some more asthmatic!viktor but this time during a competition because i’m having a really hard time with finals and i needed some more asthmatic!viktor whump so if anyone wants to write me anything i’m always open to that lmao
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Viktor feels the familiar leap in his chest when he takes off for the triple axel but it doesn’t go away once he lands. It feels...different. He’s not sure what to make of it but he doesn’t have time to think about it because he’s about to start his step sequence and, as much as he doesn’t like to admit it, he really will fuck this up if he doesn’t focus. Skating is about making something look effortless which, ironically, takes a lot of effort.
So Viktor keeps his mind on his routine and flows through his steps as gracefully as he can. He almost trips on a twizzle but he doesn’t think it will be too noticeable. He’s learned from watching his programs back over the years that what feels like a huge mistake is often so minute that he struggles to see the evidence of it even though he knows what he’s looking for. On the contrary, the things he thinks he gets away with make him look like an octopus caught in a spider web.
When he lands his first combination, he’s acutely aware that something is Not Right. For a moment, he remembers being thirteen years old and competing in his first JGP event. He remembers this feeling in his chest. That entire season had been difficult but it had all started with that one attack. It had gotten so bad that Yakov had insisted on keeping Viktor’s inhaler easily accessible at all times. He made Viktor “check in” his inhaler before he was allowed on the ice which, at thirteen, Viktor had found extremely patronising and had rebelled against this as vigorously as he could. Now, at twenty eight, he can appreciate that Yakov was just looking out for him.
Now, Viktor can feel that familiar tight feeling creeping into his lungs. He’s in the second half of his program. He has a quad flip combination planned - the first of its kind. He likes to surprise. But he knows it’s stupid to try it; even downgrading it to a triple probably won’t be enough. In all honesty, Viktor knows that the only sensible course of action is to stop right now. But he won’t do that.
Though, his brain supplies, it would be surprising.
The Ina Bauer transition gives him a moment to gather himself. His chest is heaving and his heart is racing and it should be normal but it isn’t. He’s afraid. No matter how many attacks he has, he’s always a little afraid.
It feels like breathing through a straw. The image makes everything feel worse because now Viktor can’t get it out of his head and his body is moving of its own accord and he’s in a sit spin before he really notices. He feels himself wobbling. Curling in on himself like this really isn’t helping so it’s with relief that he pulls himself up into a Biellmann.
He downgrades the flip to a triple and almost pops the triple toe loop that follows. He hears an audible gasp from the crowd. The pounding of his heart fills his ears and suddenly he’s very aware of his high-pitched wheezing and he just wants to stop. He wants it to be over.
He pushes through his last spin and he starts to see spots and he’s terrified that he might just fall over right here. He’s so awfully dizzy so he pulls out of his spin early. But there’s still music left so his body, apparently working on instinct, begins working through a small set of circular footwork and then he poses and its over.
The edges of the world are blurring together as Viktor offers a hasty bow in both directions before making a beeline for the exit. He knows his face is red and he’s aware of the panic in his expression and he knows that he’s currently being broadcast all over the world but he just can’t care about anything.
He grabs his skate guards but he doesn’t put them on. Yakov has a hand on his back.
“Vitya,” he says sternly, guiding him to the kiss and cry. Viktor doesn’t notice that Yakov has been trying to shove something into his hand until he says gruffly, “Take it, you stupid boy.”
Viktor doesn’t have to be told twice.
He wraps his fingers around his inhaler and before he even takes a breath he feels his chest relax. Just knowing he can fix this seems to make his body react.
He thuds down on the bench in the kiss and cry with Yakov at his side and takes a second puff. He lets out his breath as the scores are announced, putting him back at the top of the scoreboard by ten points.
He did it. He took gold.
He feels thirteen again. The gold matters. He really wanted it. And, for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure he’d get it. Now he remembers why he loved winning.
Yakov pulls him to his feet.
“Vitya!”
Viktor turns and Yuuri is flying towards him with panic evident all over him. He has Viktor’s inhaler clutched tight in his hand. Viktor wonders how he knew.
Instead of asking this, Viktor says dumbly, “I thought you gave that to Yakov.”
Yuuri looks him over and spies the inhaler still in Viktor’s hand. He cocks his head. He doesn’t say anything.
Viktor looks at the inhaler in his hand again and notices that the medical instructions on the cannister are in Russian. His heart stutters a little.
Yakov carries an inhaler.
Viktor doesn’t know where he got it. He’s sure Yakov doesn’t have any other asthmatic skaters which means that Yakov got this for him. He carries it for him.
Exhausted, Viktor steps towards Yuuri who instinctively opens his arms to welcome him in. He breathes heavily but loosely against Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri puts a hand on the back of his head.
Viktor’s heart flips over. He got gold in more ways than one.
hey all!! this is my giveaway fic for @mypoorfaves who gave me this really awesome prompt about viktor fainting after he has blood taken and tbh i loved writing this but i’m hiding it under the cut bc it’s vanilla so i might post it on ao3 too bc i’m vain and want attention lmao. anyway here it is!!!!!!
Usually, Viktor doesn’t mind being in front of the cameras. Usually, he’s camera-ready. But, then again, he usually isn’t about to have a needle stabbed into his arm and a pint of his blood forcibly taken from him. Despite what Yuuri says, he doesn’t think he’s exaggerating. He doesn’t like needles, never has. He remembers getting a meningitis vaccine when he was 21 only because Yakov had threatened something Viktor didn’t think proper to repeat in English.
At least Yuuri was with him. It made the whole thing a little more bearable. Despite feeling like his insides might actually consume themselves in fear, Viktor wasn’t about to pull out now. It was a charity event and, quite aside from not wanting to look bad, it was for a cause very dear to his husband’s heart.
Yuuri had told him with a soft, quiet voice about a boy he’d met during his junior years who had been saved by a blood transfusion to treat his anaemia. It was the only reason he’d been able to keep skating.
“I didn’t know him very well,” Yuuri had confessed. “He didn’t continue to seniors. But he helped me calm down once before the JGP and I want to do this for him.”
Viktor isn’t about to let Yuuri down.
So, here he is. Sitting in a blood donation clinic in Geneva with Yuuri on his left and Chris on his right. Yurio is on Yuuri’s other side and is pointedly not looking at either of them. Across the room, Phichit is giggling with Leo and Guang Hong and taking completely unsubtle pictures of Viktor and Yuuri. Viktor hears his phone buzz faintly in his jacket and deduces that they must be sending him photos of his terrified face with ridiculous snapchat filters.
“Doing okay?” Yuuri asks quietly in Russian.
Viktor looks over and attempts a smile. “Nervous,” is all he says, trying to keep his lips from moving too much. The entire reason they’re even speaking Russian is so nobody will be able to read their lips later.
Yuuri reaches out and offers his hand. With a more genuine smile this time, Viktor slides his hand into Yuuri’s and squeezes. It’s not comfortable but Viktor doesn’t plan to let go until this whole thing is over.
“I’ll be right here,” Yuuri assures him.
Phichit is making kissy faces across the room at them and Viktor feels a small semblance of calm come over him. If nothing else, his love for Yuuri is one thing he’s completely comfortable with in front of a camera.
The nurse who has been bustling around Yuuri finally has his equipment prepared and takes a seat next to him. Viktor has to look away as he inserts the needle and, in doing so, catches Chris’s eye. His friend offers him one of his less seductive smiles. Being in Geneva, Chris is garnering quite a lot of attention. He is, after all, their heart of their national skating pride. Chris, of course, takes this in his stride.
“It’s been too long since you were in Geneva, Vitya,” says Chris woefully in French. “I’ve missed having a challenging drinking partner.”
Viktor rolls his eyes fondly. “I’ve never found you to be much of a challenge,” he shoots back, making Chris laugh heartily.
“You wound me,” he says, putting his free hand (which isn’t connected to a needle) on his chest.
Viktor is grateful for Chris - their usual mildly flirtatious communication is helping take his mind off the inevitable violation which is to come.
(Yuuri might be right. He might be a tad dramatic.)
“It’s not as bad as you think,” Chris says softly in Russian before switching back to French without ever once changing his expression. “You should bring that gorgeous husband of yours round for dinner tonight.”
“Well, we were thinking of visiting Stephane since he is, of course, my favourite Swiss skater,” Viktor teases, adding his thanks in Russian.
Chris, deciding he is too hurt by Viktor’s comments to answer them directly, leans forward slightly to appeal to Yuuri in English. “Yuuri, darling, your husband is quite the dreadful heartbreaker.”
Yuuri, who Viktor notices has now finished being prodded and is sitting calmly squeezing a stress ball to help the blood flow, offers Chris an innocent smile. “Was I naive to assume that marriage would discourage your advances, Christophe?”
