"There you are, my darling," Victor says with a sloppy little smile on his lips, one cheek smashed into his pillow. His hands (freezing) cup Yūri's cheeks with a firm gentleness—so similar to how he'd held Yūri's face the first night he'd spent here—, reminding Yūri of exactly where he is, in life and in this moment, wrapped around his fiancé in a less-than-lived-in apartment in St. Petersburg while the wind lightly blows the snowy remnants of the last few days in the quiet darkness. The windows are fogged with frost, as if Everything and Nothing is watching them and their intertwined state of being, face or faces pressed close up against the glass planes. Its breath seems to push ever so slightly in through the windows, making the skin where Victor and Yūri's damp hair touches and drips onto their necks quiver like grass under chilly morning dew.
"Where else would I be?" Yūri asks, pressing a quick, soft kiss to Victor's lips and pulling him closer with the leg he has hooked over his hip. Victor, smiling a bit at the attention, takes his hands away from Yūri's face, leaving behind matching phantom handprints of warmth. He brushes his fingers along Yūri's ankle, just grazing the mottles of purple-red bruises and scrapes, bringing to Yūri a feeling of pride and dedication.
Victor answers, "Well, sometimes, lubov moya, you stay up on your laptop or your phone into the early hours of the morning. But, this time, I was just marveling at the fact that you're here, with me," his voice becomes syrupy sweet, "illuminating my life with every breath you take." Though a light blush shades his cheeks, Yūri snickers and sticks his tongue out at Victor. Victor catches it in his mouth and sucks before letting their lips meet more fully.
Yūri lets out a deep, humming sigh that has Victor moving a hand up to curl around his waist. His fingers (freezing) shove up under Yūri's shirt, the delicate exchange of energy between their skin making Yūri shiver and press their hips even closer together. Victor slides his fingers up and down Yūri's skin in small motions, fervently tracing a transitional cold-heat like they just can't stand to stay still when placed on something so vibrant and precious, when the effect of their touch is so thrilling.
Victor and Yūri's lips smack together, the sounds filling up the room, and Yūri cuddles even closer to Victor, seeking out his warmth as a loud, whistling gust of wind sends snow blowing more intensely past their windows. The places where Yūri's damp hair touches his face and drips water onto his skin maintain that ethereal edge of frigidity—the one he has come to associate, in ice rinks and freezing, intimate St. Peterburg nights, with Victor. This situation—this very real situation that Yūri has been actively engaging in and shaping for weeks now—is so much like the ones he'd fantasize about on certain frigid nights in Hasetsu or Detroit, a hand slipping under his thick pajama bottoms as he used the other to tuck his covers tighter around himself. It's enough, as the Victor here, now, in the present, and oh so deliciously solid makes a keening sound in the back of his throat as Yūri curls his tongue for Yūri to feel nearly overwhelmed by a dizzying warmth—the same dizzying warmth that's made him break away more than a few times in the past month or so, panting with his face pressed into his pillow and helplessly nodding as Victor asked him if he wanted to stop for now.
Victor's fingers press a bit harder than they had been into Yūri's flesh, a soft and somewhat unknowing assurance—one that can only be expressed without words.
Yūri had imagined that, the first time he would decide he didn't want to break away and calm his heartbeat during one of these intimate, sensual sessions of touching, it would come to him as a sudden, striking realization—a brush of Victor's engagement ring against his heart or a quick whiff of his and Victor's sheets that he would somewhat astonishedly realize smelled just like home. But, it isn't like that. Yūri still isn't used to St. Petersburg weather—no matter how much Mila teases him for "look[ing] like [he] stole every coat, sweater, and scarf out of Victor's closet" when they're all out together—, and some days, he still wakes up expecting the scent of his bedroom in Hasetsu. The reasoning behind his comfort seems obscure and inexpressible as he runs his palms (one arm squashed under Victor's side) up and down the exposed planes of Victor's back, presses their hips ever closer together, breathes hotly into the dampness of Victor's mouth. Victor, in response, draws his head back a few inches to look into his eyes. Yūri feels his heart swell at the way Victor's cheeks redden as he sees his certainty. Yūri smiles.
Victor covers his face with his hands. "Ahh, I'm okay, I'm okay," he says before Yūri can ask, "Yūri, you just look so sure…." He takes a deep breath and puts both hands over his racing heart. "I just need a moment—I'm so happy, Yūri, really." Yūri blushes at this, watching Victor with an adoring gaze that Victor takes a few moments to get used to and match. He takes Yūri's right hand within his own, presses a kiss onto his ring—a mirror of their first airport reunion, only this time with a physical representation of the promise behind the action. "Are you absolutely certain?"
