10,000+ views. I have no real words except for the chapter below, which I really hope you enjoy. You all are the actual, absolute best, thank you!

I'm over at AO3, if you prefer to follow the story there (same user name).

St. Petersburg, two months after the Sochi Grand Prix

"Oh my god guys, it's Victor Nikiforov!"

"Holy shit, he's even more perfect in person!"

"Victor! Victor! Can we get a photo?!"

"Victor, will you do a live video with us?!"

Over the years, the screeches, exaggerated fever, and overall entitlement to his time blended seamlessly into the other, and for Victor, the encounters were now whittled down to a science. Mega-watt smile, twinkle and wink, and enough magnetism to reduce most persons to twenty percent speech capacity.

Victor Nikiforov, the legendary Russian figure-skater. Or, as he cynically referred to himself, Victor Nikiforov, the commodity.

Before Sochi, his illustrious public image was as entertaining to him as it was to the press. He managed it well, albeit with less enthusiasm than his younger days. Chris ardently accounted for the deficit during competitions (bless him). His fans didn't seem to care either way; the mask of him was worth more to their social media accounts than the person that hid beneath it. Victor couldn't blame them; he was conscious of what he represented, especially within his home country. Perhaps, if their circumstances were switched, he would seek the same type of satisfaction that came with meeting a celebrity.

Impressionable youth and all that.

After Sochi however, after Yuuri, he scarcely saw anything else. It was extreme tunnel vision, a fixed line of vision filled with flyaway locks and starlit eyes, Victor's secluded corner of a world that rushed around him. The memory ached and assuaged him, and one day that nucleus came to a middle. A group of fans bounced towards him as he left his personal tailor to work his magic on a suit for the World Championships banquet (if only he had another dance to look forward too). Victor put on his mental lab coat and went through the process, as always. One of the men extended his selfie stick, capturing five excited smiles and one satisfactory one.

"We've always wanted a commemorative photo! Smile everyone!"

It wasn't until Victor was unlocking his apartment door that a wave of horror loomed over him.

A commemorative photo? Sure...

'Oh fuck,' Victor went numb, 'I said that to him at the arena. Did he...fuck, did he think I mistook him for a fan?'

The recollection of the error in his phrasing was much like being tossed into a wind tunnel. It set him violently adrift, extricating him from where he stood frozen and dropping him into Yuuri Katsuki's shoes. Drunk Yuuri was an anomaly, a shooting star bursting through the sky, stealing wishes and continuing without fear into the night. Sober Yuuri, however, required tact, a trait Victor severely lacked at the most inopportune moments. He'd never meant to be cruel. It had been an excuse to rope Yuuri into conversation, something Victor actively pursued after the podium formalities. But his search came up empty. Yuuri was no where to be found. Then, as Victor resigned to leaving with Yuri and Yakov, there he was, leaving the arena with Celestino Cialdini.

Of all the words Victor could've strung together. He slapped his forehead at how badly he had fucked up.

'I'm so fucking selfish. I was only thinking about myself. I'm so sorry Yuuri.'

The rest of his day was steeped in miserable groans and interminable moping. All this time, he'd carried the brief meeting like a wounded puppy, the image of Yuuri, expression blank, eyes heavy with unshed tears, an indelible contrast to the man who'd lit his heart on fire. Victor covered his face and buried hands and head into Makka's fur. If he'd been hurt in that moment, imagine how Yuuri had felt.

Insulted? Sidelined? Dismissed?

Rejected?

And then a second, more devastating realization hit him: Victor would never be able to make it up to Yuuri.

He'd casually called in some favors, requesting information on Yuuri Katsuki's intentions for next season. Much of it leaned to his retirement. The rest of it made him furious. The connotations in the messages, the friendly intelligence betraying a sub-current of contempt.

Yuuri Katsuki was not a dime-a-dozen skater. Far from it.

Victor choked on his sadness and anger when his phone rang out next to him.

"Victor darling!" It was Chris, "Did you get my messages? I'm here for a couple days. Want to get some dinner?"

Victor vaguely recalled Chris telling him about some meeting or the other, "Sure. Our usual spot?"

"Sounds good to me. Are you okay? You sound startled."

"I'm fine. Makka toppled me over."

"Of course," Chris let that one pass, "I'll see you in a few hours."