At the use of his full name, Chris fans himself with his free hand. “Goodness, what have I done to deserve such formality? You know how I feel about formality, Yuuri.”
Once upon a time, Yuuri might have been flustered into silence. Now, he’s endlessly familiar with Chris’s flirtations and simply rolls his eyes. “If you’re looking for a threesome, Chris, all you have to do is ask.”
Viktor nearly chokes on his own tongue and Chris practically dissolves into laughter.
“You picked a fiesty one, Vitya,” he says in French.
Viktor is about to respond when a nurse wheels her trolley over and offers him a smile.
“Hello, Monsieur Nikiforov. I am Elena. Let me see your arm,” she says in heavily accented English.
Viktor feels himself shaking as he extends his places his right arm on the armrest and takes a deep, slow breath.
“Do not worry,” says Elena kindly. “It will only pinch.”
“He speaks French, if you can stand the accent,” says Chris helpfully in French, offering Viktor a smirk. “He’s a Russian who learned from a Frenchman.”
Elena smiles, switching to French as she says, “I’m sure your French is lovely.”
“It’s one of my favourites to speak,” Viktor says, managing to keep his voice relatively steady and tries not to watch as she prepares her equipment.
“You speak Russian, French, and English fluently?” she asks conversationally.
Viktor swallows. “Yes. And I’m learning Japanese.”
She raises her eyebrows, looking impressed as she ties a band around Viktor’s upper arm. It hurts and Viktor tries to swallow his panic as she starts prodding gently at the inside of his elbow.
“You’re learning for your husband?” She asks, nodding over towards Yuuri. Viktor shoots Yuuri a smile. It’s clear his husband is only following roughly half of the conversation and Viktor feels bad for leaving him out but he also wants Elena to be able to communicate in a language in which she’s fluent.
“Hai,” Viktor says softly and Yuuri smiles fondly, rubbing his thumb over the back of Viktor’s hand. He doesn’t need to translate for Elena; his tone says it all.
“How long have you been married?” Elena asks, clearly trying to keep him distracted.
“Um,” he says, feeling the panic rise in his chest as she unwraps a fresh needle. He closes his eyes and squeezes Yuuri’s hand tighter. “Almost a year.”
“Are you planning anything for your anniversary?” She asks and Viktor feels a sharp pinch and it’s in.
He takes a deep breath. Okay. This could be worse. It’s horrible and he can feel it and the panic is settling almost restrictively in his chest but it’s okay.
“It’s okay,” Yuuri whispers in Russian. “Remember when you broke your ankle on that double axel in juniors? This can’t be worse than that.”
Despite the fear, Viktor looks over at Yuuri fondly. “You really were my biggest fan, weren’t you?”
Yuuri doesn’t flush. “Am,” he corrects. “Am your biggest fan.”
From behind Yuuri, Yurio sits forward and makes a vomiting noise before promptly slumping back against the chair again. Viktor’s laugh is strained but it’s genuine.
“Alright,” says Elena, apparently finished. “If you start to feel sick at any point, I want you to let me know. It happens all the time so don’t be embarrassed about it.” She turns to Yuuri and switches back to English. “How are you feeling, Mr Katsuki?”
Yuuri smiles. “Fine, thank you. And it’s still just Yuuri.”
Elena nods but doesn’t correct herself and gives Viktor a pointed look. “If you feel sick, tell me.”
And then she takes her trolley over to Leo.
Viktor keeps his eyes on Yuuri and tries not to think about it. Does he feel sick? Or is he just anxious? Well, now he’s anxious that he might be feeling sick. And it doesn’t help that the damn cameras are still staring him down. The clinic had required that they remain to one side of the room and out of the way and Viktor is endlessly thankful for small mercies.
“How do you think Makkachin would feel about another dog?” Yuuri asks and it takes Viktor completely by surprise.
“Not sure,” he answers somewhat breathlessly. “I’ve never asked her.”
Yuuri nods. Viktor fiddles with Yuuri’s wedding ring with his pinky.
“I think it’s a good idea though,” he adds after a moment. “Can’t have too many dogs, right?”
Viktor feels a slight twinge in his arm and gasps softly. He wants to cry. This is an entirely awful experience and he wants it to be over.
“I don’t like this,” he says in Russian, no longer trying to keep the distress out of his voice. It’s all he can do to keep himself looking calm for the cameras.
Yuuri doesn’t even blink. “Do you want to stop?” He asks and there’s no accusation or disappointment in his tone but Viktor reads those emotions into his voice anyway. He shakes his head.
“We’ve started now,” he says. “It’ll be over soon, right?”
Squeezing his hand again, Yuuri says gently, “It will. And I’ll stay right here. But remember you can stop whenever you want.”
Viktor nods.
“Are you feeling sick?” Yuuri asks, concerned.
“No,” Viktor mumbles, closing his eyes. He tries to hyperfocus on the feeling of Yuuri’s hand in his. It’s warm and solid and soft. If Viktor concentrates, he can feel every single point of connection, can trace the outline of Yuuri’s fingers as they fold round his own.
“You’re doing really well,” Yuuri says earnestly and Viktor feels the corners of his lips twitch into an involuntary smile. Yuuri is so good to him, he thinks.
In the end, it isn’t actually that bad. Yuuri says soft things in a mix of Russian and Japanese and Viktor hums and nods and plays with Yuuri’s slender fingers and tries to relax into his seat. For a moment, he feels a little...off. But it passes and Elena, who has just finished securing a sticky bandage to Yuuri’s inner elbow, returns to inspect his progress. She seems pleased.
“Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” She says with a smile and Viktor gives her a slight shake of his head. She looks closely at him. “You look a little pale. Are you feeling okay?”
Viktor is thankful that Chris finished donating ages ago so he doesn’t have to endure snarky comments about his snow-climate complexion. “I’m alright,” he tells her. And he is.
Until he tries to stand up and the world tilts quite dramatically sideways. He reaches for Yuuri.
And then. Well, he isn’t sure what happens next. But then his head is settled comfortably in Yuuri’s lap and Yuuri’s delicate fingers are running gently through his hair which feels gross from the nervous sweats he’d experienced an hour ago. Viktor wants to tell him to wait until he’s had a shower but he also doesn’t want Yuuri to stop.
Viktor stares up at Yuuri who looks somewhat blurry. He wonders briefly if he’s supposed to be wearing glasses but then remembers that Yuuri is the one who wears them. Is this what Yuuri sees when he’s skating? How does he avoid the barriers?
“Can you sit up for me, love?” Yuuri asks and Viktor tries his best but he probably couldn’t have managed it without Yuuri’s strong, guiding arms. Have Yuuri’s biceps always been this...firm?
Viktor rests his head on Yuuri’s shoulder and sighs. His entire body feels tingly and he feels like he’s floating just outside of himself. Not to mention his stomach is tying itself in knots. His arms shake where they try to support him but Yuuri’s body is a rock, keeping him anchored.
Elena hands Yuuri a carton of apple juice and Viktor watches with rapt fascination while Yuuri expertly releases the attached straw from its plastic wrapping with one hand and pierces the foil on top of the carton, keeping his other arm wrapped firmly round his husband’s waist. Somewhat dazedly, Viktor wonders if this is why damsels are always in distress. Having Yuuri take charge of things so smoothly is just about the most attractive thing Viktor has ever seen and Viktor tells him so in Russian. Well, he tries to tell him. But it comes out mumbled and half in French and Yuuri just kisses his forehead indulgently.
“Small sips,” Yuuri says as he holds the juicebox so that the straw just touches Viktor’s lips.
The sweet taste makes Viktor feel a little more real. He can feel the ground solidifying beneath him as the chill floods through his chest and travels down into his stomach. After a moment, he lifts a shaky hand to take the juicebox from Yuuri but he doesn’t make any other moves to support himself independently. Yuuri doesn’t seem to mind. His now free hand comes to rest softly on Viktor’s thigh.
For a moment, everything is bliss. And then the realisation of what just happened comes crashing down on Viktor and he feels his face turn a brilliant shade of scarlet. He buries his face in Yuuri’s shoulder and groans.
“This is so embarrassing,” he says mournfully.
Yuuri shushes him kindly and Elena says, “You have no reason to be embarrassed. This happens a lot.”
Her words do give Viktor a little reassurance but he can’t help thinking that most people don’t faint in front of a full camera crew and end up with gifs of themselves collapsing on the internet forever. Knowing the speed of the online world, Viktor wouldn’t be surprised if those gifs were already circulating on tumblr. He groans again.
“Vitya,” Yuuri coaxes, nudging his shoulder slightly to get Viktor to show his face. “Finish your juice. There’s still half left.”
