
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12095307.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      Multi
  Fandom:
      Yuri!!!_on_Ice_(Anime)
  Relationship:
      Katsuki_Yuuri/Victor_Nikiforov/Yuri_Plisetsky
  Character:
      Yuri_Plisetsky, Victor_Nikiforov, Katsuki_Yuuri
  Additional Tags:
      Domestic_Fluff, Fluff_and_Smut, Cooking, Living_Together, Threesome_-_M/
      M/M, Dirty_Talk, Blow_Jobs, Come_Eating, Hand_Jobs, Established
      Relationship, Possessiveness
  Collections:
      NSFW_Yurio_Week_-_Unanon
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-09-15 Words: 9749
****** Staples in Your Pantry ******
by larkscape
Summary
     Victor’s gaze takes in the pork cutlets, Yuri’s haphazard ponytail,
     the spatula dripping a pool of oil onto the counter, the cross
     expression on Yuri’s face— and then Victor laughs at him. “Fine? Are
     you sure?”
     Yuri’s attempt at cooking katsudon doesn’t turn out as well as he’d
     hoped, so he finds other ways to congratulate Yuuri for his gold at
     Four Continents.
Notes
     Day 5 of NSFW_Yurio_Week: Possessiveness / Jealousy
     Yuri is 17 in this fic.
     The Last Hero was the Russian edition of Survivor and ran from 2001-
     2009. I shouldn't have been surprised at its existence — Survivor was
     the show that consumed the television industry the whole world over
     for more than a decade. Victor's nostalgia game is strong.
     Many thanks to the wonderful Lady_Ganesh and rovio for betaing! Any
     remaining mistakes are mine.
 
“Ow! Motherfucker!” Yuri stuffs his burned wrist into his mouth, oil seeping
hot across his tongue. This is marginally more complicated than he anticipated.
“Yurio?” Yuuri calls from the front door. “We’re home! Is everything okay?”
And they're back early from the airport, which means that Yuri is now running
late. “It's nothing,” he replies, raising his voice to be heard across the
apartment. “Welcome back!”
When he turns back to the stove, the breading on the pork cutlets is alarmingly
dark.
“Shit!” He lunges for the metal spatula and lifts two cutlets from the pan in
one swoop, cursing vociferously as more hot oil spatters over his arms. If
there's a method of frying tonkatsu that doesn't leave him with tiny burns
everywhere, Yuri hasn't learned it. Hiroko’s FaceTime coaching yesterday didn't
get that far.
Yuuri's surprised expression when he sees homemade victory katsudon better be
worth all this, that's all Yuri’s saying.
“Yurio,” Yuuri says, “what's going on in there? That was a lot of yelling.”
“Nothing!” Yuri shouts, sliding the cutlets onto the waiting paper towel-lined
plate and darting back to remove the third before it's unsalvageable. He hears
footsteps approaching. “No, don't come in!”
“Relax, it's just me,” Victor says from the corner. “Oh! Are you making
katsudon for Yuuri? Yura, you’re so cute!”
“I’m not cute.”
“Do you need a hand?”
Yuri glares at the pile of breaded cutlets on the plate. “No, it's fine.”
It's not fine: the breading has thin patches and outright bare spots where he
couldn’t get the panko crumbs to stick, and they may not be burnt but all three
cutlets are definitely toastier than he intended. Plus, the simmering dashi
broth smells off somehow. Yuri has no idea how to fix it.
Victor’s gaze takes in the pork cutlets, Yuri’s haphazard ponytail, the spatula
dripping a pool of oil onto the counter, the cross expression on Yuri’s face—
and then Victor laughs at him. “Fine? Are you sure?”
This experiment is not going well. Yuuri is going to hate it.
The oil pops on the stove and Yuri curses again, reaching to turn off the heat.
Victor beats him to it. And how did he cross the kitchen so fast? Stupid long
legs, stupid quiet feet. When Victor wraps his arms around Yuri’s waist, Yuri
allows himself to be captured; Victor is warm and his body has exactly the
right amount of give when he folds around Yuri and Yuri hasn’t missed him at
all.
“It was supposed to be a surprise,” he grouses. He’s not pouting. He’s not, no
matter what sort of indulgent look Victor gives him, and he tries to cross his
arms over his chest but Victor’s are in the way. Victor laughs again, right in
his ear this time, and kisses his hair.
“Let me go, Vitya, I’m not done cooking.”
“But I missed you!”
“You were gone for four days. It wasn’t the end of the world.” Yuri resolutely
does notwriggle deeper into Victor’s embrace.
“Four days is entirely too long a time to go without you hissing at me.” Victor
squeezes him tighter for a moment and then releases him. “I’ll slice the
tonkatsu if you mix the eggs.”
“It’s my surprise,” Yuri protests, but Victor, as usual, breezes on regardless.
“And now I’m helping.” He tosses his head in that flirtatious, camera-ready way
that makes his hair fall neatly over one eye, then grabs a cutting board,
expertly flips one cutlet onto it, and sets to slicing thin strips of pork.
What an asshole. He’s fucking showboating. It’s not like Yuri needs more
reasons to find him attractive, or maddening, or any of a thousand other
things.
Even though Victor’s never mentioned it, the sure strokes of his knife through
the pork leave Yuri certain that he got in-person katsudon training when he was
living in Hasetsu. Yuri tries not to feel short-changed as he cracks eggs into
a bowl with chopped green onion, watching the light catching on Victor’s ring
when his hand moves.
At least Victor isn’t saying anything about how overcooked the cutlets are.
 
Yuri checks the broth again; it still doesn’t seem right. He almost wants to
call Hiroko so she can troubleshoot for him, but that seems like admitting
defeat and there’s no way in hell he’s going to do it with Victor right here.
“You forgot the mirin,” Yuuri says from the entrance to the kitchen.
For fuck’s sake. Now Yuuri knows, too, and the whole surprise is ruined. He
just wanted to make katsudon for his… his Katsudon. (That’s still so weird to
think about. His boyfriend? Boyfriends? His own personal live-in irritants? The
two people most likely to send him into a frothing rage and also the most
likely to talk him down again? There is no simple word that encapsulates what
Yuuri and Victor are to him.)
“Yuuri!” Victor cries with the kind of enthusiasm that should be reserved for
tearful reunions with long-lost family rather than when his fiancé walk back
into the room.
“I forgot the what?” Yuri asks instead of yelling and stomping out of the
kitchen because, contrary to popular opinion, Yuri does in fact know how to act
like an adult. Unlike some people.
“The mirin,” Yuuri repeats, casually plastering himself to Victor’s side. “In
the broth.”
“How the hell can you tell?”
“I can smell it. Do you know how long I’ve been making katsudon?” Yuuri
untangles from Victor’s embrace and wanders over to the counter, tucking his
chin over Yuri’s shoulder. “The egg mix looks good.”
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” Yuri tries — maybe he can still salvage
this situation. Yuuri is supposed to be relaxing after his Four Continents
gold, not babysitting Yuri’s terrible kitchen fuck-ups.