Victor strolled into the Four Seasons, dressed to the nines in slim black slacks and a striped navy oxford shirt under luxurious black cashmere. The motions of sorting through his wardrobe had, at the very least, cleared his mind for an hour. He pulled the scarf from his neck, and fingered the buttons on his peacoat as he entered the bar, drawing all eyes in the room to him. He avoided them all save for Chris. The hotel staff knew them well, and were a pragmatic presence in a sea of whispering admirers.

He and Chris were safely tucked away in a private enclave, away from prying ears and eyes. Victor leaned back against the rich leather with an audible sigh. He'd dwelled himself to a massive headache that continued to mock the aspirin he'd taken earlier that evening. So be it. Alcohol would be the next salve on his list.

"The usual?"

"I think I need something stronger tonight." Something as strong as Yuuri's lips.

Chris placed the orders, adding a pointed 'Keep them coming' at the end of it, "You look miserable Victor. Your face that is. The rest of you is to die for."

"That's comforting," Victor drawled, "You never mince words, do you?"

"Not with you. We wouldn't be friends if I did."

Victor managed a smile, "I remembered something stupid I did. My day pretty much devolved from there."

"Hmm. Italy? Or perhaps Moscow?" Chris snapped his fingers, "Canada. That was a hell of a night."

"Is this a hobby of yours?"

Chris smirked, "Relax, I'm only teasing." A round of drinks reached their table and Victor took a healthy mouthful of it, the mixture of sweet and tart quite pleasant on his tongue. Two drinks fluxed in his system while Chris was still halfway through his first. Victor ignored the questioning looks in favor of lighter conversation.

"How's that mystery partner of yours doing?"

Chris obliged him with a smile, "Very well. Beautiful man. Notoriously private, which I actually like."

"Does he know we've fucked?"

"He knows all the stories."

Victor laughed, "Understanding and trust. That's the dream."

"Two thirds of it, at least. You're forgetting love."

Victor's already uneven cheer wavered. He chased the sinking feeling with another drink. Chris watched him curiously.

"You want to tell me what's the stupid thing you did in Sochi?"

Victor was brooding, "I really don't."

It's been a while since he's been this preoccupied, "Victor, forgive me for this, but what happened after he kissed you?" Victor suddenly looked like the chair was swallowing him, "I ask out of concern, and just a bit of curiosity because I get the impression that the kiss was only one of several important things to happen that night."

"Like I told you, it doesn't matter as much as you think it does."

"Really? You're probably right," Chris fished his phone from his pocket, unlocking and scrolling through Instagram with an overtly casual flick of his thumb, "I guess this post of Yuuri wouldn't be something you're interested-"

Chris tried to cover his enjoyment of Victor emphatically snatching his phone out of his hand. Victor was partially sure it was another one of his friend's many points, and there would be nothing for him to see except the physical admission of where his thoughts lay...except...

"Prekrasny." It was a shot of Yuuri from the back. He wore the staple practice gear, black sweats, soft blue track t-shirt. His hands bracketed him delicately, fingers gently pointed down. His head was bowed, the nape of his neck an invitation. Light streamed in from the windows, casting an ethereal glow on his stance. He looked set to draw magic from the ice, leaving all in his path spellbound.

"He's still in Detroit," Chris sipped his drink, "His friend Phichit Chulanont posts regular updates, including some of Yuuri. I've been keeping an eye on the possible contenders for next season and discovered the photos."

"Why didn't you send them to me?" It was an audacious thing to say, but Victor's regard was out of the window, on a plane, and storming Yuuri's American rink. Many of the pictures of Yuuri were side shots, or far off studies, and they were almost always without the obstruction of people. Victor was sure this Phichit had sought his permission to post these, with the comfort that Yuuri was fairly shrouded in mystery. Even his tags didn't include Yuuri's name. His own checks after Sochi came up pretty blank; Yuuri was undeniably and unforgivingly private.

"We haven't talked about Yuuri since our last drink Victor. You've been quiet on the subject and I figured you had your reasons. I didn't want to upset you."

Victor shot him a glare, one he quickly retracted. He returned his friend's phone with a sigh, "I'm sorry. You're right. I have no right to be angry."

"I prefer you angry than sitting behind your walls," Chris was concerned, "You've been far the last few weeks. On a side note, is everything coming along okay for the WFSC?"

It was a testament to his and Chris' relationship that they were able to speak frankly about competitions where they were usually pitted as rivals (among other suggestions), "Everything's fine. My routines are in order. But..."

"Yes?"

