Chapter Text
The internet is on fire.
When Viktor announced he would be returning for Nationals in just over two weeks, the whole collective that is skating fans lost their minds.
Fan forums exploded with speculation and rumors, and I heard, and I hope, and do you think…
And Viktor is assiduously avoiding all of it.
His publicist is on him to post a teaser video of his choreography— to ride the anticipation.
Except, he can't.
Because he's skating about as well as he did when he was ten and pretending he hadn't broken his elbow, falling out of an axel that he was expressly told not to attempt.
That ruse lasted about three minutes before he lost his balance trying to do a double salchow, fell over, and threw up. And now, he's jumping about like that again, thankfully minus the vomit.
He hasn't landed a clean quad flip since he got home.
In the last few months, he had been so focused on Yuuri, and he didn't need quads to do a couple's exhibition skate, so… it's been a while. And his knees don't work the way they did three surgeries ago.
But none of that matters because World Champion Viktor Nikiforov's skating is supposed to be effortless. People like believing that. He is a magical skating prince— the perfect combination of elegance, power, perfection, and sparkle. It's easy and beautiful. One reporter even called it ethereal.
And Viktor hasn't slept in four days.
The real problem is that he forgot he used to live like this.
He wakes up from another stress dream that night, the same way he always used to, with the images burned into his mind in foggy, half-forgotten patches— all abstract color and vivid dread.
He stares out at his quiet apartment, with its white ceiling and blank walls, and the stillness feels too calm compared to where he just was.
He feels out of place. Fake. How could he not?
His whole world is made up of people just talking. Fans talking about how good he needs to be. His subconscious thinking up fake scenarios to torture him with. He's given his whole life to be good at a dance someone made up rules for.
And if he fails to live up to their expectations? Nothing really happens. The world will just toss him out and move on with their real lives.
And he did it to himself. He could have chosen to retire, but he didn't, and now he can't. He's stuck lying here in a bed that feels deafeningly empty because he left Yuuri in Japan to come back to this.
And now everyone is talking about his earth-shattering comeback, but he's the only one actually expected to produce something earth-shattering.
Viktor's life is nothing more than a rickety playhouse made of sticks, and it's his job to stop it from blowing over.
And he feels desperately alone. Hollow. Pretend.
After living like this for over a decade, Viktor had been used to it. Some would say he managed to thrive in it.
But then there was Yuuri.
Yuuri with his firm hugs and soft giggle. Yuuri, who helped him rebuild the hollowed-out parts of himself. Who knew how to peel Viktor open until he was exposed and vulnerable, just so he could whisper how much he loved him directly into his heart.
And the transition from that back to this? It nearly rips his skin off.
So now, here he is. Staring at the white ceiling.
None of this would be happening if he'd just stayed in Japan. None of this giant, mushy, ticking-time-bomb, looming failure mess he pretends is a life.
Logically, he understands that he's only on his own for two more weeks until Yuuri finishes his own Nationals and flies over with Makka.
But will it feel the same? There was magic in that little banquet hall turned bedroom that Viktor can't imagine ever being here.
This room has never known magic. Just a man pretending to have it.
Viktor wants to call Yuuri.
He wants to hear his fiancé promise that everything will be okay.
But he can't—because he can't promise that—and because Yuuri’s scheduled to be on the ice right now. And let's not forget, Viktor abandoned him to prep for a major competition without a coach. The same competition where, last year, he got so spectacularly anxious that he fell out of every jump and placed eleventh.
Interrupting his practice would be selfish. Even more selfish than Viktor’s already being. No, Yuuri has real problems—ones that aren't just Viktor feeling a little needy—because he's sending Yuuri back to that alone.
Blayd.
He's doomed them both to failure.
Viktor never falls back asleep. He pinches his eyes closed and adjusts his pillow, but his brain won't let go. Instead, he just tosses and turns— a little too hot, then a little too cold, jaw tense, lonely, guilty, anxious— until the sunrise finally gives him permission to get up.
He finds brief respite in his morning coffee before it's off to the rink to skate like an injured amateur. Only to come home and let his dreams rake him over the coals again. Rinse and repeat.
The glamorous life of a skating prince.
***
The dreams get worse. More specific. More cruel. Five days later, he wakes up from a full-blown nightmare with his heart pounding in his throat, cold sweat congealing on the back of his neck, paralyzed on his mattress.
A rogue tear burns a path from the corner of his eyes, down his temple.
He just wants to run away, pack a bag, and book a flight home.
But he also desperately wants these programs to be great, the best ones he's ever done.
For years, he's put routines together to maximize points. This one, he put together because he liked it. It's sweet, and it's him, and it's inspired by Yuuri.
And it's about to be his only non-medaling performance in a decade.
So, when the sun rises, he gets up like normal and does it all again.
At the rink, everyone seems to be walking on kind-hearted eggshells around him. His rink mates wave and tell him he looks great. They ask him how he liked Japan. Yurio scowls, but even he doesn't dare comment that the great Viktor Nikiforov can't seem to do his signature jump anymore, or any jump for that matter. For some reason, that makes it all so much worse.