Reluctantly, Viktor takes another few sips of his juicebox and is somewhat frustrated that he enjoys the taste of it when he’s doing his best to feel embarrassed and miserable. He feels Yuuri’s lips against his hair and the soft, warm huffs of Yuuri’s breath ruffling the strands of his fringe and he thinks that maybe this isn’t the absolute worst thing in the world.
It’s going to take a while to repair his image, though. He takes a moment to mourn that before he finishes his juice forcefully so that it makes a pointed gurgling noise to prove to Yuuri that it’s finished.
True to their word, Elena and Yuuri help him unsteadily to his feet and he’s soon settled in a plastic chair with Yurio on one side and Chris on the other. Yuuri crouches down in front of him and smiles.
“Feeling a bit better?” He asks kindly.
Viktor doesn’t get a chance to answer before Yurio butts in. “Is it true you fainted? I mean, you actually fainted?”
It takes Viktor a moment to register Yurio’s strange accent but Yuuri seems to be on it far faster than he is because he says, “Shove off, Malfoy,” and Chris lets out a snort.
“For real, though,” Chris says. “Are you okay? Nothing damaged?”
Viktor sighs. “Only my pride.”
“You needed taking down a peg,” says Chris matter-of-factly and Viktor aims a lethargic punch at his leg.
Yuuri catches his hand as he brings it back and kisses it gently and Viktor thinks he can see every single star right there in his eyes. “I’m so proud of you,” he says earnestly.
And Viktor thinks that maybe it’s okay after all. Because Yuuri is proud of him. And that’s enough.
here, have a lil adhd!viktor with a cold who has precisely 0 concept of slowing down and looking after yourself. i had to get this out of my brain so i could sleep and then spend the next few days buried in work lmao save me.
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There are lots of words Yuuri could use to describe life with Viktor but boring is certainly never one of them. Stressful is, sometime. Like right now when Viktor is fighting a monster cold and refusing to slow down at all. Yuuri watches from the couch (which he has fashioned into a fairly superb blanket nest and he’s quite disappointed that Viktor doesn’t seem to be appreciating it) as his husband paces the living room with his phone held tight between his ear and his shoulder while he scrubs earnestly at his nose with a handful of tissues.
“I u’dersta’d thadt budt...”
If his voice is anything to go by, the congestion doesn’t seem to have lessened any with the DayQuil Yuuri forced down his throat an hour ago. Viktor drops the clump of tissues in the plastic bag by the foot of the couch and keeps up his circular pacing, pushing his fingers through his hair. Yuuri can see the beads of sweat on his forehead and Viktor’s shiny red nose makes him look even more pale than normal.
While Viktor continues his conversation (he’s calling the bank; something went wrong with a cheque), Yuuri quietly comes to stand behind him and winds gentle arms around his waist, stopping him dead in his tracks. Viktor stands still for a moment and rests his head briefly against Yuuri’s before he detaches himself and sets off again.
“Yes, I cad hold,” Viktor says and Yuuri seizes his chance to take the phone from him and put it on speaker, throwing it onto the arm of the couch where is quietly plays a surprisingly pleasant classical song.
Yuuri kisses Viktor’s cheek and rubs his hands up and down his arms, eventually sliding down to Viktor’s wrists and taking his husband’s hands in his own.
“If you sit down for me, I’ll read yuo some more Harry Potter,” Yuuri bargains.
Viktor looks thoughtful and then lets out a pitifully congested huff. “Okay.”
With another kiss, Yuuri gets Viktor settled amid the blankets and goes to fetch Viktor’s dog-eared copy of the second Harry Potter book. Viktor had told him that it had been an invaluable way for him to improve his English since he’d never been able to focus on learning languages in an instructional way. Viktor’s brain wasn’t really wired like that. He needed excitement, something to spark his curiosity, and short-term rewards if he was ever going to get anything done.
Viktor is bouncing his leg restlessly when Yuuri plops down next to him but quickly huddles up to Yuuri under his offered arm and settles against him. His eyes falls closed as Yuuri begins, picking up where they left off mid-chapter earlier in the day after Viktor had had enough. Viktor shreds a tissue between his fingers while Yuuri’s voice washes over him.
Yuuri has barely gotten through a few paragraphs when Viktor’s wrenching cough forces him upright and forward into the crook of his elbow.
“Oh,” Yuuri tuts in sympathy, rubbing circles in Viktor’s back. “I really think you should take a break, love.”
Viktor blows his nose and gives his head a sharp shake to clear his foggy ears.
“Cand’t,” he says, no less stuffy than before. “I have to...I just have to.”
Yuuri understands, sort of. Viktor isn’t pushing himself because he wants to, he just really doesn’t know how to slow down and take a break. His brain works too fast for resting, especially when he’s under the weather and thus feeling particularly hindered in the brain department. It’s ironic and somewhat frustrating - for both of them, but mostly for Viktor who would honestly like to take some time off so he doesn’t end up with a cough which lasts for months. Again.
“Maybe just take a little time right now,” Yuuri suggests, handing him the palm-sized Makkachin plushie which guards the landline. Viktor’s fingers fold around it and he starts to fiddle with its soft ears. Yuuri pecks his temple. “Good. Just close your eyes and recognise what you’re feeling. You don’t have to change it. Just feel it.”
Viktor takes a somewhat crackly deep breath while Yuuri guides him through the script he’s learnt by heart for those moments when Viktor can’t do it by himself. Yuuri keeps talking quietly, relishing the warmth of Viktor’s body against his, the soft tickle of his hair against Yuuri’s chin.
This is wonderful. Yuuri hopes the moment will never e-
“Hello, Mr Nikiforov, sorry to keep you. The problem seems to b-”
Just like that, Viktor’s on his feet again, fumbling to turn off the phone speaker and resuming his pacing, chewing absently on a hangnail on his left thumb.
since i’m working on moving my forum fics over here, enjoy some sick vitya (with long hair y’all) ft. some overworking and stuff. it’ll probably be about 3 parts but like lord knows when i’ll have time to update it. sorry for posting two fics in one day but since they’re different fandoms i figured it’d be okay!!
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Nobody worth their salt in the figure skating world would call the World Championships anything other than a big deal and Yakov Feltsman wasn’t Russia’s top figure skating coach for nothing. He knew better than his students what the Worlds meant and he knew that eighteen-year-old Viktor Nikiforov had an excellent chance of bringing back gold. However, the Worlds were tough and skaters who competed there needed to be tough too, both in mind and body. Viktor Nikiforov was certainly both of those things but apparently his immune system hadn’t received word that he would be competing at the Worlds in three days time and had decided it was high time to bring Viktor to his knees with a miserable cold, quite literally.
Yakov didn’t pry into his students’ home lives but he knew enough of Viktor’s to gauge that he wasn’t used to being cared for so perhaps it was no surprise that Yakov didn’t realise his student was sick until he came hurtling out of his Bielmann spin, landing unceremoniously on his knees. Too stunned at first to speak - unusual for Yakov in itself - he merely watched while his star student’s arms wobbled precariously as he tried to push himself to his feet.
Finding his voice again, Yakov yelled, “Vitya!” and was placated when he saw his student’s sheepish wince at the anger lacing just that one word.
Head bowed, Viktor made his way over to Yakov, slowing into a T-stop and risking a glance up only when he reached the barrier. He immediately swallowed a witty remark when he saw the fire in his coach’s eyes. Yakov jerked his hand forward, placing the back of his fingers roughly against Viktor’s forehead and letting out a gruff sigh.
“Off,” he growled, jerking his head to the bench behind him and Viktor obeyed without a word of protest which was worrying in itself. Yakov closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm himself. That boy was going to be the death of him. “Georgi! Warm up!” He snapped, glancing over to where his second student was stretching across the rink before turning the full force of his glare on Viktor.
The effect was lost, however, because Viktor had his head in his hands, long silver hair pulled out of its usual ponytail and falling across his face. With a final sigh, Yakov came to crouch in front of his student.
“Vitya,” he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral as his young student lifted his face to look Yakov in the eye. What he saw didn’t surprise him. Up close, Viktor’s lack of sleep was obvious in the dark rings around his eyes, his cold obvious in his chapped red nose and the soft thrum of congestion in his breathing. Yakov remembered Viktor complaining - loudly and obnoxiously - of a headache the day before but the rate at which it had progressed to leave him in this state was both worrying and impressive.
“I’m sorry,” Viktor muttered, voice quiet and raspy from coughing. “I- I thought-”
“No, you didn’t think! That’s the problem, Vitya!” Yakov growled, making Viktor fall silent. He lifted a hand to swipe at his nose, sniffling as he rubbed at the itch, blinking back tears of utter exhaustion. Yakov’s frown deepened. “The Worlds are in three days. You didn’t think perhaps it would be wise to inform your coach of this so we can take appropriate measures? Do you want to compete in the Worlds or don’t you?”
