Chapter Text
The sound that rouses him isn’t his phone alarm but a high-pitched whimpering. He isn’t quite sure why he still bothers to even set an alarm with Makkachin around, waking him up usually half an hour before he really wants to without fail.
He reaches out for his dog’s fluffy head and pets it blindly, body and mind exhausted.
“Morning, Makkachin,” he drawls and the dog yips before digging her snout under the covers and tickling the naked skin of his navel with a cold nose. Victor startles and sits up, long hair tangled and sticking up oddly. He tries to run his fingers through it to make at least the top a bit more easily manageable while Makkachin starts wagging her tail and bouncing in a circle, excited to have roused her owner.
He yawns and rubs his eyes, fumbling for his phone. It’s early. If he really does wake up now, he’s going to have a long day.
“Why do you do this to me, Makkachin?” he whines and flops down on the bed. His reluctance agitates the dog that launches herself on the bed and walks all over him, sniffing at him while he tries to hide under the covers with a half-hearted attempt.
The loud barking is going to wake up his neighbours.
“Are you hungry, girl?” Victor finally relents and the dog freezes, cocking her head excitedly. “Do you want breakfast? Is that it?”
Makkachin launches herself off the bed and out of the door. She returns to the doorway just to make sure that Victor really is getting up.
Giving up, he does. He picks up his morning robe from the floor and dresses himself before making his way to the kitchen.
Knowing students, surely he won’t be the only one attending tonight’s university bash delirious from sleep-deprivation. It’s alright. He’s got skating practice in a few hours anyway. Trust Makkachin to make him time to just wind down too. He could probably continue reading the novel he’s had sitting by his bedside unopened for a few weeks now.
“I love you,” he tells the dog affectionately when he feeds her and runs his fingers through her curly fur. “What would I do without you?”
Makkachin doesn’t answer, too caught up devouring her food. Victor appreciates the sentiment anyway.
A faint echo of music makes Victor pause.
He walks up to the rink’s door and checks the place through the glass window at the door. The rink is busy – maybe the previous person who’d booked the rink was running late?
People generally didn’t play music during cooldowns though. They played it to practice their programs, and the figure on ice was executing a quad toe loop.
Definitely not a cooldown then.
Victor pulls out his phone irately but there are no messages from Yakov about any cancellations of their practice times. He checks his texts too and yeah, he’s absolutely supposed to have his practice session in five minutes so why is the –
Ooh. Wow, he’s really dumb isn’t he?
Victor huffs and hits his head against the corridor wall. It’s coming up to seven o’clock, not eight. He’s early. The person using the rink must be the Japanese figure skater he keeps running into in the locker rooms. They’ve never spoken to each other – most of the time he doubts the other skater even notices him among the different rows. He tends to seem really exhausted after his sessions and timid and plain in general.
He’s kind of adorable in a sheepish, completely unintentional way. Also, once the unflattering shirts he wears come off, he’s a surprising stunner that actually really got Victor to ogle for a bit the one time he saw him half-naked.
It’s the only time Victor had actually tried to strike up a conversation with him. It hadn’t exactly gone smoothly – the boy had looked like a deer caught in headlights, spluttered a short reply that completely shut down the conversation and rushed out of the room with his hackles raised high.
Victor wonders if he’s gotten eligible for the Grand Prix. Or maybe he’s just training for his own Nationals. Yakov’s never mentioned him, so Victor doesn’t really know. It probably means he’s not supposedly any threat to him.
Supposedly.
The thing is, Victor really has a knack for crafting programs. He understands the elements, has top-notch technical skill now that he’s got three quads under his belt and on top of it he understands music and performing in a way that resonates emotion. He’s choreographed his own programmes for a couple of years now and it’s been fruitful.
The music the Japanese skater is using is threateningly captivating. Orchestral – Victor really likes the type. It’s ambitious and demanding, the kind that can usurp a weak performer or elevate a top one. There’s a variety of flowing emotional tones, fluttery innocence and desperately determined battle riffs. Narrative.
Nosy, Victor quietly opens the door and steps into the rink. The coach standing by the barrier has his back to him and doesn’t seem to hear the sound of the door over the booming music, so Victor manages to safely slink into the shadows beside the rising seats.
