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Chapter Text

The crowd was screaming.  Deafening, like always, and he put on his best fake smile and waved to them as he headed out towards the center of the ice.  The raucous sound of cheering no longer filled him with giddy anticipation as it once had.  It was just one more noise to tune out.  The rasp of his skates on the surface of the rink, the drone of the announcers over the speakers.

Countless fans shouting his name, voices blurring together into one, all of it reduced to a buzz in the back of his mind.

Just before he stepped onto the ice the announcers had been talking about the current standings.  How far ahead Viktor was in the short program, the potential score of his free skate, what great condition he was in physically and mentally.  That he was expected by most to take the gold for the fifth year in a row, his closest competitor leagues behind him.  Most of their conversation, even as he was about to perform, was about who would take second, who would take third, what would happen at nationals, or at Worlds, would any of the competitors retire after this season?

His music hadn’t begun playing yet, he hadn’t even reached his opening position, but in the minds of most of those watching Viktor had already won.

And absolutely no one was surprised.  Not even Viktor himself.

That moment on the ice was the culmination of all his training this season, all the careful choreography and hours of practice and again, Vitya, again, once more but this time with feeling…

It was hard to put emotion into his routine when he no longer felt much of anything.  The joy he’d once drawn from performing was long gone, leaving behind something worse than emptiness.  A negative space, less than nothing.  A hole inside of him with its own gravity, draining Viktor down until he thought he might collapse on himself.

The closest he’d come to feeling something other than exhausted, as far as skating was concerned, hadn’t come from himself.

Katsuki Yuuri’s body made music on the ice.  Music that had nothing to do with the notes and chords playing in the background of his routine.  

It wasn’t as though Viktor hadn’t heard of him before, he was one of Japan’s top skaters, but he’d never paid much of attention.  Hadn’t seen him skate in person, hadn’t watched a full routine online.  Viktor didn’t often get caught up in what his competitors were doing other than watching them at competitions.  Why would he when his biggest opponent was himself, the biggest obstacle he needed to overcome his own previous routines and records and performances.  His mind had filed Yuuri away as ‘that Japanese boy with the impressive footwork whose jumps need attention’.  

It both was and was not an accurate assessment.  His step sequences were still excellent, even if Viktor couldn’t help but cringe as he watched him step out of jumps, fall to the ice, fuck up his landings one after another.

He watched, moment by moment, as Katsuki Yuuri’s nerves ate him alive.

In spite of all that, there was a captivating desperation in his every movement.  A grace that lived in his fingertips, a fluidity that rolled through his limbs.  Yuuri was crashing and burning, and still Viktor wanted to see more.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so enraptured by a performance, especially one so fundamentally flawed.  The song playing over the speakers faded away bit by bit, until Viktor was listening to something that no one else could hear.  A sound he chased in every one of his skates, in every flip and spin and step, music that came from within to color him bright with emotion.

A song he'd forgotten the words to without realizing, and Yuuri was singing it out there on the ice.  Off key, and out of rhythm, but no less haunting.  No less beautiful.

Viktor wanted to listen to it whispered in his ear, lilted against his throat, soft and quiet and just for him.  Something warm pooled in his stomach, tugging at him in ways that reminded him, bizarrely, of presenting all those years ago.

Suddenly he was fifteen again, sprawled in rumpled blankets with skin that was too hot and muscles that ached, tangled hair sweat-damp against his face and painted fingernails biting into his sheets as he fought desperately against the urge to touch himself.  An omega’s presentation cycle wasn’t a true heat, but a pale imitation of those that came later on.  It was their body preparing itself, readying for the physical demands of a real cycle.  An actual heat was much more intense.  Longer lasting, more visceral.

More miserable, if the omega in question was alone.

Not that Viktor would know from experience.  Heats were brought on by attraction, stoked to life when an omega came across someone they wanted to mate with, to bond with.  How easily they came about depended on the omega, some of them struggling through monthly heats every time they got a crush on a neighbor, a coworker, a new friend.  Others only began enduring regular cycles when a relationship they were in got serious, months of dating finally drawing their dynamic to life.  It was viewed as a sign that a couple’s bond went deep, that things were real between them, more than just a passing interest.  

Viktor had run through his fair share of crushes.  Been in relationships that lasted nearly a year, fancied himself in love more than once.

Viktor had never, ever gone into heat.  His doctor had ruled out any medical issues, which in the long run made things worse.  

Because that meant whatever was wrong with him, whatever kept him from letting himself go, whatever held him back from intimacy... was all in his head.

So in the absence of any frame of reference, it wasn’t until later that Viktor put together what those first faint twinges of warmth were as he watched Yuuri glide over the ice.  Phantom heat, there and then gone again before Viktor really noticed.  He just kept watching Yuuri skate, mouth open, eyes wide.