“Tough,” Yuuri says, all matter-of-fact like he has any goddamn say. Winning,
or jet lag, has made him bold. He heads to the fridge and pulls out a bottle in
the exact shade of yellow Hiroko described and which Yuri definitely forgot,
then pours a splash into the pan of broth. He doesn’t even measure. Yuri fumes.
“You shouldn’t be cooking your own celebration dinner.”
“Yuuri likes cooking,” Victor says as he loops an arm over Yuri’s shoulders.
“No, I don’t,” Yuuri says, drifting into their space in front of the cutting
board and inexorably squeezing them out without actually telling them to move.
Victor effortlessly course-corrects. “Okay, Yuuri likes cooking with us.”
Yuuri turns a bit pink and remains silent as he slices more green onions, which
is as good as an admission. Yuri stays quiet, too, because he isn’t sure what
to say to that. Victor’s right; Yuuri used to view cooking as an unpleasant but
necessary chore, as far as Yuri could tell, but since they all moved in
together two months ago Yuuri’s been coming up with increasingly elaborate
dinners for the three of them. He usually doesn’t let them do much more than
chop things — he’s got a weird control-freak thing going on when it comes to
cooking that Yuri thinks might stem from growing up with a restaurant in his
house — but he always drags both Yuri and Victor into the kitchen with him for
the duration.
Sometimes when Victor stays late at the rink for extra sessions with Yakov and
it’s only Yuri and Yuuri in the apartment for dinner, Yuuri stands there
quartering tomatoes and watches Yuri from the corner of his eye with this
pitiful longing look on his face until Yuri hoists himself up on the counter
and tucks his feet into Yuuri’s pockets. And sometimes, especially on hard
training days when Yuuri is tired and therefore more pigheaded than usual, he
refuses to go within two meters of the stove unless Victor waltzes him there
and stays tucked around him like an animate cloak.
Looking back, it’s obvious: Yuuri basks in their attention like a cat in
sunlight. A feeling Yuri doesn’t really want to quantify settles over him and
he’s content to stay wrapped up in Victor’s octopus limbs, admiring Yuuri’s
hands. All those years of ballet show in everything he does; even the way he
grips the knife is elegant.
Then Yuuri turns toward the plate of cutlets, which is one step too far.
“No,” Yuri says, breaking out of Victor’s grasp and stomping over to hip-check
Yuuri. “Nope, get out. No more cooking for you. This is my job; you’ve been
voted off the island.”
“But we didn’t vote!” Victor protests. “I demand a council meeting.”
“I’m vetoing any and all further marathons of old reality TV,” Yuuri says. “One
season of The Last Hero was enough.”
“Yuuri, no!”
“You'll have to take that up with Vitya,” Yuri says, ignoring Victor's
dramatics. “He's the one who always wants to watch that stupid show. You
already know who wins, Vitya; why do you want to see it again?”
“And yet you're the one making the references,” Yuuri muses.
“Because it’s a revolting brain fungus that can never be removed. You know
what, shut up, that’s not the point. The kitchen is mine for today.” Yuri snags
the knife from Yuuri’s fingers, letting his hand linger for a moment and hoping
Yuuri’s not going to call him on it. “No imposter Yuris allowed.”
“But Yurio—”
“It’s your damn celebration. You are not cooking. Stop arguing.”
Yuuri turns big brown eyes on Yuri — Victor has been teaching him dirty tricks,
obviously, since the Yuuri from a year ago would never have thought to try that
— and Yuri quashes the urge to fold like wet paper. Instead, he pecks Yuuri’s
cheek and then bumps him with his hip again.
“Vitya, get this manipulative jerk out of my sight,” he demands.
“Yuuri,” Victor says, all pouting forgotten. “I need you to come cuddle me on
the couch, and Makkachin requires more petting than I have hands to provide.
It’s a very serious problem.”
“Shameless,” Yuuri tells Victor, but he runs one hand over Yuri’s shoulder and
then follows gamely when Victor leads him by the wrist out to the living room.
 
Without two obnoxiously handsome distractions invading his personal space, the
rest of Yuri’s cooking goes smoothly. There’s not much left to be done, anyway.
He slides the cutlets into the broth (which Yuuri was right about, because it
now smells exactly like what Yuri remembers from Hasetsu) and pours the egg
over the top, then puts the lid on to let it steam for a bit. He fills three
bowls with rice from the cooker while he waits.
Someday — someday soon, he promises himself —  he’ll know how to make katsudon
as well as the Katsuki parents. Then he can surprise Yuuri properly instead of
needing rescuing halfway through.
 
Victor materializes next to him at the counter and Yuri nearly drops the rice
paddle. “Sake?” he asks, brandishing an unopened bottle.
“Sure,” Yuri says, “why not? But I’m not hauling your drunk ass to bed
tonight.”
“Yura, we’ve got training in the morning! I would never.”
Yuri snorts. “Don’t lie, old man, you absolutely would.”
Victor smiles unrepentantly. “You know me too well. Can I help with this part
or are you going to drive me out of the kitchen again?”
The glare Yuri shoots him speaks for itself.
“Fine, fine, I’ll get out of the way of your surprise.”
“Not much of a surprise anymore, is it? You came back way too early. It was
supposed to be done right as you got home.”
“Is it my fault that Aeroflot was running on time for once?”
“Yes,” Yuri hisses.
”Besides,” Victor continues as if Yuri hadn’t spoken, “neither of us could wait
to see your lovely scowling face again. And even if it isn’t a surprise, Yuuri
will love your katsudon anyway. Don’t worry so much, Yura, you’ll give yourself
indigestion.”
“Who’s worrying?”
Victor only grins at him and winks, too observant by half now that he’s
bothering to pay attention. If Yuri knows Victor too well, then Victor knows
Yuri like a favorite book: backward, forward, and inside out. It’s irritating.
“You’re an asshole,” Yuri tells him. “Get the hell out of my kitchen.”
“Your wish is my command,” Victor replies easily. He bumps their shoulders
together, retrieves three sake cups from the cabinet above the sink, and heads
into the dining area.
 
The sake set was a housewarming gift from the Katsuki family, because they are
all filthy enablers. One of the cups is decorated with a tiger.
No one even had to ask. That one was Yuri’s from the moment it came out of the
packaging.
 
When the timer goes off, Yuri transfers the egg-covered cutlets into the bowls
of rice, then pours the sauce over each one. Yuuri gets extra since it’s his
victory dinner, but no one (meaning Victor) had better mention Yuri’s special
treatment or he’ll— fuck, he doesn’t know what, but it’ll be something
unpleasant. He sprinkles the last of the green onion over the bowls.
It’s just like Victor to disappear right when Yuri could have used the extra
set of hands. He’ll manage on his own, though, even if the porcelain is
uncomfortably hot against the freckling of oil burns on his arm, because
dammit, he’s going to do this right. Yuuri won gold. He gets katsudon. It’s
like a law of physics.
“It’s ready!” Yuri yells, setting out the bowls on the table.
