he’s drunk. He loves his dog. He gets frustrated at claw machines. He gets sad. But—"

Yuuri stops, voice cracking. He clears his throat, but when he continues, his voice is only barely louder than the silence of the audience thanks to the mic. "I chose this dance because—because this is what it feels like, I think, to wake up from something you’re convinced is a dream, and realizing that it’s real—that the person is real. It’s Cinderella hearing ‘I love you’ for the first time—"

Victor freezes.

"And waking up the next morning not wanting to say a word out of fear that it would ruin the dream," Yuuri says, shaky, knuckles white around the mic. "And—I don’t know what to call this emotion, but I want to call it love. So—" Another crack in his voice. "Whatever happens from here on out, I’m glad—that I got to experience it, and that I’m stronger, wiser, because of it, whether or not I get my happily ever after."

It’s an abrupt end, but Yuuri bows one more time—a proper bow this time, arms on his side.

He stays in that position for three seconds, drinking in the preliminary applause, and Victor wants nothing more than to rush over and ask him what he’s thinking.

Maybe the movies got one thing right—one thing right in that love makes fools out of people, never seeing what’s right there, what’s always been right there.

Maybe Yuri Plisetsky is also right—in accusing Victor of thinking dumb things.

It’s a mess, a whole goddamn mess, and he wants to laugh, too, incredulously.

But mostly he wants to gather Yuuri in a hug, to shake him and hold him close and give him all the happily ever after’s he could ever want, could ever need, could ever deserve.

He feels alone in the theater, like he’s the only there, and knows Yuuri does, too, when the music starts. Thinking about no one else, dancing for no one else but Victor.

He’s dancing for Victor, ever beautiful, ever sincere.

Ever a lovely creature that demands nothing but love and affection and want from Victor.

He feels dizzy, watching. Feels dizzy with the knowledge that he’d been going about this all wrong—that he should have asked Yuuri what he wanted, not from Victor, not from their arrangement, but for himself.

He’d been so caught up in everything he felt ill-equipped for, not realizing that Yuuri didn't care, doesn't care, not one bit.

It was always relationship first, deadline first, what he can do for Yuuri based on their relationship first. Not knowing that Yuuri had meant every syllable, when he’d said he’d only wanted Victor as Victor, whatever that might mean. Not as the actor, yes, but not even as a boyfriend-for-the-month.

Victor had never thought to ask the general questions, because he’d always put his pursuit of love—of Yuuri—first, always been ready to chase.

Never realizing Yuuri didn’t want to be chased to begin with, that he didn’t want to run to begin with.

It was never about chasing or running, because with Yuuri, it had always been about staying.

Victor watches the rest of the exhibition in a daze, eyes stuck on where Yuuri disappears after his dance.

His head’s spinning with everything he wants to say by the time Otabek and Yuri have their turn, and he watches in a dither, body language the embodiment of restlessness.

It’s Mila’s premiere all over again, because Victor’s out of his seat as soon as he can.

He doesn’t run, but it’s a near thing, speed-walking, uncaring that he’ll definitely be recognized if he joins the crowd like this.

It occurs to him too late that he has no idea what to do next. He follows the people exiting, trying to be casual about it and probably failing.

He doesn’t have to figure things out himself, at least, because when he turns, rounding the corner of a grand staircase into the lobby, Yuuri’s right there, mouth parting as their eyes meet. 

He’s been cornered by a crowd near what usually would have been the merchandise booth, wearing a hoodie on top of his stage attire, arms piled high with gifts—single flowers, boxes of chocolates, cards. All of which are more Valentine’s Day gifts than post-farewell performance mementos, if Victor’s asked, but he stops thinking altogether, when Yuuri visibly takes a breath, murmuring his excuses before he untangles himself from everyone.

He sighs, as Victor stops in front of him. Yuuri has some make-up on, gloss on his lips, lashes curled, and it makes Victor ache. "I thought I said you weren’t invited."

He doesn’t sound mad, exactly, but he’s not pleased, either. Victor runs a hand down the front of his coat, swallowing. "I received an invitation by proxy."

Yuuri sighs again, but his eyes are sharp as he turns his gaze high up.

A look at the second floor of the lobby gives Victor a view of a snickering Yuri, wearing fan-given cat-ears next to Otabek signing autographs.

"You could have told me," Yuuri says quietly, looking back at Victor. "That you were here."

Victor did, technically. But saying that probably won’t endear him further to Yuuri’s good side.

"I don’t think it would have changed anything," he replies evenly.

Yuuri’s expression shutters for a brief moment, before his shoulders fall back down, beset. "It would have changed a lot of things, Victor."

"Such as?" Victor returns, before he can help it.

Yuuri just stares at him, eyes wide.

He wouldn’t have said all those things, Victor knows, if he’d been aware Victor was around to hear them.

They’re gathering looks.

Victor doesn’t want to be having this conversation like this. He inhales, releasing it in a slow breath. "Yuuri, I—"

He doesn’t finish his I’m sorry, breaking off as a card envelope slips out of Yuuri’s grasp, tumbling onto the floor.

Victor, instinctively, bends over to pick it up.

Only to be met with deja vu in the form of Yuuri’s finger at the top of his head.

It’s gone as quickly as it came, a fleeting touch, but it feels like unspoken forgiveness as Victor straightens back up, meeting Yuuri’s bright eyes, searching.

"We need to talk," Yuuri says, quietly, just between the two of them, even in a room full of people.

