1.
Yuuri does not remember the first kiss.
He does not remember how he stumbles into Viktor Nikiforov—his idol, his god—zipping up his fly in the men's restroom. He does not remember how he slurs a greeting, with Viktor's marvelous face swimming in pretty, champagne-glossed circles in front of him.
"Le'ssdanceagainokayy?" Yuuri slinks his hands over Viktor's shoulders, entirely missing the slight quiver of his Adam's apple—barely noticing the broken, helpless chuckle that slips from him.
"Someday, maybe," Viktor allows with a smile, and with his customary radiance once again intact, removes Yuuri's hands.
"Yaaaaaay~" Yuuri's face splits into a sunny, drunken grin that makes Viktor's breath hitch in his throat.
And then, Yuuri hiccups. He trips.
Viktor had never envisioned himself scooping the plastered remnants of another Grand Prix finalist into his arms in the men's restroom. He had certainly never envisioned those plastered remnants belonging to Katsuki Yuuri: the shy, soft, birdlike boy who skates as though his soul lives in the spark between blade and ice.
Yuuri's head lolls back, and he clings to Viktor's neck. He is a sloppy mess. He is beautiful.
Viktor is more than a bit worried at finding something other than himself beautiful.
Yuuri sighs loudly into Viktor's shoulder—like he's the most comfortable he's ever been. And then there is a soft, warm pressure—and now there's a round, pink spot right above Viktor's collarbone that smells a bit like champagne.
Viktor freezes, because that wasn't an accident.
"You're prettier than in your posters," Yuuri whispers. Then he catches his balance out of thin air and strides out of the restroom, leaving a slack-jawed, starry-eyed Viktor Nikiforov in his wake.
2.
The second kiss is glorified by a thousand spotlights, caught by a million cameras—and yet it is intensely, intimately their own.
It is less a kiss so much as it is a midair smashing of lips and teeth. It is a rushing of air in Yuuri's ears, and a yelp as both he and Viktor hit the ice, and it is, in every way, a surprise.
It's the most surprised Yuuri has ever been, and it scares him, and he loves it.
3.
This kiss is the warmest yet—a warmer gold than the medal hanging between his fingers. Brighter than the flashbulbs of the hundreds of reporters. A quick collision of smiles—as natural as air, as comfortable as breathing—their third kiss is the union of the two greatest moments in Yuuri's life.
"Did I surprise you?" he asks.
"Everything about you surprises me," Viktor chuckles, pressing his forehead to Yuuri's. "Everything, Yuuri—except for the fact that you won."
4.
A kiss over dinner, as Yuuri is enjoying his well-earned victory meal.
"Would you like some of this?" he offers, wafting the scent of katsudon enticingly toward Viktor. Viktor nods, and Yuuri leans forward, holding up the chopsticks.
It's a mouthwatering, savory, gourmet kiss that Viktor snatches, and Yuuri squeaks and drops food everywhere.
"Vkusno!" Viktor shouts, leaning back onto his heels, and Yuuri has to hide a broad smile in his hands.
5.
There is a kiss that starts out with Yuuri blushing and stuttering far more than usual—even for him.
"Uh. Vi-Viktor?"
Viktor turns around.
"Yes?"
Yuuri is twisting the gold ring anxiously, around and around his finger. Viktor's eyes lock onto the nervous movement, and his eyes narrow in suspicion. Then, they snap back to Yuuri's face.
Yuuri clears his throat. Twist, twist.
"Haa…well. I was just—just thinking about these. These rings."
Viktor's lips jump into a smile, but he shoves a neutral expression back onto his face.
"What about them, Yuuri?"
Yuuri swallows thickly. He's turnip-purple and sweating visibly. Twist. Twist.
"Well…uh, well…"
Viktor stares at Yuuri, and then he realizes what's happening. The blushing, the stammering. The fidgeting.
Twist, twist.
Viktor forces his face into submission. He can't look shocked. But if Yuuri's about to do this—no. No, he can't.
Is Yuuri really about to steal this from him? Looking at his blushing, sweating, twitching face, Viktor realizes…he is.
Yuuri is about to propose. He's about to sweep Viktor's flawless, choreographed, utterly devastating declaration of devotion right out from under him, and take all the glory for himself.
That cannot happen, and Viktor panics.
He lunges to one knee, clasping both of Yuuri's hands tightly in his own.
"Yuuri!" he blurts. "Wait!"
Yuuri, stunned, does.
Viktor kisses the ring on one of the hands he's holding, then looks up at Yuuri with a degree of worship that borders on theatric.
"Will you marry me?!"
