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Victor Nikiforov is a living legend.

Bathed in gold medals and international titles. Competing in the Olympics for his country. Holding world records for his short program and free skate scores, until Yurio and Yuuri made him proud by snatching them from his hands at last year’s finals. He’s on top of the world as far as figure skating goes.

Every time his mother calls, the top of the world couldn’t feel further away.

It’s not as if he’s a stranger to her pestering. He’s used to giving excuses as to why he can’t come to dinner, or go shopping with her, or attend a church service. His schedule is busy enough that, even when he is free, it’s easy to lie.

Occasionally, he seems to develop amnesia and forgets why he stays away. Occasionally, he gives in.

This call had been… different. She was more insistent than usual, almost demanding he come. It would’ve been an instant no— he can vividly recall every reason as to why he doesn’t go home— if not for the mention of his little sister Svetlana coming, as well. One dinner can’t hurt. It’s opportunistic, even. He’s been wanting to breach one topic in particular for a while now, waiting for a dash of amnesia to give him the strength to do so.

He almost asked if he could bring Yuuri, but that would be like throwing a lamb in a wolf’s den. It’s better for him to test the waters. Alone.

When he parked outside, he sat idly in his car. He’d hoped Svetlana would show up, so they could go in and face their mother together. After ten minutes, he gave up.

The front door swung open the second he stepped out. His shoulders sag at the sight. He wonders how long his mother must’ve spent watching him from the window, just waiting for him to make his presence known.

“You know I’m not getting any younger, Vitya. Come inside.”

Victor stuffs his hands into his pockets as he approaches the worn-down porch. It’s been over a year since he’s been home, having made a very brief visit before the Rostelecom Cup started. The garden is even more overgrown than he remembers, and there are new cracks in the walkway that’s way overdo for repair.

“Apologies, mama. Yakov called me about the upcoming qualifiers. I didn’t want to leave it for later.” He’s grateful for the tinted windows on his car. Even if she had been watching, it’s unlikely she’d have seen enough to call him on his lie. She probably suspects either way.

Arms wrap around him once he’s in the doorway, kiss pressed to his cheek. “Sveta told me you’re competing again. Would’ve been nice to hear it from you. I hear from you so little these days.” There’s the tiniest hint of a bite in her tone that’s hard to ignore.

The door shutting as he steps fully inside feels like being trapped in a cage. Realistically, he can just walk out if he chooses to. It’s his mother’s reaction to him leaving early that makes it feel like a criminal act.

His eyes sweep across the room. Much of it is exactly as it was when he was a boy. The only new things are extra trinkets and photos on the bookshelf in the corner; music boxes and postcards and little crystal figurines he and Svetlana have mailed her over the years. The rest of it remains unchanged.

It’s the same patterned red couch as before, with the same patchwork quilt his mother spent months stitching together draped across the back. His father’s armchair has a burnt patch on the arm from a dropped cigarette. The colorful striped rug is stained from he and Sveta dragging in dirt as children. The table has one mismatched chair, courtesy of the time he broke the original while practicing leg extensions. A familiar green and blue tablecloth is draped over it.

“Where is Sveta?” he asks, hoping to change the subject. “It’s rare for her to arrive after me.”

The woman sighs beside him. “You know how she is, one of those independent women,” she mocks. “She turned me down for some meeting at work, as if that were more important than seeing her mother. Can you believe her?”

Victor pauses in the midst of removing his coat to raise a brow at her. “I thought you said she was coming.”

“No, I said I invited her.”

He remembers the conversation clearly. He knows she said Sveta was coming to dinner. Told Yuuri and Yakov about it from the side of the rink when they asked him who called him.

In his silence, his mother shakes her head disapprovingly. “You’ve been speaking English too much, Vitya. It’s confusing you. Come now, dinner’s already on the table.”

There are two places set at the table on either side of his father’s empty seat. His plate is already made up with one of the meals he loved growing up. Pelmeni, with copious amounts of braised cabbage and rice on the side. “It looks good! Though, I thought you only make pelmeni on special occasions.”