Makkachin, always eager for anything involving food, is the first to round the
corner from the living room. Her fluffy ears bounce as she runs. Victor isn’t
far behind, wearing a smile that lights up his entire face and carrying a
struggling Yuuri princess-style.
“Put me down!” Yuuri yells through his laughter. He’s batting at Victor’s
shoulder to no apparent effect.
“Yura! Prepare the throne for the Emperor of the Four Continents Championship!”
Yuri rolls his eyes but pulls out the chair at the head of the table. Despite
himself, he finds his mouth lifting with a smile, and when Victor deposits
Yuuri into the chair, Yuri bows theatrically.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” he says with great aplomb, “the royal feast is
served.” (When his mind catches up with his mouth, Yuri is faintly horrified;
Victor’s flair for the dramatic is catching.)
“Oh my god,” Yuuri groans into his hands, but Yuri isn't fooled. Yuuri’s grin
is visible through his fingers, as bright as the glint of gold on his finger.
Yuri still can’t believe that those two are so fucking clichéd as to get
matching snowflake engravings on their rings. His disgust at their saccharine
idiocy sticks deep between his lungs.
 
Victor distributes cups of sake, then raises his own. “To the amazing Yuuri
Katsuki, three-time Four Continents gold medalist!”
“To Katsudon destroying that brat Minami,” Yuri says.
“Kanpai,” Yuuri says, red-faced, and drains his cup.
 
The first bite of pork is— well, it’s not bad, but it’s not the Platonic ideal
of katsudon Yuri was aiming for, either.
“Vkusno!” Yuuri says.
Success is sweet. Yuri sticks his tongue out at Victor. “Yuuri is my favorite
now.”
“But you overcooked the pork,” Yuuri continues. “It’s too tough.”
“I lied,” Yuri amends, ignoring the sudden and irrational sting in his throat.
“Vitya, I like you best. Katsudon is mean and ungrateful and he and his gold
medal can sleep on the couch.”
“Hey!”
“Aww, Yura,” Victor coos, clutching his hands to his chest, “you do still love
me! You’ve been doting on Yuuri so much that I was beginning to worry.”
Yuri stares Victor down in defiance of his blush. “Yeah, well, you bring home a
gold medal next time and maybe it’ll be different. This is your last chance
before you retire, old man.”
“And deprive you of the glory of gold at Worlds?” Victor’s smile turns a little
sharp. “Of course I will.”
After all, no matter what else they may be to each other, when it comes to the
rink they’re rivals. Only one person fits at the top of the podium. Yuri’s
return smile is as sharp as Victor’s.
 
Throughout the meal, Makkachin sits patiently by the archway that leads into
the living room and exudes an aura of soul-deep, canine betrayal. She gazes
mournfully at every bite Victor takes. Victor, unsurprisingly, is a fucking
pushover for her big dewy eyes and breaks his own no-table-scraps rule to feed
her bits of rice and egg.
Yuri laughs at his hypocrisy and triples his efforts to hide the stockpile of
too-tough pork shreds he’s saving for Potya. (‘Too tough.’ Damn it.)
The three of them clear the table and start the dishes as a unit, and Yuri
still can’t get over how strangely familiar it is. It’s a little like being
back in Hasetsu and a little like being at Grandpa’s house and a lot like
something else entirely. He likes it. The way they all move around each other
is soothing and comfortable, their dance training obvious in how Yuuri sways to
avoid collision as Yuri heads to the fridge, in the arc of Victor’s body around
Yuuri’s back as he reaches for the cabinet where they keep the glasses. Victor
wobbles occasionally, but the sake doesn’t seem to affect Yuuri except to make
him even more ethereally flexible than usual.
 
Victor shooes Yuuri away from the sink. “The guest of honor does not wash his
own dishes.”
“What he said,” Yuri says, taking over the scrubbing. He hisses when the hot
water hits the largest of the spots where the hot oil got him — a welt on the
inside of his wrist, less than half the size of a pea but puffed up angry red.
He hadn’t noticed it before. The heat from the tap makes it throb.
“Yurio?” Yuuri asks. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Yuri lies.
“He burned himself at the altar of love,” Victor proclaims.
“Shut the fuck up,” Yuri says, trying and failing to tug his wrist away from
Victor’s grasping hands. “You are an embarrassment.”
“Poor Yura!” Victor holds out Yuri’s arm toward Yuuri on the opposite side.
“Look at his battle wounds! He fought hot oil for you, Yuuri. You should kiss
it better.”
Of course Victor has to point out Yuri’s struggles. Of course. Yuri hates this
kind of teasing, but for once he can’t seem to summon his rage, which might
have something to do with the way Yuuri follows Victor’s suggestion with zero
hesitation, catching Yuri’s wrist and kissing along the inside of his forearm.
The other tiny red marks are hardly visible anymore, but all of a sudden Yuri
feels an absurd bubble of hope that they last forever if this is the kind of
reaction they earn him — Yuuri is looking at him with unguarded affection and
it’s making his insides twist pleasantly.
“Brave Yurio,” Yuuri murmurs. “Taking on the oil monster just for me.”
The words loosen something that was clenched tight in Yuri’s chest.
“Hey, Victor,” Yuuri adds, his mouth hovering above the thin skin on the
underside of Yuri’s wrist. “Yurio’s not scowling for once. You should take
advantage of that.”
Victor makes a little considering noise, and Yuri has barely torn his eyes away
from their study of Yuuri’s face when Victor swoops in to kiss him. Four days,
Yuri is forcibly reminded. It’s been four days since he’s been able to kiss
either of them. Victor’s lips are faintly salty from dinner and they move
insistently, mesmerizingly, over Yuri’s and Yuri can’t help the blissed-out
sound that escapes him when Victor presses closer, crowding him back against
the edge of the sink. He weaves the hand not captured in Yuuri’s grasp into
Victor’s hair and holds him there.
“Vitya,” he says, or perhaps moans — it’s a borderline case, the vowels all
stretched out because Victor keeps sliding his lips across Yuri’s and verbal
expression is beating a hasty retreat. Victor hums a response into Yuri’s mouth
that resonates all the way down Yuri’s throat. When Victor’s lips part, Yuri
follows the motion and brushes their tongues together, losing track of
everything except the pleasure of Victor’s warm mouth on his.
Four days was too long. Yuri should go with them next time.
Eventually Victor rertreats, dropping his head to rest their foreheads
together, and Yuri is left to rediscover the Lost Island of the Rest of Yuri’s
Body. It had disappeared off the radar for a while. Yuuri assists the recovery
effort by reapplying his tongue to Yuri’s wrist, sending a frisson of heat up
his arm.
“I missed you, Yura,” Victor murmurs.
“Yeah,” Yuri says, still trying to even out his breathing. “Likewise. Do that
again?”
Victor does so, and then Yuuri cuts in and uses his mouth to banish what little
remains of Yuri’s senses. Katsudon tastes like katsudon, Yuri thinks, a bit
wild, drunk on more than the three small cups of sake, and he laughs against
Yuuri’s lips. Yuuri clutches his hip and pulls him in, and the only thing Yuri
can think after that is how much he’s missed this, how good it feels to have
Yuuri warm and firm all along his front, the fabric of his t-shirt soft under
Yuri’s hands.
