And he knew that Victor’s answer would have been like that, since the moment he himself mentioned katsudon and winning. A painful smile and a nervous chuckle escape his mouth, while his left hand raises up to scratch the back of his head and straighten the glasses on his nose.
His eyes move, away from Victor’s, away from that handsome and yet so cruel face. Victor can smile so kindly and in such a sweet manner even when he’s actually telling you that the silver you won is garbage and if you want to eat ever again, must train and train, and TRAIN, until your sweat becomes blood and your movements are perfect. Like Victor himself.
And yet, this is one of Victor’s quirks that made Yuuri fall in love with him so hard, it actually still hurts.
“Ok, ok, ok! You win…the argument. But…I’m still hungry, though”
This is the meek answer with which Yuuri signs his own defeat, before admitting what’s bugging him. But not what his brain – and his body too – would really want from Victor. Like, want so bad. Since the moment he heard those first words. He’s not deaf, he’s not stupid, and above all, he’s not frigid – and foolishly pretending to be so is causing him more harm than good.
So why does he keep ignoring Victor’s….ways of enticing him, even if they’re working so damn well on him?
It’s simple: Yuuri Katsuki, 24 years old, is still a virgin. He can win all the gold medals in the world, but this fact will still remain the same. Unless someone helps him otherwise.
“So…is there a possibility to eat something to celebrate? Like, celebrating my silver, your comeback to the world of professional skating, or my moving here to St. Petersburg…I mean, a way to celebrate us”
He shrugs as if he’s just said something like what’s the weather like or that he prefers walking to running as a warm up before training. He knows very well that what he’s just said is important, very important; that he’s wanted to celebrate the two of them finally able to be together – to compete against one another and still be able to enjoy things like waking up every morning near each other from that day onward – since the day before, when he had just arrived to Victor’s very own house.
A house that would be his too, now. Like the man in front of him.
‘Victor is mine…and I still can’t believe it. How foolish am I to pretend to own such a man?’ is his recurrent thought, something that kept him awake for many nights since the GPF in Barcelona, weeks before that very morning. A quick smile crosses his lips, and then it instantly curves towards one side that Yuuri begins to scratch nervously.
“You know, Victor…I would really like to taste something Russian, something only you can make. Something that tastes of…I don’t know, like…Victor?”
And what if now Yuuri Katsuki’s true Eros is not katsudon anymore, but rather Victor Nikiforov himself?
Yuuri holds more charms than one would ever give him account for, regalia he dispenses every day bit by bit, of which he may be oblivious but that inevitably lure people to him — even hard nuts to crack like Yurio — qualities that are neither refined jewels nor extravagant bauble.
It’s probably his capability to stand up at the very last second, despite him being full of insecurities and flaws, a second that both on ice and off the rink inexplicably makes Viktor’s core tremble with pride. That makes him think that’s my boy, that makes him conscious there’s somebody else other than him. Somebody else he wishes to see shine as much and if not more than himself. That reminded him how enthralling and ecstatic can be thriving the surface of adversity and climb the top or fail.
That surpassed him and made him envious and jealous and impatient to return where he belongs beside who he belongs. So stunning, impressively astonishing in his simplicity... that...
Hands finally free Yuuri’s, feeling them slip as though these very limbs desired liberty from a pair of manacles they just dropped in the ocean. His own slowly set down on a lap still concealed by layers of linen, gradually and almost carefully. He must've shifted from the initial position and settled sitting an awkward seiza at some point, that very rigid position he learned back in Hasetsu for the sake of acquiring absolutely everything about Japan.
The mattress finally forswears and chirrs beneath his weight once, before submitting to silence. A silence that lingers in the room too long... in the air still pregnant of words he'd never expected coming.
He's taken aback again and all he can do is stare, muted and motionless, regarding and seeking a pair of stygian irises that won't meet dazed beryl.
There’s a faint ground noise, a whisper of fabric trailing upon a paved surface and springs creaking that magnifies by the second.
His palms fall on warm, pleasantly warm epidermis which contrasts with the coolness of St. Petersburg night whereof idleness isn’t completely dissipated from amidst walls yet.
He doesn’t need permission to forcibly turn the partner’s visage so he can properly face him.
“Ahhhh, Yuuri’s mouth can breathe merciless words so dishonestly that I’m always undecided whether should I bite or kiss it.”
But alas, as if nectar, in either case, he can’t help but being drawn to the source. The thumb draws a straight line on the upper lip, languidly tracing of it the contour.
One knee slides between Yuuri’s legs, so as to prevent and hinder any escape attempt while the free hand lands on his chest, unhurriedly apposing pressure on it in order to goad the latter backwards.
Nearer and nearer, is timbre lowers to hushed undertones, intimate as much as vocal folds can allow. A perilous caress that doesn’t admit any more refusals.
“Your request may be troublesome, for there’s nothing in this whole nation that tastes of me... that’s not me.”
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