Victor nods, handing the envelope back. He feels worlds away from Yuuri, just standing there, and it’s too soon, too sudden after riding the highs of possibly getting to keep Yuuri.

"We do," he murmurs.

ꕤ

It’s 11:30 by the time Victor opens the front door to his apartment, Yuuri shivering as he shuffles in after him. 

Makkachin immediately comes hurtling through to greet Yuuri, and Yuuri brightens, catching him with open arms.

Victor would feel betrayed, but he can’t begrudge something he and his dog have in common.

It was Yuuri’s idea to come over—coming out of the back entrance of the theater, bag full of gifts in his arm, and surprising Victor with a firm, "Take me back to your place."

The bag’s still in Victor’s car, and he takes that as a good sign, because surely, Yuuri wouldn’t break up with him and then demand a drive home?

It’s hard to be sure, though. That’s the problem.

It’s always the problem, with Yuuri.

It’s also what Victor loves the most.

"Love," he murmurs, tasting the word as he absently rummages around his cupboard to get Yuuri something hot to drink.

"Did you say something?"

Victor almost jumps—almost—as he turns to Yuuri, having come up behind Victor without a sound. "No," he says, easily. "Just thinking out loud."

Yuuri blinks at him, only to lower his gaze abruptly, lashes fluttering and body language closing. He clears his throat. "Are you making hot chocolate?"

Victor blinks, too, turning his own gaze downwards. He’d been taking things out of the cupboard without thinking, but sure enough, he has a very familiar Hot Cocoa Baking Mix box in hand, the o’s staring accusingly up at him.

"Yes," he says. "Yes, I am."

It’s worth it, for the amused way Yuuri raises his eyebrows at him.

It’s worth it, for how Yuuri props himself up on the nearest countertop, just like he had two weeks ago.

It’s worth it, Victor knows now, because it’s Yuuri.

He watches without a word as Victor turns on the stove, eyes focused and searching, feet swinging to entertain a Makkachin sitting below him. He’d taken off his makeup, and just above the collar of Yuuri’s shirt, Victor can see a small patch of pink on his neck, close to healing from their last night at the cabin.

Whatever Victor had been about to say dies in his throat.

He lets Yuuri look his fill while he gathers his thoughts, working the hot chocolate mix with expertise he didn’t have before. When Yuuri shows no signs of talking by the time the water has started boiling, though, he decides that’s his cue.

He puts the box back in the cupboard. "Yuuri?"

Yuuri sings a soft-mouthed tune in response.

"Earlier," Victor starts. "When you were talking before you—"

"Please don’t ask," Yuuri says, feet stilling against the bottom cupboards, voice disconcertingly muted, "if it’s about you. Please."

You know the answer, is the implication.

Victor releases a breath at that, half-sigh, half laugh. Yuuri’s not denying it, at the very least. "I was going to ask," he says quietly, "what you were going to say. When you broke off earlier."

There’s silence. Victor stares at the powder he’s mixing instead of Yuuri’s face, eyes no doubt sharp.

"When you said—He gets sad," Victor says, voice as tight as his chest feels. "He gets sad but—"

Yuuri huffs a sound out, and it registers late in Victor’s head that it’s a sound of disbelief.

"You don’t miss a thing, do you?"

"On the contrary," Victor says, finally looking at Yuuri. "I think I’ve missed a lot."

Yuuri holds his gaze for a full ten seconds. Victor’s not sure who looks away first, just that someone does. Yuuri’s quiet for a long time, contemplative, and Victor lets him have that, too, trying instead to figure out how to breathe properly again without feeling like his heart will come up his lungs the next time he exhales.

It’s 11:50 on the stove clock when Yuuri speaks, hopping off the countertop and accepting a full mug from Victor.

It's 11:50 on the stove clock when Yuuri says, "Victor, let’s end this."

Victor would have dropped the mug, if Yuuri hadn’t been holding it.

All the effort he’d put into remembering how to breathe goes out the window, just like that.

"What?"

Yuuri pauses, breath stuttering as he walks past Victor and into the living room. "I can't do this—I can't go through—I don't—I don’t think I can."

The first emotion to settle in is hurt—then shock, then frustration, then disbelief.

Each of those evaporate, however, when he follows and sees the look on Yuuri’s face.

The hurt and shock remain, but the frustration fades easily, willingly, when he takes one look at Yuuri, at the hands holding on to the mug just so they’d stop trembling so obviously, and realizes that Yuuri’s scared.

He’s not nervous, or panicky. He’s genuinely afraid—of what, Victor doesn’t know, can’t comprehend through his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, but Yuuri’s petrified in ways Victor has never seen him be.

And he can’t stand it, being the reason for that.

The fireworks have started outside, and they both flinch as a particularly loud one goes off right outside Victor’s window, bathing Yuuri in bright yellows, half of his face in shadow as he sinks heavily down on the couch.

He looks so small, so unsure.

Victor doesn’t realize he’s walking until he’s sinking down in front of Yuuri, bringing the mug to the coffee table before taking both of Yuuri’s hands in his.

"Yuuri," he says, articulating every syllable, afraid, maybe, that it's the last time he’ll get to say them like this. "I don't understand. Do you—do you want to break up?"

The wording of that does something to Yuuri, because his hands twitch in Victor’s. He can feel Yuuri’s pulse just above his wrist, fast and stricken.

He stares at Victor. "Don't you?"