Viktor’s eyes hardened. “I do!”
“Then you have to start using your head,” Yakov said firmly, scowl still in place. “What good will you be if you injure yourself because of a fever?”
Viktor had the good grace to look sheepish but it didn’t last long before he turned away to muffle several violent sneezes into the crook of his elbow.
etsCHHU! tisCHHoo! ihhtischhOO!
“Bless you,” Yakov murmured automatically, whipping out his own clean white handkerchief and handing it to Viktor whose cheeks had flushed red with embarrassment.
While the young skater mopped himself up, Yakov allowed himself a rare moment of sympathy. He understood the pressure Viktor was under, even if he hadn’t felt it himself in decades. The World Championships were the most prestigious event in international figure skating and Viktor was favoured to win gold at the grand old age of just eighteen. Viktor had talent, that couldn’t be denied. He also had discipline and dedication and inspiration. What he lacked, though it came as a shock to most, was confidence. Not confidence in himself as a skater, exactly; but he did have a tendency to be too hard on himself, to push himself too hard, to strive for too much.
Viktor clamped the handkerchief over his mouth as he let out a chesty cough which seemed to wrench his breath from him with every convulsion. Arms folded, Yakov straightened and turned his back on Viktor to watch Georgi’s warm up.
“Skates off. Get some rest,” Yakov grunted, hearing the strangled gasp from behind and having to physically stop himself from wincing at just how sick Viktor sounded when he descended into another crackling cough. “If I see you here again today, I’ll pull you from the Worlds. Understood?”
The silence that greeted him from behind was broken by a quiet murmur of what could have been agreement but could also have been a curse before he heard the sound of Viktor’s retreating blades against the carpet.
Yakov scowled to himself. That boy needed to learn to look after himself or he was going to be forcibly retired by the time he was twenty one and that, for both Viktor’s young talent and the figure skating world at large, would be a crying shame.
~
It took Viktor several tries to fit the key in the lock. His hands trembled with both exhaustion and frustration. He wanted to skate. He needed to skate if he didn’t want to make a complete fool of himself at the Worlds. Stupid Yakov. Viktor threw his keys onto the coffee table in frustration and dumped his skate bag on the floor before throwing himself onto the couch, another painful cough tearing through his lungs until there were tears trickling down his cheeks.
A soft snuffling from by his ankles made him smile and he looked down to find his aging poodle sniffing at his legs, whining and pawing at his knee. Anya had been his birthday present when he was five years old. They’d grown up together and Viktor loved her dearly. She was getting on in years now and, if there was one thing he regretted, it was that skating took him away from her so often. Still, if he was going to be on forced rest, at least he’d get to spend time with her. He patted the space on the couch beside him and Anya happily leapt up to curl up with her head nestled in his lap.
“Good girl,” Viktor muttered breathlessly, chest tightening uncomfortably even after the coughing. He scratched absently behind her ears as he settled back on the cushions and let his eyes fall shut of their own accord.
Truly, he felt dreadful. After mere minutes, he settled into a soft snuffling pattern of snores, drifting off with his dog in his lap and still wearing his slightly sweaty practice clothes.
He woke to a fit of violent shivers, Anya asleep in his lap. Despite how cold he was, he didn’t have the heart to move her. Swiping at his runny nose with the back of his hand, Viktor gently stroked her floppy brown ears, marvelling in his slight state of fever at how soft she was. Had she always been this soft?
Viktor felt his breath hitch before he even felt the tickle and groaned quietly. He’d only been sneezing since last night and he was already completely fed up with it, especially because sneezing often led to coughing and coughing often led to wheezing and he just wanted to be better already.
hh’ENGnnchhz!
The force of it left him breathless but, miraculously, it didn’t trigger a cough. It did, however, wake Anya who blinked up at him with bleary eyes while he wiped his nose on his sleeve. However, it soon became clear that this wasn’t going to cut it and he kept his sleeved wrist pressed firmly to his nose while he got up to pluck a tissue from his poodle plushie box which he’d left in the kitchen after breakfast that morning. When he’d emptied his nose, Viktor felt more congested than before and every exhale seemed to be accompanied by a stuffy guh sound.
As much as he didn’t want to admit it - and would absolutely never admit it out loud, even if tortured - Yakov was right. He needed to get better if he was going to win at the Worlds. And he was going to win. Cold or no cold he was going to be the world champion damn it.
“You believe in me, don’t you, Anya?” He asked throatily of the dog who had dutifully followed at his heels. She growled fondly in approval and Viktor chuckled, bending down to give her a pat but had to immediately clamp his damp tissue to his nose when it suddenly and without warning started running like a tap. He sniffed thickly, feeling a bolt of congestion shoot up between his eyes and let out another soft groan.
Being sick was the worst. He really didn’t have ti-
hhh’ZZNGihshhoo! heh...oh...hh’IHHZKHuhh!
Abandoning his tissue on the kitchen counter, he grabbed a fresh handful and buried his nose in them to catch the next one.
ihh’IHKICHhoo!
Anya whined by his feet which Viktor took to mean ‘bless you’ and offered her a watery smile which she couldn’t see behind his mass of tissues anyway. Viktor massaged his itchy nose through the tissues, sniffling wetly. And here came the coughs, predictable as always. He had to put one hand on the counter to steady himself while he hacked, giving his nose a harsh blow at the end of it and discarding his tissues next to the other used one with a look of pitiful disgust.
“Sorry, Anya,” he wheezed. “No walk today. Papa can’t breathe.”
Anya nuzzled her head against his leg, still whining, which made Viktor smile. She was a good girl. Taking the tissue box with him, Viktor settled himself on the couch again, kicking his shoes off (which he’d only just noticed were still on his feet) and stretching his legs out along the sofa, back propped up against the cushions. Anya needed no invitation this time and settled herself across Viktor’s stomach and legs happily.
A shiver rushed through him again and Viktor wished he’d remembered to grab a blanket. He wrapped his hair around his neck as a makeshift scarf which was horribly itchy but he'd take what he could get. He should really have gotten changed. Oh, but he just sat down.
Five minutes, he thought to himself. Five minutes and then I’ll get up.
But the five minutes came and went several times and Viktor found himself shivering and coughing and sneezing and feeling so incredibly dizzy that he didn’t think he had the strength to even nudge Anya off to the side let alone get up and do things like put on pyjamas or get a glass of water.
“Anya,” he whined, dragging out the final ‘a’ in her name. “I feel so awful.”
Anya responded by climbing further up his body to rest her head on his chest. The weight felt nice despite the tightness which already lurked there. Somehow, this was better. Viktor was too exhausted to lift his arms to stroke her so he simply breathed, “my good girl” and closed his eyes again. He didn’t sleep. Just shivered and sniffled and created a pile of crumpled tissues on the floor while others remained scattered around on the couch. If his fans could see him now…
“What kind of world champion can’t even take care of a cold on his own?” Viktor asked Anya, breathing shallowly to prevent a fit. He cleared his throat, wincing when it induced a sharp throb of pain. “I’m pathetic, huh?”
Anya whined. Viktor whined back teasingly though it was a pretty accurate depiction of his mood all the same.
This was ridiculous. If he was going to get better, he needed to start taking care of himself properly. Orange juice was good for colds, right? Did he have any? Viktor nearly scoffed at the thought. He barely ever had any food in the flat since he spent so little time there. Yakov’s skaters tended to eat together since they all had set meal plans. Besides, Viktor was a fairly terrible cook.
So, no orange juice. Soup. His mother had made him soup when he was sick once. Clearly he was going to have to go shopping. Or, alternatively, he could stick pins in his eyes and wait for death.
my first commission!! enjoy some sick!vitya pushing himself through training courtesy of @hothedgie
-
Forgetfulness is Viktor’s primary personality trait, a fact well-known in the figure skating world. Aside from forgetful, he’s competitive and determined and hopelessly in love with his fiancé. There were some fans who had worried that Viktor’s return to skating would be tainted - undermined, even - by his unabashed love for Yuuri Katsuki of Japan. Articles had speculated whether Viktor would ‘go easy’ on Yuuri when they were in direct competition or give Yuuri a more technically difficult program to deliberately boost his score.
But the fans who worried about that clearly didn’t know Viktor Nikiforov.
“Again, Vitya!” Yakov’s tone is a practiced mix of bored and frustrated. “You know better than to present that sloppy footwork to me as improvement.”
Yakov is a tough coach but Viktor is doubtful he’d flourish under anybody else. Though he’s very self-motivated, he needs Yakov’s keen eye and unrelenting criticism to drive him, to spur him to practice until his feet are battered and bruised.