“You’re returning to the ice! It is a special occasion.”

“It was only a year off. Coaching was just as fulfilling as competing,” Victor says as he cuts into his food. He hums around his fork at the first bite. It’s as flavorful and delicious as he remembers. “That’s why I’m doing both this year.”

“You are still coaching?” There’s a noticeable shift in her expression. Apparently Sveta didn’t inform her of that part. “If you are competing for Russia, I would hope you are coaching a Russian skater this year.”

“No, I am still coaching Yuuri. I am looking forward to competing against him. I have no doubt he’ll manage to surpass me.” Nothing would make him happier. After being the top skater five years in a row, he doesn’t need another big win under his belt. Nothing would make him happier than Yuuri stealing his spotlight again. “It is a little unusual, I know, but I’ve always liked to surprise people.”

He doesn’t get a response, just his mother staring at her plate in silence. Silently fuming over something. It’s always difficult to figure her out when she gets like this. Hard to know what set her off.

Then, as if nothing happened, she springs back to life, eating and drinking wine with only a strained smile to give her away. “I kept up with the whole competition. That Yuri Plisetsky is an excellent skater. I was impressed with that short program you choreographed, though his exhibition after finals was a bit… vulgar.”

Victor chuckles to himself. Yakov had ranted about teenage temperaments after they discussed Yurio’s exhibition program. “Yurio begged Coach Yakov to let him use the song. Apparently he already had an entire routine choreographed for it. He’s very stubborn.”

“I was not talking about the music, Vitya,” she says sharply. “I was talking about that… other boy on the ice with him. That Kazakh skater.”

“You mean Otabek?” Victor asks in confusion. “Yurio said he needed someone on the edge of the rink to… what did he say? ‘Sit and look pretty’. He and Otabek are good friends, so he asked him.”

“They did not give off the impression of being good friends.”

Ah.

The tension spikes, making the air weigh heavy. It would be easiest to change topics. Stray away from skating entirely, especially when he’s gained an inkling of what has her on edge.

“So you watched the exhibition. What did you think of Yuuri and I’s program?” It would be easiest to change topics, but he doesn’t want to avoid the issue any longer.

The fork in her hand is gripped so tightly, her knuckles turn ghostly white. Her jaw clenches. After a moment of silence, she moves stiffly to continue her meal, more closely resembling a robot than anything human as she raises the wine to her lips. She’s blatantly skirting around the issue. “That Thai skater’s exhibition was very good. I liked his costume. Very colorful—”

“Why did you really invite me here, mother?”

Her glass is set against the table with a thud. The stare he’s met with, one of disdain and a hint of disgust, weighs his gut down with dread. The pot has finally boiled over. “I am not an idiot, Victor. I know you are not just Yuuri’s coach.”

“I haven’t been hiding it, if that’s what you’re implying,” Victor mutters. He drags the prongs of his fork through his rice, disrupting the pile and watching as the grains fall over one another like sand in a dune. The plate of comfort foods has soured into something completely unappealing.

“That’s the problem! The press is kind enough to dance around it, but everyone knows.” She’s no longer making an effort to contain her emotions. It’s written plainly on her features. Anger. “Everyone knows that wasn’t a hug. I know it wasn’t a hug. You kissed him in the middle of the rink knowing there were cameras on you, broadcasting it to the whole world! And then the matching rings, and skating together at the exhibition. Pictures of you two leaked online! The church is still talking about it.”

Victor inhales deeply. “They are talking about my engagement?”

“They are talking because you’re with a man, Victor!”

“And so what if I am? I thought you were wanting me to settle down,” Victor argues.

“With a woman,” she snaps in reply. “That Yuuri has done something to you.”

Victor scoffs. Normally, he keeps his composure on a tight leash. Very rarely does it slip through his grasp, but the implication that Yuuri has done something wrong— corrupted him in some way— causes bits of annoyance to radiate through the cracks. “I had lovers before Yuuri.”