It’s always strange when they go away to competitions without him, and even
more so since he moved in. He still feels like an interloper in this apartment.
His edges don’t quite fit.
Gradually Yuuri quiets, his kisses slowing until they’re merely an excuse to
rest his face against Yuri’s. Victor slides closer on his other side and noses
behind his ear, and the familiar, intimate press of their bodies is so nice, so
soothing, that a part of Yuri wants to curl up and luxuriate in it for the
whole evening — but the rest of him is reaching the limit. There’s only so much
sappiness he can tolerate.
“I’ve got things to do and you’re both gross,” he complains. “Shoo.” He shoves
them both away, masking a smile.
Victor goes easily, supple with drink and danseur grace. “Yuuri! Yura called us
gross!” He pretends to swoon, winking at Yuri, then redirects his attention to
Yuuri. “He’s so cruel. You must kiss me, Yuuri, or I’ll never recover.”
Grinning, Yuuri complies, dipping Victor over his thigh and narrowly avoiding
smacking the back of Victor’s head into the counter. They’re laughing too much
to kiss properly.
“You two are fucking hopeless,” Yuri says. “Don’t break yourselves.”
“Mmm, can we break you instead?” Yuuri asks with a theatrical eyebrow waggle.
Victor is definitely rubbing off on him — he wasn’t always this ridiculous. Or
maybe it’s the sake. On second thought, yes, it's probably the latter.
“You can try,” Yuri says. “I don’t have high hopes for your success.”
“You always underestimate me,” Yuuri says, lifting Victor back upright. “I
think I’ll have to prove you wrong.”
“Later,” Yuri says firmly. “Today is supposed to be about you.” Which is true,
and also Yuri is tired of thinking about his poor attempt at katsudon and he’d
like to reward Yuuri in other ways. Preferably ways that include lots of naked
skin. He catches Yuuri by the shirt and spins him, pressing in until Yuuri is
bent backward over the counter, penned between Yuri’s arms.
No matter how much Yuuri’s confidence may have grown lately, he still gets
hopelessly flustered when someone else takes charge. His cheeks flush, his eyes
go wide; stunned breathless is a good look on him. A very good look. Yuri leans
in further.
“Name your prize.”
“I—” Yuuri starts, then falters. “Yurio—”
Victor drapes himself over Yuri’s back, brushes Yuri’s hair out of the way, and
sweeps an arc of kisses across the nape of his neck. Yuri carries the warmth of
it forward when he fits his mouth to the soft place under Yuuri’s ear and sucks
lightly, and the gasp he gets in response tells him his ploy was successful;
Yuuri has leapt off the edge of playfulness and landed solidly in arousal.
“Anything you want,” Yuri whispers.
Victor has the knack with dirty talk, not Yuri, but he’ll do his best anyway,
because Yuuri’s shell fucking shatters when Victor whispers filth in his ear
and Yuri wants to break him into wanton, ardent pieces, render him gasping and
debauched on the counter. He mouths at the hinge of Yuuri’s jaw.
“Tell me,” he murmurs. “I could suck you off. Do you—” Fuck. He has to swallow
to force the words out, which hampers the delivery, but Yuuri’s fingers tug at
his waist so Yuri soldiers on. “Do you want to put your cock in my mouth?”
A blush burns on his cheeks, but when he pulls back, there’s a look of timid
desire spreading over Yuuri’s face that makes up for the embarrassment. Yuri
slides in again to suck a mark into the crook of Yuuri’s neck. Yuuri may be shy
now, but it won’t take much more to tip him over into eros mode; he’s been
skirting along the edge all night anyway, unusually imperious.
“Or you could take me over the counter,” Yuri murmurs. This time the words come
easier, goaded on by the bitten-off noises Yuuri’s breathing into Yuri’s ear.
Behind him, Victor’s hands seize Yuri’s hips; it seems Yuuri isn’t the only one
affected. Yuri meets the slow rocking of Victor’s body and moves in
counterpoint, enjoying the press and drag of Victor’s growing erection against
his ass, then tilts forward into Yuuri.
“Or maybe you want to fuck Vitya, right here on the floor. I bet he’d like
that.”
“I would,” Victor confirms, his voice gone deep. “Very much.”
“Ah, Yurio, would you…” Yuuri trails off.
Yuri’s fingers tease over Yuuri’s hip as his tongue draws lazy circles on the
pulse point in Yuuri’s neck and suddenly the switch flips: Yuuri’s eyes darken,
his lips turn up in a wicked little smile. Eros activated.
“I want your mouth on me.”
Yuri smirks with triumph and slips through Victor’s hands to drop to his knees.
If he can't deliver perfection in katsudon for Yuuri, he'll give him the
perfect blowjob instead. It’s a good compromise.
“Yurio.”
Yuri looks up.
“I didn't say where.”
Yuri shudders and has to take a moment to let his mind reboot. Yes. This is the
Yuuri he was looking for: unpredictable, brazen, all his shyness burned away
until he’s nothing but a blazing force of will and possessiveness wrapped up in
dark hair and dark eyes and the sort of smile that promises very dirty things.
Yuri leans forward to push his face into the hollow of Yuuri’s hip.
“So where do you want me?” he asks Yuuri’s thigh.
“Come back up here. I wasn't done kissing you yet.”
That’s an idea Yuri has no problem with. “Then I’m going to blow you, yeah?”
“Yesss,” Yuuri says, trailing off in a hiss as Yuri works his way back up
Yuuri’s body with sloppy kisses, lifting Yuuri’s shirt as he goes. Yuuri guides
him with hands in his hair, tugging gently until Yuri’s mouth is in range and
then capturing his lips in something that feels less like a kiss and more like
Yuuri is trying to extract Yuri’s soul with his tongue.
“Not if I get there first,” Victor murmurs in Yuri’s ear. For a moment Yuri
can’t place what the words mean, too distracted by Yuuri nipping at his lower
lip with his teeth, but then Victor drops his head to breathe hot over the back
of Yuri’s neck and Yuri realizes that Victor intends to get his mouth on
Yuuri’s dick before Yuri does, which is not fucking fair. Victor curves his
arms around Yuri’s waist, keeping Yuri tucked up against his body with his
elbows while his hands work to open Yuuri’s pants.
“Hey,” Yuri starts to say, twisting his shoulders against Victor’s chest in
protest, but Yuuri bites his lip again, much harder this time, and Yuri gasps
at the sting of it.
“You’re getting distracted, Yurio.”
“Vitya is being a shithead. I called dibs.” And Yuuri— Yuuri fucking laughs,
because he is an asshole and a nuisance and Yuri has no idea why he likes him
so much.
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you to share?” Yuuri asks, still laughing.
“No. One of the perks of being an only child: everything was mine.”
“But Yura,” Victor says into Yuri’s neck, “I want to congratulate him, too!”
