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The coffee table was littered with crumpled tissues and at least three separate beverages on mismatched coasters, a graveyard of Viktor’s emotions as he stared, heartbroken, at his television. The tub of moose tracks ice cream in his lap was half-melted, and each scoop he tried to pick up slipped through the prongs of his fork. He really could not get any more pathetic if he tried, but he seemed to have hijacked the Emotional Stability Express and was driving it full steam ahead towards Hot Mess Station.
Yuri Plisetsky had his legs thrown over the armrest of his chair, gaze blank and entirely unamused.
“You’re a fucking disaster.”
Viktor had the gall to look as if Yuri had just killed his dog. “It’s a sad movie!”
Yuri rolled his eyes, throwing his head back to stare at the ceiling. “You were a disaster before I even came over! Look at you, what the hell are you doing?”
Viktor’s response through his mouthful of sticky ice cream sounded like “mssfgh wdgh flmp,” which Yuri decided to interpret as “I’m abandoning my diet in the middle of my season because I have no self-control and have decided to be a complete drama queen, yet again.”
“You’re an embarrassment, is what you are. To yourself, to me for having to associate with you, to skating, to motherfucking Russia.” Yuri was fed up. “So what, he didn’t call. There are other fish in the sea! He was an ugly fish, anyway.”
Viktor started to tear up, and suddenly Yuri was hit with the suspicion that maybe one of – if not all – of those mysterious beverages was vodka. He did not have the patience to deal with a drunk and hysterical mess.
The last two weeks had included Viktor slowly slipping further into despair as it became increasingly more obvious that no, the Japanese Yuuri was not going to call. After their impromptu dance showcase at the Sochi GPF banquet, which was completely horrible and not even a little entertaining, no matter what everyone kept saying, Yuri had been forced to listen to Viktor’s every attempt to regale him with the details of the evening, from waxing poetic about the exact shade of honey-brown of Yuuri’s eyes to a pitch for a new television show called “Pole Dancing With The Stars.” Yuri assumed it would be gross and sexual and only an excuse for Viktor to get into Katsuki’s pants. Nevermind that Yuri had been there the entire time and had seen the whole thing, and therefore did not need a recap – he just would not shut up about the whole ordeal.
Yakov was too old and grumpy to put up with Viktor, Mila and Georgi only encouraged his dramatics, and no one else was even worth mentioning because honestly, if you weren’t spending hours a day on the ice, you weren’t relevant in Viktor’s life.
So poor, poor Yuri had to be the voice of reason. He had approached Viktor calmly and had politely asked if there was a time that they could talk, securing an invitation to his apartment after practice so he could knock some sense into him.
(What he had really done was thrown his arms up in frustration and announced that he was coming over for dinner after Viktor had tried to show him another video of Katsuki in the middle of practice.)
When Yuri had arrived, Viktor had already started watching whatever godawful romantic drama was playing and began lamenting the fact that Yuri hadn’t had the foresight to bring any spoons.
Fucking adults, man. Weren’t they supposed to be the mature ones?
Viktor’s apartment was something that you’d see in a catalogue somewhere, a perfect amalgamation of tasteful artwork and chic furniture. On various side tables were vases filled with flowers or random fruits, and Yuri could practically hear Viktor saying that the room had just needed a pop of color. The only hints visible upon entering that Viktor actually lived there were the obscene number of books carefully shelved around his living room, a few bookmarks clearly visible in the ones left out, and the fact that the man himself was sitting with his knees to his chest under a blanket on the couch. Yuri didn’t even see any dog hair anywhere.
“Look.” Yuri averted his gaze as Viktor dabbed at his cheeks with another tissue. “You need to suck it up. Who even knows why he didn’t call? It could be any number of reasons, you shouldn’t take it personally.”
Viktor pouted and shoveled another forkful of that disastrous sludge into his face. “Bn uh rrnny lmmd mm,” which obviously translated to “Of course, Yuri, you are so brilliant and also going to break all of my records. I will forget about the name thief immediately.”
Viktor swallowed, continuing, “I just don’t understand what I did. I’m the top skater in the world, I’m beautiful, I have the world’s most adorable dog… what about me made it to where he wouldn’t call?”
Yuri shrugged. “Maybe it’s because you’re annoying, or balding, or he thinks you’re too short.”
Viktor gasped, offended, and pointed his dripping utensil-of-hell at Yuri. “I am six. feet. tall.”
Yuri looked him up and down, not that there was much to look at. He guessed 5’10. “Keep telling yourself that, idiot.”