"Yuuri," Victor says, breathless, the name slapped out of him into something almost like a laugh.

"I always wondered why," Yuuri says, voice oddly soft, steady for someone whose body isn’t, "if the rumor was true, people never said bad things about you. They said things about how none of it ever lasts, how abruptly it always ends, but they never say bad things about you, specifically. Phichit asked around, after I came home from the first day and—and he said that everyone always talked about how great it was, to get to know what it was like to date you. That a month’s long enough for a dream. How nice you were, how gracious, how—how generous."

Victor tightens his hands around Yuuri’s.

"I didn’t know what to believe, because—who says those kind of things about someone who broke up with them?" Then Yuuri’s voice is shaking more than his own body is shaking, and Victor feels helpless, knows that it’s better, to let Yuuri talk himself out until he’s done, even if he trembles, even if his voice cracks.

He knows that much.

"But I think—I think I’ve got it," Yuuri says. "You make the person you’re with feel really good, you know? You make them feel comfortable. You make them feel at home. You make them feel like they can be more, a better version of their self."

You are, though, Victor wants to say. You are more than what you think you are.

"At first, all I wanted was your time. Just that," Yuuri continues, before Victor can even open his mouth. "The first week, I—I used to fall asleep thinking—’give me Victor’s time, if only just for now’—and then that turned into more, and more, and more, and then I thought—how could anyone stand this? How could anyone keep doing this, not knowing if you’ll stay? But I did. I kept doing it, I kept counting down, but I couldn’t—I think I kind of gave up, by the time we went on vacation. It gets tiring, resisting. So—let’s end this."

Victor hadn’t noticed it happen, but Yuuri’s hands have tightened around his, steadying once again, Yuuri’s breath evening. "Yuuri—"

"I was going to say," Yuuri says, effectively cutting Victor off even if his voice barely rises above a murmur, "that you sulk and whine and are a little bit too unbelievable sometimes—but you’re so much more than I thought you were—which is really unfair. You were gracious and generous, yeah, and I came in expecting that—but the rest?"

He smiles, shaky, and Victor’s startled to notice that Yuuri’s eyelashes are wet, too, and that he’s blinking very fast, eyes away from Victor. "You kept surprising me. You were supportive about everything, you were open to new things—and you were happy about even the smallest of things, you know? Genuinely happy. About food, teasing Yurio, talking about anything, listening to anything. It’s like everything’s new, and it was so—it was so infectious. You kept trying even when you did something wrong—and I—You never gave up. You just tried again."

Yuuri breaks off, a hitch in his voice interrupting him. It’s quick, when the first tear falls, and then he’s wrenching his hands out of Victor’s to wipe at his eyes.

Victor opens his mouth to say something, only to be interrupted by cheering—from somewhere outside, loud enough to get through to the glass.

A look at the clock says it’s 11:59.

It feels like an out-of-body experience, when the countdown starts, the numbers skipping themselves—10, 7, 5, 3—

"I couldn’t fall in love with you," Yuuri says, mechanical. "Let’s break up."

Victor flinches, when midnight hits and the fireworks return in earnest, crackling in the sky insistently, doing nothing to help Victor come to terms with what he’d just heard.

Every micro-movement feels robotic, when he turns back to Yuuri.

He barely registers Yuuri’s hand on the back of his neck, pressing—

—until Yuuri leans in, lips catching Victor’s.

The first time they’d kissed, Yuuri had been warmth and the taste of hot chocolate, pleasant and comely. It’s not too different, now, and Victor has to remind himself, kissing back without having to think about it, that this isn’t a memory. That the lips moving against his belong to a very real Yuuri—a very real Yuuri that makes Victor feel like he’s drowning and floating and burning, all at once, and yet alight with overwhelming tenderness.

A very real Yuuri that has, from the very beginning, made Victor feel.

Yuuri’s eyelashes touch Victor’s cheek when he pulls away, damp butterfly kisses. "Well, I’m glad you didn’t say that," he whispers against Victor’s lips. "Because no, I don’t want to break up."

A very real Yuuri that Victor has surrendered his heart to.

He reaches up to wipe the rest of the tears away. "Yuuri—"

"Victor," Yuuri says, catching Victor’s hand. His smile’s so pretty, watery it might be, and Victor’s heart could be stopping right then and he wouldn’t be surprised. "I heard that you date anyone who asks you out at the beginning of the month. Will you go out with me?"

Victor blinks—blinks some more, his mind not quite catching up with what his heart registers first.

And then he’s laughing, feeling the sound vibrate in his chest more than he hears himself produce it, and he’s grabbing Yuuri’s face with both hands on each cheek, kissing every part he can reach—eyelids, forehead, corner of his mouth.

"Oh, that is so cunning," he says, in between kisses, before planting one full on Yuuri’s mouth. "You are one thick-headed person, aren’t you?"

There's still leftover hurt, though, leftover petty rolling in his stomach, and he pulls away long enough to say, "But I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that."

Yuuri’s eyes move from Victor’s lips to make eye contact. "Yeah?"

Victor hums. "Because you’re going to be stuck with me for much longer than that."

Yuuri’s face flicker from surprise through understanding—but he rolls his eyes, only it doesn’t quite match the rest of his face. His smile looks like he’s near tears again, but he blinks it all back, away, putting more warmth into his smile. "I can live with that."

Victor kisses that smile. "You’re so honest, Yuuri," he murmurs. "How can I beat that?"