'But what the fuck does it matter anymore?' "I've been thinking about Aria. I don't know why, but whenever I skate it now, I feel like something's missing."

Chris shook his head, thoroughly amused. Victor was a hopeless romantic and he didn't even notice it, "I'll send you the username of Yuuri's friend," he waved Victor's rebut away, "You're a terrible liar darling. Consider this a very belated birthday gift. Take it, and give the world the Aria they never thought they'd see."

World Figure Skating Championships, Saitama, Japan

"Last up is Victor Nikiforov from Russia. It's clear he's Russia's hero, the cheers are deafening! After the short program, he leads Giacometti, in second, by a huge margin..."

Victor greeted the crowd, shimmering, blossoming and charming, his usual appetizer of flair and poise. They ate the overture up, starved for more from the legend himself.

The main course, however, would be different tonight.

Victor had taken Chris' unexpected gift, and his sage advice, holding both close as he polished Aria: Stay Close to Me. He gave his heart free reign to guide him wherever it wanted in those last weeks of practice. He dreamed of nothing but Sochi, and instead of waking with an ache in his gut, he woke to newly lit inspiration.

Aria was now his love letter to a stunning collection of stars and wonder masquerading as a human. It was his response to a dance that would be his center of gravity tonight. It was his ode to a kiss that would flay him down to his last breath.

Tonight, he skated for Yuuri. Only Yuuri.

The cheers from the crowd gradually melted into a reverent, anticipatory silence. The collective holding of breaths, quiet gasps, bodies so shocked that hands never collided, mouths so unhinged that vocal cords were temporarily decommissioned. Such was the intensity of his skate, the rapturous passion, the rawness, his usual impermeable nature stripped bare for the ice.

Victor knew how he looked, knew that his body conveyed something oh so precious, so coveted, so inherently alien to anything he'd shown before in competition. Each movement wove the intricate story, each loop and flip carved the subtext of devotion, each outreach of his hand seemed to denote something tangible in front of him, invisible to everyone except the skater.

Victor Nikiforov, god of the ice. That's what the media regularly called him.

Tonight, he was no god. Tonight, that power lay in inky black strands and laughter too beautiful for the earth, in magnificent eyes that saw him and hands that lingered like an old wound.

By the end of it, the arena was thunderous with applause. But Victor heard none of it save for a familiar voice.

I'll skate...with you...

'You just did Yuuri.'

Chris watched from the stands, mesmerized. The gold would go to Victor and good fucking god, he deserved it. But, underneath the pride he felt for his friend's performance was heartfelt sadness.

'I hope you get to tell him Victor. I hope one day you can say the words.'

The consensus was without refute. Victor Nikiforov's performance of Aria: Stay Close to Me was his best of the season. When asked about his inspiration for such a career defining moment, as this was his fifth consecutive gold medal, Victor wanted to say the man's name on live international television. He wanted to say, "This is dedicated to Yuuri Katsuki. I wanted nothing more than for you to stay close to me."

And the genuine comment was on his tongue. It would be so easy. Eighteen simple words and the stars would align. He got swept up in the thought of Yuuri hearing him, shocked at the revelation at first, but then he would understand, he would remember Sochi, they would finally reunite, and would be free to lose themselves in hundreds of perfect kisses.

So easy.

Which, of course, it wasn't.

'I can't do that to Yuuri. I can't just say 'fuck it' and be selfish. I did enough damage in Sochi.'

So, he flaunted his signature charm, made a memorable quip and left the media in a collective state of heart-eyes.

His mood sunk during the press conference and it must have been noticeable because Chris kept glancing in his direction. Victor took a deep breath and tried to drive the louder questions from his mind: Where was Yuuri now? Was he doing okay? Would he return to figure-skating? Did he watch Victor's skate?

"Victor, what do you have in mind for next season?"

Victor rolled his eyes at his last thought, which apparently coincided with the press question because the camera flashes increased at his inadvertent cheek. Victor imagined that the detachment radiating off him was palpable through the room, or so he felt given the uncertainty that gripped him as he was forced to take stock of his life.

The truth were undeniable. No matter how much tonight's performance was a culmination of his career, or whether or not Yuuri had watched his performance, he would never know how Victor truly felt.

The thought was acid sizzling through his battered heart.

Victor didn't fare any better at the banquet. Every single person who dared to brush against him turned his insides to ash. He didn't care that they were important officials or sponsors or whoever else was invited to this puppet show, these fuckers had no business touching him. That right belonged to one man.

