The drive home, while uneventful, made Yuuri appreciate the little things in his life. Minako, the drunkest of the trio, linked her arm with his and dozed off on his shoulder, mumbling how extraordinary it was to see him look so happy, and how beautiful he and Victor looked together, and maybe they should make these nights out a regular thing. Yuuri snorted at that, but then Victor kissed the crown of his hair and he instantly lightened up. Good thing he'd stopped at six shots, it would've been a shame to forget how natural this all felt.

After bribing Victor with a generous kiss because the man seemed adverse to any kind of space between them tonight, Yuuri guided Minako into her apartment and sat her on the couch. She lay down right there and closed her eyes, ready to drift to sleep. Yuuri found a blanket and covered her, leaving medication and water on the coffee table for when she inevitably woke up with a hangover.

"Thanks for tonight Minako. For once, you meddled right." The barely audible 'hmph' signaled that she had heard him.

When the taxi deposited the two men at home, Yuuri tried to sneak them as quietly as he could into Yu-topia, a ridiculously difficult endeavor because Victor refused to be more than an inch away from him at any given moment. He insisted on distracting him with wonderfully sloppy kisses that made Yuuri giggle before he remembered that they really needed to make it upstairs before they woke anyone. Victor's intoxication was manageable enough (he certainly handled his alcohol better than Yuuri); he was still in charge of his senses but his impulse control was completely shot. He only seemed interested in languorously touching Yuuri, ignoring all the other immediate priorities in front them. Yuuri couldn't deny that it was driving him crazy; any excuse to have Victor's hands on him was worth it. But there wasn't much they could do being exposed like this.

"Victor, don't go up the stairs backwards," Yuuri scolded. He really wanted to avoid injury on both their parts but Victor wasn't listening in the slightest; his hands were under Yuuri's shirt and he buried his face in Yuuri's hair.

"You smell amazing zvezda moya," his words were singsong and Yuuri hadn't the slightest idea what he'd said in Russian, but it sounded beautiful and flustered his heartbeat. He was acutely aware of how tight the front of Victor's pants was becoming, feeling the bulge pressing against his thigh, and seriously, how was Yuuri supposed to maneuver them anywhere with Victor obviously so aroused, pressed against him, slowly grinding his hips forward. He took a deep breath and continued moving, almost missing a step because Victor's tongue was gliding along his jaw as he whispered more endearments, in English and Russian, that ate away at Yuuri's sanity.

They eventually made it to Victor's room, locked in a raging kiss that Yuuri initiated at the top of the stairs because the teasing Russian had murmured something about how dexterous he was. Shoes were haphazardly kicked off, Victor's jacket was impatiently tossed away, and they struggled to unbutton each other's goddamn shirts which, with no light and blood rushing south, felt like the longest task they'd ever undertaken. Victor pulled Yuuri's own off first, and backed him as noiselessly as he could into the wall.

"Where's our boundary tonight Yuuri?" Victors hand raked against his chest and the only thing stopping Yuuri from declaring 'There's none!' was his own common sense in taking manageable bites of this still new closeness. Small steps, or Yuuri would lose his mind.

"What did you have in mind?" he asked, discarding Victor's shirt, pulling him close, enjoying the flush that spread all the way to his chest.

Victor smiled, his hands making quick work of loosening Yuuri's pants, "Another prelude," he tugged it down, slipped a hand into his boxers and watched Yuuri's eyes roll back with sharp breath, "Is that okay?"

"Please."

Victor's hand was around his hard, throbbing cock and fuck, did it feel good. His strokes were deliberately slow, as though gauging for a reaction which came in the form of a dirty kiss that momentarily stayed Victor's hand as Yuuri bit hard into his bottom lip, and swirled his tongue over his own. It was demanding, forceful and something inside him snapped at the possessiveness of it. Victor dropped low, roughly pulling Yuuri's boxers and pants past his knees, his tongue darting to the curve of Yuuri's cock. Yuuri swallowed the moans, hushed the whimpers because if he dared to open his mouth, he'd wake the whole town.