"It’s not a competition," Yuuri says, but he keeps smiling.

"We’re fools, you know that?"

Yuuri’s face scrunches up easily. "And who said I listened to Yurio?"

"It wasn’t him," Victor says, "who gave me the ticket."

There is a split second where the look in Yuuri’s eyes has Victor sympathizing with Phichit, but Yuuri sighs in the next beat, and he knows the sympathy is unfounded.

"I wasn’t expecting you to be there," Yuuri says. "I wasn’t expecting you to hear."

Victor brushes a thumb against Yuuri’s cheek, repeated, reverent, besotted. "Only fair, I think. I wasn’t expecting you."

Yuuri’s mouth parts, surprise more visibly etched on his face now, and Victor catches his open mouth in a kiss, longer, deeper, kissing until he’s sure Yuuri’s lips will look as pink as it did onstage earlier as soon one of them pulls away.

"Yuuri," Victor says, leaning his forehead against Yuuri’s. "Yuuri, I love you."

It feels good, to say it out loud, feels liberating and invigorating, feels even better to realize how much he means it. It’s one thing, for it to be a thought, a feeling, but for the words to be out there, to see the way Yuuri’s eyes widen, to hear the way Yuuri’s breath hitches, to know, with so much certainty and so much proof, that Victor loves this man, loves him with all his heart—nothing can ever beat that.

Because it’s always worth it.

It’s even worth it, to have to accept truth from Georgi of all people, even though Yuuri reaches up to pull at Victor’s cheek. Hard.

"Ow," Victor says, only it comes out more like oh. Yuuri lets him go. "Yuuri."

"You’re real," Yuuri says quietly.

"Your very own Prince Charming." Victor agrees, lifting one of Yuuri’s hands so he can kiss along the white knuckles, eventually coaxing the palm out of a clenched fist. "Though not much of one, I hear."

"No," Yuuri says, even softer, staring at the hand Victor’s holding. "But mine."

It’s Victor’s turn to stop, staring up at Yuuri. He’s helpless against his own smile, unbidden as he nods, sliding his fingers in between Yuuri’s. "Yours," he seconds. "All yours."

Yuuri untangles his hand from Victor’s, winds both arms around Victor’s neck. "Mine," he repeats.

"For as long as you’ll have me." Victor smiles. "Forever sounds nice, though."

"It does," Yuuri says, before he kisses Victor.

Soft, sweet, all Yuuri.

A first kiss all over again.

Victor brushes Yuuri’s hair out of his face, just so he can Yuuri’s eyes better when he says, "Say it?"

Yuuri blinks, opening his mouth—to ask, probably, before he closes it and swallows, pinking.

It’s one of the first things he’s learned about Yuuri, the first day—that he blushes a very, very pretty pink, whether from hesitance or shyness or embarrassment. Victor knows other things now, too, though. Things like how Yuuri prefers waking up on his own in the morning, that he’s not a big Lurhmann fan, that he’s very much a dog person, that his eyes are even brighter when he laughs, that his beauty when asleep is unrivalled, that he’s strong and wonderful and everything Victor could ever want.

He knows things like how Yuuri is so much more beautiful than he had ever thought, than Victor will ever be able to come to terms with. A lovely, lovely, lovely creature of grace and stubbornness and contradictions, whose mouth rounds so perfectly around the words when he says, "I love you."

And Victor’s more than happy to surrender his heart to how hearing that makes him feel.

"Again," Victor says.

"I love you," Yuuri repeats, a near-gasp.

"More," Victor says, because he’s greedy and it’s Yuuri and it’s all or nothing.

"I love you," Yuuri says again, and Victor drinks it in, drinks in every lilt, every rise and dip of his voice. "I love you, I love you, I—"

No self-respecting art-house tragedy will end like this, with the main character kneeling in front of the love of his life, his feelings reciprocated and his happiness too much for even his own chest, content to just stay there, content to just be. It’s too unreal, the critics would say, too unlike the subject matter.

But this is real—Victor, Yuuri, the endless kisses between them.

Victor can’t ask for anything better, can renounce movies and escapist storylines instead, because this is it, not a solution, not a fix-it, but an answer: an answer that there is much more to life, to Victor’s world, and Yuuri is sitting right here representative of all of that, reachable, touchable, believable.

And if all he needs to do is stay, then it works out, because there is nothing else he’d rather do than be here, by Yuuri, nothing more he wants to do than to live loving him.

If relationships don’t come with a script, then neither does life; so it’s up to Victor how he wants this to end, how he wants to construct his post-credits scene, his happily ever after.

Only he’s not choosing an ending at all. This—happily kissing Yuuri in the light of the fireworks outside his window, kneeling in his own living room—is a fragment of something else, a fragment of something else that will keep rolling way past the credits, way past when no one’s in the theater watching anymore. A fragment of how he feels, a fragment of the choice he’s making, the choice he made four weeks ago. A beginning more than an ending, not just of a year, or a more stable relationship with Yuuri—but the beginning of the rest of his life, at twenty-eight years old.

He’s not choosing an ending at all, because it’s enough, for once, more than enough, to just choose to stay. To love.

And, maybe, to live.

Chapter Text

"Oh dear, they called you a sex symbol," Chris says, before half of Victor’s body has even made it past the office door. "I am frankly rather offended—"

"Chris," Victor says.