“You got to congratulate him at the fucking competition. Let the rest of us
have a cha—” Yuri breaks off with an undignified squeak when Victor’s hand
squeezes between his legs. “—a chance,” he finishes in a much higher tone, far
more breathy than intended.
“Mmm,” Victor says, and Yuri has no idea if that was supposed to be agreement
or simply an acknowledgement that Yuri had spoken, but dammit, something is
going to go his way tonight and that something is blowjobs. Victor can wait his
goddamn turn. Though if Victor keeps groping him through his leggings like
that, Yuri will have difficulty minding much of anything. His head falls back
to rest on Victor’s shoulder entirely without his control, his fingers grasping
weakly at Yuuri’s shirt.
Yuuri takes advantage of Yuri’s distraction to suck on his lower lip again.
Yuri moans and wonders anew how he manages to keep his sanity living with these
two shameless creatures.
“Nnn, Yuuri,” he slurs around Yuuri’s tongue, “I want… ah, want to suck your
cock. Can I—” Yuri inhales a half-formed curse when Victor nibbles at his
earlobe. Then Victor looks at him, really looks at him, with warm eyes and a
barely-there smile, and even through the lust dimming his vision Yuri can tell
that he just won the blowjob race — not through any fair competition, but
because Victor is forfeiting in favor of allowing Yuri’s claim.
“I saw the way you flinched at the table,” Victor whispers into his ear. “You
can’t let it go, can you, Yura? Always the perfectionist.”
Yuri attempts a glare, but it fits poorly on his face when he’s too busy
panting at the humid pressure of Yuuri’s mouth on his neck. Victor’s fingers
tighten their grip on Yuri’s cock and Yuri grinds helplessly into his hand.
Almost silent, breathed against Yuri’s temple, Victor says, “Go on. Showhim how
proud you are of his gold medal, since it seems you can’t just say it.”
“Screw you,” Yuri snaps, dizzy. Yuuri makes an inquisitive sound but doesn’t
lift his tongue from where it’s lapping at Yuri’s throat.
“Please?” Victor says, a little giddy, his eyes dancing. Then he nestles his
face into the curve of Yuri's neck and continues in a nonchalant tone. “And
save his come for me, will you? I want to taste it on your tongue. I can teach
you the joys of sharing.”
Fuck, Yuuri’s not the only one who shatters at the filth that comes out of
Victor’s mouth. Yuuri moans and Yuri gasps, and then Yuri is clawing at Yuuri’s
shirt with frantic intent while Victor chuckles into their shoulders and winds
his impossibly long arms around Yuri’s chest. Once Yuuri is free of the
offensive fabric — and it is offensive, nothing should be hiding his skin from
their touch — Yuri sinks to his knees, by slow degrees this time so he can
glide lips and tongue over Yuuri’s sternum, scrape teeth over his left nipple,
drink in the increasingly wild noises he makes. He clutches Yuuri’s unbuttoned
waistband and drags it down and his boxers with it, lifting the elastic away
from his body to release his hard cock.
It's a very nice cock, large and heavy where it hangs between his legs, flushed
a rosy hue with his arousal. A moment ago Yuri was desperate to get his mouth
on it, but now that he's here, he wants to savor the anticipation. He sits back
on his heels and watches Yuuri with hooded eyes, waiting for him to make a
move.
“Ah, Yurio, you,” Yuuri starts to say, and that’s Yuri’s cue; he presses his
open mouth to the curls at the base and exhales. Yuuri loses track of the rest
of his sentence in a full-body shiver.
Yuri raises a hand to gently cup Yuuri's balls, tilts them side to side to feel
the weight shift in his palm, then runs his tongue along the middle. The skin
tightens in response and Yuuri makes a startled, wanting noise, his hand
landing in Yuri’s hair and gripping. Pleased, Yuri follows the line up the
underside of Yuuri's cock with his mouth. He glides wet, messy kisses along the
flesh, points the tip of his tongue and traces the seam on the underside of the
head, then licks up to the slit.
“Nnn, yes,” Yuuri hisses, fingers tight in Yuri’s hair.
Behind him, Yuri hears the zip of Victor’s slacks, a rustle of fabric, and a
low groan. Yuri smiles to himself.
“Yura,” Victor says from above. When Yuri angles his gaze up to look, he finds
that Victor has leaned over him, cheek pressed to Yuuri’s, watching. Victor
strokes himself lazily. “Let me see.”
A dark, hot feeling thrills through Yuri. If Victor wants a show, Yuri will
give them a show. He leans his head back and stretches out his tongue, forming
a perfect resting place for the head of Yuuri’s cock. They’re both studying him
intently, Yuuri’s dark eyes and Victor’s blue, and he can feel their scrutiny
on his skin. Even fully clothed, like this he’s spread open, on display, and it
lights his nerves on fire. His eyes drift half-closed as he moves forward,
fingers wrapped around the base of Yuuri’s cock. He takes the head between his
lips and sucks, then glides back slow and wet to lick the tip, stretches his
mouth around it and slides the flat of his tongue down the length.
Yuuri’s gaze sharpens as he watches his cock disappear into Yuri’s mouth, his
breathing fast and harsh. Seeing the red swell of Yuuri’s parted lips, hearing
the sound of Victor’s hand speeding its strokes, fills Yuri with a heady rush
of power. He's greedy for their reactions.
“Ah, Yurio, suck—” but Yuri is already moving before Yuuri can finish, sealing
his lips around the shaft and hollowing his cheeks, working his tongue under
the head. “Oh—”
Yuri slides down until his lips meet his fingers, enjoying the pressure on the
roof of his mouth and the appreciative noises Yuuri’s making, and pumps his
hand. Yuuri interrupts his own moan with a gasp and picks up again half an
octave higher.
“Wow, Yura,” Victor says, awed. “Whatever you're doing, Yuuri really likes it.
His face is amazing.”
Yuri tries to say “Of course he fucking likes it,” but it comes out as a series
of garbled noises in his throat, distorted around Yuuri's cock. He's not going
to pull off simply to respond in intelligible words.
“It's— ah! It's impolite,” Yuuri chides, his voice hitching with a combination
of desire and mirth, “to talk with your mouth full.”
“When has Yura ever been polite?” Victor asks.
If Yuuri can still form complete sentences, then Yuri isn't doing his job well
enough. Annoyed, he glares up at Yuuri, relaxes his throat, and takes him as
deep as he can. Then he swallows.
Yuuri’s head jerks forward onto Victor's shoulder.
Yuri can’t do this for long — no amount of practice will ever make it
comfortable to have something that far down his throat — but the dazed bliss on
Yuuri’s face is worth the effort. He swallows again. Yuuri moans, his grip on
Yuri’s hair barely this side of painful, and thrusts shallowly between Yuri’s
lips.
After that, things get messy. Yuri withdraws just far enough that he can get a
rhythm going, working his hand on Yuuri’s cock and bobbing his mouth over the
head, countering his thrusts.