“But you kept it private before him.” When his eyes widen, caught off-guard by the fact that she already knew, she levels him with a hard stare. One similar to the look she’d give when he misbehaved as a small child. “Don’t act so shocked. I heard the rumors. I hoped it was just some youthful deviance you’d outgrow towards the end of your career. Clearly, I was mistaken.”

He really should be less surprised. It had been an open secret for years, at least among those within the skating world. Victor never felt the need to hide his preferences, but he also knew better than to go announcing it to the public. Kept it to after parties and hotel rooms, away from the prying eyes of reporters. Kept it discreet. Private. Stuck primarily to other skaters and athletes who were doing the same.

Yuuri changed one thing. Before him, none of his relationships had been serious. None of them had ever been love. He didn’t want to keep something so wonderful— so warm and tender and beautiful— under wraps. As a result, he grew a lot more careless with his displays of affection.

Her knowledge of the past changes nothing. It’s meaningless to the conversation at hand. “I am marrying Yuuri, end of discussion.”

“How do you plan on doing that? It is against the law for two men to marry.”

Victor’s jaw clenches. He and Yuuri have discussed the law many times in the last few months. Not only is it illegal in Russia, but Japan, as well. They’d have to move if they wanted to be legally married and have their union recognized, but they’re comfortable with their life in Saint Petersburg. “We don’t need a piece of paper to tell us what we are, mama.”

“And what about God?” Her utensils have been abandoned by now, haphazardly dropped against the table in her frustration. “You will not have a real marriage unless you do so before God. What priest will marry you?”

“We do not need a priest, Yuuri isn’t even—”

She cuts him off with a huff. “There are many women who would throw themselves at the chance to marry you. If you are so dead set on getting married, then we will find a nice Orthodox girl for you and you will wed her properly in a church.”

“You seem to misunderstand,” Victor remarks, words slow to leave no room for ambiguity in his intentions. “I am not with Yuuri because I want to get married. I wish to be married because I am with Yuuri. I want no one else.”

Several seconds drag by in suffocating silence. The time seems to stretch into hours, but the clock on the wall behind his mother protests such distortions.

Finally, her eyes drag up to meet his own. There are unshed tears clinging to her waterline. “It is not natural, Vitya. There is an order that is to be followed. A man and woman start an engagement, marry in a church before God, and consummate their marriage so they may start a family. That is the way things are done. How they’ve always been done.”

Victor white-knuckles the edge of the table. His composure slips ever further from his grasp, cracking at the seams and allowing more of his emotions to seep through. Anger makes him want to add fuel to the already out-of-control fire. She’s the one who doused the situation in gasoline, so what’s a little more kindling? “Our relationship has already been thoroughly consummated, if you’re so concerned about that,” he mutters bitterly, just loud enough for her to hear.

“Do not speak that filth in this house!”

“Why is it only filth when I say it?” Victor counters.

His mother rises from her seat. He’s prepared for her anger, already bracing for things to progress to a shouting match. He’s ready for hatred and cruel words spoken with venom.

What he doesn’t anticipate is her walking a few short steps, pulling out his father’s chair, and taking a seat once more. Her hand is placed upon his own. The gesture is gentle in a way that feels deceptive. “You are not well, Vitya. I am sorry for being angry with you. I forget, this sickness is not your fault.”

This… sickness?

Victor’s head shakes, confusion etched between his brows. “I am not sick, mama.”

“I know you don’t see it that way.” Her voice is soft. Sweet. Lilting her words like she did when he was little. “I have spoken with Father Alekseev. He told me of a program that could help you to get better.”

“I don’t understand,” replies Victor. “What program?”

The hand on top of his own tightens. “It will fix everything, my Vitya. They will help you to find your way back to God. Many have even had loving, proper marriages after finding their salvation. They can cure you. Free you of this disease.”

The realization knocks the air from his lungs, suffocating him with the weight of it. Something so terrible, he can’t believe she would even suggest such a thing.

“You want me to go through conversion treatment.”

He doesn’t dare to say it above a whisper, as if the words will burn his tongue if uttered too loudly.

