Out in public, Viktor is stylish. When his skating fans aren't caught up fawning over his technique his fashion fans are falling head over heels for his newest look. An outsider would speculate that his wardrobe is full of brand name suits with hefty price tags, complimented by an array of stylish jewelry. Even I had once thought that in the days when my walls were filled with still images of his immaculate physiognomy.
And now, as I did that man's laundry, I could only smirk.
When I had moved to Russia with him I didn't quite know what to expect of our domestic lives together. Having had him as a mentor for nearly a year had taught me that he was certainly not always perfect, as the media would have you know. Viktor Nikiforov was filled with many flaws. His short memory and disdain for household chores were gaping holes in the flawless image I once held of him. Holes much like the ones I had found in his old flannel shirts.
Viktor's flannel shirts had been a secret when I had first come to live with him. For some silly reason, my fiance was still trying to impress me. When he lounged about the house he was clad in those Gucci pajamas, laying back on the couch as if posing for a magazine. I always looked quite awkward sitting next to him, disheveled black hair paired off with a stained white shirt serving me well for sleepwear. Viktor never looked at me with even an ounce less of love when I dressed like this. It was silly of him to think that I would turn and love him less for deigning to wear any less than Ralph Lauren.
I was never meant to find out about his flannel, shirts from cheap stores. They were all worn from age. Some frayed at the ends, some missing buttons, and one, in particular, was far too small for him. Viktor later told me that he did these decaying gems in the back of his closet so that I would never, ever find them. By mistake, I had come home early from a trip and witnessed the most natural Viktor I had ever been blessed with.
For once his hips were not pointed to accentuate his beautiful assets, his legs instead sprawling out awkwardly. Speaking of his hips, no Calvin Klein boxers were peeking out from the waistband of cheap-looking sweatpants. I found out later (when I removed said sweatpants) that he had actually been completely bare beneath them. Viktor's supple skin, free and charming, would always mean more to me than a fancy label.
We had an awkward exchange that night. Viktor scrambled with his blankets to hide his plain sweatpants, hoping I hadn't witnessed him in the clothes of a mere mortal. What he failed to hide was the red flannel shirt draped across his form, a raggedy old thing with a few small holes. I remember laughing, so happy that he was proving to be a human just like me and not an impeccable model that I felt out of place next to.
After Viktor had accepted that I loved him, flannel and all, we made love. And while I did remove the sweatpants, that dingy flannel never came off his body. I found that I adored the feel of it, the cheap material feeling unfamiliar against his marble skin. Unfamiliar, but exciting.
That exact flannel shirt was balled up in my hands now, torn from its laundry basket. I couldn't help but smile and wonder if my fingernails desperately crawling into the fabric added any more holes to his shirt that night. Secretly, I hoped that they had and that I had been able to give his most hidden treasure my own little mark.