"Yes," Yūri answers, using the burst of confidence washing over him to guide his fingertips into sliding into the waistband of Victor's sweatpants. He feels erotic watching Victor's eyes smolder and the muscles in his stomach jump at his touch. Victor's cock jerks close to Yūri's curled fingers, and he feels his heart slam against his ribcage, startling that confidence that had built its home there. "But I…I've never had sex before," his voice pitches up at the words 'had sex,' and oh god, yes, that is what they're moving towards now, so softly and warmly snuggled beneath their sheets. Questions and doubts run through Yūri's mind, but he tries desperately to let that confidence share the space in his chest with his nervousness. It's Victor, he reminds himself, and his love and trust for him are unwavering and unquestionable. It's Victor, it's Victor, it's Victor. His brain brings forth a memory softened by their memory foam mattress and soft, baggy sleep clothes: Victor lacing his skates up for him shortly after they had started dating, Victor later kissing his skate while reporters had gasped and fifty camera flashes had gone off all at once. Yūri had barely noticed them until Phichit had texted him a picture with an eyes emoji.
(He had gotten the text while he was laying in bed in a hotel room alone, his brain twisted up into knots of worry—about Makkachin in Hasetsu, about Victor not being there, about skating without Victor being there. It had been the first thing that had made him laugh [a hot blush on his cheeks as he had sent Phichit back a lighthearted 'Oh my god!' with an embarrassed emoji] since Mari's call.)
"We can do however much you like, however much you're comfortable with," Victor says, pressing more kisses onto Yūri's knuckles, "and always tell me if you want to stop. It will never offend me." Love, sitting contentedly and comfortably in Yūri's chest as it has been for months, curls suddenly and powerfully, making him lose his breath in a silent gasp too small for its weight. He kisses Victor deeply before rolling on top of him, knocking him off his side and onto his back. There's a moment when cold air rushes between them, and they both giggle as Yūri lets out a discontented sound and attempts to pull the covers up around his shoulders and snuggle closer to Victor without lying on top of him.
"Would it be okay if we just…touched each other?" Yūri asks once they've settled into their new position, and even though Victor's face is out of focus now that it's more than two inches away from Yūri's, he can see the way Victor's eyes light up, the way the muted nightstand lamplight reflects off Victor's teeth when he smiles wide enough to show them.
"Yes, Yūri," Victor says, hands moving up to rest on Yūri's hips, thumbs caressing his hipbones.
Amidst Yūri's now racing heartbeat, his worry and slight panic, there's bright and tingling excitement and a sureness that is steady and solid, held steadfast and resolute in the press of Victor's thumbs, in the soft-and-firmness of their thighs pressed together, in the frosty, closed windows keeping the wind and snow blowing by them but still radiating chill and allowing in murmurs of sound. Yūri's ready. "I love you," he tells Victor.
"I love you too," Victor says, and of course, after that, they have to spend a minute holding each other close before they can continue.
Yūri draws himself back up a bit. "Is this still okay?" he asks.
"Yūri, touch me before I die," Victor whines with a little pout, "if you don't touch me, I think I might just wither away, and then you'll be left without a fiancé, and then," Victor gasps, "you can run off with someone younger! Would you, Yūri?" Yep, Yūri loves him. He giggles for a long time after telling Victor to hush and no, I wouldn't, I'd be heartbroken forever. Victor grins up at him, and Yūri, still quieting his giggles, presses a quick kiss to Victor's smiling lips before deciding to let what's happening happen, shoving his worry far back in his mind, pulling Victor's dick out of his sweatpants, and wrapping his hand around it. He feels that same tremble in his fingers that he'd felt the day he'd slid a ring onto Victor's finger, and he smiles to himself. Victor, after letting out a surprised little gasp, sighs and tilts his head back as his hand comes to rest on Yūri's thigh. "Can I?" he asks.
"Yes," Yūri breathes out, starting to move his hand. Victor's hand is warm now as it slides into Yūri's sweatpants and pulls him out, and Yūri lets out a little squeak that he's surprised he has enough comfort and confidence to laugh about rather than bury his head in Victor's shoulder for two minutes in complete and utter mortification over—an event of several of their first nights together. Victor uses his free hand to drag Yūri down for a kiss, their smiles bumping together with light clicks of teeth.