“I want my only son to join me in Heaven. Join your father in Heaven. You will not be so cruel as to deny me that, will you?” Her voice is too sweet. A honeyed trap set out on a summer’s day, hoping he is a starving fly desperate enough to take the risk.

It’s only then he realizes her hand is placed perfectly so her palm is covering his engagement ring. He yanks his hand away as if his very flesh has been scorched. “Maybe you should spend less time worrying about what happens after death and focus on the time we have left here.”

“I am merely trying to—”

“Change me?” he spits. It’s his turn to rise from his seat, though he has no intention of sitting down again anywhere in this house. There’s a pressure slowly building in the corner of his eyes. He blinks it away. “I will not put myself through torture when there is nothing wrong with me.”

His steps away from the table are met with the sound of wood scraping on wood, footsteps following after him. “I am your mother! You will do what I say! It’s for your own good!”

When he was sixteen, he won his first gold medal on an international level. He’d never felt so big in his life. The win left him on a high for months, to the point of childish arrogance, if he’s being honest. And then, as the exhibitions and shows and sponsorship obligations fizzled out, he was back to living at home for more than a few days at a time. The larger-than-life feeling was quickly replaced with the feeling of a bird in a cage. Small. Helpless. Only freed when his handlers allowed for it; practice on his home rink, school, church services.

His decisions were led by his mother and father. He was blessed with the talent and ambition to guide those decisions to something he could sink claws of passion into, but many of them— from which sponsors he took, to which publications and networks he was interviewed by, even the very words he was allowed to speak— were out of his control. A child cannot disobey his parents.

He’s not a child anymore.

“I will marry Yuuri,” Victor says as firmly as his unsteady voice will allow. “I will choose Yuuri. I will always choose him.”

There is catharsis to the way she gawks at him. His decisions have been his own for over a decade, but it is rare for him to confront her so directly. To remind her that he has earned the right to be disobedient.

“You will choose a life of sin over your own family?”

“I am choosing my family.” He can see the light behind her eyes flourish in her misunderstanding. A light he has to squash with his words. “I choose Sveta, and Makkachin. Yurio and Yakov. My Yuuri.”

His family. Sveta, who calls on random evenings to check up on him, keeping him humble with teasing only a younger sister could provide. Makkachin, always forcing his way into his and Yuuri’s bed, nestling himself between them nightly with a stubborn chuff until one of them caves to his demand for pets. Yurio, who shows his care through harsh words and throwing bags of his grandfather’s piroshki through Victor’s car window at the end of practice. Yakov, who helped him to push through the lowest moments of his life, allowing him to blossom into the skater he is now.

And Yuuri. His Yuuri, whose soft arms feel like a home Victor never wishes to leave. Kinder than anyone else. Makes Victor weak and strong all at once, drawing emotions from him he usually keeps on the tightest leash. The man who cooks katsudon while lovingly teasing Victor with reminders of why he’s banned from touching the stove. His Yuuri, who shines brightest from the center of a rink, captivating entire arenas with his elegance while his own eyes scan for Victor on the sidelines.

“I have all the family I need. Do you really want to throw away the little you have left?”

He barely flinches at the sting on his cheek. Some part of him feels he deserves it for dealing such a low blow.

“How dare you.” Her tears are freely flowing now, rolling down her cheeks in streaks that seek to cajole any semblance of guilt from deep within him. “Your father would be ashamed if he heard you say such things. It is you who is making the choice to abandon your real family— your blood— so you keep clinging to your sin. I am only trying to help you, Vitya. You are the one who is being selfish.”

There’s a voice in the back of his mind willing him to say something else. Say something worse. Return every single cruel word disguised as care and guidance with harsh words of his own until their wounds are equal. But then he realizes, that would be giving her exactly what she wants. More time.

More time to scold him. More time to try and plant her ideals in his head. More time for the pressure to build enough to make him explode. Make him the bad guy.

Victor keeps his mouth drawn in a tight line as he turns his back to her. He wordlessly walks towards the front door, collecting his coat from the wobbly hanger.