He's in the middle of his warmup when Yakov barks across the ice, "Vitya, come here." Which is never good. If Yakov needs to say something, and he thinks it can't be shouted, you're fucked.
Viktor shrinks over to the older man, trying to read the expression on his face and getting absolutely nothing.
"What's wrong?" The coach asks when he stops in front of the boards.
"Nothing."
"Vitya, you're a terrible liar."
He feels a pang in his heartstrings. Yuuri always tells him that, too. The truth is, he just never fully commits to lying. Part of him always wants someone to see through him to the truth.
"I just haven't been sleeping well, that's all." Viktor examines a loose thread on his glove. Yakov has been taking care of him for years. He knows exactly what not sleeping well means.
"Are you still having your nightmares?"
"Da…. Well, not really still." He fiddles with the thread and firmly avoids eye contact. "They stopped for a little while, but they're back now, so… yes, I guess still." He's babbling. Only Yakov can make him babble.
"When did they stop?" The coach prompts, not unkindly. He doesn't seem to mind that Viktor won't look at him; it makes it easier.
"Last summer."
"When you were in Japan?"
"Yes."
"And when did they start again?"
"Just over a week ago."
"When you got back here?"
"…yes."
"I see," is all he says.
***
It's a week until Japanese Nationals start, and Viktor has graduated from Useless Icon to Useless Coach. It's been three days since he reviewed any of the practice footage that Yuuri so thoughtfully sent him.
So tonight, he starts cramming as soon as he gets home from practice and is ready to FaceTime Yuuri the second he gets to Ice Castle.
But the other man must have snoozed his alarm, because he answers the call sprawled in bed. He's wearing a sleepy smile, covers pulled up to his chest, and Makkachin sharing his pillow.
It's an achingly perfect picture.
"Mmmshi moshi."
"Good morning, sleeping beauty."
"Hmmm."
Early sunlight is pouring into Yuuri's room, filling the screen with an inviting, warm glow. By comparison, Viktor's apartment feels like a dank cave.
"You're making me sleepy just looking at you."
"I can't believe you're awake right now." Yuuri scrubs his face with his non-phone hand. "It's way past your bedtime over there."
"You have ruined my bedtime."
He chuckles, and the sound reverberates, warm and relaxing, through the speaker.
"I caught up on your practice footage. I was going to call and give you notes, but someone is sleeping in." Viktor makes his best disapproving coach face.
"My ice time isn't until this afternoon."
He furrows his brows. "It's Tuesday. You have morning ice time on Tuesday."
"It's Wednesday." Yuuri yawns.
No, it's— Blayd. A rock plummets into Viktor's stomach, heavy with guilty realization.
It's Tuesday in Russia. Wednesday in Japan. How could he mess that up? Viktor's been calculating time zones since he could tell time. Japan is ahead of Russia. It always has been. Hell, it's ahead of the whole goddamn world. How could he…
"I'm so sorry, Yuuri."
"It's fine."
"No, I missed— and I woke you up. You're supposed to be sleeping."
"So are you." Yuuri points out. He tilts his head, looking at the camera. "You look exhausted, Vitya."
Oh.
"I… haven't been sleeping much."
"Why not?"
He swallows, tongue suddenly feeling too heavy and large for his mouth. "No reason. It's alright." He doesn't need to bother Yuuri with this.
Something about this familiar scene on his phone is comforting, though, so he focuses on that. Relaxing into it, he can feel how rung out his body is. He's suddenly aware of how his eyes burn with dry sleep-deprivation. It is past his bedtime. "What are you doing with your morning?"
"Probably go for a run now that I'm up. Want to come with me?"
That sounds nice… Viktor should say no, try to sleep. But every cell in his body is aching to stay with Yuuri just a little longer. He doesn't have the strength to deny himself. "I'd love to."
Viktor doesn't talk much, but he hums sleepily as Yuuri carries him through his morning routine, telling stories about his family, Makka, the onsen, and Ice Castle—everything Viktor's missed since he left. At some point, he's switched from FaceTime to audio only on Yuuri's headphones, and he swears he can hear the seagulls caw under Yuuri's soft pants.
With his eyes closed, Viktor could be back there now. He can feel the heat of the sun on his arms. The smell of the ocean. He listens to Yuuri's rhythmic breaths, air rushing in and out to the time of his stride. He gets lost in the soft, curly edges of Yuuri's accent as he continues to talk, even when he's nearly out of breath, almost like he knows Viktor needs to hear it.
And somewhere in all of that, Viktor falls asleep.
***
The arena is dead quiet; in that way a room only can be after witnessing something truly tragic. Viktor doesn't want to know his score. It's bad— really, really bad. He can calculate that much on his own.
He wants to run past the kiss and cry. Run until he runs right out of his skin.
But he's expected to sit, and Yuuri's waiting for him there. Which is a strange combination of relief and dread, because it's nice, but he doesn't want to talk about anything that just happened.
"Hi."
"That was embarrassing." Yuuri hisses the second Viktor hits the bench.
A brick smashes through his stomach, metaphorically, of course. On the outside, he looks fine—he always looks fine. "I know."
