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Russia, for all it's charms, is absolutely, utterly freezing. Yuuri is used to the cold, embraces it as part of his heart and soul, and it feels more natural to have ice beneath his feet then solid ground, but this is too much. Even wrapped up in two quilts and his full pyjama set, Yuuri can't help but shiver, teeth clicking together roughly, ears and face completely numb.
It's two in the morning, the pitch of the dark just so that it's impossible to see a thing. Yuuri has almost given up on sleeping at all, four hours of lying in the cold making him bitter and frustrated. Doesn't Victor have heating? It was certainly on during the day, and Yuuri remembers feeling the most pleasant chills run up his spine at how warm the heated flooring was when he took off his shoes in the entryway. Victor's apartment, while sort of strange for such a rich and famous athlete- one would expect him to at least have a house- is lavishly and beautifully furnished, truly something torn out of a design catalogue, but also homier than that. Yuuri can smell the faintest hints of baked goods in the kitchen, homemade pastries long since eaten but the scent still hovering. The couch and chairs aren’t just simple decoration pieces that sit around and look pretty, all of them cozy and comfortable to sit on. Huge windows lead to an incredible view of the city below them, and the glimpse Yuuri got of Victor's bedroom was majestic. A huge four-poster bed, fabric drapings stretched across the top, floor-to ceiling windows surrounding it on the exterior walls.
It looked so amazingly comfortable, like a dream to fall asleep in, a comforter made of clouds and pillows of sea foam. More importantly, it would smell like Victor, like cinnamon and a hint of spice, something cold and crisp and almost like mint- but not quite- underneath. The ice itself, buried into Victor's scent. Yuuri gets whiffs sometimes, when Victor gets close, as he often does, invading Yuuri's personal space like it's his own and doing as he pleases. It's overwhelming, it's intoxicating, it's enticing.
Another shiver wracks heavily over Yuuri's body, pulling him far away from sleep, and Yuuri doesn't understand how anyone could live like this, how anyone could sleep in this cold. Is Victor asleep?
Suddenly absolutely, fiercely determined to find out, Yuuri wraps himself in one of the quilts, moving with the completely senseless grace of someone terribly tired, and acting with all the forethought of someone terribly tired as well. The fog of 2 AM has wrapped itself around his mind, stringing up cobwebs for his rational thought to get caught up in, and Yuuri slips soundlessly on, a picture of silent serenity the way he isn't during the day. When Yuuri isn't thinking about it, he moves like water and air all at once, flowing and beautiful and seamless. It's what Victor saw in him, what got him so many admirers in his hometown, yet whenever Yuuri thinks about trying to move like that, he falls over his feet and loses rhythm, bumbling about like a wild animal.
Victor's apartment is midnight black, and Yuuri forgot his glasses by his bed, so he places a hand on the wall to guide him to Victor's room, socks quiet on the hardwood floors. The door is left wide open, naturally, so natural of Victor, who doesn't see the need for any barriers between people. Would never shut anyone out who needed him.
Yuuri wanders in with all the blunt curiosity of someone who's forgotten his fear and worries, like he's forgotten who it is exactly that he's approaching and is only seeing… Victor, the man who adores his friends and bakes cookies and smells like cinnamon, not the internationally famous skating champion. That champion doesn't even really exist, anyways, Yuuri realizes, a light in the surrounding dark, the epiphany blossoming in his mind. That champion doesn't exist, it's just a glorified image in his head, in everyone's heads. Victor, as himself, who he really is, is so much better then that idol Yuuri looked up to for so many years.
Yuuri's glad he realized this, and smiles dumbly at the opposing window, having shuffled up to the side of Victor's huge bed without thinking about it. His eyelids are drooping low, and Victor's form is blurry, the lights outside the window indistinct and spotting his vision. It's better lit in here, though, and Yuuri can see Victor's bright hair glowing dimly from the city light, watch his chest rise and fall. Victor is all over the bed, taking up as much room as possible, but elegantly beautiful, even now. Somehow, he's just wearing a loose gray t-shirt, some sort of russian logo printed on it that Yuuri doesn't recognize.