“Yurio, that’s— good, that’s so good, ah—” Yuuri’s voice cuts off with a wet
sound. Yuri looks up to see that they’re kissing above him, Yuuri too worked up
to do more than pant into Victor’s mouth and paw at him with the hand not
hanging onto Yuri’s hair. They can’t even put their lips together properly.
Yuri can see their tongues, can watch as Victor bites Yuuri’s lower lip and
tugs, as Yuuri moans.
“Make him come, Yura,” Victor says. “He’s close.” His voice is tight, like he’s
the one with his cock in Yuri’s mouth. Yuri has talent. Blowjob by proxy; he’s
so good that Victor feels it even when Yuri isn’t touching him at all. He pumps
his hand faster and opens his mouth to lick over the head again, steadying
himself on Yuuri’s hip.
“Harder,” Yuuri whines, “Yuri— ohh—”
Yuri seals his lips right behind the head and sucks sharply, jerking Yuuri’s
cock in his fist. Yuuri gasps, his mouth working without sound, and then bitter
heat floods Yuri’s mouth as he comes, moaning, his cock throbbing.
Yuri carefully doesn’t swallow.
He holds Yuuri's release sharp and salty on his tongue as Yuuri drifts back to
reality. Then, when Yuuri’s hand loosens in his hair, he stands and brings the
mess up to Victor, passing it into his waiting mouth — and Victor makes a
production of it, catching Yuri’s jaw in his hands, sliding his tongue along
Yuri’s, searching out every last drop of come like he’s starving for it. Yuri
is happy to let him lick away the bitter flavor. He winds his arms around
Victor’s hips and gives himself over to the kiss, leaning into the pressure of
Victor grinding his naked cock against his stomach.
When Yuri shifts his gaze to Yuuri, it’s to find him staring avidly at the
interplay of their mouths. The attention sets Yuri's blood racing. Victor lets
a drop of come dribble from the corner of his mouth and Yuuri’s cock twitches,
already stiffening again where it hangs above his open fly.
“That really gets you going, doesn’t it?” Yuri teases. Victor chases the spill
with his tongue, but he let it get too far and now he can’t reach.
Murmuring agreement, Yuuri says, “It’s… my mark on you. I like it.” He pauses,
his gaze heated. “You shouldn’t let him get so messy, though, Yurio.
Cleanliness is important.”
Yuri licks the drip from Victor’s chin for the sole purpose of seeing the wide-
eyed hunger on Yuuri’s face, though the sultry look Victor gives him is a nice
bonus. Victor finally swallows his mouthful and says, “Haven’t you noticed? Our
Yuuri is very possessive.”
Our Yuuri. Yuri likes the sound of that; it’s a reminder that they really do
want him here, that Yuri isn't the only one invested. Hell, they've all been
living together for two months and Yuri still has trouble believing that they
want him as much as he wants them. He turns in Victor's arms to snare Yuuri
around the waist and burrow his face into his neck, then licks the dip above
his collarbone while Victor kneads his hip bones and rolls their bodies
together slow and easy.
Yuuri catches his chin and draws him up for a proper kiss, hunting the last
lingering traces of his own come in Yuri’s mouth and transmuting Yuri’s spine
to quivering gelatin while he’s at it. Victor bites a line down his shoulder.
Fuck, Yuri missed them. He’s so happy to have them both here. Home.
He stills between them.
That’s what this feeling is: home. Where Yuri can make subpar katsudon and his
two— his two people, his two favorite crazy people will still kiss him in the
kitchen and make needy little noises against his cheek when he gets distracted
by mushy thoughts and doesn’t kiss back hard enough.
Mine, he thinks. He must say it aloud, too, because Yuuri clasps him in a tight
embrace and then Victor winds around them both like very friendly ivy, trapping
them against the edge of the counter, rooting them in place.
“You’re possessive, too, aren’t you, Yura?” Victor murmurs. “Of course we’re
yours.”
Yuri lets the reassurance trickle over him for a long moment, clinging to Yuuri
and reaching back to catch a fistful of Victor’s shirt. They’re so fucking
sappy, it’s disgusting. (He loves it.) Yuuri pets his hair, and his eyes
sparkle behind his glasses when Yuri pulls back enough to look at him.
Yuri has to kiss him again. It’s non-negotiable. Yuuri squeaks in the back of
his throat when Yuri collapses forward into his lips, intent on achieving the
highest honor in all of kiss-dom: making Yuuri weak-kneed, getting him so drunk
on Yuri’s mouth that he has to catch himself on the counter under the assault.
It’s working, too, Yuuri making pleased little noises as he pitches backward.
Yuri follows until there’s no more room to move, until Yuuri’s whole body
describes an elegant curve where he’s melted onto the counter.
With great satisfaction, Yuri straightens and surveys his handiwork. The look
of slack-jawed desire on Yuuri’s face feels like every gold medal he’s ever
won.
“I am being criminally neglected,” Victor laments behind him. When Yuri turns,
he finds Victor stroking his cock with a forlorn expression.
“Stop that, you needy little shit. We can’t leave you alone for two minutes.”
Yuri knocks Victor’s hand away and replaces it with his own, and Victor’s
entire face is overcome with delight. He’s a goddamn drama queen. Yuri tightens
his grip and smirks when Victor's eyes fall shut in bliss.
Then Yuuri slithers up against him and reaches around to trace the outline of
Yuri’s cock through his leggings, and Yuri sucks in a shocked breath as he's
abruptly reminded of how hard he is. Yuuri snickers at his reaction. Yuri might
want to smack him for it if the touch of his hand didn't feel so good.
Yuuri dips his fingers under Yuri's waistband and touches him in earnest, and
Yuri is willing to forgive a lot more than snickering as a sleeper wave of
pent-up arousal crashes down on him. He muffles his cry in Victor’s shoulder,
bucking into Yuuri’s hand.
“Let me touch you, Yura,” Victor says, serious again as he murmurs into Yuri’s
hair. “Let us both— we’ll make you feel so good. I want to put my hands on you.
We'll wind you up until you can't think.”
“—Ah. Too late for that.”
“You're still talking; no, it isn't. I'll press on that spot you like, right
under the head, and keep rubbing it until you’re dripping with precome. Yura,
oh, I want to wrap my fingers around your cock and make you come all over me,
and I want to kiss you while you do.”
There are more words, but they get lost in everything else happening to Yuri:
Victor wrenching Yuri's leggings down, adding his fingers to Yuuri’s while Yuri
clings to his arm, Yuri's own hand on Victor's hard length all but forgotten in
the dizzying wash of sensation. Victor seizes him by the hips and drives their
cocks together, and Yuri is subsumed in heat and friction, too dry but he
doesn’t care, he doesn’t fucking care because Yuuri encircles the both of them
in one spit-slick hand and Yuri thinks his brain might liquefy. He grasps at
anything he can reach — Yuuri’s hair, the lax waistband of Victor’s slacks,
empty air — trying to ground himself and failing.