His mother makes an exasperated noise as she trails behind. “Where are you going, Vitya? I did not spend hours on that pelmeni for it to go to waste.”

He stops in his tracks to spare another glance at the table, taking in the barely-touched plate of his favorite childhood meal. All that work under the guise of celebrating his return to the rink.

It was never intended as a celebration.

An incredulous laugh slips from him before he can stop it. It’s difficult to reign himself in, but he manages to pull himself together enough to take a deep breath. “Bring some to Ms Zaitsev next door,” Victor suggests calmly. “I’m sure she would appreciate it.”

As his hand wraps around the doorknob, she stalls him a final time. “You cannot leave before the end of a meal, Victor. That’s not how I’ve raised you.”

Victor’s mouth opens once. Twice. Unsure of how he should reply. After a moment of contemplation, he drops his head to avoid eye contact, unable to look anywhere but his own hand. At his ring. “If you can find it in yourself to open your mind, then there is a place for you at Yuuri and I’s wedding. I’m sure you would love him, if you got to know him.” The voice that comes out of him is small. Childlike.

He waits out the silence for any sign that she’ll answer him. Once it becomes clear she won’t, he sighs, whole body deflating with the finality of it. “Thank you for the meal, it was delicious. Goodbye, mother.”

He half-expects her to protest. Follow him out to his car yelling orders to get back inside. The only sounds are that of cars a few streets away and the wind whipping past his ears, both muffled by his car door closing him in.

It would be reasonable to cry. He’s alone with a maelstrom of unresolved feelings buzzing underneath his skin. Crying, screaming, hitting the center console, cursing out God— all of those options sound equally appealing to him.

He doesn’t do any of them. He just pushes his key into the ignition and turns it. His hands grip the steering wheel as soon as the engine hums to life. There’s only one place in the world he wants to be, and it’s not his mother’s driveway.

The radio croons some old Russian folk songs. He meant to play the disc in the CD player, containing the music from his and Yuuri’s upcoming programs. The wrong button must’ve been pressed by mistake. He doesn’t have the energy to correct it.

It’s not a long drive from his mother’s house to the apartment building where he and Yuuri reside. It almost makes all his excuses the last few months laughable. Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes one way is all it takes.

The difference on either end of those twenty minutes is stark. Outside his mother’s house, he sat and waited, delaying the inevitable to keep his peace for a few moments longer. As soon as he gets home, he takes the elevator up from the garage, wishing it would move faster so he can be where he feels safest.

The sound of voices and padded footsteps greet him when he opens the door. It isn’t long before he’s nearly knocked into the wall, Makkachin’s collar jingling with every move he makes. Victor can only laugh as he runs his fingers through soft brown curls. “I missed you too.”

The muffled sounds from the TV pause. “Victor? Is that you?” Yuuri’s voice immediately puts him at ease. He can’t think of a sound more comforting, urging him to seek out the source of such warmth.

He steps into their living room with Makkachin at his side, a smile finding its way to his face when he sees his fiancé looking like the epitome of coziness. Yuuri is on the couch, bundled up in a big, fuzzy blanket with a mug of something steaming atop the table beside him. His dark hair is tousled and slightly damp, glasses resting upon flushed cheeks. When Victor strides across the room to be nearer, he catches whiffs of the cedarwood and bergamot soap Yuuri likes to use.

It’s impossible to resist leaning down and pressing their lips together. “I did not mean to interrupt your show, khryushka,” murmurs Victor before he pulls back, brushing his thumb over the swell of Yuuri’s cheek.

“That’s alright, I’d rather watch something with you.” Yuuri’s brows are knit together ever so slightly, pupils subtly flitting back and forth like they always do when he’s concerned. “You’re home really early. Did something happen?”

Whatever expression is on his face is enough for Yuuri to pull him onto the couch, removing the blanket from himself to instead drape it over both of them. Yuuri always runs warm, so the extra body heat trapped underneath is welcomed. Allows the tension in his body to melt away. Fingertips worm between his strands to gently massage at his scalp, troubles momentarily forgotten as he leans into their touch.