Chris honed in on the growing revolt in Victor's eyes and, in due course, delicately extricated his friend from the mess of it all, steering him safely away from possible chaos. They rode the elevator and walked down the hall to Victor's room in silence. As they stepped inside, the weight of the night dropped, taking Victor tiredly to the edge of his bed.

"They make me want to vomit." He settled his face in his hands, exhausted.

Chris sat with him, careful to leave space between them, "If it's any consolation, your performance was breathtaking. The rest of it, well, after all these years, it feels secondary. We're celebrities after all."

"Fine, but I am not a fucking thing Chris," Victor's voice was splintered. He took a long breath, and out, bathing his face in heat, "He walked away from me twice in Sochi."

"What?" Chris looked surprised, "When?"

"Before the banquet, at the arena. I offered to take a photo with him and he just...dismissed me. Again in the lobby the next morning."

"That's a bit odd," Chris was thoughtful, "Most competitors who cross paths with you don't try to hide it. Even I was a fanboy. I still remember you wearing that gorgeous flower crown the first time we spoke. You were dashing."

Victor smiled weakly, "We had four a.m. vodka meetups to smooth things out. I don't habitually build relationships via shots."

"And what of champagne?"

Victor groaned, as Chris laughed, "You know, for someone who requires a lengthy preamble before even considering the possibility of trust, you're happy to share it with this young man."

"There's more," Victor descended further into his palms, "I dropped my watch in his room."

Chris was beside himself, "Jesus fucking Christ Victor. This entire situation is mad. You're mad. I'd say we can bump Sochi to the top of the list. Canada has nothing on this."

"I didn't leave it there on purpose," Victor said defensively.

"Well, where is it?"

"I have no idea," Victor sighed, "The hotel never located it and it's not like I can ask Yuuri if he found it. Not that it matters, there'd be no reason for him to keep it."

"Oh Victor, no wonder you're in a such a state. I wished you'd told me all this before."

"I wanted too but like you said, it's mad. This is going to sound insane but as much as it hurt to watch him go, it was like waking up. He wouldn't take anything from me, not willingly, but I could give him..."

"What?"

"Everything," Victor raised his head, the word heavy on his chest, "I wouldn't care what it costs me."

What could Chris possibly say to that? Yuuri had weaved his way into Victor, filling the cracks, stitching together the stripped pieces. It wasn't perfect, largely unrequited in the worse sense, but it was about damn time Victor paid attention to the man behind the facade, the one trapped under the ice.

"I think it's time for another drink," Chris motioned to the door.

"Champagne?"

They shared a mild laugh and Chris patted his back, "Fucking masochist."

Present

Victor smiled to himself. Walking home from Ice Castle with Yuuri, stopping much too often to indulge in long, promising kisses, he'd looked back at the WFSC, at the disparity in him, unable to believe he was now holding Yuuri in his arms. The dreamlike sensations persisted all the way to Yu-topia, to them undressing each other in the quiet of Yuuri's room, to standing sleepily under Yuuri's shower, the water cascading around them in cooling lines. Yuuri's head rested sluggishly on his back, his lips trailing in slow, tired tracks along his spine.

"Yuuri?"

Victor's fingers were wrinkled from the prolonged bath, so Yuuri's own were probably doubly so since he'd gotten into the shower before Victor. Victor would be lying if the sight of Yuuri tonight wasn't overloading his senses; confident and triumphant on the ice, crinkled and tearful smiles whenever they kissed, peaceful as he rinsed the shampoo from his hair, and the smallest glint of something filthy in his eyes when Victor joined him. They'd bathed together in the hot springs too many times to count and were used to seeing each other in varying states of nudity.

But this intimacy...this was so close to another boundary entirely.

Be it their drowsiness, or understanding the greater significance of the night, or knowing they still had things to discuss, whatever the reason, their restraint was pertinacious. Yuuri's hands did explore and Victor did not stop him. He had missed this. If he went another day without Yuuri's touch, it would be a wasted period in his books.

"Yuuri?" Victor called a little louder. A barely there groan. "Zvezda moya?"

Yuuri stirred, and he draped an arm over Victor's shoulder, "Sleepy."

"Two a.m. skating sessions will do that to you." Victor turned off the shower, and carefully turned so Yuuri only drifted slightly off him. He steered the man out of the shower and both of them into warm towels. This was a close resemblance to Yuuri in his hotel room, from the complete trust of the person guiding him, to the way his hands searched for Victor, determined to find a place to anchor his touch.