“Yura,” Victor whispers right before he kisses Yuri, deep and messy. It’s
somehow even more intimate than when Victor was licking Yuuri’s come out of his
mouth. Yuri moans and Victor swallows the sound from his lips, skates one hand
along Yuri’s ribs and then buries it in Yuri’s hair, shifts against Yuri’s
sharp hipbones and hauls him closer.
Yuri has to break away to gasp for air and Yuuri takes advantage, swooping in
to steal Victor’s mouth for himself. They kiss like they might never get the
chance again, hungry, demanding, like they haven’t spent the last four days
sharing a hotel room. How are they so hot? It’s unfair. Yuuri’s body pushes
Yuri forward into Victor’s chest, his hand works in concert with Victor's
between them, jerking over their cocks, his tongue slides against Victor’s in
this sloppy, open-mouthed kiss that Yuri won front-row seats to, and Yuri can’t
control the thrust of his hips, into Victor, into Yuuri’s fist, into anything
that will get him off. He’s chasing orgasm like a river chases the falls,
overeager to leap and spill. It won’t take much.
Yuuri moans into Victor’s mouth and and thrusts against the bare curve of
Yuri’s ass and that’s it, Yuri’s done for: his balls tighten, his lips tingle,
and then he’s coming, staining the tails of Victor’s button-down shirt while
the room grays at the edges. Yuuri’s still stroking them, still kissing Victor
and rutting against Yuri’s backside, and then Victor’s cock pulses against
Yuri’s as he comes, too, with a helpless noise and his hand clenching in Yuri’s
hair.
At some point, Yuri must have dropped his head back against Yuuri’s shoulder;
he only notices when his vision swims back into focus and gives him a view of
the kitchen ceiling. Yuuri makes a nice pillow.
Awareness of his own body and the room beyond it returns slowly.
Victor, taller than either of them, is slumped over Yuri onto Yuuri’s other
shoulder, breathing gustily, and their combined weight has Yuuri leaning back,
braced on the edge of the counter. Yuri is squished vice-like between their
bodies. He pats numbly at Victor, his hands clumsy with the receding flood of
endorphins, and twists his head so he can kiss the underside of Yuuri’s jaw,
though what he manages is not so much a kiss as an open-mouthed press of tongue
and hot breath. He hopes Yuuri understands his intent, because he’s still slack
with release. Words are probably beyond him right now.
“Good?” Yuuri asks with a chuckle. Yuri groans pointedly at him.
There’s a wet smear low on his back that makes him think Yuuri must have come
again, somewhere in the stretch of lost time. Good. The more orgasms for Yuuri,
the better.
“Ahh, Yuuri,” Victor murmurs from the other side of Yuuri’s head, and then Yuri
hears wet noises that make him think Victor is also attempting to kiss Yuuri’s
neck and not finding much more success than Yuri has.
“Mmm, vuh.” Yuri thumps nerveless fingers on Victor’s bicep. “Vitya.” Yuri
can’t even lift his head, because Victor’s shoulder is taking up the space
where he needs to put his chin. “Vitya, move.”
“No.”
Yuuri jostles the shoulder Victor’s resting on. “Come on, Victor, Yurio needs
space.” His voice is so soft with love that it makes Yuri ache.
“Yura,” Victor replies, equally soft, “needs to stay right here and get
cuddled. Don’t you, Yura?”
That's their Yuuri-and-Victor tone, the adoring one that used to make Yuri boil
with jealousy, and they're using it onhim. Yuri can’t speak; his throat is too
tight.
“Hmm, that’s a good point. Sorry, Yurio, we’re not moving.” Yuuri doesn’t sound
sorry. He sounds playful, affectionate. His arm cinches around Yuri, palm flat
under his navel, holding him close and nuzzling his hair. Victor increases his
own personal gravity where he’s draped heavily over Yuri’s chest with his arms
slung around them both.
Yuri ignores the dampness on his eyelashes and lets himself be held.
 
Eventually, once his heartbeat has steadied and the come on his shirt has
started to feel uncomfortably cold and wet, Yuri squeezes Victor’s arm.
“Come on, move now. We still have to finish cleaning up.”
“I don’t want to move. I like it here.” Victor has his face pressed into
Yuuri’s cheek, peppering it with tickling kisses that make Yuuri muffle
laughter in Yuri’s hair. He’s a petulant child at the best of times, but he is
utterly recalcitrant post-orgasm, a fact Yuri has learned well in the last two
months.
“Vitya, you’re a nuisance.”
“Your nuisance, I should hope,” Victor mumbles. “You said so. You don’t get to
take it back.”
…Damn, they’re all needy messes. Maybe that’s why it works. Yuri secures his
arms around Victor’s waist and hugs.
“Hey,” he says. “Kiss me.”
“But I’m kissing Yuuri.”
“He just got a fucking stellar blowjob. He can wait for more kisses.”
“No, I can’t,” Yuuri argues. “In fact, you should be kissing me, too. Then
everyone will be happy.” His fingertips press low on Yuri’s belly, then creep
even lower, and it startles a laugh out of Yuri.
“Am I supposed to believe you’re being altruistic with that shit?” Yuri asks,
shifting in Victor’s grasp enough that he can turn to face Yuuri. Yuuri smiles
at him and the expression is stupidly soft and it hits him like a punch in the
gut, forcing his head down; as he tucks himself into the space under Yuuri's
chin, the nervousness that’s been crouching in the back of his mind spills from
his mouth.
“Was it… better than the katsudon?” he asks Yuuri’s collarbone, quiet.
“The—” Yuuri begins, then laughs. “Wow, you were still worried about that?”
Yuri freezes.
“Yura is always worried,” Victor interjects helpfully.
“Assholes, both of you. I hate you.”
“Yurio,” Yuuri says, and his voice is fond. “You’re very sweet.”
“What the fuck.” Yuri rears back to glare at him. “I literally just called you
an asshole, how am I sweet?”
“That is sweet, for you.” Yuuri smiles. “Thank you, Yurio, for the katsudon and
for…” He blushes and makes a vague gesture. “Um.”
Yuri snorts. This guy has no problem telling Yuri to mind his come-swallowing
manners, but try to talk about sex after the fact and he freezes up. “What, you
can’t say ‘blowjob’? Katsudon, you’re ridiculous.”
Yuuri swats at him, laughing.
“You have to ignore what Yura says,” Victor says with a knowing look at Yuuri,
bringing his face to Yuri’s cheek, “and pay attention to what he does.”
“What the hell do you mean by—” but Yuri can’t finish because Victor’s lips are
stealing the words from him, fitting over his own with an insistence Yuri can't
deny, can't escape and doesn't want to. He forgets entirely what they were
talking about.
After he's rendered Yuri boneless, Victor twists to drop a kiss on Yuuri’s
upturned mouth, then another, a third, until he’s tasting Yuuri as thoroughly
as he did Yuri. With a last, lingering embrace and a shameless grope of Yuri's
ass, he pulls away. (He probably groped Yuuri, too, but Yuuri's so used to it
that he doesn't even react anymore. Yuri, meanwhile, still squawks and jumps
every time, which only seems to encourage him.)