"I can't believe you did that to me." Viktor's whole world cracks around him like glass at the sound of Yuuri's vitriol. It splinters out from the hole inside him until everything is broken and hanging on by a thread, ready to crash down at any moment. "I can't be seen with someone who skates like that!"
"I know." A lump rises in his throat. "I'm sorry." He doesn't want to cry on camera. And the nearest one is so close. Ready to capture his implosion in high definition and probably this audio, too. "I'm sorry. I didn't..."
"You didn't what? Try?"
"No." Viktor's throat clenches so tight it threatens to choke him, and no matter how fast he blinks, traitorous tears leak from his eyes like they're a crumbling dam. "I- I didn't- " he can't get words out and keep the tears down, and he can't seem to talk around the big, clammy lump sitting in his throat. "I ca… do better."
"You want me to stay?" Yuuri laughs high and cruel. The camera certainly caught that. "After that?"
Viktor's lungs deflate. His throat collapses, and his insides cave in on themself, trapping his voice under a heap of grief.
"I can't deal with this." Yuuri dismisses before standing up.
Viktor fights to yell, but no matter how hard he pushes, "Nnn-nn Yhh," his voice won't come out.
"And you won't even bother fighting for me?"
Viktor tries to scream, but his body betrays him. He watches as everything he's ever cared about slips out of his fingers, and he can't yell to stop it.
"You've always been like this, haven't you?" It's the last thing Yuuri says before he takes even his contemptuous sneer away, and turns to leave.
Viktor chokes on his own heart as it vaults into his throat, and he can't breathe. Air won't come. His chest heaves, creating a vacuum that sucks his blood and organs in as it claws desperately for air that isn't there, until he's downing on himself.
Viktor wakes up gasping around a wreath of thorns stuck in his throat. His pulse thrashes under his skin, and all he can do is lay there, waiting for the adrenaline to burn out of his blood.
Because it's over. But it's not.
Even though he knows Yuuri wouldn't leave him like that at the kiss and cry (he won't even be there), it doesn't mean he won't wish he could.
And that's the scariest fucking thing Viktor's ever thought.
No. Viktor takes a deep breath and tries to push away the terror wriggling through him. That won't happen. Yuuri wouldn't do that. Yuuri loves him.
These are just the anxious thoughts of a sleep-deprived person. Everything will be fine.
***
He gets up for practice that day like usual.
Everything is going to be fine.
He drinks coffee and texts Yuuri good afternoon, but he can't shake the dazed precarity churning in his veins.
He falls out of his quad flip again, hitting the ice with deft failure. The jagged, skate-slashed surface shears a long, bloody patch up his forearm because he can't even fall in the right position. It feels like someone sandpapered the skin off, but it's fine.
He takes a deep breath and blinks away the tears of shock.
Everything is fine.
Yuuri calls that night and asks how he's doing, and Viktor says, "Fine," before quickly changing the subject, because he doesn't want to distract his fiancé from training, but the words pinch something in his chest.
He's so bad at not being selfish. Is Viktor so greedy that he can't put someone else first for two weeks?
"Are you sure you're okay, Vitya?" Yuuri asks quietly.
They should have said goodbye a while ago, but they haven't. Viktor won't hang up. He's lying in bed, clutching the phone to his ear because he's too scared to sleep. And Yuuri is… he doesn't know. Probably humoring him.
Viktor holds his voice steady. "Da. Of course."
Everything is fine.
"What if I wanted to use my psychic pass for the week? Would you still be fine then?"
No, not that. Anything but that.
"Mmhm." Tears start pouring from his eyes, and all Viktor can think is, thank god they're not on FaceTime. "Absolutely. You don't need to worry about me."
He regrets it instantly.
All the magic, all the warmth, all the love that they built in the banquet room feels sullied. Like, with one little lie, Viktor opened a window and let it all out. And now it's replaced with this— cold, hollow, fake this.
And he ruined their special thing.
"I should go to bed," he blurts out because he has to get off this call before he starts sobbing his lungs out.
He doesn't remember saying their goodnights. He's too focused on holding his breath steady, and as soon as he's alone, he shatters.
Which is what he deserves.
He abandoned Yuuri, the only boy who's ever loved him as himself, to go back to a job that's decidedly never cared about him. Viktor made him sleep alone. He left Makka behind in Japan. He's wasted Yakov's time all week. He took ice time from everyone else. He's going to disappoint his fans. He's going to ruin his skating legacy. The legacy he gave up everything to build in the first place. He was just trying to not be needy. How is he so terrible at it?
And he ruined their special thing.
Yuuri's going to be so sad when he finds out. He'll probably never trust another thing Viktor says again. Why should he? If Viktor's willing to lie about something this stupid, what wouldn't he lie about? And you can't marry someone you can't trust.
Viktor's world is crumbling around him, and it's all because of him. He broke it. Pieces rain down in shards that slide deep into his skin, piercing into the exposed, rotting patches of his soul—the places where skin is already rubbed away from years of neglect, where the weeds grow over old, dilapidated wounds.