The first crack comes in the form of Victor sighing into Yuuri’s shoulder. A slow exhale of all the building frustration from the last few hours, fizzling out until all that’s left is a low simmer in his chest that gives way for other emotions to rise to the surface.

Unlike Yuuri, who hiccups through a fountain of tears whenever he cries, Victor is more reserved. Crying turns him numb. Stoic. Tears run down his face in thin streaks, breath shuddering almost imperceptibly.

A thumb tenderly swipes across his cheek. “Do you want to talk about it?” whispers Yuuri.

Victor shakes his head the little he can in his current position. “Not right now.” He allows himself to be shifted around, melting into Yuuri’s chest when his head is laid on top of it. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Yeah. Yura literally dragged me to a fast food place near the rink after practice.”

The mental image alone— his dear fiancé being dragged through the streets of Saint Petersburg by a stubborn sixteen-year-old— is enough to draw a watery chuckle from Victor. Yurio has certainly warmed more and more to Yuuri as the months pass. He’s glad to hear they’re spending time together on their own.

Yuuri seems content to just talk about the outing, even without any replies aside from the occasional soft hums of acknowledgement from Victor. Yurio dragged Yuuri out to rant about his schedule. Mainly because he won’t be able to see Otabek until the Trophée de France, as if they aren’t constantly talking to one another on their phones.

He talks about the food. The walk home. What he did once he got back. Little bits about his day that help to lull Victor with his soothing voice.

He’s nearly asleep when his stomach rumbles. Victor opens his eyes, looking up at his still-rambling fiancé, and pokes him in the chest. “Yuuriiii,” he whines. “Do we have any of Nikolai’s piroshki in the fridge?”

Yuuri laughs lightly, appearing endeared by the interruption. “Yeah, we do. I'll heat one up for you.”

It takes a moment for him to get up, mostly because Victor remains clinging on to him the whole time. Only once Yuuri is standing does Victor let go, trailing behind and reattaching himself to Yuuri’s waist the second the microwave is running. “I could’ve gotten it,” he mumbles, despite making no attempts to do so before.

“You almost burned down the kitchen boiling a pot of water,” Yuuri replies. Even without seeing his face, Victor can hear the grin in his tone.

Victor huffs in faux protest. “That was one time, and it was only a little fire. I can use the microwave without destroying anything.”

Yuuri hums, dragging it out as if he’s considering the possibilities. “Better not risk it,” he teases.

The sound of the microwave humming fills the momentary silence. Slowly, Yuuri turns around in his arms, tilting his head forward to press their foreheads together. “Did you eat?” Yuuri questions quietly into the space between them.

“Not much before we started arguing,” admits Victor. It’s still not something he wants to get into further, having just pushed some of the harder-to-deal-with feelings to the back of his mind, but he clarifies just enough for Yuuri to understand with “My mother does not approve of us”.

He can get into it more tomorrow, when everything isn’t so fresh in his mind. Tomorrow, he’ll tell him about his mother urging him to marry a woman. Being told he has a sickness. Her suggesting he go to conversion therapy. The slap.

He’s grateful that Yuuri doesn’t try to pry further. He just looks at him worriedly and presses a tender kiss to his lips, tips of their noses lightly brushing against one another as he pulls away.

They stay like that until the microwave beeps, Yuuri finally pulling back from their bubble to tend to the food. Victor clings to his waist again, burying his face into the crook of his neck. “You know you have to let go so we can go back to the couch?”

“Apologies, khryushka,” Victor mumbles as he reluctantly steps back. “I was just appreciating you.”

He accepts the plate placed into his hands, as well as the peck to his cheek that comes after.

Makkachin is waiting in their spot when they get back, tail wagging eagerly after he inhales the scent of food. It takes a few tries to get him out of the way. As soon as they sit, the dog drapes himself across their laps, making a handful of attempts at stealing Victor’s piroshki before giving up with a whine of protest.

“Silly pup! You know you are not allowed human food,” Victor scolds lightly, even as he slips a small piece of pork from the center to him.