“You cooked,” Victor says to Yuri. “I’ll finish up in here. Go relax.”
“I won’t argue with that if you won’t,” Yuuri says, catching Yuri’s hand and
leading him out of the kitchen to the couch. “Clean fast!” he calls over his
shoulder.
It doesn’t take Victor long at all, possibly due to the fact that Yuuri calmly
strips Yuri's come-stained shirt off and keeps putting his mouth on him, making
no effort to be quiet about it. Yuri couldn’t be quiet if he tried; all his
volume control was extracted from him by two very talented people and is
currently lying in ruin on the kitchen floor. He can’t be held responsible for
the noises he makes when Yuuri sucks lazily at his throat.
“Yuuri!” Victor says as he enters the living room, dropping like a lead blanket
over them and forcing all the air from Yuri’s lungs. He's shucked his shirt as
well and his bare skin is very warm under Yuri’s hands. “Kiss me, too! I want
to find out firsthand what’s making Yura sound like that.”
“Fuck, Vitya, get off,” Yuri wheezes. “I can’t breathe.”
Victor pouts at him but climbs back to his feet. Yuri rearranges Yuuri and
himself so that Victor can sit at one end of the couch, then leans back against
him once he’s settled, drawing Yuuri with him so they’re both slumped sideways
into Victor’s space. The dig of Victor’s hip bone in the small of Yuri’s back
is a negligible price to pay for the feeling of being secured between them.
It still blindsides Yuri sometimes, that this is something he’s allowed to
have. Yuuri covers him, stretching up to kiss Victor languidly, and Victor is
solid behind him, stroking his hair; Potya purrs from her sprawl on the top of
the couch while Makkachin lazes by their feet with Yuuri’s toes drifting
through her fur and there’s nowhere in the world Yuri would rather be.
When Yuuri finally releases Victor’s lips, he resettles himself in Yuri’s lap
and inspects the tiny burns on the inside of his arm.
“They'll be gone by tomorrow,” Yuri says.
“This one won't.” Yuuri brushes careful fingers over the largest welt. “Really,
though, you didn't have to make me katsudon.”
“I wanted to. And you won gold. You can’t break tradition.”
Yuuri looks sheepish. “We were going to get takeout from the place across the
bridge, like last time.”
“…Oh my god, fuck you,” Yuri says, aiming for an indignant tone and landing in
soft exasperation. “That's why your mother kept laughing at me. I'm hiring
Yuuko as translator next time. You fuckers, I hate you.”
“You love us,” Victor insists.
Yuri stops short. “I—”
He moved in with them. Is it really going to change anything if he admits out
loud what they all know is true?
Which doesn’t mean it’s easy. He ducks his head.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “I really do.”
Victor’s arms lock around him and Yuuri buries him in kisses and, wow, maybe
Yuri should say that sort of thing more often.
 
After, when Yuri has been cuddled from half-hearted protest through to
quiescence, Victor queues up reruns of The Last Hero for them to ignore on the
television (and Yuuri is a negligent emperor — he supposedly banned this show,
yet here they are, an hour or two later, and what are they watching? Old
reality TV. Yuri was tiny when this show originally aired. Victor has terrible
taste.)
Floating on a slow wave of languor, Yuri lets the rise and fall of Victor’s
chest beneath his ear and Yuuri’s blanketing warmth lull him to sleep.
 
By the time the next Grand Prix Final rolls around, Yuri’s katsudon-making
skills have vastly improved, largely helped by one-on-one coaching at Yutopia
during the off-season. He’s not yet at Hiroko and Toshiya’s level of expertise,
but they’ve given him the Katsuki seal of approval — and a brand new sake set,
this one decked out in leopard print.
It’s his favorite gift ever. He uses it whenever he has even the slightest
excuse.
Yuuri winning gold at the GPF is definitely an excuse. Yuri makes katsudon
again, for Yuuri and for his own silver, which he’s trying not to be bitter
about. He’s still got many years left in his competitive career. Victor has
only retired to full-time coaching as of this season, and he’ll be turning 31
next week. No way will Yuri not beat that record — he’ll keep skating past
Victor’s age, even if purely out of spite. He’ll have plenty of other chances
to win gold, plenty of chances to crush Yuuri in competition. Plenty of chances
to make victory katsudon for all of them.
Two bottles of sake disappear down their throats by way of leopard-print
porcelain. Yuri feels exceptionally pliable.
After dinner, they sprawl all over each other on the couch, only halfway
upright. It's a post-competition tradition now and somehow Victor always ends
up at the bottom of the pile. Yuri thinks he has a fetish for being crushed.
“Okay, let me see it,” Yuri says.
“I already hung it on the wall, Yurio.”
Yuri doesn’t mean the gold medal. “Shut up, Katsudon, you don’t know what
you’re talking about. Vitya, let me see it.”
The two of them disappeared in downtown Prague for hours on Sunday after the
gala; they missed the banquet entirely. Yuri has deep suspicions about what
they were up to.
Victor, thankfully, knows exactly what he's hinting at, because they’re both
fluent in the same dialect of vague implication. He lifts his right hand. The
band on his finger is still the same gold one from before they left.
“You didn’t…?” Yuri trails off, bewildered. “And how many gold medals has Yuuri
won now?”
“Oh, Yurio,” Yuuri says with dawning understanding. “Of course we didn’t. Not
without you.” Every time Yuuri says something like that, Yuri’s heart speeds up
like he’s about to skate in competition, excited with a touch of nervousness —
plus an added layer of disbelief he’s never felt about skating. He belongs on
the ice. He’s never been quite sure of the same when it comes to being here.
“But we did get something else.”
Victor squirms under Yuri, reaching in his pocket with a huge grin. The bottom
drops out of Yuri’s stomach.
“No. You didn’t.”
“Yes,” Victor says, “we did.”
Victor produces a tiny box and hands it to Yuuri. Yuuri turns it to face Yuri,
then opens it.
It’s a ring.
Of fucking course it’s a ring. It matches theirs, all the way down to the
cheesy snowflake engraving he’s teased them for so mercilessly.
“We thought it was long past time to make it official,” Yuuri says.
“So what do you say?” Victor asks. He looks more openly vulnerable than Yuri
has ever seen him. “Will you wear it?”
Yuri’s eyes are spilling over. It’s— it’s really dry in here. There’s something
wrong with his tear ducts. He snatches the box and Yuuri’s hands along with it
and cradles the whole jumble of fingers and box and sparkling gold band to his
chest for a moment, then rips the ring from its plush casing and shoves it on
his finger. He suddenly understands every clichéd photo of the newly-engaged
gazing adoringly at their own hands, because all he wants to do is stare at the
band of gold.
He’s trying not to smile, trying not to cry, and not succeeding at either. He
tugs Yuuri closer and turns his head to bury his face in Victor’s shoulder, and
if Victor ends up with tear stains on his fancy designer shirt, it’ll be his
own damn fault. Yuri’s voice is thick when he speaks.
“Do you even have to ask?”
 
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