A blunt ache expands inside him like a balloon. And it feels like it's about to explode out of him, bursting open his chest in the process and blowing his ribs inside out.
He's worn thin, exhausted, touch starved, on high alert, and crying at his wit's end. He just wants to sleep. He just wants to be held.
He just wants Yuuri.
Before he knows what he's doing, he picks up the phone. It only rings once.
"Vitya?" Yuuri sounds instantly worried. "I thought you went to sleep."
Viktor chokes on a squeaking sound before he can ever say a word. His brain is swirling so fast he doesn't know what exists beyond his fingertips, and all he can push out is, "I need you."
And he shatters.
He's wracked with heaving sobs that are so much larger than his body.
"Hey, it's okay." But there's Yuuri's voice, a steady handhold in the carnage. "I'm right here."
Viktor's lungs aren't his own anymore. They stutter violently as every tattered piece of torment inside him attempts to leave through his eyes. "I-" he's cut off as a horrible gasping noise grips his chest.
"Vitya, it's alright. I'm here. I'm with you."
He tries to say something. He tries to tell Yuuri he believes him and he's okay. That he hears him. That he loves him. But it just comes out as a messy trill of accents, and sound, and tears.
"Vitenka, it's okay. Just listen to my voice. Can you hear me?"
“Y-ye-es.”
"Good. Are you still at home in bed?"
He hums a shaky yes that sounds more like a whimper.
"Okay, then close your eyes and just listen to me." He follows the instructions. "I’m right here, okay? Just imagine I’m there next to you.”
“But y-you're no-ot.”
“But I’ve still got you.” Yuuri whispers soft reassurances, and Viktor tries to let the words wash over him. “You’re safe.” They cradle the sick, wilted parts of his heart. “I don’t know what’s wrong, but we're going to fix it, whatever it is. I promise."
Viktor’s not sure how Yuuri could possibly fix this, but the fact that he wants to makes him feel a whole lot more. Like someone switched a pressure release in him, his tears change from pain to relief, and he just cries.
“I’ve got you.”
He cries until he's not exactly not crying, but it's no longer the only thing he can do.
"I love y-you." He stutters because, in the moment, it seems like the most important thing to cling to.
"I love you too. I miss you like crazy. You have no idea." Yuuri lets out a warm chuckle, and its familiarity is grounding. "I've been sleeping on your pillow. Makka keeps trying to steal it from me."
Makka. Guilt clenches around Viktor’s throat. "Is she doing okay? Is she happy?"
"She's great. She spends all day following Kaasan around the kitchen, begging for scraps, and she sleeps with me every night. She's very happy."
Good. Makka loves Yuuri. She's well taken care of with the Kasuki's. Viktor knows that. Rationally.
"Yorugao," Yuuri coos, accent wrapping heavily around the word. Viktor doesn't know that one. But the way Yuuri hums it like a promise, it sounds like a term of endearment. And it makes Viktor ache all over. His eyes flash flood with tears again. "What happened? What's wrong?"
The guilt wrapped around Viktor's throat threatens to choke him out completely. Because now that Yuuri's being so supportive and understanding, Viktor gets to tell him he lied earlier.
"I made a mistake." He starts tentatively. "You asked earlier if something was wrong, and I didn't tell you the truth, and I'm sorry." And then words start falling out of him in a rush to explain before Yuuri can get angry. If he can just explain—
And suddenly he's rambling in no particular order about not being able to sleep or skate, and nightmares, and how everyone is afraid to say anything about it to him, and the pressure he's under, and how everyone is expecting something amazing, and how scared he is, and how lonely he is, and how he feels that he left Yuuri by himself, until he's emptied every memory of the last week and a half into the phone, and he's left with only silence and the nothingness inside of him.
There's a short pause, and then Yuuri asks, "When was the last time you slept? Actually slept, for at least eight hours."
"Ahh, it would have been…" which is the first time Viktor realized the answer isn't when he arrived in Russia. It was before that. Days before that. "The night before your short program?" The night they got engaged.
The night after that, they'd fought. Then they'd stayed up late the next night making up. Then again, the night of the banquet. Then the plane and jet lag… then this.
"In Spain?"
"Da." Viktor's a little ashamed to admit it.
"You haven't slept in two weeks?"
"Just a few hours a night."
"Vitya, why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't want to bother you."
Yuuri doesn't say anything for a moment. Then, very calmly, "That was stupid."
It hits Viktor like a bucket of ice water, and then, he barks out a loud laugh. He can't help it. Because Yuuri's absolutely right. It sounds like such a ridiculous excuse when he says it like that.
"It kind of was, wasn't it?"
"Yeah, it really was."
And just like that, the heaviness of his anxiety melts away, like it was never there to start with. He still feels an ache of loneliness, an apprehension to put himself through another terrifying night, and fear he might bomb his routines, but somehow, just saying it all out loud makes it feel so much smaller.
It makes him feel real again.
"I'm sorry. I don't know why this stressed me out so much."