Viktor runs through the step sequence again but he starts watching his feet halfway through and he knows he’s about to be berated before Yakov even yells for him to stop. Viktor skates to a stop in front of his coach without waiting to be summoned, panting from the exertion.
“What’s gotten into you today, boy?” Yakov grunts.
Viktor doesn’t know how to answer him. What has gotten into him today? He supposed he could put it down to a bad night’s sleep. He’d woken feeling exhausted and overheated (and without Yuuri, which always made for a bad morning). The fatigue hadn’t gone away with breakfast and had plagued him all throughout his morning run. Everything about his body felt heavy today.
“I don’t know,” he says honestly, pushing his fringe away from his face with a gloved hand.
Yakov squints at him suspiciously and then sighs. “You’re getting nowhere with that step sequence today. Go stretch and eat something before you see the she-devil.”
A reluctant smile tugs at Viktor’s lips and he obeys. When he’s bending over to untie his skates, he feels overcome by a sudden rush of dizziness and has to throw a hand onto the ground to stop himself from toppling onto his face. He straightens and gives himself a shake. That was...odd.
He pulls his leg up into the bench to undo his skates instead and absently picks at the bento Yuuri had left out for him that morning.
Since moving to St Petersburg, the pair have fallen into a routine of domesticity and it makes Viktor’s heart swell. Whoever is awake first will make lunch for the two of them and feed Makkachin who will crawl into bed with the other until they get up to go for a run. Makkachin had pulled ahead of Viktor several times that morning. For some reason, he just couldn’t keep up with her. He wonders if perhaps he’s low on iron. It’s happened before, after all.
Lilia is as unforgiving as ever. She puts Viktor through his paces for hours, bemoaning his inelegant lines and poor posture.
“You could learn a thing or two from that Katsuki boy besides sex positions,” she says, making Viktor flush right to the tips of his ears. Lilia has always been blunt like that but it never fails to catch Viktor off guard. That’s probably why he likes her; she surprises him.
When Viktor stops for the third time to get a drink, Lilia frowns deeply at him.
“This is what half a season off will do to you,” she scolds as Viktor gulps at his water, thinking that his water weight might rival that of a small elephant right now. “Go home and don’t show your face in my studio again until you’re willing to put in the work.”
Viktor obeys feeling chagrined. That’s twice today he’s been kicked out of practice early. As he heads home, he digs his fingernails into his palm to keep himself from crying with frustration. He’s not weak and he won’t let Yakov and Lilia treat him like he is. This is probably his last season.
He’s going to fight for it.
~
The next morning, Viktor is up bright and early despite his lethargic body’s protests and he meets Yuuri in the kitchen as he’s sitting down to eat his yoghurt.
“Morning,” Yuuri says with surprise, smiling as Viktor swoops in to press a kiss on his cheek. “Did I wake you?”
Viktor smiles brightly. “Not at all. I just missed seeing you in the mornings.”
This isn’t a lie. Viktor had indeed missed spending this time with Yuuri before they had to start training. Yuuri always showers before he has breakfast so his hair is still damp and sits wildly atop his head. He has a speck of yoghurt on his upper lip which Viktor can’t help but kiss away.
“You’re such a sap,” Yuuri chuckles, ruffling Viktor’s hair fondly on his way to the sink to clean his spoon. He deposits it in the drying rack and the yoghurt tub in the bin before donning his skate bag.
Viktor’s eyes sweep Yuuri’s toned body. He’s dressed for practice with a grandpa sweater thrown over his t-shirt for warmth on the journey to the rink. His tight skate pants reveal the strong curve of his thighs and Viktor self-consciously prods at his own leg beneath the table. He has a long way to go before he’s back to his usual level of fitness and he’s very suddenly reminded that Yuuri is four years younger than him. In figure skating terms, that’s a lot.
Maybe...maybe he’s getting too old for this.
Yuuri tilts his head to the side, just one of Viktor’s many mannerisms he’s picked up during their time together. “Vitya?” He looks concerned, brows furrowing as he zeroes in on Viktor’s expression which he quickly moulds into a smile.
“Sorry, Yuuri,” he states cheerily. “Still waking up.”
Apparently satisfied with this, Yuuri’s face softens. “Don’t sacrifice your sleep for me, okay? You have a rest day tomorrow. Have a lie in and then we can have lunch together.”
This time, Viktor’s smile is genuine. “Okay! Have a good day, Yuuri,” he chirps, teasingly drawing out the first syllable and making Yuuri roll his eyes fondly. He laughs out a farewell and then he’s gone.
The change in Viktor is immediate and he slumps against the kitchen table in an unbearably painful fit of coughing. His chest is aching, head pounding; he feels sleepy and generally like he could do with an extra hour in bed. When the coughing subsides, he presses his warm cheek against the cool table and groans.
hekETCHhuh!
Viktor blinks, surprised by the harsh sound of his own sneeze. Do they usually sound like that? He isn’t sure. Another makes itself known immediately.
hh...heZHICHHuh!
That was more what he’d been expect-
ihHZZSHHhhh!
...expecting.
He swipes under his nose with a piece of rough kitchen paper, feeling much grumpier than he had been just moments ago. He curses quietly. This is some bullshit.
Reluctantly, he shuffles into the bathroom and pulls the thermometer out of the medicine cabinet, shoving it under his tongue with such impatient force that he lets out a little noise of pain. Even as he stands there, staring at his disgruntled expression in the mirror, he has a sense that this isn’t going to be good.
38.6.
He scowls at the display and roughly jams the thermometer back where it came from. This is ridiculous. He doesn’t have time for this. Russian Nationals are hot on his heels and this is probably the last one he’ll ever get to compete in. Viktor isn’t an idiot; he’s pushing 30 and, in figure skating terms, he may as well be in a nursing home. He’s a living legend and he’s determined not to fizzle out like so many skaters before him who didn’t know when to quit. He knows when to quit and his body hasn’t had enough yet.
He’s Viktor Nikiforov and he’s going to go out with a bang.
~
...yeah he’s fizzling out.
Practice is exhausting and Yurio’s snarky remarks about his age don’t help much but Viktor deals with them as he always does - by pretending he’s not hurt.
“Aren’t you worried you’re gonna break a hip on that quad loop, grandpa?” Yurio taunts and it’s not different from his usual attitude but, for some reason, Viktor takes it to heart.
Being under the weather is making him feel vulnerable. He wishes Yuuri were here. Yuuri is good at knowing when he needs a little reassurance and tact has never exactly been Yakov’s strong suit.
Viktor is well aware that he’s the oldest skater here. Retirement is looming for him and he’s afraid. He’s been skating all his life and being without that is frightening. He wonders how long it will take him to turn out like Yakov.
And he throws himself into a triple axel to stop thinking about it. The landing is sloppy and the effort leaves him feeling like he could collapse on the ice then and there.
Yurio eyes him suspiciously. “What’s up with you anyway?” He asks and it’s clear he means for it to sound nonchalant.
“Nothing,” Viktor bites out, swallowing down a cough and storming off the ice in a very Yurio-esque fashion. Nobody comes after him.
When he’s safely locked in the bathroom, he coughs so hard that he finally collapses against the toilet, too dizzy to hold himself upright. The problem with Viktor is that he gets sick fast. He can go from 0 to 100 in a day and a half and it seems like, in characteristic Viktor style, that’s exactly what he’s doing.
He brings up a hand to swipe the tears from his cheeks but ends up clamping it over his nose instead when a vicious sneeze rips its way out of his sore throat.
hhHZZSHUHhk!
With just that one sneeze, Viktor feels like he’s about to faint. The building pressure in his head is dizzying. So he’s less than pleased when he falls forward again, curling in on himself on the floor as the next two predictable sneezes follow.
ehhHUHKSHhh! hihh-INGXT!
He groans lowly, watching the cubicle spin sickeningly around him. He shuts his eyes and breathes.
For a while, he thinks about going home. Yakov would yell but he’d understand if Viktor just explained to him that he felt horribly dizzy. Yakov might be tough but he wasn’t a sadist. If anything, Viktor would probably get a row for showing up at all. But in the end he pushes himself up on his wobbly legs (it’s difficult in his skates) and stumbles over to the sinks. He splashes his hot face with cool water and convinces himself that he feels marginally better.
So he steps back onto the ice. But Viktor is burning. The heat of his fever courses through his body though he shivers in the cold rink air. His focus is so messy that he can barely see where he’s going and it’s completely his own fault when Mila knocks him onto his back during her run through.
She’s holding a hand out to him in an instant and pulling him to his feet. “I’m sorry, Viktor!” She squeaks, dusting the ice shavings off his clothes.
Yakov is yelling somewhere in the haze of Viktor’s perception but he can’t really hear him. He nods curtly to Mila and tries to smile but it comes out as more of a grimace. He can feel her watching him as he skates inelegantly over to where Yakov is cursing at him and plonks down on a bench without bothering to put on his guards. Yakov glares down at him.