"Victor..." Yuuri gasped, the slow burn of his tongue circling his tip, moving across the length of him, laving down to his balls was so fucking overpowering and Yuuri couldn't breathe and holy shit, what could possibly feel more divine than this? He wanted to fuck that perfect, teasing, manipulative mouth right now. How Victor was restraining himself under all this heat, all these new sensations, hearing Yuuri say his name like that, was a miracle in itself. He glanced up, made eye contact with him, saw the unbridled hunger, the fire, the shameless need. Fuck, Yuuri looked gorgeous, begging without saying a damn word. Still watching, he took Yuuri into his mouth, trying to hold his hips as he instantly bucked forward. Yuuri barely managed to contain his whine, his hands tugging at Victor's hair as the man worked him talented mouth around his cock.

"Fuck," Yuuri grabbed one of Victor's hands, almost fighting to pull it away so he could surge forward. Victor was stronger here though, and Yuuri found he couldn't concentrate very long on any one thing, the rhythm of Victor's sucking too deep, too exquisite, too fucking mind altering. He surrendered to it, covering his face, wanting to scream Victor's name, wanting to scream a lot of things actually. He was so close now, so close, just like that, don't stop Victor, keep going...

The pleasure blazed like a wildfire and the strength of it escaped Victor's grip as he hit the back of his throat and came with a blinding force. Victor wrapped his arms around Yuuri's hips and took it all, letting the wave settle, waiting for Yuuri to buckle slightly before getting to his feet and holding him tight. They both stood breathing heavily, sweat mingling between them, a warm buzz about their bodies.

"Shower?" Victor whispered with all the energy he had left.

"Not yet, let me take care of you."

Victor chuckled, guiding Yuuri's hand to his crotch; the pressure had subsided and the area was unmistakably damp, "Technically, you already did." Yuuri rested his forehead against Victor's chest but not before Victor noticed, with much amusement, the short but smug grin that crossed his face.

(Exclusive) Victor Nikiforov and Yuuri Katsuki heat things up.

Five time World Champion back to his playboy ways?

Victor Nikiforov's career is ruined. Here's why.

Why Yuuri Katsuki will never qualify for another Grand Prix.

From bottom of the ranks to the arms of a World Champion (it's one way to win gold!)

A storm brewed in the online world. Many of the pictures were shrouded in neon lights and hampered by the endless photobombs but there was no mistaking who the two men were. They'd both made quite the splash after Victor announced himself as Yuuri's coach but that general conversation had faded considerably, until now. The stories, varying from the practical to the downright obscene, spread like wildfire across the internet.

Phones were beeping around the world. Chris scrolled through the articles, not caring about the words, only the pictures. He grinned, and sent a message to Victor: I guess it mattered more than you thought it did. Btw, I'm always open to a threesome *wink* /C

Yuri Plisetsky could not believe what he was looking at. Was Victor out of his fucking mind? He left his career for this? He should be in St. Petersburg, on the ice with him. He shook with rage as the articles kept pouring in and dialed Yakov, obscenities thick in his mind.

"EXPLAIN THIS SHIT TO ME!" He yelled as his coach picked up.

Yakov sighed, "Language Yuri."

"NOT TONIGHT OLD MAN! TELL ME WHY VICTOR IS CAVORTING AROUND WITH THAT...THAT..."

Yakov had seen the meat of the stories and he'd expected Yuri to be pissed, "Victor does what he wants. You should know that by now." Yuri continued to rant but Yakov knew better than to take his words at face value. He pinched the bridge of his nose, shutting out the shouting as best he could. He concentrated on how happy Victor looked in the pictures. That had been his first observation. Perhaps it wasn't so bad that he'd taken the season off.

Phichit was screaming, so thankful that Celestino wasn't in the rink to see him abandon his practice. The pictures were so good! There was even a video?! Holy shit, Yuuri had moves! And...oh...that kiss! Phichit felt relief flood him. Yuuri had always been a conundrum, closed off, difficult to get to know. Unlike so many others, Phichit had the world of patience for him because Yuuri was actually a really nice guy and a good friend. He typed a frantic message, attaching photos and articles as fast as his phone allowed: YUURI, LET ME KNOW WHEN WE CAN TALK ABOUT THIS, MESSAGE ME SOON OKAY! /P

Yuuri lay awake, his fingers running of its own accord along Victor's arm. The Russian was sprawled over him, his face buried in the curve of his neck, his snores not as annoying as it could be since Yuuri was already up. He felt for his phone, sure it was around six a.m. by now. He hadn't gotten much sleep, keeping watch over Victor in case he woke up during the night with headaches or otherwise.