"Let me get my clothes," Victor whispered, planting an amused kiss on Yuuri's slightly pouted lips, "Literally less than a minute." Yuuri obliged, shuffling to his room with a perceptible yawn. Victor moved quickly, forgoing a t-shirt as Makka nudged him out the door. His poodle trotted behind him, and went straight to Yuuri's bed as Victor shut the door.

Yuuri was already curled towards the wall, and Makka made the space between his knees and chest his own. Victor looked at the pajamas strewn over Yuuri's chair and to his boyfriend clad only in boxers, hand digging distractedly into Makka's fur. He went to him, pulling at the blanket bunched near his feet, arranging it to Yuuri's waist before crawling in next to him. The bed was ideally made for one; it was excuse enough to get markedly close to Yuuri and line his shoulder with kisses. Yuuri responded with the dozy version of a giggle.

"Thank you Victor."

His lips found the nape of Yuuri's neck next, "Are you comfortable?"

"Unbelievably."

"I'm happy," Victor mumbled against him.

"Victor?"

"Mmm?"

Yuuri's hand moved to his thigh, "I'm sorry."

"I know you are solnyshko." He was rewarded with a contented hum at the new endearment.

"Did my skating make up for it?"

"Partially."

"Partially?" Yuuri huffed through another yawn.

Victor nuzzled him mischievously, "I'll trade you the other half if you tell me about your dreams now."

"That's cheating," Yuuri was indignant but his hand was roguish.

"Haven't I earned a little fun?"

Yuuri smiled, "Hai anata ga motte iru." Victor didn't care (for now) that he couldn't understand Yuuri; his native tongue was beautiful. He was about to ask for more when Yuuri shifted to face him, his eyes searching.

"I've been wondering, and I don't want to forget to ask you. Why did you look so unhappy at the banquet?"

Victor wound a finger around some of Yuuri's stray strands, "What if I told you we had that conversation already?"

"My hotel room?" Yuuri breathed.

"Yes. You're a very perceptive drunk."

Yuuri snorted, "Can you refresh my memory?"

It came as no surprise that Victor could recite their exchange verbatim, "Your technique on the ice is beautiful, did you know that? You have the skill but you lack the confidence. I have the skill but I'm starting to lack the inspiration. Everything is just so-"

"Fucking monotonous now?"

Victor blinked, "How...do you remember our conversation?"

Yuuri was pensive, "No. And yes. I can't explain it. Sometimes, depending on what you say, the words get clearer."

"Failure doesn't define you Yuuri..." Victor tested and Yuuri gasped, bolting upright. Makka yelped at the disturbance.

"What you do next will! You were the one who told me that?!" Yuuri couldn't wait; he smothered Victor's words with a kiss bursting with gratitude, "You have no idea, no idea, how much those words helped me."

Victor thumbed away Yuuri's untroubled tears, "I'm glad." He swallowed back his own emotions, opting instead to enjoy Yuuri's lips and the smile that grew with each soft graze.

They gradually fell asleep, whispering memories of Sochi, each one lifting the burden of a previously mutually exclusive night off their hearts.

Yuuri's room was still steeped in darkness when Makka licked Victor's hand that was dangling off the bed. He peered through half closed eyes at his lively poodle.

"Okay Makka," Victor murmured, and he stumbled out of bed to let his dog out, "We'll be up in a few hours." He rubbed his eyes and returned to Yuuri, wrapping himself around the grumbling man. A few soft kisses quieted him. Victor smiled. He loved Yuuri's little tells, the smaller, more in-depth brush strokes of his personality that made Victor weak. Every day he spent was Yuuri was like watching a painting come to life, the colors filling him with inspiration.

The slip of his just-too-big glasses whenever his eyes widened; how he randomly walked on tip-toe, almost skipping, when he was excited about something; the nervous taps of his thumb against the pads of his other fingers when we forgot where he put something; the way his eyes shined whenever Victor praised him, or the defiance they bore when he pushed Yuuri hard during practice; the coos he reserved solely for Makka; the shameless bargaining in his movements whenever he came in contact with katsudon; every single note he'd written to Victor...

It was an endless list.

"Vy prekrasny," he whispered running what he knew was a cold foot along Yuuri's bare leg. Yuuri stirred, the hint of a smile on his face. Victor brushed his hair aside and kissed his forehead, inducing a long groan.