It took the barrier biting into his stomach for Viktor to realize he was leaning forward over the partition, hair falling down in his face, fingers clinging like he was ready to vault onto the rink.

When Yuuri left the ice, shoulders slumped and eyes downcast, every muscle in his body dripping with defeat, it required all of Viktor’s self control not to chase after him.  Even then, he wasn’t sure why.

Now Viktor stood in the middle of the ice with the lights glaring overhead, and that breath of a moment before his music started stretched on for what felt like hours.  He looked into himself, searching for all those feelings he needed to put into his skating.  Viktor reached for the longing his piece was supposed to convey, the acceptance of desire, and wondered where all those things lived in his chest and how he was meant to draw them out.  He came up empty, as he always did, because that’s all he was anymore.

Empty, empty, empty.  Made of gold and ice and lights.

Cold and shining and untouchable.

Then he closed his eyes, and thought of Katsuki Yuuri.  His hands unfurling as he turned, fingers pointing, the metal of his blades biting into the rink.  The muscles of his thighs, flexing and shifting, dark strands of hair feathering down over furrowed brows.  He thought of Yuuri, and the music he made without trying, without awareness, without effort.

Viktor thought of Yuuri.  Let out the breath he was holding.

Heard distant notes, faint and intangible, from somewhere deep inside himself.

He thought of Yuuri, and heard music, and began.

……………

He knew Yuuri wasn’t after a photo with him.  It had been a long time since Viktor felt anything like the loss Yuuri had suffered, but the echoes of it were written in his eyes.  The agony of defeat, tucked carefully away where it couldn’t be stepped on, where it couldn’t be stared at and picked over and aggravated.  Yuuri hurt , and it wasn’t Viktor’s pain to soothe away, but he wanted to all the same.  

Viktor knew Yuuri didn’t want a photo, but he couldn’t think of any other reason to get close.  Close enough to touch, close enough to comfort.

Close enough to scent, a voice whispered internally, an image of his face pressed into Yuuri’s throat surfacing in his mind unbidden.  Viktor frowned and tried to shake the idea away without analyzing it too deeply.  As an omega who hadn’t gone through a heat, everyone’s scents were muted and uninteresting.  He could tell what their dynamic was if he got near them, and if they were close to a heat or a rut, but that was about it.  Viktor had certainly never wanted to scent anyone, let alone a person he hadn’t spoken with before and only knew by reputation.

Even when he let someone take him to bed, Viktor wasn’t eager to get a noseful of pheromones, though it was impossible to avoid entirely.  Legs spread, cock bouncing on his stomach, hands clawing at some alpha or beta’s skin…  Face turned away, breath held until he was dizzy with it, because inhaling their scent was too much.  Too personal.

Too intimate.  He made sure to tell his partners beforehand, no marking, no biting, no bonding.   Why not, they would ask, and Viktor never really had a good answer for them, or at least not one other than, me, it’s me.

I’m broken.

Right then he could think of nothing else but what Yuuri smelled like, how strong the scent would be, was he an alpha, a beta, another omega?

What would his teeth feel like in my throat?  What would he taste like under my tongue?

Viktor’s (wildly inappropriate) thoughts were abruptly cut off when Yuuri turned and fled, his coach chasing dutifully after him, noisy and blustering.

It had been a long time since Viktor suffered a loss, but in his memory it was much the same as what he felt when Yuuri walked away.  As though something had been stolen from him.  For the second time that day he was nearly overtaken by the desire to chase after Katsuki Yuuri and pull him in close.  

Put his arms around him, tell him everything would be okay.

Don’t be upset, don’t give up.

Your body sings to me, Yuuri.

Coming from Viktor, the ghostly weight of all his medals heavy enough to drown them both, it would be worth less than nothing.  Salt on a fresh wound, insult piled atop injury.  It would feel like pity, cheap and meaningless, and Yuuri would carry it with him wherever he went and pull it out when he wanted to make himself suffer.

So Yuuri left, and Viktor let him, and wondered if he was letting something precious escape.  The doors closed behind him, and that negative space inside of Viktor ached with want.

Empty.

Viktor was so fucking empty .

…………….

Katsuki Yuuri.

Katsuki Yuuri was breathtaking .

Viktor had been working up the nerve to go talk to him, which was bullshit , because he was Viktor fucking Nikiforov.  Five time gold medalist for the Grand Prix alone, not to mention the medals he held from other competitions, more than he’d bothered counting in quite a while.  They were at an ISU event, Viktor shouldn’t have to work up the nerve to do anything.

Yet there he was, cheeks threatening to flush and lip worried between his teeth as he stole glances at a half drunk Japanese boy.  

Except there was nothing half drunk about Yuuri, Viktor realized later.

Now Yuuri was fucking breakdancing , twisting and spinning on the floor like he’d been doing it since the day he was born.  Lithe, and limber, the motions came effortlessly as he moved to  music blaring from someone’s bluetooth speaker.  All the posh, formal attendees were probably horrified at the display, a Grand Prix competitor drunk and writhing artfully across the ground.