He’s just going to start warming up. It’ll leave him more time on the ice once Yakov gets here and their session actually starts. Until then he’s going to seize up the competition.
He gently drops his skate bag on the floor and peeks to the rink. The skater looks different without his glasses, somehow more vulnerable. His aura on the ice is different too, smoother and more determined like a bird taking flight. He’s in the middle of a heated step-sequence, like a battle on the ice. Victor thinks there might be martial arts elements mixed in, but he’s not exactly an expert on that.
The flying sit spin is dizzying. Victor’s finger finds its way thoughtfully to his lip and he smiles, a fluttery feeling settling in his chest. The skater is actually really good. There’s grace in the way he moves, tired yet filled to the brim with desperate hope. He’s got the performance elements down for sure. The coach is yelling encouragements and criticism but Victor can’t hear, too taken in by the skate.
It’s long, isn’t it? Free skate then. The skater is beautifully flushed as he keeps pushing himself, speeding across the rink with rigour, ready for a jump and then –
He flubs the triple salchow. The rotations had been just a bit short and he hadn’t managed to catch himself securely with his landing foot, sending him flipping and rolling across the ice as he tries to claw for stability and get back up to continue.
It’s hard to get up when you’re rolling though.
Victor flinches and starts moving but stops when the music stops and the coach steps on the ice. The skater’s managed to stop and is already sitting up, wincing. Victor’s heart hammers.
It had been beautiful while it lasted.
“Are you alright?” the coach asks the skater and offers him a hand to help him up. “Can you stand?”
The skater must answer, but Victor can’t hear it. He slinks further into the shadows, suddenly remembering that yeah, he’s probably really not supposed to be here. He stands in the corner with his back pressed against the stands.
Whilst the duo busies themselves on the ice doing a quick check for any injuries, Victor decides that it’s better to escape and do his warm up stretches in the locker room after all. If he gets caught and this other coach tries to tear Yakov a new one for intrigue and sabotage accusations, there will just be unnecessary drama and hardship when Victor would rather just have a positive relationship with the skaters around him.
Besides, the skater seems timid and Victor would hate to embarrass him or hurt his feelings. Doing anything to disrupt the confidence he seems to get on ice would surely be a travesty.
The skating really had been beautiful.
Inspired, Victor stretches in the deserted locker room, ready to take on the ice and hope that he can look just as alluring whilst skating as the Japanese skater had.
It’s hard, not really fitting in with the crowd around you. Victor had been so excited to do his master’s in America, get a taste of the easy-going rowdiness he’s seen on TV screens. There was always a sense of community, the clichéd narratives of personal growth and self-discovery. He’d thought he’d needed that to plant his feet back on the ground and learn to mingle with people his age.
Now that he’s here, he feels like a lost cause. All the professionalism, media-savviness and fancy galas have left their mark on him, maturing him before his time. He’s not even all that young anymore and his youth is something he’s never going to get back. He looks around himself numbly, holding onto a cheap red solo cup filled with cheap vodka and feeling helplessly alone whilst surrounded by so many rowdy youths. Trying to act like he gets these people and fits in feels like such a chore he’s sure it comes across fake, deterring people who already despise or worship him for his fame in his art.
Everyone’s looking at him and seizing him up.
He can’t do this.
He puts his solo cup down on the table timidly. Instead, he picks up the fanciest bottle he sees on the table and tries to read the label, squinting his eyes in the dim light and trying to will the letters to keep still long enough for him to read them.
Sparkling wine. It’s no champagne, but at least it isn’t cheap vodka.
He could use a little liquid courage if he wants to stay.
There seems to be a commotion on the dancefloor with people cheering, clapping and hollering. Victor stretches his neck, trying to catch a glimpse half-heartedly. He stops looking when he sees a glimpse of his friend Christophe, stripped down to his boxers and body shining with sweat. Trust him to fire up the crowd.
He pours the wine in a new solo cup like a savage and sips on it, trying to bring himself down from the bizarre spike in anxiety. The drink isn’t top shelf or anything but it’ll do. He’s just about to put the bottle away when someone stumbles over from the dancefloor and crashes straight into the table, knocking bottles off down with a loud clatter. The bottles roll around and a couple of people milling around start picking them up and setting them back on the table.