Yuuri frowns at the t-shirt in confusion, not quite understanding. Isn't Victor cold? Why doesn't he need three more blankets? Is he wearing pants?
A blush slaps itself across Yuuri's face, and a strange fascination washes over him, the insatiable human drive for knowledge and learning making him actually start to reach out to pull back the covers more for a moment, but rational though stops him in time, despite the lag due to his sleepiness.
A huge yawn stretches his cheeks, and as he turns to go, Victor's deep breathing and warm aura enough to satisfy him, his blanket catches on something. Yuuri barely has time to process that before he's tumbling down, unable to get his hands out from the blanket and under him, crashing violently into Victor's wooden floors, pain shocking through his cheek as he lands hard on it, breath knocked out of his chest. Groaning in pain, completely awake and simultaneously awfully tired, Yuuri starts to get up, tangled in the quilt and struggling to find his hands in the dark.
"Yuuri?" Whispers a soft voice, drugged down with sleep and warmth, and Yuuri feels shivers climb up his spine, his head prickling with some intangible chill that has nothing to do with the cold temperature. Heart beating twice as fast as it should be, blood bringing feeling back into his fingertips and face, Yuuri manages to get his footing back and turns to Victor's bed- cheek, chest, and pride aching. Victor blinks sleepily up at him, still stretched out, not having moved an inch besides opening his eyes. Yuuri thinks he sees concern in those beautiful blue eyes, but it's hard to tell, the only light coming from outside their dark, everything blurry.
"Are you okay?" Victor asks, still quiet, but full of caring and worry and warmth, and Yuuri, cold as he is, wanders towards it like a pull of a magnet, like a moth to a flame. Victor's always pulled, pulled, pulled Yuuri towards him, whether they actually knew each other or not. Ice skating, competitions, effort and training… Yuuri did it all because of Victor, for Victor, even though Victor didn't know who he was. Though Victor wouldn't have cared who he was much, because a thousand other children were doing the same because of Victor, Yuuri just happened to be the one who actually pulled through. The one who had the natural talent and skill to make it.
Now, though, Victor knows who Yuuri is, and he seems as inexplicably drawn to Yuuri as Yuuri is to Victor. Coming to find him at his hometown, training him, touching him, all the time… Yuuri can hardly believe that someone so incredible can be so fascinated by someone boring like him. Looking down on his mentor, his idol and friend, Yuuri can barely feel how cold he is, around someone who emits an aura so warm.
"Sorry, Victor. I was just cold," Yuuri mumbles, smiling sheepishly and squinting a little harder at Victor to try and parse through whatever emotion is sitting in the other man's eyes, resting on his face. The world is indistinct and loose, but he thinks he sees a flash of realization, and then maybe… mischief?
"Is it too cold for you to sleep?" Victor says, sitting up slightly in his huge bed, the blankets pooling around his thin, strong waist. A little subconsciously, Yuuri's hands drift to his own less trim waist, clutching the quilt there, keeping it tightly wrapped around his form. Victor flips his loose hair out of his face, and the way it spills to the side leaves Yuuri's mouth dry, hands aching to run through the silky strands.
"That's no good," Victor's full of seductive tones and half-lidded eyes suddenly, and Yuuri's own eyes widen and a sudden image of Victor at the onsen, Victor extending a hand to him, naked and brimming with confidence and muscle and passion, Victor cupping his chin and bringing his face so close that if Yuuri had just leaned forward an inch more…
Victor raises his hand again now, long fingers gently beckoning Yuuri towards him. "You should crawl in with me, then. I'll keep you warm."