“You were always difficult, Vitya, but this isn’t like you,” he growls.
Viktor can feel his throat closing over. He can’t cry in front of Yakov. He just can’t.
“Sorry, Yakov,” he forces out past the lump in his throat.
Yakov sighs. “Go home, Vit-”
“No!” Viktor’s head snaps up and he stares Yakov dead in the eye, seeing his unshockable coach rear back slightly at Viktor’s sudden reaction. “You can’t keep sending me home on bad days. I’m not fragile, Yakov.”
Yakov studies him and Viktor is beginning to feel like a bug under a microscope before Yakov’s lip curls and some of the intensity leaves his expression.
“Then get out there are show me a clean short program,” he says simply.
Determination floods Viktor’s body then. He skates through his short program three times until his legs are wobbling with fatigue and fever.
By the time he arrives back at their flat that night - following a brutal dance class with Lilia and a conditioning session at the gym - he’s so exhausted that he flops down on the couch in his practice clothes and falls straight asleep, barely registering Makkachin’s skittering toenails on the hardwood floor.
~
Viktor can hear his name, can feel someone touching him, but everything feels like a haze. He tries to move away from the noise, tries to burrow beneath his pillow but he can’t because his pillow isn’t a pillow but he doesn’t know what it is. He feels sick.
“Vitya, please look at me,” says the voice and it’s Yuuri’s voice so Viktor opens his eyes and sees Yuuri’s beautiful face staring down at him, lined with concern.
Viktor blinks. He coughs.
Yuuri pulls him up by his arms, supporting him while he hacks, leaning so far forward that it’s only Yuuri’s strong arms that keep him from falling onto the floor. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registers that Yuuri doesn’t know he’s sick yet but that thought disappears among the fog in his brain.
“Oh, sweetheart, you’re burning,” Yuuri whispers but Viktor wants to tell him no, he’s freezing. “We need to get your fever down. Can you stay here for me?”
Viktor doesn’t get a chance to answer but Yuuri is gone and Viktor can’t breathe without him. He doesn’t want Yuuri to leave. Viktor clutches weakly at the hem of his t-shirt, twisting the fabric in his fists anxiously.
And then Yuuri’s hands are cupping his face and his thumbs are brushing away the tears and his lips are kissing his forehead and it feels so nice.
“It’s alright, Vitka,” Yuuri says, voice smooth like honey. He presses a cloth against Viktor’s forehead and it’s miraculously cool. Yuuri gently dabs the cloth all over Viktor’s forehead and his cheeks, muttering, “hush now. You must be feeling miserable. It’s okay. You’ll feel better soon.”
Viktor initially shies away when Yuuri raises the thermometer but opens his mouth to accept it after a brief moment of embarrassment. Yuuri keeps talking. His voice is gentle like Viktor knew it would be. He wants to cry. This isn’t how things were supposed to be. He was supposed to train and improve and fight for this last season and instead he’s crying in his apartment with Yuuri, his Yuuri, trying to soothe his fever like he’s a child.
He’s been stupid, Viktor realises. He keeps crying.
Yuuri doesn’t tell him what the thermometer says but his expression says enough: not good.
“You should have told me,” is what Yuuri says instead and all Viktor can do is hold his arms out, begging for Yuuri to come close. And Yuuri does.
Yuuri pulls Viktor into his lap even though Viktor is taller than him with his long limbs and pointy joints. But Yuuri doesn’t seem to care about that so Viktor just revels in being held. He buries his face in Yuuri’s neck and relaxes. Because Yuuri is here now and there’s nothing to hide anymore. Hiding it was stupid in the first place.
“That’s it. I’ve got you,” Yuuri says quietly as his hands rub up and down Viktor’s back. “Now, when you’ve calmed down we’re going to get you some medicine and into some clean pyjamas and then I think you should go to bed.”
Viktor nods. “You’ll come with me?”
The request is innocent and Yuuri’s lack of suggestive joke seems to suggest that he understands that. Normally, Viktor loves the camaraderie they’ve developed in their relationship; the back and forth banter and inside jokes and exaggerated flirtatious expressions before they collapse into laughter. Yuuri is absolutely Viktor’s best friend in the whole wide world.
“Of course,” Yuuri says earnestly. “But medicine first, okay?”
Viktor croaks out a pitiful agreement before Yuuri goes to fetch some fever reducer which Viktor takes without a fuss though swallowing the little pills hurts his throat, even with the water. But Yuuri rewards him with a kiss on the cheek so he supposes it isn’t all bad.
“Come on,” Yuuri says as he pulls Viktor to his feet and drags him into their bedroom.
Makkachin lifts her head from the bed where she’d clearly been snoozing and wags her tail, sniffing inquisitively at Viktor’s hand when Yuuri deposits him next to her.
“Hey, girl,” he says hoarsely, giggling when she licks his hand (it tickles!). But the giggling quickly turns into a wrenching cough and by the time it’s finished, he’s certain he’s lost a lung and maybe also his liver because everything hurts.
Yuuri hands Viktor a clean pair of pyjama pants and says, “let’s get you out of those sweaty clothes, hm?”
Once Viktor is clad only in his plaid pyjama pants, Yuuri gently nudges Makkachin to the side and settles him under the duvet.
“Is that better?” Yuuri asks.
Viktor smiles sheepishly and nods. “Thank you,” he whispers, biting his lip. “I-”
But Yuuri anticipates his apology and holds up his hand. “I know. We’ll talk about it when you’re feeling a bit better, okay?”
Yuuri climbs into bed next to Viktor and pulls his sick fiancé close until he’s comfortably settled against him.
“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” Yuuri says but Viktor doesn’t think he’s looking for a proper answer so he just hums because he knows. “You’re ridiculous.”
so @kotyonoksnz commissioned me to write another part to her giveaway fic so here it is. sorry i’ve been painfully slow on commissions. i’m moving out next week and man this whole month has just been lskadjsf but i’m on it don’t worry!!!
[commission info] [buy me a coffee]
-
A cough gives Yuuri away in the end. His throat has been unbearably itchy all day but it finally bursts from him around four in the afternoon and he finds that he just can’t stop. He’s doubled over with his hand against a tree trunk for support and Viktor is hovering worriedly beside him, asking questions he can’t answer because his head is spinning and his lungs are aching with the pressure.
“Yuuri? Oh, Yuuri, what’s wrong?” Viktor’s voice is starting to get shrill the way is does when he’s feeling panicked. He says something else in Russian and runs a hand through his hair.
Yuuri sucks in a deep breath and purses his lips before letting his breath out carefully and slowly. When it doesn’t trigger another awful cough, he wipes at his leaking eyes and offers Viktor a sheepish look.
Viktor’s eyes are full of concern and he’s biting his lower lip so hard that Yuuri is worried he might draw blood.
“Are you…” he begins but his voice cracks and Yuuri’s heart clenches in his chest. Viktor clears his throat. “Are you alright now?”
Yuuri swallows. “I’m alright,” he says.
“Good,” Viktor says then slaps his arm. “Then what were you thinking?”
Yuuri’s mouth drops open in surprise. But isn’t that characteristic of how Viktor Nikiforov makes him feel?
“How long have you been sick? No, don’t answer that. We’re going home.”
And Yuuri tries to take him seriously because he knows that Viktor is worried but the blossom flower crown adorning Viktor’s head just makes the whole picture indescribably funny and Yuuri lets out a snort.
At Viktor’s glare he says, “I’m sorry, it’s just…” he taps his own head and Viktor’s fingers wander in his hair until he finds his flower crown. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. But then he’s laughing too and they’re giggling against the tree until it catches in Yuuri’s throat and he lets out another itchy cough which thankfully doesn’t descend into a full blown fit.
(He stifles a few sneezes but they just hurt. At least he doesn’t have to hide them anymore.)
Viktor presses his hand to Yuuri’s forehead and sighs. “You don’t feel warm,” he says and his frown lines lessen a little. “Still, you’re obviously getting a cold. We should get you home.”
Yuuri doesn’t mean to deceive his fiancé but he just can’t being himself to say actually it’s not a cold it’s hayfever without feeling like he’s saying something which isn’t appropriate outside the bedroom. His cheeks flush just at the thought of it.
So he lets himself be led away from the festival and towards the street where Viktor bundles him into a taxi and pets his hair, insisting that Yuuri try to get some rest. Though he isn’t actually ill, the day has taken quite a bit out of him and Yuuri finds himself dozing against Viktor’s shoulder despite himself.