"I do." Yuuri giggles. "In the last month, you made your coaching debut at the Grand Prix Final, got engaged, and we had our first major fight. You made a massive career decision, moved countries, and this is our first time apart since we got together. You're pretty much alone over there while trying to pull off an impossible training schedule. You're under huge pressure to deliver for your fans. Your only student is about to go to a competition without you. You're worried about your dog and husband in another country, and you haven't slept the whole time."
Oh. Well, when he puts it like that.
"You called yourself my husband."
Viktor can feel Yuuri blush through the phone. "You are my husband," he murmurs. "So let me help you."
"Okay." Viktor nods even though Yuuri can't see him. And then he says the thought that's the sun at the center of his anxiety solar system—the fear that everything else orbits around. "What if my skating never gets better and I humiliate myself at Nationals?"
"Then we'll run away together." It's not what he was expecting, but at the moment, it's very appealing. "We'll become beach hermits and spend all day playing in the sand with Makka. I'll learn to fish for you, and we'll grow a garden and spend the rest of our lives pretending no one else exists, okay?"
"Alright." Viktor giggles softly. "Can we get more dogs?"
"Oh, we're going to need more dogs. Who else is going to help us haul fresh water?"
***
Of course, the nightmares don't stop. They're still unsettling, but Viktor calls Yuuri after each one and just chooses to believe him when he says everything will be okay.
A whisper of that old nighttime magic returns. Viktor would still much rather have Yuuri actually there wrapped around him, but he goes to bed a little calmer each night, and a little less lonely, because he knows Yuuri's voice will be there with him the moment he needs him.
He's still not sleeping enough or jumping cleanly yet, but it's better. It's easier.
And Yakov, poor, sweet, emotionally stunted Yakov— who's been in over his head with Viktor since day one— is trying everything he can think of to get the skater more than two consecutive hours of sleep.
He suggests Viktor take a long lunch and nap on his office couch.
Viktor dreams he's center ice at Nationals, having skated a flawless routine, but the crowd still hates it. They're booing and rioting.
The area echoes with chants and slurs, when someone breaks through onto the ice and charges him. He tries to run, but people are coming over the boards from all sides now.
He wakes up screaming. Rink security isn't impressed.
The next night, Yakov sends Georgi and Yura to spend the night at Viktor's, hoping he'll sleep easier if he's not alone.
He dreams that after Yuuri dumps him, he posts mortifying revenge porn online. The whole world laughs at him being too needy and never good enough.
He wakes up crying. Relieved— because he knows that would never actually happen— but feeling icky all the same.
Yakov tries some herbal sleeping remedy Lilia swears by.
Viktor has more nightmares.
He suggests Viktor sleep in a series of short naps so he doesn't have time to dream. It doesn't work.
A day at the spa doesn't work.
Vodka doesn't work.
Sleeping pills really don't work.
But after each one, Viktor calls Yuuri and lets himself get lost in conversation. For a few minutes, he doesn't stress, doesn't think, he just lets himself be happy. And it really is better.
***
Viktor actually finishes the Russian Men's Single short program in fourth place, which is still better than it could have been. His performance score pulls him through. He doesn't fall out of any jumps, thank god, but he certainly downgraded some program components. And it feels like he narrowly avoided failure that he was fated to crash through head first, and it’s going to come back for him again later.
On one hand, he's relieved because it could have been so much worse. On the other hand, he knows it wasn't good enough, and he doesn't want to find out by how much.
He's too scared to check his phone, which will make it difficult to watch Yuuri's exhibition skate form this morning—the one he missed.
Japanese Nationals are a few days ahead of Russia's. Just enough to be annoying because he wasn't actually busy during the important events, but he couldn't be there either. At least it meant he got to watch the stream live as Yuuri swept his competition.
But he's barely looked at his phone since.
He doesn't want to know what people are saying about him. Every app has a little red notification number in the corner that's growing exponentially. And every time he imagines opening one of them, his chest feels so tight he thinks it might pop his head off. As far as Viktor's fans are concerned, anything less than gold is a failure. And he's not even on the podium right now.
So he doesn't want to know.
Yuuri is supposed to call him tonight to give Viktor "a birthday present," and it's the only thing stopping him from throwing his phone in the bathtub.
He smiles and waves at reporters and fans as he leaves the rink but doesn't stop moving long enough to hear more than a few words from each of them,
How do you-
disappointed-
disastrous-
afraid?
He wants to throw up.
Even Yura isn't teasing him, which is a monumentally bad sign for what's being said about him, especially considering Yura's the one sitting in first place.
Viktor manages to smile through a mandatory and mildly awkward team dinner, but by the time they get back to the hotel lobby, his mask is starting to hurt, and he just wants everyone to stop looking at him.
He books it for the elevator, but Yakov stops him. "Vitya, before you go, I have a gift for you."
"For me, Yakov?" He flashes a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You shouldn't have."
"Viktor," the old coach warns. "You only get it under one condition."
Mysterious. "Okay. What is it?"
"When you get back to your room, you are to go to bed immediately, and I mean immediately. You are not to do anything else. You cannot leave your room. If you get hungry, you can order room service but no alcohol. I don't want you getting up until tomorrow morning."