An agonizingly long pause follows. Yuuri's eyes have popped wide, and his jaw silently levers open and shut a few times. Viktor gulps.
"…Well?" he whispers, deeply wishing his stomach would stop doing flips.
"Viktor," Yuuri chokes. "I was going to ask if you wanted to get your ring resized. It just…it seemed a bit small—when I put it on you—"
Viktor's blood stops in his veins. Then it starts rushing again—much faster than before.
"Oh." His tongue goes dry. Oh.
But Yuuri's eyes are sparkling. The intensity in his face is more beautiful than a smile.
"Do you really…you want to marry me?"
Viktor doesn't get up from his knees. He reaches around Yuuri, holding him close so he can bury his face in his stomach.
"I was going to—I didn't—Yuuri—I hired an orchestra! I was going to ask you so perfectly, and they were going to play 'Stay Close to Me'—"
Yuuri's hearty chuckles send vibrations through his stomach and against Viktor's forehead. One of his hands ruffles Viktor's hair affectionately. Then, he bends down and kisses the top of his head—right where his hair is barely starting to thin.
"An orchestra?" he asks in affectionate amusement.
Shaking with disbelieving laughter, Viktor nods against his stomach. Yuuri makes a thoughtful noise.
"Do you…um. Do you think they'll reschedule for a…for a wedding?"
6.
After yet another of Yurio's soaring triumphs, they all go out for drinks. A couple hours later, Yuuri tells Viktor he's headed back to the hotel.
"Text me when you get there," Viktor says, unwinding a very affectionate Christophe from around his shoulders and catching Yuuri's chin for a quick goodbye peck.
They don't realize that everyone else has stopped talking. In the second of utter silence, a camera shutter goes off.
"Phichit!"
"Sorry—!"
7.
Before there was morning, there was a kiss.
Yuuri's eyes flutter open before the sky outside the window has even lightened to gray. He shifts, squirming onto his side so he can observe—for once, without also being observed.
Viktor looks so much younger when he's asleep. He seems to keep all his age in his eyes…so when they're closed…
Yuuri's throat swells.
He leans nearer to Viktor, smelling his hair (clean, faintly coconut), his skin (soap and ice). He stares at the thick fringe of pale lashes that, once every few moments, twitch with dreams. Viktor looks like a sleeping god, and Yuuri at once finds himself torn between desperately wanting to wake him, and desiring equally to let him remain this peaceful forever.
Then Viktor's eyebrows pull together, and his forehead wrinkles, and Yuuri makes a decision.
It's his job to kiss the sleeping god awake.
8.
The little chapel is freezing—but that's only to be expected from a Russian February. It's also packed with people, despite their efforts to keep this a relatively discreet event.
And Viktor, who has never had performance anxiety—never once—feels his knees knocking against each other. If he can land a quadruple flip in front of the entire world, he can stand his ground in front of sixty people.
Right?
He hears Yuuri's voice approaching, and his thoughts scatter like mice. Is he not supposed to see Yuuri beforehand…? Is there someone official he should be asking these questions?
"Viktor!" Yuuri's voice comes around the corner. "You're here!"
He sounds so relieved, and when Viktor sees his face, much of his worry slips out of his neck—all the way down to his fingers and toes. But some of it still stays curled up in the knots on his spine.
"Of course," Viktor affirms, smiling like a supermodel—and like he hadn't just been on the verge of hyperventilating into a paper bag.
Yuuri's sharp eyes catch the edge of discomfort that remains in Viktor's face, and the too-relaxed tone of his voice.
"Nothing's wrong, is there?"
"Nothing!"
"Really?" Yuuri's chin twitches. "Because I just heard that you abandoned the photographer in the middle of your conversation, muttering something about checking on Makkachin."
Yuuri pauses.
"Your dog is in Japan."
Viktor laughs.
"Wow. Did I—did I say that? Wow. Haha."
Yuuri's eyebrows ascend toward his hairline.
"Viktor, are you sure you're okay?"
His mouth is entirely dry, but he nods smoothly.
"I'm better than okay."
For a moment, Yuuri's expression can't be read. Then, his face softens.
"It's all right to be nervous."
Viktor swallows again, then looks down.
"Hmm. Is it? Yuuri—this isn't a performance…"
He hears Yuuri walk toward him, but he doesn't have time to look up before warm arms wrap around him. Viktor gasps.
"I know you," Yuuri murmurs. "I know why you're anxious right now."
Viktor buries his forehead into Yuuri's shoulder and gives a weak chuckle. After a second, Yuuri asks:
"If you think of this like a program, will it help?"
Lifting his head, Viktor meets his eyes with confusion. Yuuri is smiling at him: white, and blinding, and boyish. It's unfair how beautiful he is.