It's so much—Victor's lips and tongue across his, his hand squeezing and skilled at his length, his warmth in his hand and under his thighs and against his mouth, so pleasant against the cold air still softly tugging at the shells of his ears and tips of his toes. Yūri's brain flits from sensation to sensation, his hand sometimes stalling along Victor's length, and he has to keep reminding himself that he's present and participating, that this warmth and feeling are things that cannot be fabricated. That warmth and those feelings, though, are so distracting, and the movements of his hand repeatedly fall out of rhythm. He can't wait to get used to those distractions.
Victor whines a little. "Yūri—" he starts; he gently nudges Yūri's hand aside so that he can stroke both of them together. Yūri groans and ruts up into the touch, thinking about how he and Victor's dicks are touching, slick and warm, precum mixing together and dribbling across Victor's fingertips. Yūri moans, biting his lip after the sound fully leaves his throat. He wants to apologize, say something about how he's not that experienced, but his head is quickly becoming light, filling with a warm, warm, pleasant haze.
"Victor," Yūri moans, and Victor hums airily in response.
"Yes, Yūri, you're so good, so sweet. I love seeing you like this—thank you for letting me see you like this." Victor is always like this with him, so earnest in these so-very-intimate moments of their life together. "You make me so happy, Yūri." Yūri, torn between feeling like his heart might just simply run out of energy for all of its fast, fast, fast thuds and like it might suddenly explode within his chest, brings his shaky, sweaty hands up to cup Victor's cheeks, smiling in a wobbly sort of way before pressing their foreheads together and letting his panting breaths fall fully onto Victor's face.
Victor uses his free hand to rub up and down Yūri's back, fingers slipping up under Yūri's shirt, palm running across Yūri's skin all hot and cold and slick with sweat. Each plane of skin where Victor has touched tingles, and Yūri's heart thuds nearly painfully as he comes, moaning loudly enough that he'll be embarrassed about it later. For now, though, his thoughts consist almost entirely of Victor, and as he kisses him, he whispers jumbled, post-orgasmic words close to his lips like "Come on" and "I love you" and "You make me feel so good" and "Victor" over and over again. With a few more strokes and a moan that Yūri will have etched into his memory for the rest of his life, Victor comes.
Victor lays his head back, panting. For a while they just stare at each other, sloppy, open mouthed smiles on their lips. Then, Yūri reaches over Victor and grabs a few tissues from the nightstand on his side of the bed. Victor affectionately squeezes at Yūri's hip with his free, clean hand and says in a joyful voice, "You make me feel like such an old man, Yūri! I feel like I could fall asleep."
Yūri, savoring in the feeling of his heartbeat gradually returning to normal, just keeps smiling as he wipes the both of them off. "Well, you make me feel like the most cherished man in the world." He blushes a little at Victor's immediate response of You are! "Is this the reason why you keep these tissues here?"
"There are plenty of reasons why it's a good idea to keep tissues beside your bed," Victor says with a heated look, and Yūri giggles helplessly into his chest.
"I love you so much," Yūri tells him. Then, "If that's the case, there should be plenty of reasons why it's a good idea to keep a trashcan not all the way across the room too."
"Just toss them on the nightstand, we can throw them away in the morning. Right now, I just want to cuddle you until I fall asleep, which will probably be very soon. I just don't have stamina like you do, my beloved Yūri."
"Cuddling until we fall asleep sounds good to me too," Yūri says, playfully pinching at Victor's side for the joke; Victor jumps and laughs.
They shuffle together until they're in a position fitting for the weather: curled into each other in a sound embrace. They want to stick to each other still, even without the sexual undercurrent of before, and perform those little tricks of love that sometimes seem to allow the planes of lovers' bodies to push the skincrafted boundaries of individuality.
Yūri nuzzles into Victor's shoulder. "Hey…was I good?" he asks.
"You were wonderful," Victor assures him, and Yūri is shocked to find himself not actually questioning it too much, "and me?"
"Best orgasm another person has given me in my life," Yūri says with a toothy grin. It's the truth, if perhaps not quite the answer Victor was looking for.
"Yūri!" Victor whines, and he manages to pout for a grand total of about two seconds before he laughs, full and long-lasting. Yūri kisses him some more, just because he can, finding sleep in the space between the restful warmth of their bodies and the chill of the winter-kissed air sweeping against the skin of his face.