"Well… I'm supposed to call Yuuri—"
"Fine. Do that, then bed."
Huh.
"Okay?" That's all much easier said than done, but he does like surprise gifts. "I can try, but it's not that I haven't been sleeping for a lack of effort."
"I believe your present will help."
Well, now Viktor's dying to know. He agrees to his coach's terms and dashes up to his room. A present that will help him sleep? Did Yakov rent him a dog to cuddle with or something? Can you even rent a dog? Viktor never should have come back without Makkachin. He was asking for trouble with that one.
Alright, he needs to slow down and temper his expectations. This is Yakov he's talking about. Whatever is on the other side of this door is probably fine. It'll help him sleep for a few hours, and then he'll just lay quietly and try to relax once he's awake again.
The lock beeps green when Viktor swipes his keycard. He swings the door open and—
He's nearly knocked backward by the thigh-high, curly brown blob.
Oh, it is a dog!
Viktor squats down to get a better look at— and to get in prime petting position for— this whining, jumping, wiggling fluff. Awww, she looks just like—wait.
“Makka?”
“Hi, Vitya.”
Viktor's head snaps up, and there, in the middle of his hotel room, with flushed pink cheeks and a triumphant smile, is Yuuri. Gorgeous, loving, wonderful Yuuri.
"Happy birthday."
Viktor's wilted heart perks up at the sound.
"But you're—" Actually, he doesn't care.
He's across the room in an instant, buries his hand in that mop of soft black hair, and kisses Yuuri the way he's wanted to kiss him for weeks.
It's slow, and it's sweet, and it's deep, and it connects them, and it's soothing. It says, I missed you. And, I love you. And, thank god you're here. Viktor kisses like it might make vines grow around them, permanently weaving them together. And he might be getting a little carried away because he's actually starting to tear up from a confusing but intoxicating combination of relief and joy— when Yuuri pulls back for a breath because Viktor definitely forgot about the breathing part.
"Vitya," he giggles around a little gasp. It's his happy giggle, which makes Viktor feel all the things all over again.
"Hi." It comes out sort of breathless.
"Hi."
"You're supposed to be in Japan."
"I caught an earlier flight."
"But you were flying home first. You were picking up Makka and sending our stuff—"
"I already did those things."
"But you- how?"
Yuuri giggles again, and the sound warms Viktor like the sun. "Yakov set everything up." Yuuri cards his fingers through the other man's hair, and he has to stop a purr from involuntarily spilling out of his throat. For the fingers in his hair. Not the thought of Yakov setting up flights. "He called and asked if I would be willing to change my travel plans so I could be here for the free skate. Makka came with me to Tokyo, and we left right after the exhibition. Did you know flying is much faster in a private plane?"
"I did know that!"
"Of course you did." Yuuri rolls his eyes, but they still twinkle like goddamn stars. "Come on, I'm under strict instructions to put you in bed."
"You can put me anywhere you want me."
"Noooo. I promised we would go right to sleep, and I assume you did, too." Damn it. Why did he ever agree to those terms?
Yuuri trails his thumb across Viktor's temple, and it's as if they were never separated at all. His anxiety dreams have nothing on this. "You look exhausted."
"Hey," Viktor pouts. "I worked hard on my makeup this morning."
"Do you really think a little makeup is enough to fool me?"
"No." He smiles, "I sure hope not."
Viktor does manage to talk Yuuri into getting in the shower with him before bed. ("Solnyshko, we both have to shower anyway. This way, we'll actually save time!")
Under the hot water, he surrenders himself, and enjoys—for just a moment—having nothing to control, and being loved all the same. He lets himself be pushed, pinned, worked, and cherished until he releases.
And then he face plants in bed, ready to try this sleep thing everyone keeps talking about.
Makka passes out by his knees. Just having her there next to him feels so good. But what's even better, is when Yuuri crawls in too.
Viktor knows, more than most, that good things require hard work and sacrifice to attain. There are no magic fixes in this world. Every choice he makes, everything he can have or do, is just shades of better or worse.
Except,
If this world did have magic, if there was a panacea, he's pretty sure it would be the instant rush of calm and bliss that comes from touching another person.
Viktor is aware that he likes touch more than the average person, but how can he not when it makes him feel that way? When it makes his bones feel understood.
So when Yuuri spoons up behind him, in just his underwear, Viktor is revived.
Yuuri's touch is like a warm summer breeze blowing through him. It makes his chest bloom, restoring the desolate, hollowed-out patches to life, filling them with beautiful flowers and colorful petals.
Maybe it wasn't Japan or the banquet hall that was special at all. Maybe it was Yuuri the whole time. He just comes in and casts his warm, glowing light, and things flourish in his wake.
Part of Viktor wants to stay awake forever, just to absorb the sensation. Another part of him barely has enough energy to mumble, "Solnyshko?"
"Yeah?" A hand curls around the dip in his waist, and in this moment, Viktor could die a happy man.
"Thank you for coming. I think I needed help."
"Anytime." A kiss is pressed into the bottom of his hairline. "Besides, I'll take any excuse to come watch you skate."