"Victor," Chris returns, feet propped up next to the huge bouquet sitting on Victor’s desk. He winks—which, as far as Christophe Giacometti goes, is probably as close to a hello as Victor is going to get today.

"Listen to this, yes?" He holds up a glossy magazine instead, giving Victor a better view of the colorful collage on the magazine front cover. "‘Is there anything Victor Nikiforov can’t do? For his next trick, the twenty-eight-year-old sex symbol—‘"

"Chris," Victor repeats.

"‘—announced late last month that he’ll be trying his hand at directing. The cinematographer is’—blah, blah, blah—screenplay finalized—yes, yes—principal cast members—boring, where is the gossip?" Chris clucks his tongue, accent smoothing shamelessly over the way he pronounces bo-ring and go-ssip. "Just when we thought Victor can’t surprise us any more, squee—" At this, Chris looks up, raising a delicate eyebrow. "I kid you not, my friend, s-q-u-e-e—is written right here."

"Maybe you could stop reading and spare both of us," Victor suggests.

"Don’t be ridiculous," Chris says, breezy. "I bought this for the promise of gossip about you and Yuuri."

Two and a half months of dating hasn’t helped discourage Victor’s complete and utter bias towards anything involving Yuuri, and because Chris knows this, has no problem making it clear he knows Victor better than anyone gives him credit for, he turns the page.

"Ah, here it is!" he says, like Victor isn’t on to him at all. "So many exclamation points—‘But that’s not all, ladies and gentlemen. The retired actor has also been making waves around the love circle with beau Yuuri Katsuki—’"

"Beau," Victor repeats, wistfully eyeing the bouquet between them.

"Beau," Chris agrees. He blinks fake innocent eyes at Victor. "Shall I stop?"

"Yes," Victor says. Then— "No."

And because he’s a good friend, Chris keeps reading. "Right, where was I—‘The two have been publicly inseparable since December last year—they’ve been attached at the hip from red carpets to televised awards shows, and been caught laughing, cuddling and flirting by excited paparazzi more times than any of us can count. There are videos upon videos of dances dedicated to the actor, from street to stage, in every angle one can imagine! Victor’s Instagram account itself has been a frequent participant in the constant outpour of couple pics—’"

Victor nods proudly.

"‘—which leads us to the question: is this all a press stunt?’"

"What," Victor says.

"On second thought, I don’t want to keep reading," Chris says, but he doesn’t turn the page, laying the magazine flat on Victor’s desk instead. "It—it talks about your reputation, and you being out of the limelight for so long, and—"

"Chris," Victor says, a third time, weary. He eyes the mess of blurry paparazzi photos and upside-down words. "Give me this magazine."

"To burn, I hope," Chris tells him. "You don’t want to read this."

"I don’t." Victor taps a finger against the desk. "But I might as well cut out those lovely pictures of me and Yuuri and make the most of the situation."

"They’re paparazzi photos," Chris points out, but he smiles and shakes his head, sliding the magazine over.

"Photos of me and my Yuuri are photos of me and my Yuuri," Victor sings cheerfully, folding the magazine primly before banishing it into a drawer. It falls right on top of an old non-finalized copy of the Love & Life screenplay. "What brings you here?"

"Someday you’ll have to accept that just because you don’t do it doesn’t mean there aren’t people who drop by just to say hello," Chris says. "But I came to ask if you have plans for Valentine’s Day."

"If I have plans today." Victor squints at his desk clock. "You’re asking me at seven at night on the actual day."

"I miscalculate timezones." Chris gets up to bother the coffee maker, as usual content not to ask for permission, if only just out of courtesy. "I was wondering if you’d like to go out to dinner with me and my beau."

Victor leans back on the chair. "A double date? You do those?"

"Only because you’re such a dear friend to me," Chris croons. "Is that a no? It’s a wonderful restaurant."

If there’s anything he and Chris have the most in common, it’s their taste in things like this, and Victor holds no doubt that the restaurant is as lovely as either of them would prefer on a romantic holiday. It’s probably three times as beautiful as anything Georgi could have imagined when he’d written up The List, and twice more expensive than any place Victor has taken anyone to.

For all those reasons, though, Victor says, "A nice offer, but we’ll have to take a rain check."

Chris, to his credit, doesn’t look surprised at all. "We, huh."

Victor will probably never stop wanting to shower Yuuri with luxuries; it’s instinct at this point, a need as primal as the urge to touch Yuuri whenever he can. He wants to give Yuuri good things, wants to bring Yuuri to good places, wants to see his face lit up by the best the world has to offer. The most beautiful things for the most beautiful boy, because it’s only right.

Victor also understands his relationship with Yuuri more than he’s understood most things in his life—understands that there’s no such thing as knowing it fully but it’s okay, understands that the principle of something, may it be a date or a gift or just the idea of their relationship, will always matter much less than what Yuuri would want, what would make him and Victor happy. Because relationships are subjective, even during worldwide concepts like Valentine’s Day.

"We," Victor echoes, getting up. His desk clock says 7:30 now. "Turn the lights off when you leave."

"Heading out already?"

Victor hums, picking up the bouquet.

Chris eyes him knowingly. "I was right, wasn’t I," he says, after an experimental sip of his stolen coffee. "He did drag you out of your little cocoon."

Victor affects a pout, but the deja vu of the situation isn’t lost on him—sitting in his office, Chris at the coffee maker, Yuuri in both their minds. "There was no cocoon."

Chris laughs, short but teasing. "Sure. Have fun."