Hiroko greets them as they walk into the inn but when she sees her son’s red-nosed face she disappears into the kitchen and returns not a minute later with a damp cloth and starts wiping Yuuri’s cheeks, cleaning away the pollen. At first, Yuuri leans into the cool touch of the cloth but he very suddenly remembers that he’s standing next to Viktor Nikiforov and his mother is treating him like a child.
“Okaa-san! I’m not six!” He whines, completely cancelling out the point he’s trying to make.
Hiroko rolls her eyes. “Of course you’re not. You had much more common sense when you were six.”
Yuuri chokes while Viktor chuckles beside him, clearly enjoying watching Yuuri be thoroughly embarrassed by his mother. Yuuri feels like he’s twelve years old again and he simply cannot believe his mother is embarrassing him in front of Viktor Nikiforov, the coolest person in the world.
Eventually, Hiroko tosses the cloth aside and cups Yuuri’s face, gently running her thumbs under his eyes and tutting.
“You need a shower,” Hiroko says, swatting at him until he scurries off to the bathroom to do just that. She turns to Viktor and eyes his flower crown with a strange look somewhere between fond and exasperated. “Did he make that for you?”
Viktor’s expression turns dreamy as he remembers Yuuri clumsily twining the blossoms together with unpracticed fingers, setting the flower crown on his head reverently like Viktor was truly a king at his coronation. Yuuri made him feel so special that his heart hadn’t stopped singing in a whole year.
“Yes!” He grins. “Yuuri is so sweet.”
Hiroko smiles and shakes her head. Before she can say anything, Viktor speaks up again.
“Hiroko-”
“Vicchan, what did I tell you?” Hiroko asks with a fond smile.
Viktor flushes slightly. “Okaa-san,” he says, pausing to take in the novelty. He loves living here in Hasetsu with Yuuri and his family. He loves calling Yuuri’s mother his own. “Do you have any medicine for Yuuri?”
Hiroko shakes her head. “Oh no, he already had some this morning.”
Viktor frowns. “But won’t it have worn off by now?”
“No, dear, it lasts all day.”
“Wow!” Viktor says. “I didn’t know there was cold medicine like that.”
Hiroko’s confusion is written all over her face.
“Yuuri doesn’t have a cold, Vicchan,” she says slowly and Viktor is starting to feel incredibly stupid. Clearly he’s missing something here but he can’t figure out what it is.
He narrows his eyes in thought and bites his lip. “But, I thought…” he starts, remembering Yuuri’s flushed pink nose and awful cough.
“I don’t know the word in English,” Hiroko admits but she gestures to Viktor’s head. “The flowers. They make him sick.”
Viktor’s heart stops in his chest. Shit.
Hiroko puts a hand on his arm. “He didn’t tell you?” She frowns and Viktor shakes his head. She sighs. “He’s always been embarrassed about it but I thought he would have been sensible at least.”
Viktor feels awful. The guilt settles in the pit of his stomach like he’s just swallowed a boulder. The cherry blossom festival had been Viktor’s idea. He thinks back to when he’d first proposed it and Yuuri’s hesitance which he’d put down to Yuuri having been so many times that it wasn’t exciting anymore. But Viktor had persisted and waxed lyrical about how romantic it would be and how he wanted to see how Yuuri’s skin shone amid the petals. He’d been such an idiot and now his poor Yuuri was suffering and it was all his fault.
“Vicchan, it’s alright,” Hiroko says, obviously seeing his distress. She takes both his hands and squeezes gently.
Viktor swallows. “It’s my fault. I should have-”
“No, it isn’t,” Hiroko interrupts with a shake of her head. “Yuuri is a grown boy now. He has to take care of himself.”
Her words don’t make Viktor feel any better but he nods and forces a small smile anyway before untangling himself from her hands and excusing himself to check on Yuuri. The shower is still running when he gets there but he can hear Yuuri’s echoing sneezes over the jet.
Feeling guilty still, Viktor hangs his head and the lower crown comes tumbling off but he catches it before it hits the floor. He quickly goes to put it in his room and gets changed while he’s there. He knows well enough that pollen on his clothes will probably set Yuuri off just like cat hair on Yurio’s clothes does him.
He looks at Makkachin fast asleep on Yuuri’s pillow and smiles. She still has a cone around her neck from her last visit to the vet which was why Viktor had left her at the inn. (She’s also still a little grumpy with him for letting the vet put the cone on in the first place but she’s mostly over it now.).
When the shower shuts off, Viktor sits to attention. He hears Yuuri stepping out and the fwumpf of the towel being pulled off the rack. Another unrestrained sneeze-
hiYISHHEW!
-and a harsh nose blow which only worsens Viktor’s guilt. Yuuri sounds terribly stuffed up and miserable. Viktor wishes he’d known and they could have done something else romantic like go for a walk on the beach or on a coffee date or have Yuuri lead him through Hasetsu’s quaint little lanes and teach him how to read the street signs.
The bathroom door clicks and Viktor bites his lip. Yuuri looks much worse than he did just fifteen minutes ago. The way he’s fiercely rubbing at his eyes explains why. He must finally be giving into the itch and his eyes are growing puffy and angry.
(Though Viktor can’t help but take a brief - BRIEF! - moment to enjoy the sight of Yuuri’s uncovered abs.)
“Hey, no,” Viktor says softly, startling Yuuri as he crosses the room and pulls Yuuri’s hands away from his eyes.
“V-Viktor!” Yuuri squeaks as Viktor presses a soft kiss to each of Yuuri’s closed eyes. “How long have you been there?”
Viktor frowns. “Long enough. You sound miserable, darling.”
Yuuri sniffles and swipes at his red nose. Even in the throws of allergies, he looks beautiful. Post-shower Yuuri is one of Viktor’s favourite Yuuris (though he loves them all equally, of course). His hair is somewhere between his Eros look and his normal look with wet strands falling into his eyes from where they’ve been pushed back.
“It’s not too bad now,” Yuuri says.
Viktor pouts. “I’m sorry I made you go!” He wails, plopping back down onto Yuuri’s bed with his face in his hands. “I didn’t even notice you were feeling so awful. I’m a terrible fiancé.”
Yuuri doesn’t say anything for a moment and Viktor’s mind immediately wants to take his silence as confirmation that he is, indeed, a terrible fiancé and Yuuri thinks so too and he’s probably going to break up with him and he’ll be alone again and-
Yuuri sits next to him and kisses him on the cheek.
“You’re not terrible, Viten’ka,” he says gently, using the diminutive he tends to save for when Viktor is particularly upset or depressed. It makes a little flame settle comfortably in Viktor’s heart. “I should have told you.”
“Why didn’t you?” Viktor asks before he can stop himself.
Yuuri blushes and looks down at his knees. “I...I was embarrassed,” he admits. “It feels wrong to say stuff like that.”
Viktor nods. He thinks he understands.
“Is this because of the-” he trails off and gestures vaguely at Yuuri whose flush deepens as he nods.
In a clear attempt to change the subject, Yuuri asks, “Where’s your crown?”
“In my room. I- I thought you wouldn’t want to be near it but I didn’t want to throw it away because-” he stops.
“Because?” Yuuri prompts patiently.
He’s so beautiful, Viktor thinks.
“Because you made it,” he says at last and, instead of blushing, Yuuri smiles.
“I wish more people knew how sweet you are,” he says absently, running a slightly damp hand through Viktor’s hair, eliciting a soft involuntary noise of pleasure. “But then again, maybe I’d rather have you all to myself.”
It’s a sweet moment, a romantic moment; it’s exactly the kind of moment that Viktor had planned for the day before everything went wrong. But it doesn’t last because Yuuri’s nose has other ideas and he whips his hand out of Viktor’s hair as he pitches forwards, fingers curled around his nose.
hiiSHHEW! ihKISHHEW!
“будь,” Viktor says, glancing around for the tissue box and finding he can just about reach it without getting up of he stretches far enough…
(He ends up on the floor.)
Yuuri cleans himself up and smiles down at Viktor fondly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’ve said that before,” Viktor muses, settling himself on the floor with his legs folded beneath him. “But I think you like me this way.”
Yuuri’s smile only widens until he’s grinning, eyes twinkling in that beautiful way that makes Viktor weak at the knees. “Of course I do. I only ever wanted you to be yourself.”
And for that small kindness, Viktor is forever grateful.
yuuri's learned to tell the difference between come-home-and-make-me-forget-my-own-name sick calls and actually-sick calls from viktor. the first usually starts out with sniffles and induced sneezes and viktor murmuring softly into the phone about how he doesn't feel well; the latter is always the same. "yuuri? 'm sorry, 'm really sorry, can you come home please?" viktor is always exhausted and congested and worn, coughs interrupting his words. at practice, he answers the phone to the second.
companion to this
My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard…
“Damn it, Vitya,” Yuuri mutters as he stumbles quite ungracefully off the ice and jams his phone to his ear. “You changed my ringtone again,” he accuses while he fumbles with his skate guards.
