i. Yuuri
Viktor's hands on his hips are cold at first. Yuuri tries to hide his instinctive flinch, searching for some pleasure in the cool sting of his skin—and finds it. It's the cold, smooth ice cut by the blades beneath his feet, the rush of wind mid-jump, the bite of winter air in his lungs, rapidly, desperately inhaled on a morning run. Just like air, he needs this, he needs Viktor's touch.
Viktor's hands begin to melt into his soft sides as he traces his tongue along Yuuri's belly, more pillowy now in the off-season. He'd felt insecure about it at first, but Viktor continued to reassure him that he liked it, and so now he abandons himself to the special attention being paid to the most vulnerable part of him, shivering as Viktor's tongue dips lower and lower.
A gentle rain taps against the windows, which Yuuri only notices as it punctuates the silence between his own quiet gasps. The crown of Viktor's head is practically pressed against his belly, and he reaches down to grip the roots of his hair, faintly luminescent in the low light.
Afterward, when they turn the lights all the way down and hold each other, Yuuri will remember all the rainy days in Hasetsu, in Detroit, before Viktor—how the ice would melt, the scarves would be shed, and some days he'd be the only one left at the rink. Then, inexplicably, he'll remember the unwelcome embrace from the girl at the Detroit hospital, the moment that made him feel the most weak, ashamed and violated, and he'll nudge himself closer to Viktor. Viktor, whose touch, whose comfort, whose love, were the only kinds he ever craved.
ii. Viktor
Yuuri plants kisses which blossom into warmth across Viktor's chest, melting the thin layer of snow that had settled on his skin over the years, almost without his notice. Nothing has ever managed to stir him as much as this, as much as Yuuri poised above him in exquisite anticipation, his weight shifting as he straddles his thighs. The way his body moves, even off the ice, makes music.
Imagining his life before this, before Yuuri, is imagining an endless winter, stretching on and on until suddenly, quite unexpectedly, the sky brought rain instead of snow, opening up the ice-packed ground to yellow grass and mud where flowers would someday bloom, when the weather grew wet and warm enough. For the first time, he hears the full, bright range of birdsong outside the window, so different from the melancholy coos of St. Petersburg's doves. All the cold nights he'd spent alone in the years before were suddenly unbearable to him now, in a way he never could have imagined.
Now Yuuri places his palms on Viktor's chest, radiating heat, and Viktor can feel his heart leap up toward them. He braces Yuuri's lower back with his hands as he lifts, arches, then lowers himself down again. The room swirls with warmth, and their breath mingles as lips press together and pull apart.
When they finally collapse against each other, Viktor will turn to the side and pull Yuuri's warm back against him, gently brushing his hair from his face. And after they've curled up to sleep, he'll press his icy toes into Yuuri's calves, knowing that Yuuri will warm them too.