"You, too," Victor returns solemnly, waddling towards the door with his bouquet. He’s just opened the door before he turns back, smiling. "Thank you, by the way."

Chris is good at what he does—but not quite perfect enough to be able to hide the flicker of surprise on his face at that. It could be about anything: about the invitation, about giving the magazine, about all the advice, about calling Yuuri that night Victor got drunk, about pushing Victor all those days ago towards Yuuri, in his own Chris way.

When Chris smiles back and says, "You’ve always been welcome," though—

—Victor knows he understands.

ꕤ

Victor had the the bouquet delivered to his office partly because he has a complicated relationship with the door man at Yuuri’s theater and partly because he still likes to prioritize surprising Yuuri, and it makes him giddy now, skipping up the steps to Yuuri’s dressing room, bouquet in hand, an old-fashioned gentleman visiting his love.

If he smiles a bit too brightly at the familiar faces of Yuuri’s castmates, he only gets bright smiles in return for it.

When he gets to Yuuri’s third floor room, though, Yuuri isn’t there.

Only his dressing roommate is: Minami, a younger dancer whose admiration of Yuuri makes Victor wistful for what could have been if Yuri Plisetsky had only listened to more boogie and less metal, and who looks at Yuuri with so much hearts and stars in his eyes that Victor’s not entirely sure if he should take it upon himself to inform Yuuri of the obvious small crush.

Victor can’t begrudge Minami for anything, though, mostly because Minami always stares at him like the only facet of his existence Minami cares about is the fact that he’s Yuuri’s boyfriend, and it always makes Victor feel smug and satisfied and like he’s finally realizing his true purpose in his life.

"Where did Yuuri run off to?"

Minami opens his mouth to answer, doing that thing he does where he looks at Victor like it wouldn’t matter if he had three heads, but he closes it as quickly, attuned to Yuuri’s voice—

—which carries to them from one flight of stairs down.

"—I have plans tonight, really, sorry," he’s saying. "Actual plans. Real plans."

He makes it sound like he regularly pretends to have other plans to get out of socializing, which Victor won’t put past Yuuri, and Yuuri’s conversation partner is understandably skeptical. "Pressing plans on a Tuesday night?"

"Valentine’s Day," Yuuri says, audibly helpless. "Plans with—my boyfriend."

Victor doesn’t stop himself from preening at that, the human counterpart of a peacock fluffing its own feathers, because there’s no Yuuri to roll his eyes at the gesture. Even if there was, though—

"Oh, it’s true, then?" the other person says, failing at hushing their own voice. "You’re dating Victor Nikiforov?"

"Yeah," Yuuri sighs, long-suffering and weary and the slightest bit amused. Like he’s heard this question so many times, and instead of being tired of answering, it’s managed to cure him of his own disbelief at the situation. Victor respects that. "Yeah, and you don’t want to bail on V-Day plans with Victor Nikiforov."

Victor’s still startled sometimes by how brusque Yuuri’s approach to socializing can be, and it takes him a few blinks and a few footsteps coming up the stairs to realize that Yuuri had dropped the conversation just like that, abrupt and without so much as a bye to who he was talking to.

It becomes apparent why soon enough, though, because when he rounds up the stairs, his face is red and his eyes distracted the way it is when he’s helpless against Phichit telling Victor embarrassing stories about Yuuri. There isn’t much room for it to get redder, but it manages, when Yuuri sees Victor leaning outside his dressing room, bouquet in hand.

"Hi," Victor says, because he’s cool and suave and a sex symbol.

"You heard that," Yuuri accuses, because he’s developed immunity to Victor’s words now, even if he hasn’t quite succeeded in doing the same to Victor’s actions. He still melts, when he reaches the top of the stairs and Victor pulls him by the waist for a kiss, careful not to jostle the flowers.

It’s short, because Yuuri has a more tried sense of self-preservation than Victor does. "Minami—"

"I was just heading downstairs," Minami squeaks, and then he’s gone, taking the stairs two steps at a time.

"That kid will run a marathon for you," Victor says, somber, carding through Yuuri’s hair while they watch Minami go. "I can’t decide if it’s sweet or—"

"You’re literally standing there with a Valentine’s Day bouquet, Victor," Yuuri says. "How was work?"

"Good," Victor chirps. "Yours?"

"Hectic," Yuuri says, but offers nothing else, stepping back to enter his dressing room. "You’re early."

"Chris was tormenting me in my office," Victor informs him. "He wanted to know if we were interested in a Valentine’s Day double date."

Yuuri hums—he’s been doing it so often lately, and in such a purposeful way that Victor’s sure it’s a habit Yuuri had involuntarily gotten from him. He glances briefly at the flowers before sitting down in front of his side of the shared dressing table. "What did we say?"

"We said maybe next time," Victor says, placing the bouquet right in front of Yuuri so he’s forced to confront it, to turn his dazed stare at it instead of at Victor through the glass. So his cheeks are forced to redden again, even as his mouth struggles to keep its tight line. "These flowers would have gone to waste, and we can’t have that."

It isn’t overtly fancy, with compromises being a thing Victor and Yuuri are getting better at, but it’s decently-sized, a cluster of white and red roses that is only acceptable in all its cliche glory, probably, because it’s Valentine’s Day and it’s Victor Nikiforov giving it.

"To be fair," Victor says, completely unapologetic, "I swear I only got you this because Phichit said so, when I asked him what I should get for his graduation gift."