'Oh,' Yuuri realized when he couldn't locate the device, 'I left it in my pants.' He exhaled, satisfied by the memory of last night. He was loathe to leave the bed but he really needed to get some water for them both, and use the bathroom. He gently extricated himself from Victor, whispering his intentions as the man stirred. Yuuri's words seem to soothe him back into slumber, and he planted a soft kiss on his shoulder in thanks.

He located his jeans in the pile from last night, pulled his phone from the pocket, and swiped into an onslaught of messages. His phone was vibrating as he held it. 'Huh? Did something happen?' he thought, clicking on Phichit's own first and clamped his hand over his mouth to prevent from screeching. So many pictures, various video clips, reports...oh fuck. Victor and him dancing and kissing the night away in Hasetsu. Shaking now, he typo-ed a browser search to see how much damage had been done. Yuuri leaned weakly against the chair; it was fucking everywhere. There were even several reporters in his inbox requesting statements on his and Victor's relationship and how it would affect the upcoming season.

Fuck, it was the viral video all over again. No, no this was worse. How could he be so careless? Everything ultimately found its way onto social, even in a small town like Hasetsu.

And Yuuri felt it right then. Panic. Small at first, like a pin prick. Then, festering, consuming, roaring in his bones. It grew and grew as he opened more articles, and read through more emails, until his mind short circuited and all he could feel was the pain in his chest as he approached hyperventilation. He exited Victor's room, swaying as he walked to his own, barely noticing that Makka followed him closely. He sat down on his chair, and rubbed his chest, taking long, shaky breaths in an effort to calm down. The last time he'd felt like this was Sochi. After he had humiliated himself. And he had ranked last. Yuuri choked as he recollected the moment.

'Oh god. What if...what if I fail again? They're all convinced I will. What will that do to Victor? A year wasted...because of me.'

The thought made him convulse, made him doubt his choices. No amount of reasoning could backtrack his thinking now. This brought him right back to reality. His reality. The one where he couldn't see past his own incapacitated view of himself. The past two months blurred into the background and Yuuri once again found himself on the floor of that bathroom at the Grand Prix, crying into his knees. The memory bled into his present, sending him spiraling. He wasn't calming down. Oh god. He wanted to throw up. The tears came, hot and devastating as he choked.

He'd accepted the reality of Victor coaching him, easing into it, and then easing into this new feeling without stopping to think how it would affect them. How it would affect Victor. Why? Because of some past encounter he still couldn't wrap his mind around? Look where it had gotten them. Look at the position Victor was in. The things they said about him...

Yuuri couldn't take it anymore. He was crying too much to see or think straight. His head was spinning out of control. Distance. He needed distance. He got dressed, took his equipment and sprinted past Victor's room with a heartache that threatened to consume him.

It took endless barks and nudges and then an outright defiant jump on his back for Makka to wake Victor. The fresh burst of pain finally dug him from sleep. He reached behind him, absently petting at his disgruntled dog.

"What is it boy?" Victor felt around him and found himself alone. He got off the bed, watching Makka bark wildly and shuffle to the door as though itching to head out. There weren't any notes in his collar. Victor stared in confusion, wondering where Yuuri had gone. Only when he located his phone did he finally understand the commotion. Fuck. Oh fuck. Victor looked through his notifications, getting more incensed by the second. He cursed himself for not taking this into consideration before they headed out last night; he was used to the public's drivel but Yuuri definitely wasn't.

With an infuriated growl he jumped into the first pair of sweats and jacket in his line of sight, rushing out of Yu-topia into the early morning chill. He bicycled to Ice Castle, Makka right with him, his mind racing. Yuuri hadn't left a text or a Makka note and Victor knew something wasn't right. How much of that shit did he read? He should've warned Yuuri, protected him, discussed with him the possibility of ending up a primary target for every forum, blog post and social commentary. Victor muttered angrily in Russian as he bolted through the door. Yuuko was there, her face a mask of worry.

"Victor! Yuuri called and begged me to come in. I think he wanted someone around, he looks awful," she held up her phone, "I just saw them. Those tabloids are disgusting."