Deep inside Yuuri's mind, something has imploded. All of the blood in his body rushes to his face, and he feels dizzy with the sudden rush of a blush. Trying to not squeak in surprise and embarrassment, Yuuri reaches up to fiddle with his glasses, but they aren't there. Fingers twitching at nothing, Yuuri breathes out sharply, trying to calm down a little. His ears are burning, red and numb, and his body feels clumsy and dull, everything slowed by the cold and fatigue. Despite how warm his face suddenly is, his hands are shaking from the chill, and Yuuri is convinced that leaving now would spell out his own suffering for the rest of the night.
Victor looks so much like a free, convenient heater in that moment, that Yuuri barely thinks twice before gulping down whatever saliva and humility is in his dry mouth, throat full of sand and stones, shedding his quilt blanket and resting a hand on Victor's bed. It caves beautifully beneath his touch, soft and flexible.
"Aren't you tired?" Victor encourages gently, shifting over in the bed to make room, and Yuuri feels like a mouse being lured into a feline's fatal trap, but doesn't really mind much. The blanket of exhaustion layering across his mind, his body, and his emotions makes crawling in beside Victor a good choice, the best choice. Immediately, he can feel Victor's heat, and without thinking twice about it, he crawls even closer. Victor smiles, satisfied, before laying back in bed once more. He reaches for Yuuri's hands, entwines them with his own. A mock pout forms on his face, and Victor frowns at Yuuri, scolding him teasingly. "You were this cold? Your fingers are probably turning blue. You should have come to me sooner."
With a jolt and rustle of blankets, Victor tugs Yuuri closer, and all Yuuri can think about is if Victor is really wearing pants. They're so close, suddenly, and Victor is so full of mass and muscle up close, easily dwarfing Yuuri in size, Yuuri's feet hovering by Victor's ankles. Victor manages to tangle their legs without a single ounce of thought put into it, and Yuuri nearly whimpers at the sudden rush of warmth, though Victor is definitely wearing sweatpants. Victor's face is so close, his hair artfully and carelessly spread across the dark pillows, which feel just as soft beneath Yuuri's bruised cheek as he had imagined. "There," Victor breathes out, and Yuuri inhales sharply at the low cadence of Victor's voice, cinnamon and spice hitting him like a punch to the gut, "Isn't that better?"
It is, but Yuuri can't speak, can hardly breathe, even as Victor lets go of his hands and reaches around Yuuri's shoulders, his arms long and strong and careful, drawing Yuuri in the last couple of inches until his face is pressed against Victor's chest, the thin cotton t-shirt doing nothing to hide the strength underneath, Victor practically cradling him close to him. Yuuri feels small, and protected, Victor pressing a swift kiss into Yuuri's hair, affection pouring out of him like he just can't help himself from doling it out.
"Sleep well, lyubov moya," Victor whispers, his lips still pressed into Yuuri's hair, the sensation making Yuuri tremble, breath catching in his lungs, "Feel free to steal away my heat for yourself."
Yuuri carefully, slowly, wraps an arm around Victor's waist, the two of them so close it's difficult to keep any limbs trapped between them. If Yuuri isn't mistaken, Victor jumps a little at the touch, seeming shocked to have Yuuri actually participate in the embrace, but Yuuri's dreamed of something like this for as long as he knew who Victor was, as long as he can remember. Guilty nights tucked away in bed, wishing for another man, when he knew he could never have him- that Victor would never want him… those nights are fading away beneath Victor's soft touches, his quiet mumblings into Yuuri's hair. It's sweet and innocent, despite how Yuuri can feel Victor's thighs pressed into his own, can hear him breathe and when he moves his hand against the small of Victor's back, he emits little gasps of surprise. It's close to something sexual, but it's not, it's something softer and lovelier. Something that smells like cinnamon and spice and the ice itself, and Yuuri closes his eyes and leans in even closer.
It's warm, and he slips away into sleep effortlessly, feeling like he's been left out in a beam of sun, perfectly and utterly content.