Disclaimer: I don't own Yuri! On Ice.
Warnings: too sweet, fluffier than Makkachin, sappy kbye
SKATING METAPHORS
Yuri and Viktor step into Viktor's old apartment, Viktor is flipping out at how oblivious Yuri is. Hilarity ensues.
The apartment is as familiar as ever.
Victor puts the key into the hole and twists it, his heart slightly skipping. The door opens with a certain creak, as Makkachin sniffs his way in and snuggles against the closed door that leads to the balcony. The next he can hear are Yuuri's quiet steps into the apartment as he looks around the place.
"Wow, this is so big," he utters in what looked like wonder, "It'll take a week to clean the place up."
Victor laughs at it. He didn't think this was the first thing Yuuri is going to point out. He feels a little nervous for some weird reason, so instead he diverts his attention and reaches out to open the door Makkachin is scratching on. A fresh gust of wind hits his face as the dog woofs in happiness.
"Victor, you have a piano?" Yuuri exclaims again, pulling off the sheet cover and releasing a cloud of dust.
"Yes, I planned to learn... a bit," he replies. He bought the instrument somewhere around last year desperately looking for inspiration, "Of course, I didn't begin - "
He stops to observe Yuuri testing out some of the keys before hesitantly playing out a familiar tune. He asks, "Fur Élise?"
"Th-this is all I know," he chuckles, "Mari Nee-chan taught me, I don't think she knows anything apart from this composition either..."
Well, then thankfully the piano has not been a waste of money within his idea of domestic bliss. Victor's insides rumble again. Suddenly he realises they haven't ever talked about their love except in skating metaphors. Not even during their deep, vulnerable conversations back in Hasetsu.
He watches as Yuuri wipes the dust off the table and picks the shrunken flower out of the vase. It feels strangely symbolic. To be honest, or maybe owing to Victor's rose-tinted imagination, the place Yuuri stood seems to be sunlit, letting out a warm aura amidst the Russian winter. The apartment used to reek of loneliness. And something is new, and changed.
Yuuri moves on to the small bookshelf and then to the showcase full gleaming trophies. He is looking at them with child-like wonder. What an adorable dorky Grand Prix silver-medalist.
"I just hope my place looks half this good..."
Huh?
He has imagined how the apartment will look like once Yuuri moves in. Stickers on the refrigerator, maybe they'll put in individual efforts in preparing their own personal version of pork cutlet bowls, Makkachin - who used to sniff about for a fix and lie curled up at the feet of the sofa before when he could hardly buy time from practice - woofing around with energy as now they can take turns in playing with him. Maybe they can also get him a poodle buddy. Morning coffees won't be lonely anymore. That is, if Yuuri wakes up on time. He has never been an early morning person.
All of a sudden Victor realises that in the midst of imagining around, he has forgotten to officially ask him to move in. And it is unlike Yuuri to just barge into a place, no matter how badly he wanted. Wait... Yuuri wants it, doesn't he?
In any case, he has to ask. How is the real question. Skating metaphor, huh? What can be a possible metaphor for asking your boyfriend to move in?
"Victor?"
Yuuri is staring confusedly at him. He must've spaced out. Victor groans internally. That's it, he is going to make a fool of himself. He bites his smile as Yuuri pulls off his overcoat, folds it and stuffs it near the arm of the couch, buckling up for the cleaning. He can make a fool of himself a hundred times before Yuuri, and it'll still be worth it.
Victor has an idea. He tiptoes towards the piano while Yuuri puts on his mask and plugs in the vacuum cleaner. Victor massages the piano's large body, going as far as tapping on some off-key chords that perhaps even hurt Makkachin's ears, before uttering casually, "You know I've never been able to maintain this big beauty... alone."
Yuuri hums a response. Was that it? Should he press upon the 'alone' part of the comment again? Before he can further his case, Yuuri chuckles, "Mari Nee-chan has a book. I'll bring you next time we go to Hasetsu."
Oh well. Plan A sank faster than Titanic.
Victor grumbles under his breath over a pile of books. He can't seem to remember when he left the apartment this messy. He has already received a coach-like scolding from Yuuri (what is up with that sudden role-reversal, he laughs and grits his teeth all the same) about his wardrobe arrangement. Right then, Yuuri is literally colour-coding some of his stuff. To be honest, he has never seen this side of Yuuri before; it is kind of sexy, and a little saddening - people with anxiety tend to have obsessive tendencies.
"Why do you have so many keys?" Yuuri asks out of frustration.
Is he supposed to actually answer that? Victor groans. Pulling a wisecrack might lead to some more lecture. Instead, he drawls out his name the way only he can, "Yuuuuri. Let it go. Let's go to the departmental store. We need some new stuff."
Yuuri mumbles, "Not done yet... are these car keys?"
He is abruptly reminded of his old Audi that hasn't been driven out of the basement for the last eighteen months and probably lay under a metre thick dust. "Ah yes," he says, bored, "I have one in the parking lot. Haven't used it in a while."
It is when another idea bulbs flicks on inside his head. "Can you drive, Yuuri?" Victor prods.
"I learned a little bit in Detroit. I have a Japanese driver's license," he chuckles, "don't really think that'll be of any use here."
