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Viktor still remembers hours after getting married, feeling elated and light on his feet.
The world had been pure, undulated sunshine, flowering warmth over every crevice, banishing every shadow.
Yuuri said nothing to him then, only grinning so handsomely and affectionately. He hoisted a visibly astonished Viktor up into his arms, carrying him bridal-style through the entrance of their apartment.
Makkachin boofed at their antics, wagging her tail before quickly losing interest, exploring another room.
During a playful, wide spin, Viktor tilted his head backwards with a delighted chuckle and pressed his face against Yuuri's shoulder, nuzzling and smelling his cologne. "My Yuuri is so big and strong," he said, nearly purring his words, gazing demurely at the other man through his eyelashes. "Be gentle with me~"
That pulled a genuine, amused laugh out of Yuuri. He lowered Viktor onto heathered-tweed chaise smoothly and folded off his glasses, crawling between Viktor's legs to settle himself and lean over Viktor.
"Mm… sure that's what you want?" Yuuri whispered, grinning one more time. His husband kisses the lift of Viktor's mouth, unbuttoning his shirt, tracing his own lips softly over the pale-rose curves.
Viktor made an intrigued noise that the velvety heat of Yuuri's suggestion, raising his eyebrows.
"I take it back," he announced, giggling breathlessly with his husband and staring into Yuuri's dark, adoring eyes, the backs of Viktor's fingers stroking his cheek. "Do not be gentle… not at all…"
Yuuri listened to him then, fumbling to yank open Viktor's trousers and mock-growling into his ear.
They "christened" their brand new chaise, in slow and loving deeds, and then against the dining room's counter-top and a hallway wall and the very edge of their mattress, before the next daylight welcomed their lives.
.
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Those years had been harmonious — piling up with their figure-skating awards and household appliances, and late-night cooking with an aproned Yuuri allowing Viktor to sip from the ladle to test the recipe.
Sunshine vanished temporarily after Makkachin's passing. Viktor had been a proud, lively 31-year-old, sobbing childishly against Yuuri's pajama-top, barely aware of Yuuri's fingers petting his hair out of his face and scratching faint, apologetic circles into Viktor's scalp and down his back.
Time slowly weakened the grief.
Time weakens.
Viktor cannot believe over thirty years has passed since, in radiant-bright memories. There's age-spots on Viktor's hands, blood-vessels popping out against his skin. He's tried to prevent wrinkles, but with little success. Viktor has prevented a majority of his hair-loss with treatments and drugs, often preening himself.
Streaks of grey-white appears in Yuuri's hair, starting from his temples. Yuuri rarely complains about getting older, or about his obvious muscle loss or achy joints, rubbing his left hip before standing.
.
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Yuuri forgets. A lot.
At first, Viktor assumes it's a substantial hearing loss, as Yuuri asks him to repeat what he said only moments ago. But it's the same question over and over —"What time is the appointment?… Viktor, what time is the appointment?… Can you tell me when we are going to the appointment?" — and Viktor feels completely baffled when he repeats the answer, only for Yuuri's expression to remain slightly disorientated.
Yuuri has always been the most organized out of both of them.
Until he isn't.
Their paperwork has inaccurate dates and misspelled addresses. Wrong phone numbers. He slips up and calls Yuri "Phichit" and had been convincing enough talking as if they had been roommates in Detroit that Viktor receives a sincerely worried voice-mail from Yuri later.
"I miss Vicchan," Yuuri croaks out sleepily, hugged in the crook of Viktor's arm. He points to a mobile-photo of Makkachin.
.
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It's getting worse.
(Viktor refuses to indulge in the thoughts of neurodegenerative diseases.)
Yuuri begins regularly taking prescription cholinesterase inhibitors and memantine, for the symptoms of memory loss and difficulty with further severe cognitive problems. He misses some doses, occasionally, but Viktor provides a gentle reminder and a tender, gentler smile, clasping their hands longingly.
Sunshine dissolves into rainfall. They move out of their apartment for a quieter cottage-home in Hasetu, Japan, during the month of May. It's nice, warm weather when they land, the concrete sidewalks full of puddles.
With a little maneuvering and trembling arms, a somber-faced Viktor carries Yuuri through the threshold.
.
.
"Can you believe it all looks the same?" Viktor asks, gazing down into the choppy water. "Even the bridge."
Yuuri smiles at him close-lipped, and it banishes every shadow of Viktor's fears. "You made me run for days across this bridge until I lost weight," he says teasingly, reaching out and fixing Viktor's shirt-collar.
Viktor hums, overly pleased, tugging him into a loose embrace and swaying easily.
"And now you are perfect the way you are, Yuuri."
"Two old geezers, just like… said we were." Yuuri's sentence pauses midway, his face straining. He pushes his veiny, weathered fingers under his eyeglasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Um…"
The other man shakes his head, frowning.
"Yuuri…"
"It's fine. I'm just tired, Vitya," Yuuri insists, rasping. He offers a less sunny smile, cupping Viktor's face to kiss his lips and steps away. "Let's go home…" Yuuri's feet shuffle towards the wrong direction, across the bridge out of Hasetsu. Viktor hooks their arms, murmuring out an agreement to not startle his husband.
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Yuuri wakes up from a nap in a frenzy, tears building in his red-rimmed eyes.
He speaks loudly in garbled-up Japanese and does not seem to understand any of Viktor's concerned English. He almost trips out of bed, in his attempt to flee. Yuuri's legs catch in the sheets, tumbling him roughly onto the floor.
Large, ugly bruises creep over Yuuri's knees and elbows, but no more of him injured. Viktor has learned enough of Yuuri's mother language to have a fluent conversation with the town's doctor. She expresses her sympathy, alluding to a recently deceased family member who has gone through the same, and prescribes more of the medication.
"He must have mistaken you for a foreign stranger… try not to be alarmed, and remember to calm him first."
Viktor cooks one of Yuuri's favorite dishes, leaving out bouquets of red roses on the kitchen table and their mattress. He discovers several roses floating on the water of a full, shimmering bathtub, their stems still attached.
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"Where did I go…?"
Yuuri asks this in a litany of breathes, with closed, serene eyes.
He lies beside his husband in the darkness, motionless with the exception of fingertips mapping across the shape of Viktor's face, over his deep-set wrinkles.
"… There's nowhere I couldn't find you, my love," Viktor answers, also in Japanese, expressing his reverence as he presses his opened, hot mouth to Yuuri's wrist. Tears slide and roll onto Yuuri's exposed skin, as Viktor blinks them out and smiles, digging up the last bits of sunshine. "I'll always find Yuuri… I'll always be with you."
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YOI isn't mine. Rereading this after having left it along for three months, I started bawling. That got me good. I hope that other people get emotional too, and if you do, let me know! We can all suffer together ahahaha. I ended up snagging the prompt "Yuuri/Viktor + after getting married" from the yoikinkmeme.