Something churns in his stomach. "Even if it's not very good?"
"Even if you replace every jump with a figure."
Viktor feels a sleepy chuckle rumble out of him. "I don't think that would look very good."
"It shouldn't, but I bet you'd find a way to make it gorgeous and artful somehow."
"Mhmm, just like you."
"Go to bed, Vitya."
Viktor hums and presses back just to feel closer to where his skin stops and another, living, breathing being starts. Another being that could be anywhere in the world and has chosen to be here with him, and that's the last thing he remembers. For a while, anyway.
***
The weight of sleep is still half hanging over the room. It drags Viktor down into murky confusion. He lies there in the dark, looking out at strange furniture, trying to grasp onto an image that had been so clear just a second ago.
He'd been having a dream, but it didn't stick in his mind with the vivid sharpness of a nightmare. This one lingers in hazy anxiety, making him feel tied up in knots and leaving him with the unalienable belief that something is wrong. He doesn't know what, only that he can feel it crawling deep in his muscles.
"It's okay." A voice cuts through his foggy unease. "You can relax. Everything is fine."
Yuuri.
He rolls towards the voice, burying his face in the warmth he finds there.
"You're safe. Nothing's wrong."
Fingertips trace soft lines between his shoulders, slowly unweaving the tension left behind there.
"You haven't competed yet. You have lots of time left to sleep."
It must be the middle of the night.
"S'nshko?"
"I'm here, Yorugao."
There's that word again—the one Yuuri used on the phone, the one he says like an endearment. Except Viktor's pretty sure Japanese doesn't have terms of endearment. Yuuri had said so.
A hand collars the back of his neck, and Yuuri's thumb slides around to brush the sensitive tip on the back of his jaw. "Relax, Vitya." He whispers.
And Viktor does. He lets go of stress he didn't even know he was holding there.
He tries to release his mind, too— letting it wander, vaguely following the methodical trace of Yuuri's hand across his skin, allowing him to undo any tension he finds. Slowly, Viktor surfaces from boggy half-sleep into something lighter and clearer.
And then it's easy to tuck himself into Yuuri's chest and wade back into real sleep, drifting off to the sound of sweet whispers in the dark.
***
For the first time in weeks, Viktor wakes up after the sun. And for the first time ever, after Yuuri.
He's pretty sure it's just a fluke of jet lag, but he can feel the other man thumbing out a text because his muscles are twitching against Viktor's cheek.
And laying there, in a moment so simple and nice, the last few weeks feel impossible. Even waking up last night feels impossible, but maybe that's Yuuri. He makes everything feel easier.
Maybe it's just having someone else there to help, in general, that makes things easier. Either way, Viktor would pick Yuuri as his someone else every single time.
Apparently, Viktor's alarm hasn't decided it's time to get up yet, so he just lounges there and enjoys the calm. Until a nagging question burrows its way up from the back of his mind.
"Solnyshko," he opens his eyes. "What is that one Japanese word you keep using?"
The other man jumps, "Vitya! Hi. I didn't know you were awake."
"Da, yes, hello. What is that Japanese term you keep calling me?"
Yuuri blushes, which can only mean one thing: Viktor's asked an excellent question. "Uh, w-which word?"
"The Japanese one. The only Japanese one you said last night." He smiles innocently, like they both don't absolutely know which word. "When you woke me up during my stress dream. It was very sweet. You rubbed my back. We cuddled. You called me a Japanese word."
"I- I uhh, didn't think you were really listening."
"I'm always listening to you."
"Right." Yuuri goes from pink to cherry red, and Viktor cannot state enough how excited he is to learn what this word means. "It's… it's just a name I started using for you. In my head. While you were gone."
Viktor is using all his discipline to not look like a gleeful child staring down his presents on New Year's Eve. "Like a pet name?"
Yuuri nods. His face is burning now, and it's spreading to his ears.
Viktor practically levies himself onto the other man's chest. "I like pet names!"
"Umm, that's good." Yuuri looks so shy, but he's trying so hard, and it's so cute.
"What does it mean?"
"Well, it's sort of… complicated?"
"I can be smart."
"Okay. Well, umm, I really missed you while you were gone."
"I remember. The pillow. Makkachin stealing it from you."
"Yeah, that wasn't all. I sort of… started talking to you in my head? Like when something happened, I wondered what you would say about it, if you were there. And then I'd imagine your response, and pretty soon, that turned into us having whole conversations in my head. I know it sounds kind of strange, but it made me miss you a little less." Yuuri looks slightly mortified that he just said all that out loud.
Viktor, on the other hand, is attempting to not explode out of his skin. "That's the cutest thing I've ever heard!" he whines. "And it was about me! Yuuri! You always- you just…" Viktor is rarely at a loss for words, but he doesn't quite have ones to explain the explosive, zigzag, melted cotton candy ice cream feeling Yuuri gives him.
So he just kisses it into him instead.
And when Viktor pulls away, Yuuri's embarrassed smile has transformed into a blaze of sunshine.
