Yuri wishes they could do this over text. Wishes Victor didn't insist on calling instead—it's embarrassing. He isn't as good over the phone, can't keep control. And someone might hear.
But Victor refuses to leave a digital trail. He tells Yuri not to be a reckless brat, and he says it with his palm warm on the back of Yuri's neck, thumb up against his pulse, so Yuri can't disagree.
They have a time arranged to talk. Fifteen minutes before that, Yuri has gone to bed, locked his door, stripped naked, put on pajamas, stripped. Dressed again—boxers and the tiger t-shirt from Hasetsu. Then a different shirt—he likes the tiger shirt—this one's old, still too big on him, the leopard print is faded black and red, and there's a hole in the sleeve.
Five minutes. Yuri slumps back on his bed, arms spread, knees drawn up, and holds his phone.
Victor calls exactly on time. Yuri lets his phone buzz five times before he answers.
"Yes?"
"How are you, Yura?" Victor asks. What he means is—
"I'm alone," Yuri answers. Quietly. Just in case.
Victor hums on the line. "I saw the video Mila posted today."
He's been refining Welcome to the Madness with Lilia. Fitting the choreography to the music better. Reworking so he can skate it alone, on occasions he doesn't have a friend to help him out. He hasn't dared ask if Victor could take that role instead. "What did you think?"
"I thought that shirt was too loose on you. Wear something tighter tomorrow."
"Fucking jerk," Yuri whispers. He mentally runs through his closet, considers the black long-sleeve. The blue short-sleeve. "I'll wear whatever the fuck I want."
"But you want what I want, don't you?" Victor's laugh is too warm, too knowing, it sends heat down Yuri's neck. The laugh is still in his voice when he says, "Right now I want you to talk to me, Yura."
Ugh. Yuri likes it better when Victor does the talking—even though he says the worst things—but he made Victor do it last time, so he doesn't argue.
"You're coming back on Tuesday, right?" He rolls over, propped on his elbows. "You're picking me up after practice and taking me back to your apartment."
"Am I? What if I have plans?"
"You have plans with me," Yuri snaps. Their arrangement works because they insist it works. Victor requires him to talk on the phone. Yuri requires him to make amends for his absences.
Victor laughs, because he's a dick. But at least he doesn't argue. "All right, then. Once I have you at my place, what do you want to happen next?"
Yuri's throat's tight. He's warm, inside and out. "I want you to grab me," he says. "Lift me up, and then slam me against the wall."
"Fuck." A pause. The sound of a zipper. "Can I pull your hair?"
Yuri has to shove his knuckles against his lips, to keep in the whimper. He takes a deep breath. "Yeah. But I'm pulling yours too. And you'd better be keeping up with your weight training, old man, because I want you to hold me up and fuck me right there."
"That shouldn't be a problem, if you've been keeping up with your diet," Victor counters, but the jibe loses some of its sting when he sounds so breathless. Like he's been running. "But no lube? I don't want to hurt you, kitten."
"Fucking liar," Yuri says—he's had the bruises and handprints to prove it. Just remembering them sends a new wave of heat through him, and he shifts against the mattress. "Spit's good enough."
There's a grunt over the phone. "I like when you suck my fingers. You're so eager, and you always look good with—ah—that little mouth stretched around something."
Yuri holds the phone tighter to his ear, both hands cupped over it. His heart races, and he knows he's beet-red, but he wants to hold every word to himself. It's stupid how fast Victor gets him this hot—but he'd be more embarrassed if he wasn't pretty sure—
"Are you touching yourself?"
"Yes," Victor says. "Are you?"
Yuri rolls over again, onto his back. Splays one hand over his stomach, like he has to hold himself down to keep from exploding, and answers, "No." And then, "Do you want me to?"
The long pause is not quiet. It's loud with Victor's quickening breath, and Yuri's quickening pulse, it's finally broken when Victor says, with impossible lightness, "I'm back in two days. I kind of like the thought of you absolutely desperate for it."
"You're fucking kidding me," Yuri hisses, even as his fingernails sink into his own skin with the effort not to touch himself.
"I'm always serious about you, kitten." His voice gets more ragged by the end of the sentence. "How about it? You think you can go two days without jerking off to the thought of me pulling your hair?"
Yuri grits his teeth against a yell, and slaps his hand over his mouth, but that's even worse, because all he can think of is Victor's hand over his mouth, muffling his moans. He's about to explode, or fling his phone across the room, or—
"Fuck off," he spits, and hangs up. Flings the phone across the bed instead, where it bounces.
His fingertips dip just under the waistband of his boxers, where his shirt's ridden up, and then he pauses. The words, I kind of like the thought of you absolutely desperate for it, replay in his head—and again.
Yuri swears, and lunges for his phone.
Fine, he texts, but you better make it worth it.
He's barely pressed send when Victor texts back a heart.