Yuuri gives him a look, accompanied by an amused grin. “You do realize this is why he keeps trying to steal food, right?”

Victor shrugs, mouth full of piroshki. He swallows it down a moment later. “He is an old boy. Let him have a treat.” He tips his head to rest on Yuuri’s shoulder as he eats. “Watch your show, khryushka.”

He doesn’t understand a word being said by the actors on screen, but that’s alright. Yuuri’s commentary is far better than any script, especially when he gets to hear all his little gasps and reactions to everything happening. He stays slumped against him just to listen long after he’s stopped eating.

“We should go to bed. It’s getting late,” Yuuri whispers as the episode ends.

Victor stretches out, making Makkachin huff from being disturbed. He’ll be even more upset when they start getting up. “Do you need me to do anything before I shower?”

He’s given a gentle kiss as the plate is slid from his hands. “I’ve got everything. You shower. I’ll be in bed when you come out,” Yuuri answers.

It’s hard to argue with the prospect of getting into Yuuri’s arms fresh out of a hot shower. It sounds like pure heaven, actually.

Makkachin whines as he’s forced from their laps, looking distraught when they go in separate directions as if he doesn’t know who to follow. He chooses Yuuri… probably because the treat drawer is in the kitchen.

Victor rummages through their dresser, sneakily looking for a sleep shirt among Yuuri’s clothes instead of his own. It’s his right as Yuuri’s future husband. It’s not as if the man ever seems to mind it when he steals something.

He strips while waiting for steam to flood the bathroom, clothes discarded in the hamper. A stray sock on the floor makes him smile to himself. There’s usually something of Yuuri’s that ends up missing its target. One of his little quirks that Victor finds endearing.

The hot water feels cleansing against his skin, soothing the tension in his muscles by melting it down the drain. He rolls his shoulders, stretches the cricks in his neck. Allows himself to sag and inhale the warm vapor all around him.

Steam fogs the mirrors entirely when he steps out, even after only a few minutes. Normally, he would’ve taken the time to wash his hair. Scrub his face. Do his skincare. Instead he only has the energy to reach for his toothbrush— blue next to Yuuri’s black, swapped on one another’s chargers— and click it on. The buzz rattles in his head as he lazily moves it across his teeth.

Something warm drapes across his bare back, limbs snaking around his waist to hold him. A mess of black hair peeks over his shoulder in the blurry reflection. “I fough’ ou sai’ ou wud waid in ped,” Victor says around his toothbrush.

“I got cold.” A small yip comes from behind them. “So did Makka.”

Victor spits into the sink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Aren’t you the warm one, khryushka?”

“Then we got hot.”

“My poor little steamed bun,” teases Victor, turning so he can press a kiss to his fiancé’s forehead. “Just let me put some pajamas on.”

He steps away, reaching for the stack of clothes on the counter and allowing his towel to drop.

“Lucky me,” Yuuri says with a whistle.

“Not in front of Makka,” Victor lightly scolds. “He is just a baby.”

Yuuri snorts, amusement plastered all over his face. “I thought you said he was an old man,” he teases.

“Look at his eyes. He is little baby,” Victor says as he dresses. As soon as he pulls on Yuuri’s shirt, he pecks the other man’s cheek. “Are you coming to bed?”

“Isn’t that mine?”

“We are going to bed now,” Victor states, dodging the question. Yuuri simply smiles knowingly at him as he follows.

The bed is warm when they climb in, probably from when Yuuri and Makkachin had been waiting for him before. They’ve barely curled up for the night when the pup jumps onto them, head resting against Victor’s chest. The familiar weight resting on top of him is comforting. It helps to draw sleepiness to the surface.

He focuses on Makkachin squirming. On Yuuri’s hand tracing lines on his arm. His own breathing. Every repetition helps to lull him further.

Yuuri’s voice peaks through the edges of his consciousness, gentle and loving. “Goodnight, Victor.”

Victor scrounges up enough energy to mumble a “goodnight” in return. Then he drifts off.