“Sorry, sorry!” the young man drawls drunkenly at the people around him who eye him warily. There’s a ghastly light blue tie wrapped around the figure’s head. Who even wears a tie to a party like this, not to mention such an unstylish one?
Victor’s eyes widen when he realises it’s the skater from the rink. He’s lost his glasses somewhere and his cheeks are flushed. His forehead glistens with a thin sheen of sweat.
Victor has never seen him from this close. He’s devilishly adorable.
“Is that champagne?” the skater carries on, beaming and trying to grab onto the bottle Victor just managed to put down. He blinks and opens his mouth to answer but the skater is already stumbling closer, reaching his hand for the wine and tripping over an empty beer bottle that’s still left on the floor.
Victor moves automatically, so tuned into the skater his instincts kick in with surprising speed considering his level of inebriation. He grabs the man by his forearm as an attempt to steady him when the world suddenly explodes.
Everything is too bright, the colours too stark. The tacky disco lights make his head spin and Victor can smell this guy, the tangy sweatiness and alcohol, feel the clammy, searing hot skin against his palm and fingers and hear the choked pant, shuffle of clothes, a faint surprised yelp…
The skater crashes into him and spurs on exhilarating agony, rendering Victor unable to breathe. He holds on tight, the world slowing around them.
Realisation starts dawning on him. He’s shaking from it, this emotion that gets set alight, fond and adoring, desperate and joyous. Absolute euphoria, like a masterful symphony. He gasps and pulls back just a bit to search the other skater’s eyes with a frightening need, to confirm it because he needs to know, could this really be…?
The skater gazes up at him, frozen whilst gripping the back of Victor’s shirt. Then he draws in a shaky breath, lips trembling and a wondrous look takes over his glossy eyes. He’s blushing furiously and it’s all Victor needs to know what this is.
Maybe a stupid college party really can turn his life around.
He gasps and hugs the man tightly. Soulmate. He’s seen him around so many times but he never knew, couldn’t even begin to imagine that he almost missed out on this. Would they ever have touched each other if it wasn’t for this tacky, drunken party? Would Victor ever have approached him? He isn’t sure and it terrifies him.
Then again, none of that matters anymore. They did touch.
Victor is never going to let go.
He buries his face in the Japanese man’s shoulder and chokes back an overwhelmed sob. Little by little, the world comes back again. The colours meld into their usual tones, the music creeps back into his consciousness but the feeling in his chest…
It mellows down, yes. But it doesn’t go away.
“Hi,” he greets his soulmate excitedly, pulling back but gently holding onto his forearms. His soulmate’s eyes never leave his, glistening and ecstatic. “I’m Victor. Nikiforov.”
The man in his arms laughs like he can’t believe this is happening. Victor thinks he can relate. “I know,” he replies hastily. “Victor.”
“Yes,” Victor preens, feeling very proud of himself. They’re both skaters – his soulmate must know him then. He’d dominated the Junior competitions before moving up and he’s revered in the figure skating circles as a natural genius on ice, already snatching up medals under the noses of much more experienced senior skaters. It’s a matter of time before he’ll dominate the seniors as well, Yakov proudly eggs him on. The thought’s been thrilling before, but now that his soulmate acknowledges his accomplishments, he’s never wanted to impress anyone more.
“Dance with me,” his soulmate murmurs, hands settling on Victor’s hips and body moving to close the distance again. Victor blinks, surprised. When he doesn’t immediately answer, the Japanese man removes one of his hands from his arm and grips his hand instead, starting to pull him towards the throng of bodies. “Dance with me, Victor!”
Victor follows him. He’s never had fun like this before. People still stare at him but their adoration is futile – Victor’s entire life has been leading him to this magical moment and there’s never going to be anyone else that he has eyes for anymore.
He couldn’t be happier.
Suddenly the clubbing music is fun. It’s flirty and bouncy and his soulmate can clearly hold his ground on the dancefloor just like he does on ice. Victor actually struggles to keep up, more used to unstylish dances among youth like waltz and flamenco but his soulmate not only accommodates him but also urges him to let loose a little, flick his hair around to the beat of the music and sway his hips, beckoning.
His soulmate dips him and when he gets guided back up again, Victor cradles his head in his hands and kisses him. When he opens his eyes and pulls back, his soulmate’s eyes are half-lidded and he looks thoroughly debauched. Victor croons.
“You never told me your name.”