Phichit isn’t graduating until April, which Victor is prepared to celebrate excessively—first, because the concept of going to college and graduating is to him both foreign and exciting, and second, because Yuuri doesn’t seem as likely to throw a surprise congratulatory party for Phichit. So Victor hadn’t said no, when Phichit slyly asked him to make his good on promise way back last December, to get Yuuri flowers.

He doesn’t regret it, either, because Yuuri thaws, softens so beautifully, as he runs a finger at the petals of the nearest rose. "Did he tell you to put more white roses than red ones, too?"

Victor’s eyebrows scrunch together of their own accord, confused. "No, he said it was up to me."

That has a smile blooming on Yuuri’s face, a laugh forming on his pretty mouth. "Of course he did," he says, before, quietly: "Thank you."

Victor beams—beams even as he thinks, distantly, that maybe he’d declined Chris’ invitation precisely because he’s just a greedy sap. Precisely because even now, he stills wants to treasure Yuuri and his expressions, and to keep them to himself.

He presses a kiss against Yuuri’s welcome mouth, delicate. Yuuri accepts it, one hand skittering up across Victor’s jaw to angle the kiss until their lips slot together nicely, hotly, beautifully.

Victor can act on these wants as he wishes, even if he still delights on this freedom like a giddy schoolgirl in her first relationship. It’s a delightful process, each time, revelling in the fact that he’s allowed to want and want and want, to surrender to Yuuri everything that he’s wanted to give, the very first time those bright eyes had looked at him and sparked something in Victor’s chest.

"I changed my mind," Victor decides against Yuuri’s lips. "We’re not going out tonight. I will take you home and we will—"

"I’m not giving up a free movie," Yuuri says, firm in a way that shouldn’t be sweet and fond but is because it’s Yuuri.

"It’s a Baz Lurhmann movie we’re seeing," Victor points out.

Yuuri blinks at him, remorseless. "Yeah, aren’t you excited? You said Moulin Rouge is classic romantic cinema."

"We’ll watch a movie some other time," Victor promises. "We’ll watch a movie at my place."

Watching a movie with Yuuri outside a very public cinema, nowadays, usually ends with one of them on top of the other, minimal clothes on and mouths and bodies hot. Yuuri, ever graceful, doesn’t point that out, says, instead, "You don’t even have a usable TV."

"Yours, then."

"I danced in front of an audience for this, Victor."

Victor pouts, leaning back to push his back against Yuuri’s dressing table. "I thought you did it for me."

"You thought wrong." Victor’s getting used to this, too, to reading the affection and devotion and love in Yuuri’s eyes that has always been there, if Victor hadn’t been so busy looking strictly for acceptance all of December. "I did it for the promise of a free movie. You know I love movies."

"Oh, yes, your love for movies." Victor bites at a smile. "Any particular favorite actors? Perhaps someone you had multiple posters of?"

"Victor," Yuuri sighs, reddening deeply.

"Perhaps posters that you tore down the first night that this someone came over," Victor continues, because Yuuri’s shy embarrassment is a delight even without Phichit as a present ally, "tricking that someone into thinking you just liked to maintain a minimalist aesthetic in your bedroom."

"You were drunk the first time you were in there," Yuuri points out, pout pink.

"Don’t change the subject, love," Victor tells him cheerily.

"That’s my line," Yuuri says. "We’re going to this free movie."

Victor laughs, because he can, because he wants to, for no particular reason, and he knows when he’s lost a fight. He hardly ever wins anything, with Yuuri, because he’s weak to everything and anything about Yuuri Katsuki, and it’s a fact he should have accepted much longer ago. He goes to stand behind Yuuri instead, staring at their reflection.

If Victor's life was indeed a movie, the latter years of his acting career would have been a disaster of one. The script would have been out of sync with what's happening on screen, too many jump cuts, too many moments of unnecessary silence. The post-production people slipping, losing their hold on what needs to be left edited in and what needs to be taken out. The cinematography is off, ugly colors and inconsistent shots.

A long shot would have shown Victor in a huge pool, a floating dot in an endless sea of chlorinated water, so very lost, so very alone.

Now it’s this: he and Yuuri side-by-side, staring at their reflections and yet still finding each other, making eye contact so thoughtlessly because it’s not an option to look away from each other.

"I still want to hear you say it, though," Victor says.

Yuuri frowns, still slightly red, leaning back into the hand Victor places on his shoulder. "You’re going to get sick of hearing me call you my first love at some point."

"But you’re mine, too, Yuuri," Victor says, feels Yuuri shiver against his hand. "And I’ll never get sick of telling myself—or the world—that."

Yuuri watches Victor’s reflection for a long moment. "Did something happen?"

Victor decides if he shouldn’t bring it up, after all. He does. "A magazine thinks we’ve been dating for this long because it’s a publicity stunt."

Yuuri’s frown deepens. "Right, because I’m Mr. Popularity."

"You’ve got your fair share of fans," Victor says, brushing a thumb against Yuuri’s nape. "You would know if you made an Instagram account."

"Victor," Yuuri says. "Thank you."

Victor blinks. "For the flowers?"

"Yeah," Yuuri says. "And for—you know."

Victor smiles. "I don’t."

Yuuri takes a moment. "For choosing me," he eventually says, pushing it out. He makes a face soon after, and Victor widens his smile.

"You left me no choice, really," he says. "My Cinderella."