Viktor muscled through his emotional slump well enough to completely dominate Russian Nationals once again, which really was not a surprise to anyone. Yuri was starting to think that he had made some weird deal with the devil in his young adulthood that secured him unlimited gold medals, no matter how preoccupied he was with being completely infuriating.
Once they were back in Saint Petersburg, Viktor showed up to practice with a grin and a brand new magazine with his face splashed across the front cover. One of those special editions, it appeared, featuring interviews and basic statistics about the oldest fucking fossil in figure skating.
“Yura! Look.” Viktor thrust the magazine, open to a page featuring more pictures of him, towards Yuri.
Yuri looked down at it, then back up. “Cool,” he said, and continued lacing up his skates.
“No, no, you have to read it!”
Maybe one of these days, a rogue hockey puck would hit him in the head and put him out of his misery. Unfortunately, that day was not today. Yuri grabbed the magazine.
It was very basic stuff, really. Information on Viktor’s favorite movies, whether his hair color is natural, what skate boots he uses. Boring things that any media outlet had run a million times before.
Yuri was saving this bit of information for blackmail purposes, but months ago he had snooped through Viktor’s bathroom cabinets and found a bottle of what looked to be hair toner. Now, it wasn’t exactly the same thing as dye, but he was still certain that Viktor would never want such things to reach the public. In every single article he had read, including the one in his hands, Viktor had definitely made his hair a point of pride even after stupidly cutting it all off.
“Why does it say you’re six feet tall?” Is what Yuri ends up asking.
“Because I am!” Viktor pointed emphatically at a small text box on the page. “But that’s not what matters, look here.”
Yuri raised an eyebrow. “It says you’re single.”
Winking, Viktor grinned, “exactly. And now, everyone will know that.”
“With the way that you’ve been carrying on lately, I think everyone is already very much aware.”
Viktor stopped grinning. “This is an internationally distributed magazine. It goes everywhere, in multiple languages. I’ve always avoided commenting on my relationship status, but now…”
It clicked. “Oh my god, are you still trying to get fucking Katsuki to call you??”
“Well now he really has no excuse! He knows I’m single and I’m interested! Look, right here I said that I like traveling.” Viktor took the magazine and flipped the page before handing it back, tapping a spot towards the top. “Get it? Japan is far away.”
“You are an absolute idiot.”
Viktor continued trying to drop these hints, whether it was liking photos of onsens on Twitter or telling a journalist that he had been considering taking a dance class. It was so obviously a waste of time, but at least it kept him hopeful and not crying into a quart of slow-churned ice cream.
When he finally figured out that Katsuki hadn’t qualified for Worlds and the hypothetical reunion he had been looking forward to was now completely out of the question, he went a whole week without posting on Instagram or Twitter. Yuri was surprised he hadn’t taken to wearing solely black to communicate that he was in a state of mourning.
Oh well. At least things could get back to normal and Viktor would finally choreograph that short program he had promised. Worlds went as expected, another gold for the legend, and time went on.
At any mention of Katsuki’s name, Viktor would only shrug, face near-expressionless, before changing the subject to whatever he felt was worthy of talking about instead. It was the same story as always, Viktor never allowing anyone to remain in his life for long. When Yuri finally asked if he was over his obsession, Viktor had only answered with a nod and an inquiry into his own love life. Which ew, gross, and was also none of his fucking business.
And then he got on a plane to Japan, and Yuri promptly remembered that Viktor Nikiforov was 1.) completely unaware of when to quit, 2.) a hopeless romantic, and 3.) the biggest fucking five-foot-ten-inch liar ever.
Japan was humid and the air felt heavy in his lungs, the sort of damp heat that made everything seem thick and slow. Mist would roll in in the mornings, sometimes, laying atop the town like a thin blanket in a way that reminded Yuri of the fog that curled through the streets of Saint Petersburg around dawn.
It was kind of nice, even if it was different. The food was good and the hot springs were relaxing, and Katsudon didn’t treat him like a kid. He was quiet and thoughtful without being so shy that he wasn’t good company, asking Yuri questions about skating as if he was an expert worthy of learning from.
He wasn’t sobbing in a bathroom stall this time around, which was a plus as far as Yuri was concerned. And he was definitely a far-cry from the man Yuri had seen all those months ago at the banquet, remaining respectful and reserved even while Viktor did everything he possibly could to stir up trouble.
It was admirable, honestly.
Yuri knew that he wouldn’t stay forever. Viktor had promised to return to Russia with him if he won Onsen On Ice, but after watching him completely forget about the short program he had been supposed to choreograph for him, Yuri had stopped giving much weight to Viktor’s promises.
