Work Text:
Maybe a lot of Japanese people believe the stereotype of foreigners all being demonstrative verging on inappropriate, but Yuuri has lived in America and traveled the world for competitions since he'd turned eighteen. He knows that some cultures are more touch-oriented, but most people respect Yuuri's Japanese sensibilities and restrain themselves.
Victor does not. And, oddly, it seems just with Yuuri. Or if he's caressing anyone else's face while staring deeply into their eyes, he's not doing it where Yuuri can see. But since Yuuri had fled from the sudden touches – which he's pretty darn sure are not merely a cultural thing – Victor seemed to have tamped down on them.
So when Yuuri gets back to the hotel on the first of May, bearing sacks of take-out curry from the restaurant just down the hill, he is completely unprepared for the onslaught.
"I'm home," he says, kicking the door shut because his arms are completely full.
"Welcome back!" Victor carols, bounding into the entryway with Makkachin at his heels.
When he moves into Yuuri's space, at first Yuuri thinks he's going to take the two enormous bags of food so Yuuri can get his shoes off. Instead, soft, warm hands slide into his hair and hold him still as Victor pecks first his right cheek, then his left, then plants a light, fleeting kiss on Yuuri's lips.
It happens so quickly, Yuuri barely has time to feel his stomach flip over before he's taking a step back, and Victor easily releases his hold. Makkachin, however, has got behind Yuuri, and he nearly falls over the dog. Only Victor's timely grab at his arms, which are still wrapped around the take-out bags, saves him from ending up bathed in curry.
"Oh, careful there," Victor says. His nose and cheeks are flushed, and his shapely pink mouth forms a wide, merry grin. He squeezes Yuuri's biceps. "Happy Paskha! Xristos Voskrese!"
Victor's breath carries a sharp whiff of alcohol. Yuuri can taste shochu, and that's when he realizes he's just licked his lips. Because Victor kissed him. Victor is drunk and kissed him and – and –
And Victor Nikiforov just stole Yuuri's first kiss.
"What the–" Victor, even when drunk, apparently still has amazing reflexes, because he manages to catch the bags as they slip from Yuuri's arms. "Seriously, Piglet, be more careful. If you spilled this all, you'd just have to run back and get more."
He turns then, humming to himself and weaving only a little, for all intents and purposes oblivious to the shell-shocked and tomato-red Yuuri, who gapes after him as he carries the food to the waiting hungry hordes. After a moment, Yuuri's knees give out and his sinks to the floor.
Yuuri ends up skipping dinner in favor of holing up in his room to google Russian kissing traditions. That 'Happy Paskha!' comment adds a bit of helpful context, and he reads up on Russian Orthodox Easter traditions, one of which is, in fact, a non-sexual triple-kiss called the 'kiss of peace.' Relief, disappointment, and unmitigated confusion whirl in his chest in equal parts.
His first kiss. To Victor. Because Russia.
Which is so literally incredible, for a number of reasons.
Yuuri is twenty-four, so most people would have assumed he'd at least kissed somebody by now. But Yuuri is also anxious, shy, and has been wrapped up in his skating and training for more than half his life. When he was in America, with its much more permissive attitude towards sexuality, he'd come to terms with the fact that he was bisexual, but that didn't automatically open up any real opportunity for him to explore that part of himself.
Yuuri's crush on Yuko had been his shield, in a way. None of the girls he'd met could spark his interest more than his carried torch. And given his issues with culture shock, his studies, his training, and his competitions, pursuing any kind of male interest had just seemed like more trouble than it was worth. No point making all that stress worse by maintaining a double life.
Despite the common assumption that male figure skaters are often gay as maypoles, competitive figure skating is still a sport, and one steeped in traditional gender roles. Dainty women glide with serene femininity in tiny, sparkling outfits, and men portray masculinity with far less sparkles and more pants. Even in America, hardly anyone in the sport had ever come out of the closet, and certainly not to their sponsors or, god forbid, the public which would include the anonymous judges. Judges who were almost entirely unaccountable and held athletes' careers in their hands. Skaters might be out among their friends and even coaches and colleagues, but not out at large without risking everything.
And Victor was from Russia. Russia, now infamous worldwide for its steps backwards in the fight for LGBT equality and acceptance. And somehow, there is Victor, who has never stated any preference, but is so blatantly gay it amazes Yuuri that the KGB didn't resurrect itself to take him away for re-education.
Pieces of the puzzle fall into place. Assuming a few things – safe assumptions by Yuuri's reckoning – he starts to see why Victor has shown up out of the blue.
Bored of winning, contemplating how to surprise an audience too used to him to be surprised any longer, stifled by what must be a hostile environment to any queer person, Victor had been looking for any excuse to leave. And wasn't it surprising that the guy who'd sucked so much last season could pull off Victor's own program? And wouldn't it shock the skating world to see Victor drop everything to train that guy? And Victor, whim-driven but never less than calculating, decided that Japan's stifling societal prohibitions were less of a problem than Russia's draconian legal ones.
Ergo, that kiss – Yuuri's first kiss – was just because Victor can, now. He can flirt, if not openly because of the sports closet then at least without risking his safety. It's Victor teasing Yuuri, too, rattling his cage yet again.
And while it definitely is unprofessional behavior, Yuuri doesn't feel like he's being sexually harassed. He knows that if he wanted Victor to stop, he'd tell him so, even if it meant forfeiting the opportunity to have the man as his coach. He might not be the most confident skater, but he's not spineless in general.
But he doesn't think he really wants it to stop. He's not holding out hopes. The last time he had done that, Yuko had married Takeshi. He knows better now.
He can't believe Victor Nikiforov stole his first kiss. Huddled under his blankets, Yuuri realizes he's rubbing his thumb repeatedly over his lips, which tingle belatedly as butterflies swarm in his empty stomach.
It had been a cultural thing, he tells himself. Because Victor would never – not seriously.
But in all those descriptions of the 'kiss of peace' he'd read, all three were supposed to go on the cheeks.