"Right," he bites his lip. "So, umm," and he's desperately trying to control his smile enough to continue. Viktor's tempted to kiss him again. "I was thinking about you a lot, and I know this might not make much sense, but sometimes, you remind me of wildflowers? Especially at night, when we're laying in bed, and you're relaxed, and you're sort of beautiful, and lively, and wild, but also serene? You're just entirely yourself, and it's like you radiate this unmanicured beauty."
Oh.
"There's this one flower, Yorugao. In English, they're called Moonflowers. Tousan used to grow them around the hot springs. During the day, they would blend in with all the other plants, but at night, their buds would open up, and they had the most beautiful silver-white petals. The same color as your hair. They were so pretty. And," he quirks a teasing smile, "very difficult to care for."
Viktor's too happy to feel self-conscious. "Just like me."
"Yeah, at some point, I just started thinking of you as my Yorugao."
Viktor does kiss him, then. He loves this man with his whole heart. Wilted and blooming.
"Does that mean you like it?" Yuuri asks tentatively when Viktor finally releases him.
"I love it. I love you."
"I love you too." It's practically a whisper, said only for him—like even the couch doesn't get to watch this.
"I want you to call me that forever."
Yuuri nods. "I can do that." He really can, because they get to do this forever.
And suddenly, Viktor feels a lot more invincible than yesterday because he gets this. He gets Yuuri. Over everyone else in the world, Yuuri chose him to have sleepovers with for the rest of their lives. And if he gets to stay a champion figure skater, too? Well, that's just icing on the cake.
***
Viktor stops for exactly one interview on his way into the free program. As soon as he slows down enough to take off his sunglasses, he's mobbed.
Yuuri, wanting to avoid the part that comes next, had slipped in ahead of him. Probably no one has even seen him yet, because there isn't a single question about him in the chorus of shouts that start raining down around Viktor.
He just smiles and waits to hear something that gives him a good opening. It doesn't take long. He looks one of the reporters dead in the eyes and flashes his signature smile, "I'm sorry, I couldn't quite hear you."
A hush sweeps the crowd. The man he called on looks a little terrified to talk now. Viktor forgot how fun this part can be, in the right mood.
"Viktor, are you concerned that your skills may have gotten rusty during the time you took off to coach?"
"Oh, they almost certainly have." He laughs.
"After nearly a decade of gold medals here, are you worried you might not be on the podium this year?"
"No. Everyone else should be concerned that I still might be." He waits half a pause for dramatic timing. "I'm the oldest skater competing. I've had three career-ending injuries. I just took nine months off, and I've only been back in training for two and a half weeks. If I medal, what is everyone else even doing?"
And he walks away.
Ten minutes later, Yuri starts insulting him again.
***
It turns out that training on no sleep and then taking a thirteen-hour nap is a little like training at high altitude and competing at sea level.
Viktor's never had so much energy in his life.
It might help that Yuuri is standing rink-side wearing a little lanyard proclaiming him an official member of Viktor's team. And it's not his fault that every time he looks at it, he feels like he could fly if he just got going fast enough.
Besides, what's he supposed to do, not show off for his husband?
Jump combos get upgraded, spins get faster, every curve of his body and cut of his skate becomes a part of the story.
Viktor has always thought of Yuuri as moy Solnyshko—his little sun—and Viktor was warmed by his presence.
He always pictures this routine, their routine, as hot, fiery, and passionate. But maybe he was wrong. Yuuri's not the sun. Maybe he's the moon and the stars, and Viktor is a nocturnal flower, blooming in his light.
Because the day is so often for other people. The night is for them.
So he softens the choreography, turning volcanic explosions into crystalline moonlight.
It's still about passion. It's still about two people behind a closed door, unafraid to trust each other with themselves. But now, instead of burning, it twinkles.
It becomes about whispering secrets in the dark and holding each other through thunderstorms. It becomes about giggling under the covers and sharing deep thoughts and shallow thoughts, inside jokes, naked vulnerability, and want. It becomes about sleepovers.
And it becomes a thing of untamed love.
With that vivid image in mind and an inspiring pull in his chest, Viktor throws himself into first place by a wide margin. There are still three skaters left to go, but even Yura is going to have a hard time catching up to that one.
It's the first time Viktor's ever been kissed in the kiss and cry, just on the cheek, because Yuuri's enthusiasm is slightly more restrained than his own. But only slightly, because Yuuri is also sobbing a little bit.
A press conference is the last thing Viktor has to do before he gets to celebrate his win with a long, hot bath—ideally, with Yuuri. Because he is, both mentally and physically, in desperate need of a soak. He should not have been able to do what he just did out there on the ice, and tomorrow is coming for him like a freight train to the legs.
"Viktor," his first question comes. "Can you tell us what the inspiration was for your program today?"
His eyes slide to Yuuri standing behind the crowd. He's tucked against the wall, watching, waiting, with both of their jackets folded over his arm. It's beautifully domestic.
"The moon."
"The moon?" A few camera shutters click in the crowd. "Can you elaborate on that?"
He should. He should give a proper explanation. With the right phrasing, he could come up with one that doesn't feel overly personal. But—
"No. Next question, please."
Some things are only for them.