"Is he okay?"

Yuuko had never heard Victor sound so enraged; he evidently didn't care about anyone or anything except Yuuri, "He hasn't said a word. He went straight on the ice," she handed him some skates without him having to ask, "Go ahead. I'll keep the place clear while you guys talk."

"Thanks Yuuko."

Yuuri glided along the ice, following no real formation or routine, just long movements that Victor knew was his way of attempting to regain his composure. He skated to meet him and as soon as they locked eyes, Yuuri broke into tears.

If Victor could, he would gladly ruin every one of those fucking reporters, "Yuuri..." he reached out and felt deep relief when Yuuri didn't pull away. He'd been preparing for all reactions, knowing how strained the situation was, "It's okay. It's all rubbish. It's okay, shhh."

He let Yuuri cry into his shoulder, gently rubbing his neck and back, holding him as close as possible so maybe Yuuri's rapid heartbeat would sync with his steadier one. He wasn't sure how long they stood there but at some point, Yuuri went quiet, and his breathing was less stunted.

"I'd cry too," Victor mused, "if I was as gorgeous as you. Those pictures were on point."

"This isn't funny Victor."

"The press, the forums, all of it, they see what they want to see. It doesn't mean anything Yuuri."

"Your reputation-"

"Is very much intact because last I checked, you're stunning."

Yuuri knew what he was doing and wanted so much to allow the teasing to reel him in and make him feel better, but the panic was too potent. He pulled away from Victor, "How can you be so damn calm about this? What about your career?"

"That's also intact," Victor said slowly, hating the distance Yuuri put between them, "Being your coach doesn't mean I stop being a figure skater. Like I said, they'll write whatever gets them more hits."

"They say I stole you," Yuuri said, his voice heavy and weary.

Victor broke into a grin against his better judgement, "Well, that's not entirely wrong-"

"Can you be serious for one second, please," Yuuri took another couple steps back; he was starting to shake again, "Why are you only thinking about me?"

Yuuri was more than an arms length away now and Victor was becoming nervous, "Because I care about you. Yuuri, I want to be here, coaching you, being with you." Loving you, "What does it matter what anyone says or thinks? We both know better."

"It matters Victor! This," Yuuri gestured to himself in a vertical motion, "is not worth more than you or your career. It isn't worth the things they called you. You being here with me will ruin you. This is a-"

"Stop."

Yuuri's eyes widened, startled by how vivid the anger was in Victor's voice but it still wasn't enough to bring him back from the edge, "Victor-"

"No. Stop it. Because if you say what I think you're about too..." Victor sighed heavily, "Just. No."

"You can't tell me you didn't consider-"

"Yuuri."

"A liability to your career Victor, that's what-"

"No."

"You deserve better than-"

"That's enough Yuuri!" Victor was shouting now.

Yuuri matched him volume, "If you won't say it then I will! This is a mistake Victor!"

Victor shut his eyes and thought back to holding Yuuri's hand in Sochi. He thought to last night and Yuuri recognizing their dance. The memories flayed him. He fought the emotions, those fucking tears, that rawness that left him exposed. He couldn't show that to Yuuri, not now. His tone was tight, controlled, "Your routine yesterday was fucking flawless. I couldn't take my eyes off you. Not that I've ever had that problem, but something changed yesterday. We both know what that is. Don't you dare insinuate that I would think my coming here was a mistake."

"What if I made a mistake?" the words were out Yuuri's mouth, unfiltered and hurtful, "What if saying yes was a mistake? What about when the season starts? Would we have taken this to competition? You're Victor Nikiforov for fuck's sake."

Victor felt his heart retreat away from this havoc, "Are you...did you think there was an expiration date?" his eyes were cloudy, "Is that what you think of me? You think this is what I do? I go around attaching myself to people only to leave when it supposedly becomes inconvenient to me? Fuck Yuuri." He pulled out his phone, stared at it with that faraway look from the beach, and then handed it to Yuuri.

"The code is twenty eight ten. In my pictures, there's a folder labeled Grand Prix banquet. Keep the phone as long as you want. When you've calmed down and want to talk, let me know. But...not today. I...I can't look at you today."

Yuuri stood frozen, glancing from Victor's phone to his retreating figure with a strangled sob.