"But driving is an important life-hack!" Victor declares emphatically, "The roads are long and winding and the shops are far apart and if you want to survive in this cold dreary place, you need to learn how to drive -"
"Ehh?"
"- Of course, there's no time in between the training, for me to teach you driving we need to set off really early in the morning. I don't see that happening if we live that far apart -"
Yuuri's face brightens at that. Victor's insides somersault in triumph.
"Victor, do you think you can get me an apartment in this building?!"
Close enough. He throws subtle (lame) hints at Yuuri, and Yuuri picks them off from the ground, washes them with soap, hangs them in the drier, pulls out a bat and lops them right out of the park.
These are desperate times. Half a day has passed and Victor has still not arrived at a sensible way to ask him in. He stands on top of a stool, sighing, reaching out for the topmost shelf, trying to pull out the empty cartons and aiming them across the space to the dustbin. He doesn't think Yuuri will be too happy to hear that all the food that has ever occurred in this home is either processed or takeout or has belonged to Makkachin.
Everything seems clueless until the stool tumbles and Victor comes crashing down to the floor on his butt. "Oww," he groans, rubbing his ass, a little confused.
The next thing he knows is a flurry of footsteps; Yuuri has come hurtling about to the door, a little concerned. "What - what was that noise - did you fall?"
"Yeah," he gives a dorky reply, scratching his head.
"Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
"Nah - yes, yes! Oww!"
To be honest, it just comes out before he can realise, and Victor isn't too proud of his evillest little plan C. Yuuri helps him up from the floor; Victor dusts his trousers, "I'm hurt, I think I sprained my - " butt? He hasn't heard of that ever happening. He looks around for options, " - ankle."
His ankle seems nowhere close to being sprained, but Yuuri seems to believe him. "Here," Yuuri holds his hand and leads him to the couch in the other room, "Sit here. D'you have a hot bag? Is it hurting too much?"
Tripping and stumbling in guilt, he shakes his head. You're evil, evil, Nikiforov. Yuuri dashes back to the other room before he can stop him. Apparently he has already discovered the medicine drawer.
Victor sighs. He's making Yuuri worry just because he's too cowardly to ask a question. The idea of the rings, the "Please be my coach until I retire!" - all came from Yuuri; and it eventually dawns that Victor is shockingly bad at what Yuuri was so good at.
Victor clenches his fists, resolute. Once Yuuri appears at the door, he'll take him by surprise, kiss him and pop the question.
It doesn't take a lot of time. Victor calms his throbbing heart. "Yuuri -"
"Victor, why d'you have so many cold medicines? It looks like a pediatrician's aid box... and I can't find anything -"
"It's because I tend to catch cold easily. Hey, Yuuri -"
"I don't remember you catching cold once," Yuuri adds innocently.
Victor groans in exasperation. "It's just in Russia. I lived alone, and I used to fall asleep on the couch and wake up without a blanket," he explains, before he attempts to swiftly move on. He's gonna do it fast; just blurt it out. It'll be like ripping off a band-aid.
"Oh... um, Victor, I was wondering..."
"Yeah?"
Yuuri fidgets with his fingers. "Um, can I - can I live here for some time? Like if it's okay and it's not too much trouble -"
His whole act with the sprained ankle slips out of his mind as he jumps to his feet and crashes his lips onto his. Dammit, how does this boy manage to beat him to a punch everytime? He looked so oblivious before. Victor wonders what flipped his switch.
"Is it okay?" Yuri asks again.
"Da, lyubov' moya."
Stickers on the refrigerator, Makkachin at his happiest, the apartment bustling with energy, clothes dumped over the hangers at one end and a mix of different skates lying at the other - things are exactly as Victor imagined. Once Yuuri moved in, he brought almost everything that belonged to him - two weeks in, half of it is still unpacked - the unruly luggage adds a strange colour of life to the cold rooms.
Two weeks in, and one morning Victor wakes up on the couch to realise he has missed to notice one tiny detail.
He breathes in the cold morning air, his eyes catching the glare of the sparkling snow settled at the window ledge. He checks the watch - it is 5:30 a.m. The book he was reading last night has flopped to the floor, and he was wrapped in a blanket, tucked in neatly at the ends, in a way he knew only one person can.
Never minding the lump in his throat, he gets off the couch, looks for his slippers and then tiptoes across the space to the next room. There he is, his raven-haired beauty, sleeping peacefully. Victor hops into the bed, and snuggles beside him.
"Yuuuuri..."
"Mhm," Yuuri responds, sleepily adjusting himself against the curve of Victor's body.
"Thank you."
"Your fingers are so cold..." he mumbles instead, as he clasps them together and rubs them against his.
"I love you."
"Did you mix up the laundry or something...?" he yawns, "It's a Sunday. Lemme sleep..."
Yuuri drifts off again. Victor watches him sleep. The steady rise and fall of his chest is all the assurance he needs. Victor Nikiforov, you're so neck-deep in this love puddle. Not that he's complaining.
"Yuuuuri..."
"Mhm...?"
"Can you teach me how to make skating metaphors?"
Hehe this is actually my first fanfiction for this fandom, and it was lying in my drafts for ages. I really suck at fluff so don't be too hard on me. :3
But do tell me how it was! So please review ! :D