“Katsuki!” Yakov yells and Yuuri pulls the phone away from his ear, turning to see Yakov’s apparently permanently angry glare. “This isn’t the time for a social call. Get back on that ice and don’t even think about leaving again until you’ve improved your abysmal free leg on that triple salchow!”
Yuuri swallows. “Sorry, Coach Yakov,” he says, bowing apologetically and quickly returning his phone to his ear. “Vitya, I’m sorry. I can’t talk right now. Yakov’s-”
“Yuuri?”
Viktor’s soft voice silences Yuuri’s excuses. There’s silence during which Yuuri can hear Viktor breathing and he almost holds his breath.
“M’sorry, Yuuri,” Viktor says and Yuuri’s breath catches. Viktor’s voice is pained and soft. He sounds upset and Yuuri understands. It’s always the same. “M’really sorry. I didn’t mean to. C-can you come home? Please?”
The plea is so painfully earnest that Yuuri’s heart clenches. Oh Vitya, he thinks, how long have you been hiding this.
They’ve barely seen each other over the past week. Their training schedules just haven’t been compatible and Yuuri is often already asleep by the time Viktor gets home. He’s also the first to leave in the morning. Sometimes, Viktor is awake enough to give him a sleepy kiss goodbye but, more often than not, Yuuri slips out of bed expertly without waking him and leaves him to his extra few hours of sleep.
Just like this morning when he hadn’t even noticed that Viktor was clearly feeling miserable. After all, he wouldn’t call if he wasn’t feeling dreadful, not like this. Not with this soft, pleading voice and regretful apologies. No. Yuuri knows that voice and he knows that Viktor has reached the end of his tether.
He needs Yuuri, has probably needed him for days now. But it’s finally bad enough for him to ask.
“I’ll be right home, love,” Yuuri murmurs softly, heart clenching even tighter at the sound of Viktor’s far away coughs. Yuuri can picture him holding the phone at arms length, muffling his coughs into his pillow to stop Yuuri from worrying. Yuuri’s grip on his phone makes his knuckles white. “I’m coming now, okay? Just let me talk to Yakov.”
Yakov, who has been tapping his foot impatiently, seems to almost soften at hearing his name in Yuuri’s gentle tone.
“M’sorry,” Viktor starts again but Yuuri shushes him.
“Nothing to apologise for,” he says and understanding seems to dawn on Yakov’s face. “I’ll be home in two shakes of Makka’s tail, okay?”
That seems to satisfy Viktor and he hangs up with a sniffle and another quiet apology. Yuuri hopes he hasn’t been crying. The last time this happened Yuuri came home to his poor darling delirious from fever, distraught sobs making Makkachin paw worriedly at her master’s legs.
Yuuri doesn’t even get a word out before Yakov holds up a hand.
“Tell him that if he hides this from me again I’m going to have the Russian Federation strip him of his titles,” he grumbles but Yuuri knows he’s just concerned.
He nods and bows quickly before hurrying to the locker room, Yakov’s angry Russian yelling chasing him down the hall.
So, this is my giveaway fic for @kotyonoksnz! Yuuri and Viktor go to the cherry blossom festival and Yuuri has a Fun Time. I hope you like it, kit!!!
-
In theory, Yuuri thinks, the cherry blossom festival sounds like fun. The blossoms themselves are beautiful and he knows there are usually magic shows and music, two things he likes. In theory, he loves imagining Viktor’s shining eyes and soft smile, cherry blossom petals raining down on him. Pink suits him. Yuuri knows this.
But in practice Yuuri knows that he won’t survive the afternoon. So why is he trying to pretend? Well...
“Oh, Yuuri, look!”
(Viktor’s delight is like hypnosis.)
Viktor bends down and scoops up a twig with three full blossoms clinging to it. They bob merrily as he straightens and Yuuri is positive he can see the pollen bursting from them. He wrinkles his nose. They’ve been here for barely ten minutes and, despite being dosed up on antihistamines, he can feel the itch starting to settle in his throat and sinuses.
Quick as a flash, Viktor tucks the blossoms behind Yuuri’s ear and snaps a picture. While he grins down at his phone, Yuuri quickly removes the flowers and swipes under his nose with his wrist. He’s trying not to sniffle because he doesn’t want Viktor to hear him, nor does he particularly enjoy the idea of inhaling more deeply than necessary right now, but his nose is running and he can’t resist some gentle snuffling to keep the drip at bay.
“Beautiful as always,” Viktor laughs, showing Yuuri the picture he’s about to post to instagram. Yuuri is pleased to note that his face looks fairly normal so far.
Yuuri wishes he had the guts to just tell Viktor but he can’t because that would be...lewd. It’d be like dirty talk in public and Yuuri would rather die. So he’s suffering; a metaphor for his life, really. Viktor looks so happy, Yuuri thinks. And, just as expected, he does look absolutely stunning against the backdrop of the blossom trees. He can’t resist taking a few pictures of his own while Viktor is distracted, playing delicately with an overhanging branch.
(Honestly, the number of beautiful candid pictures Yuuri has taken of Viktor since he’s known him is painfully unfair. The man doesn’t have a bad angle.)
When Viktor’s eyes light up suddenly, Yuuri just knows this isn’t going to end well for him.
“Yuuri! I have a great idea!” Viktor grins, grabbing both of Yuuri’s hands and pulling him round in a gleeful little circle. “We should make flower crowns!”
Yuuri forces a laugh. “I don’t know how to make flower crowns, Vitya.”
Viktor, unfortunately, doesn’t seem deterred. “It’s okay, I can teach you!”
Yuuri hesitates. “Viktor…”
But he doesn’t say it because Viktor’s eyes are shining and Yuuri can just imagine how beautiful he’ll look with a flower crown on his head. Not that he hasn’t seen it before - Viktor has worn a flower crown at many competition ceremonies - but this one would be made by Yuuri. He looks at Viktor’s hands, which are clasped excitedly under his chin, and sees his ring shining. And that’s his undoing.
“That sounds great.”
~
He so itchy. God, he’s so fucking itchy and he wants to die.
Flower crowns were a terrible idea. His head is so itchy and his nose is turning pink and he’s long since stopped being able to breathe through it. Viktor has thankfully gone to get them something to drink so Yuuri takes the opportunity to blow his nose, thoroughly soaking two tissues and still feeling no better by the end.
Wearing the flower crown is awful, yes, but making the flower crown had been a dreadful experience. He couldn’t clean his hands between touching his face and the flowers and now he feels like his entire face has swollen to the size of a beach ball. It can’t have done, because Viktor hasn’t said anything, but it feels that way and it sucks.
Yuuri whispers a soft curse under his breath when he feels the itch spike and he barely has a chance to push his finger under his nose in the hopes of quelling it before he sneezes roughly towards the ground.
hhhgISHuh!
He fumbles in his pocket for a fresh tissue, barely managing to catch the next few sneezes with it, hands cupped around his face.
innGYshh! hhIHHKchuuh!
He lets himself groan pitifully into his tissue which has deteriorated completely in the middle. He crumples it up and cleans up his face, pulling out his phone and opening up the camera to make sure he doesn’t look too obvious. He should probably find a bathroom soon and give his face a wash but he’s trying to limit his bathroom visits so Viktor doesn’t get suspicious.
Viktor arrives with two bottles of Coca-Cola (full fat, it’s the off season!) and immediately pulls Yuuri in for a deep kiss. And Yuuri would have melted into it had he not desperately needed to breathe. So he pulls back and Viktor looks puzzled but thankfully doesn’t ask.
Yuuri rubs discreetly at the side of his nose while he sips his drink. He presses the bottle against his forehead and sighs at the slight relief.
Viktor smiles. “It’s hot, da?”
He drags them into the shade of a large tree and settles down with his back against the trunk before immediately shifting with a frown. He wriggles around on the ground for a bit while Yuuri watches in amusement despite his tickling chest.
“They make it look so easy in the movies,” Viktor grumbles, making Yuuri bark a laugh.
“Maybe we should go find a bench?” He suggests, clearing his throat when his voice breaks.
Viktor looks up and he looks like a goddess sitting under the tree with that flower crown, petals tumbling down and blanketing the ground around him. But there’s a little crease between his eyebrows and half-finished bottle of Cola next to him that ruins the aesthetic a little bit.
“Yuuri?” He says, tilting his head to the side. “Are you alright?”
For the second time that day, Yuuri hesitates. He smiles.
“I’m fine, Vitya,” he says, whipping out his phone before Viktor can argue and reaching out a hand. “Now, give me your drink and smile for me. You look adorable.”
The high flush on Viktor’s cheeks when he flashes that heart-shaped grin is definitely worth it.