It wasn’t that he was trying to screw over Katsudon by taking Viktor away, even if that’s how the worse-Yuuri seemed to view it. Viktor would not be a good coach, especially not for a little ball of nerves like Katsudon, and he needed to be brought back to Russia where Yakov could yell some semblance of responsibility into him. So, once again, Yuri had to be the sensible one.
They’d theoretically go back to Russia – if Viktor actually had been truthful about the stakes of the competition – once he won.
They had dinner together every evening, made by Katsudon’s mother a vast majority of the time, and had somehow decided on playing cards before heading off to bed for the night. The banquet room Viktor was staying in had become a nice place for them to discuss their programs and spend a bit of time together, and had now become the site of their Go-Fish showdown.
Yuri had never played this game before, but it was much simpler than the poker that he had always enjoyed. Apparently Katsudon had learned this game while he was off at university in the States, and Yuri wondered what it would be like for him to try and go to university.
Viktor was losing horribly, with far fewer pairs on the table in front of him than either of the Yuris had, and was trying to distract them from the game by talking about the upcoming season. Discussions about their outfits for Onsen on Ice melded into what the theme for their seasons could be, Viktor giving his opinions on anything he possibly could.
“I always really liked your Stammi Vicino costume, you know.” Yuuri set down his cards as he glanced up at Viktor, as if this was some kind of confession.
They were so disgusting. Everyone knew about Katsudon’s posters and Viktor Nikiforov obsession, it was the worst kept secret in the skating world. Yuri was pretty sure fans had started gifting him Viktor’s merch when he had started skating on an international stage.
Viktor lit up, abandoning his cards as well. “Really? It would look nice on you!”
Yuuri blushed as Viktor continued. “We should find a reason for you to wear it. I mean, of course it’ll be too big, and alterations seem pointless when we could just get a new one made… maybe a different color that compliments you better…”
“Oh! No, that’s okay– I don’t need that.” Yuuri shook his head and waved off Viktor’s suggestions. “That’s your costume!”
“Ah, that old thing? I didn’t even care about that routine. I liked your version more.”
Liar. Viktor had poured his heart and soul into that aria, Yuri had watched him enough at practice to see how much he cared about it. He always looked breathless, after, in a way that had nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with the fact that he left a piece of himself on the ice after every performance.
“But we could match!” Viktor had scooted closer to poor Katsudon and was trying to hug onto him.
Yuri jumped in, determined to end this ridiculous debate and get back to destroying them in the game. “Just give him your fucking costume, old man. If you’re coaching now it’s not like you need it.”
Katsudon looked horrified at the idea that Viktor was done with competitions for good. Yuri ignored him, saying “It probably doesn’t even need much adjusting anyway. You’re barely taller.”
“I am much taller!” Viktor argued, still holding onto Yuuri. “I am six feet tall!”
Yuuri turned to look at him. “No, you’re five-eleven.”
“I think he’s five-ten,” Yuri shrugged.
Katsudon had this look of certainty in his eyes that Yuri had only ever seen in the context of him accepting a challenge. “He’s five-eleven, Yurio. I’d bet anything on it.”
Viktor had slumped onto the table, head resting on his arms. “Why does no one ever believe me?”
Katsudon patted his shoulder and stood, leaving the room. Yuri sat awkwardly, rearranging his sets of cards on the table so the edges lined up perfectly.
When the supposed height-expert returned, it was with a measuring tape. “Come on, stand up.”
Viktor looked up, saw what he was holding, and froze. “That seems unnecessary.”
Katsudon looked at him expectantly. Yuri could’ve burst out laughing, right then. It had been forever since Viktor had looked genuinely intimidated, and now it was by a yellow measuring tape and the anxious sweater-enthusiast who wielded it.
“Get the fuck up.” Yuri moved to stand next to Viktor, who was pointedly looking down at his cards and not at either of them.
After some more encouragement, which Katsudon referred to as “threatening him,” which he said he “didn’t think was the best idea,” Viktor stood against the wall of the banquet room while Yuuri pulled the measuring tape up from the floor, marking the space along the top of Viktor’s head with a pencil.
With how close they were standing, nearly chest to chest as Katsudon stretched on his tiptoes, Yuri felt like he needed to leave the room. He couldn’t wait to get back to Russia, at this point.
“Five feet, eleven inches, exactly.” Yuuri announced smugly. “I told you.”
Viktor, still staring at goddamn Katsudon, finally looked away to hang his head in defeat. “You two cannot tell anyone.”
Yuri immediately pulled out his phone and tweeted it.