“Yuuri,” his soulmate gasps and cover his mouth embarrassedly. The name sounds like it tastes delicious on the tongue and Victor shudders happily.
“I want to kiss you,” Yuuri tells him quietly, eyes sinfully glued to Victor’s lips. Victor wills himself not to stumble when he wraps an arm around Yuuri’s midsection and starts walking around him, spinning them slowly, desperate to be just as captivating. He’s drowning in his own saliva, aching to taste more.
It’s such a simple dance of seduction but everything between them is electric. The push-and-pull, the flirtation, it’s all perfectly seamless.
Victor realises he’s never been successfully seduced before.
“Then kiss me,” he urges Yuuri breathlessly, unable to tear his gaze away. Yuuri gulps and changes their direction, suddenly leading Victor.
“Come somewhere private with me.”
Private. Victor beams, drowning in his enthusiasm. “Yes,” he insists, nervous but ecstatic. “You can take me home.”
Yuuri’s kisses are sloppy and involve way more tongue than Victor is used to. It’s arousing, alluring and intoxicating. His knees are wobbly when he follows Yuuri to his bed, hardly paying any attention to the flat around him.
He’s aching for this man, desperate to ravage him and drown in bliss. If Yuuri keeps kissing him like this, he’s going to come embarrassingly fast. He’s already rock hard and keening.
Yuuri lowers him down on the bed and crowds him. Victor wonders if he’s dreamed of this too, fantasized about meeting his soulmate and accepting him in full and earnest, handing himself over body and soul. It’s only fitting that he has, being Victor’s other half. Maybe they’ve always been yearning for each other.
Some souls are more tightly entwined than others. It’s always been strange to Victor how easily some people dismiss their bonds and apply hard logic and painful effort to minimize the effect. Why someone would even want to outright reject the person their souls were destined to ache for.
All Victor has ever wanted is the tightest bond in history. He’s not good at being close and intimate with people, not really, but he’s going to give his soulmate all he has. Their days of loneliness are over. Getting intimate this soon after their souls recognizing each other is going to nurture their bond to exceptional standards.
The first days are the most crucial in either strengthening or dismantling the bond, the effect of their actions slowly waning down. Victor wants to spend the next few days wrapped up in the arms of his soulmate, touching, talking, learning and connecting. Luckily for him, Yuuri seems to want the same.
It’s only fitting that they’re going to make love the first night they meet.
Victor’s heart jolts in his chest when Yuuri’s palm lightly brushes over his crotch. Desire flutters through him, making his entire body flush as he breaks the kiss and nervously searches for Yuuri’s gaze.
“Can I?” Yuuri asks quietly, the wandering hand settling on Victor’s hip, thumb brushing his oblique in a slow, soothing rhythm.
Everything about Victor’s soulmate is perfect – the contradictions, the surprises, the sincerity of it all. The thought of finally meeting his soulmate has terrified him for years after the constant little nabs and comments people around him have showered him with. Since his skating career really started taking off, all he’s gotten to hear has been about how perfect his soulmate has to be, how talented and proper, gorgeous and graceful, driven and perfect beyond belief just to be worthy of him. It’s a lot to live up to and the priming has pretty much predestined Victor’s soulmate to fail in being seeing as worthy, because the person everyone describes is too crafted from fantasy to ever be real. To be fair, for years Victor himself hasn’t even managed to fathom what he could possibly want from his soulmate.
Now, when he looks at the boy lying in front of him, he thinks he finally knows the answer. This is what he wants. Perfect imperfection, predator and prey all wrapped in one small young man.
Just the way Yuuri touches him makes Victor feel weak and pliant. He feels the flood of hormones rushing in his veins and raises his hands to cup Yuuri’s face.
“Yes.”
It’s not the first time Victor has been touched, and not the most skilled either really, but none of it matters because Victor has never felt this way before and for some reason that seems to make all the difference. He feels vulnerable as Yuuri’s fingers slip beneath the band of his briefs and wrap around his aching erection, but kissing Yuuri and seeing the man’s eyes flutter shut helps.
It’s getting really warm under the covers but he lets them stay on.
The angle Yuuri’s hand is working with is awful and even though he slips most of Victor’s cock out of his briefs, the fabric is frustratingly on the way. Victor pulls away for a moment to slip his briefs and trousers to his ankles before flopping back down.