"Victor," he whispered, "It's too early."

"I was letting Makka out."

"Mmm. Go back to sleep love."

That was new and if anything, it brought him further out of sleep, "I can't."

Yuuri yawned and cuddled against him, "Okay. Tell me what's on your mind."

"Sochi, the photo, the lobby," the words fell from his mouth, "I'm so sorry. I wish I had known you. I wish I'd said something different."

Yuuri remembered both incidents well, "It wouldn't have mattered. I...I didn't feel like I deserved to be near you, not after my performance."

Victor was sad, "Then I should've changed your mind."

"There was a lot of shit I had bottled up. You didn't know me, and you didn't do anything wrong," brown eyes opened to meet blue ones, "It wasn't your fault Victor."

"I'm a selfish man Yuuri," he didn't sound convinced, "I want the time we could've had."

Yuuri propped himself up on his elbow, "We'll just have to make up for it then. I'm not going anywhere."

"Would you like to know why I was in your hotel room?"

"If you're ready to tell me, then yes."

Victor touched his cheek lightly, then caressed it, staring at Yuuri like he was a mirage, liable to vanish into smoke or fade into the night at any moment. The look in itself was an answer. Blushing, Yuuri averted his eyes, lacing his fingers through Victor's own instead. His gaze said so much, and Yuuri's very sleepy mind was unable to accommodate the force of it.

"I...I didn't know if I would see you again, so, I took the opportunity. I would've regretted it if I didn't. I had no expectations, and I didn't want anything from you. I just..."

Yuuri rested his head on Victor's shoulder, thoroughly red now, "It was one dance..."

"You're an amazing fucking dancer Yuuri," Victor smiled, "I know you remember that night abstractly, but...it was more than a dance to me. It was more than a kiss. If I never saw you again..."

Yuuri waited, giving Victor time to find the words. All of it was already so unbelievable, so pure. He wanted to hear more, and then follow up with another dozen apologies, just in case. A few minutes passed, and Yuuri found himself drifting until a choked sob snapped his head up to Victor's face.

"Victor?" Yuuri moved his bangs, blinking in the darkness, and felt his stomach drop at the tears, "Oh fuck..."

He threw the blanket off them, sat up and took Victor with him into a tight bordering on suffocating hug. Victor clung to him like he never had before, sinking his nails deep into Yuuri's back, as though unconvinced that Yuuri was real. He fought through the pain, letting Victor ground himself in the trenches he dug.

"Victor, I'm right here." Yuuri's first instinct was to freak the fuck out. Victor had never showed this side of him and the tears that wet the curve of Yuuri's neck made him tremble uncontrollably. But that was effectively eclipsed by a formidable need to see Victor through this. On a scale of one to ten, his protectiveness sat solidly in the thousands, and climbed with each stifled noise Victor imprinted on his skin. He pushed back every single anxious thought in his mind and focused on the emotions that Victor was struggling to verbalize.

It felt like days before Victor spoke, his voice hoarse, "Don't make decisions for me Yuuri."

"Victor..."

"If you need time, or space, or your have something to sort through, tell me. Leave a note. Anything. But don't push me away and expect me to be okay with it. I...I can't..." he was shaking, "I don't ever want to walk away from you again."

"It was stupid. I'm so sorry."

"Please trust me Yuuri," Victor begged. Yuuri's heart broke at that.

"I do. I swear I do."

"You have to know I'm here because I want to be here. I'm in your bed because I need you. Nothing will change that. Don't...don't dismiss me," Victor said softly through sniffles, "I don't need you to protect me Yuuri. I need you to stay close to me."

Yuuri leaned back a bit, wanting to see Victor. His boyfriend's cheeks were wet, and Yuuri went about ridding the area of stray tears, pressing his lips to each spot as he went. When Victor kissed him, the feel of it was brand new, and Yuuri could only imagine what it took for Victor to reveal himself like this, stripped and vulnerable and holding on to him like a lifeline. He never truly considered what it cost Victor to be here. It was more than skating, more than his gold medals, more than money and sponsors and fans and image.

He wondered if he could love Victor more than he did right then.

"Yuuri," Victor said against his lips, "Why did you keep my watch?"

"I honestly don't know. I had every intention of handing it over, but I couldn't. Something kept telling me it was important," Yuuri ran a hand through Victor's unbelievably soft hair, "If only I'd known what it meant."

Victor closed his eyes, "You do now lyubov moya."