"Um, maybe…" Viktor admits. It does seem possible. An adoring audience…a bright stage…even a custom outfit.
And he's next to Yuuri. He's always next to Yuuri.
So Viktor nods. He's happy he does, because Yuuri's smile widens.
"Then I'll dance this one with you, Viktor."
And Yuuri kisses him long, and fiercely, before they both go back into the chapel.
9.
"I don't understand how this works! OW—!"
"Wow, Viktor. You really suck at cooking."
Yuuri saunters into the kitchen, hands in his pockets. The air hangs thick with the scent of burning meat, egg, and pastry. Yurio Plisetsky salvages what looks like a deconstructed pirozhki from the fryer, while Viktor runs cold water over his right thumb.
"Viktor is not that bad at cooking," Yuuri counters defensively.
At that moment, a dissonant shrill has all three of them clapping their hands over their ears.
"Your smoke alarm disagrees with you," Yurio manages to yell above the racket.
Viktor steps away from the sink to shut the alarm off, then ruefully regards the smoking mess of failed pirozhki smeared across the kitchen.
"I was going to cook for your birthday," he tells Yuuri with regret.
"And I was about to stop him," Yurio offers. "You're welcome, katsudon."
Viktor shrugs, then nonchalantly hops over the carnage to where Yuuri stands, his hands still hovering cautiously over his ears.
"Guess I'll just have to give you something sweeter!"
And he plants a heavy kiss on Yuuri's mouth, dipping him a little backward with one hand supporting his spine. From the other side of the kitchen come the noises of Yurio gagging dramatically into a dishtowel.
Viktor's lips part from Yuuri's with a loud smack. Yuuri stammers something incoherent, blushing like a schoolgirl.
"That's seriously disgusting." Yurio glowers at them from the floor, where he's sweeping up unidentifiable bits of burned food. "There's another person here! You're like rabbits, god…"
Viktor brushes off Yurio's disgust, too busy savoring the delicious blush that covers Yuuri's cheekbones, and his bright, unfocused eyes.
"Don't worry," he whispers, cocking one seductive eyebrow. "That was just the appetizer."
Yuuri's blush swiftly floods his entire face. Viktor's head snaps forward as the remains of the last surviving pirozhki hit the back of his neck.
10.
Yuuri sees Viktor lounging on the couch, watching something on his phone. His headphones are resting on his stomach, but they aren't plugged in.
There's a soft curve to Viktor's lips, and Yuuri wonders, without any hint of jealousy, what is making him wear that odd smile. He tiptoes up behind him—and sees his own younger face staring back from the phone screen.
Viktor is watching their first dance.
Even though Yuuri had danced without a partner, it had been their first dance. And as the younger Yuuri bends and unfurls his body, ignoring the restraints of fat and muscle, the Yuuri of now feels the yearning melancholy of the performance like a gentle ache in the back of his eyes.
The younger Yuuri's program ends, and the video stops. Viktor exhales slowly, like he's been holding his breath throughout the entire piece.
Yuuri kneels down behind Viktor, resting his chin on his shoulder.
"Hey."
Viktor's muscles stiffen, then relax again. His cheek presses into the side of Yuuri's head.
"Didn't know you were there."
Yuuri hums. "It's been a long time since I saw that recording," he says.
"Me too," Viktor agrees. He sets the phone down on his stomach, letting the screen go dark.
"Why were you watching it?" Yuuri asks, and Viktor makes a strange sound: half-laugh, half-sigh. He doesn't answer right away, but Yuuri waits.
"I'd practiced until my feet could follow the movements in my sleep," Viktor says, sounding faintly annoyed with his younger self. "I heard the music in my own heartbeat…and every time I shut my eyes, I was on the ice again. I made that program my religion, Yuuri—and you—you blasted it apart completely. I thought I understood perfection. Watching this was like…watching the earth start turning backwards."
Yuuri stares down at Viktor's large hands, folded in his lap. His voice is hypnotic, full of absolute, unconditional tenderness. Then, Viktor's chin tilts toward him, and a drop of mischief quirks his lips upward.
"But…I was also watching it because it was the first time I realized you loved me back."
Yuuri's chest quivers. How transparent he had been.
Then, suddenly, he cracks a smirk that matches Viktor's.
"A gold medal, huh?" he chuckles. "I should just put you up on the mantel instead."
Viktor's eyes widen, then his teeth flash in a broader grin. His nose brushes Yuuri's like a butterfly wing.
"You could certainly try. Although…I would contest who the real winner is here."
Yuuri doesn't argue.
Then, everything is quiet. And everything is right.