His hair gets everywhere. Yuuri laughs breathlessly and tries to brush it off his face. Victor’s heart jumps in embarrassment and he runs his fingers through his scalp, brushing the hair back and out of the way. He’d feel worse about it, but the look in Yuuri’s eyes is overwhelmingly fond and there’s no way Victor could ever regret making Yuuri look at him that way.
“It’s really pretty,” Yuuri tells him with a lilting voice. “Your hair.”
“Maybe I should’ve worn a ponytail tonight,” Victor answers and snuggles up closer to Yuuri, entwining their legs and brushing Yuuri’s temple gently. Yuuri hums thoughtfully, not exactly agreeable but thoughtful nonetheless. Victor takes Yuuri’s hand and places it on his head.
“You can touch it.”
Yuuri’s eyes seem to sparkle in the dimness of the room as he cards his fingers through Victor’s silvery locks. Victor’s entire body is still buzzing with arousal but the gentle pampering is nice too.
He doesn’t really remember people soothing him before. He probably has been, as a kid, but his memory doesn’t quite go that far.
It doesn’t really matter, though. His soulmate is here now.
He starts kissing Yuuri languidly all over his adorable, wondrous face and lets his hand massage circles into his back, trying to gently pull at him to move closer, maybe even on top of him. He knows what he wants. Now it’s only a matter of fumbling through the awkwardness of bonding so deeply with someone who’s virtually a stranger. Everything else can wait.
“Yuuri,” he sighs, pleading.
It’s perfect. The way Yuuri backs him against the wall and half-looms over him, one clothed leg between his naked ones. The hand around his length is startlingly intoxicating. The tugs start off wondrous, hesitant and a bit too harsh at times but ease into a rhythm that keeps making his breath hitch and hips jerk. Yuuri keeps kissing him through it, assaulting his senses and Victor ends up coming embarrassingly hard and fast, crying into Yuuri’s cheek, his body flushed and sweaty under the covers.
The hand trembles when it leaves Victor’s soiled cock. Yuuri flops down beside him, boneless. Victor gulps, coming down from the high whilst staring at the beautiful dark mop of hair.
Yuuri’s eyes are hazy and sleepy but his breaths are hot against Victor’s flushed skin. “You need any help?” Victor offers, a languid smile spreading on his lips. Yuuri groans something and buries his face in his pillow. “What was that?”
“It’s okay,” Yuuri mumbles.
Victor runs a finger temptingly over Yuuri’s jawline, coaxing him to turn his head and look at him. “I don’t mind.”
Yuuri’s ears are impossibly dark. Victor hums happily and kisses the one facing him, feeling Yuuri’s entire body shudder violently. “I’d like to help,” he whispers into the ear with a sure voice and nibs at the earlobe playfully. “You were so amazing, Yuuri. Let me help you too.”
Yuuri flinches and curls up into himself protectively. Victor blinks in confusion when the new position ends up pressing Yuuri’s crotch more against his hip and it’s…?
“Oh,” he mumbles, shocked. “Did you already…?”
Yuuri whines against the pillow.
Victor really shouldn’t laugh. He really, really shouldn’t laugh.
A tiny snort escapes his lips before he can slam his palm against his mouth to stifle the sound. Yuuri flinches.
“That’s adorable,” Victor gasps, amazed. He cuddles into Yuuri and coaxes his body to turn more against him again so that he can bury his face against Yuuri’s chest. “Were you a virgin? Or do you, like, always…?”
“N-no comment.”
It’s so, so adorable.
“Okay,” Victor preens and smiles against Yuuri’s chest. He wraps an arm around Yuuri’s body, hoping to communicate to him that it really is okay, all of it, that this was perfect and he couldn’t be happier. Victor can wait. They can learn to do this together. They’ve got the rest of their lives, don’t they?
He’s really tired, though. After the rush of sex, his limbs feel sluggish and Yuuri is a warm and comforting presence in the bed. “We should clean up,” he mumbles, just because he feels like it has to be said. He’s too tired to get off the bed and he doesn’t really want Yuuri to pull away from him either.
In the end, neither one of them moves away. Yuuri’s heartrate mellows down and when he drifts off to sleep, he absent-mindedly cradles Victor against his chest, fingers entangled in his hair.