"I take it back," Yuuri immediately announces. "These one-liners need to stop."

Victor widens his eyes, too. "But isn’t that what you fell in love with me for?"

"No," Yuuri says shortly.

"Was it my hot chocolate making skills?"

"It was your dog," Yuuri tells him, flat, but he pulls Victor down for a kiss.

You know, Mila had said, jokingly chivalrous, you have to fight for love.

It’s not quite a quest to save a member of the royal family, or a Romeo + Juliet mafia situation, or even anything big, impossible. It was just a retired actor, still only coming to terms with the depth of what Yuuri says is his loneliness. Just a retired actor seeing a spark of life in a twenty-four-year-old dancer, and realizing there’s music and beauty in life past contrived worlds and the stability of certainty.

Just Victor, and Yuuri.

And Victor will fight for this, every time.

Later, while they sit in a packed movie theatre with couples mooning over Moulin Rouge!, Victor will smile at the way Yuuri’s face scrunches up at the opening scene. Victor will smile and move the armrest so Yuuri can rest against him, and when Ewan McGregor sings, murmuring "The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return," Victor will kiss the top of Yuuri’s head and quietly agree with Baz Lurhmann.

He was lying, maybe, when he said that Yuuri gave him no choice. Yuuri did. He’d told Victor before that love, for him, is a step-by-step process that has to be chosen, and Victor had. He’d chosen Yuuri, because Yuuri had allowed him that choice. He’ll keep choosing Yuuri.

He’ll keep choosing this.

The world—the press, media, fans, everything that has defined Victor—will just have to wait and see and be proven wrong.

ꕤ

Victor likes routines.

He realizes now that it’s not quite because he wants things to be under his control; he likes, in fact, the opposite. He likes being surprised. And it’s the same logic, because as easy as it is to surprise people when he knows their routines, he’s easy to surprise, too, when he’s caught up in day-to-day cycles.

One day, it’s calling Yakov to ask about something simple that he’ll be yelled at for. Another day, it’s proudly making dinner for Yuuri, Phichit happily pretending Victor hadn’t had to ask him how to work their oven. One day, it’s sitting front row to watch his boyfriend perform. Another day, it’s sitting across from an interviewer and trying his best not to bring up Yuuri again when they’ve moved on to talk about Love & Life.

It’s hard to appreciate new things, novel things, after all, unless you’ve felt what it’s like to be caught in stasis, stagnant and stuck and tired.

As it is, Victor’s slowly forgetting what that felt like. It’s surprises and uncertainty and contentment most days now, always unsure, always surprised by Yuuri, by other things.

But happy. Very, very much happy.

Victor likes routines, and by extension, he likes facts.

Here are the facts Victor has learned, about himself, about love, about life:

1. It isn’t as easy as he’d thought, being himself. It had been easy, because he’d been used to it, so accustomed that even the wildest things were ordinary, for and to the life he’d been living. But other lives and other selves exist, and Victor’s working his way through each new thing determined to come out of it like he’d come out of most things—through sincerity and hard work, even if love for his craft and his old life is something he has to rediscover and reevaluate. But Yuuri helps, and so does Phichit and the many DVDs they have shared between them, and Victor learns to detach himself from the one thing he’s let define him up until now, and it feels good. Not perfect, not quite right yet, but it’s comfortable in ways he’s never felt before.
2. Love isn't always perfect—it isn't always pretty words and fairytales, not always stars and sunshine. It's never on either end of one spectrum, never perfect all the time, maybe, but it didn't have to be heartbreaking, either, to be romantic. Romance, after all, is just a feeling associated with love—not love itself, not like the one Victor is filled with, nowadays, warm and beautiful.
3. Life continues. He's twenty-eight with too many forty-year-old worries, but life moves on—moves on from the life he'd thought he'd locked himself into when he was seven. There's so much he would miss, if he kept getting wrapped up around concepts like past and future. For now, there’s the present, and the brightness that comes with his everyday, with his Yuuri, and he’s thankful enough to understand, reading through the Love & Life screenplay, why the protagonist is so eager for his two important Ls.

It’s the thought he falls asleep and wakes up to: that he keeps experiencing new emotions through Yuuri, that sometimes he’s overwhelmed with so much love that it hurts to wake up to Yuuri’s sleeping face, to be able to roll over and nuzzle against his shoulder. But he accepts it, accepts that this is what it feels like, maybe, to be alive with the idea that he’s more than he thought he was, that life is as huge as he thought it was, and it isn’t too late to go from there.

In Stammi Vicino, Victor had played a pianist seeking true love, and he understands that, understands the want to chase, the frustration when he yields no results. He understands what it’s like to want the idea of something so badly that it aches, to search for something and not want to give up only because it gave him direction, to want and to search. He understands that idealism, the dependence on it, even, no matter how hard realism tries to get rid of it.

But maybe, maybe, Victor isn’t the pianist in Stammi Vicino at all, not the Prince Charming searching for who the shoe will fit—maybe he's not the one seeking, all this time, just the one waiting to be found.

And Yuuri had.

It isn’t perfect, the journey to how they got where they are now, how they’ll get to where they’re going, but Victor feels grounded, tethered, found.

Most of all, he feels alive underneath and despite and because of everything else, and it’s fine.

It took him twenty-eight years, but he has much longer than that to go with Yuuri by his side, and as far as movies and stories and romances go—

This one is, no doubt, the only happily ever after Victor could ever need.