Probably, but Viktor couldn’t be sure, because he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Because Yuuri’s shirt kept riding up high on his stomach, revealing the toned abs hidden away underneath.  His pants would draw tight around his thighs as he spun, or executed complex footwork more at home on a dance floor in America than in a fancy Russian banquet hall.  He started to sweat from the exertion, a sheen forming on his face, drops slipping down his collarbones, and Viktor couldn’t help but wonder how close he’d have to get to catch Yuuri’s scent.

Even shit faced drunk, Yuuri Katsuki wiped the goddamned floor with Yurotchka.  Yuri knew it, too, and conceded his defeat without comment before skulking away.

Viktor didn’t even question the fact that Cristophe had a stripper pole amongst his possessions.  

At a hotel in Russia.  During a skating competition.

‘I saw it at a shop and bought it, I swear.  I didn’t FLY to Sochi with a stripper pole in my suitcase!’

Viktor wasn’t convinced, but he also wasn’t complaining.  Cristophe lost his clothes more often than he kept them on, it wasn’t anything new for Viktor, or anyone else there who knew the man.  Seeing him parade around mostly naked was a small price to pay when Yuuri mounted the pole like he owned it.  

He twirled around it, progressively less clothed as things went on, and Viktor realized the world wasn’t fair.  

No one should look so appetizing in an ugly tie, some plain briefs and a pair of black socks.

Viktor watched shamelessly, and hoped anyone watching him would blame the pink in his cheeks on the alcohol.  But really, every ounce of color in his face, every bit of heat in gut, every little tremble in his fingers…  The way his heart was fluttering, the stupid smile on his lips that he tried to hide behind a champagne flute, his scent rising up in the air until he could smell himself, fuck, how old am I, this is ridiculous…

All that was entirely Yuuri’s fault.

He caught Viktor’s gaze halfway through pulling his clothes back on and smiled wide.  Yuuri stumbled over to him, tie wrapped around his head and pants nowhere to be found, and started rambling.  In Japanese at first, but then he saw Viktor’s furrowed brows and realized his mistake.  He started over in English, too loud and heavily accented but still understandable.

“I love you, Viktor, I-”  Yuuri hiccuped, giggled, and continued.  “I-I’ve been watching you skate since I was little, I’m your biggest fan, I… I love you.”  

He punctuated his words by throwing his arms around Viktor, and the whole world went quiet as Viktor sank into the embrace.  He let his hands fist in Yuuri’s rumpled shirt, and fuck, but he wanted to slip them underneath it.  Wanted to let them slide up Yuuri’s spine, sweat slick and smooth and perfect.  Wanted to nose into his throat, to taste that scent he’d been longing for all day, the scent that was now rolling over him in vicious wave.

Katsuki Yuuri was an omega.  He was unmated, unbonded, unmarked.  No scent but his own, the barest traces of Cristophe on him, but nowhere near enough to be jarring.  Nothing on his glands, no pheromones other than Yuuri’s.  Pure, unspoiled.  The most delicious thing Viktor ever remembered breathing in.    

He could be ours, some feral, ancient part of Viktor growled.  A part he hadn’t known existed, hadn’t thought omegas even possessed, but it roared inside all of a sudden as Yuuri lavished praises on him.   ‘Your skating is amazing, your routines are flawless, you inspire me, you’re so perfect…’   Viktor couldn’t even process everything he was saying, not with his whole body going haywire.  As Yuuri murmured out soft words into his chest, another part of Viktor that had always been quiet spoke up.  Softer, but more insistent.

Needier.

We could be his, it whined, and hurt Viktor’s throat even in silence.  There were ropes within Viktor that had been tied up all his life, unraveling in his heart and lungs and all of him was unhinged.  His head tilted to the side of its own volition, further and further, until his glands were exposed.  Viktor didn’t even care that he was presenting for a drunk Japanese omega where anyone and everyone could see.  He wouldn’t have stopped even if it were possible, which it wasn’t.

Something Viktor didn’t even recognize of himself had taken over, and he was giving his throat and whimpering low and begging Yuuri to notice.  Someone noticed, if the sharp intake of breath behind him was any indication, but Yuuri didn’t pick up on the gesture.  It tasted like rejection, the lack of acknowledgment, but Viktor shoved it down ruthlessly.  Yuuri was trashed on champagne, lost in the sway of booze and defeat, and Viktor couldn’t blame him for not picking up on a gesture of submission in such an unlikely place.   Even a gesture as unsubtle as the show Viktor was putting on for him, but if it came off as desperate he couldn’t seem to ease back.

There was nothing holding him together except Yuuri’s weight against him.  His skin was too tight on his bones.  His mouth watered, and his jaw trembled, and it took everything he had not to shake apart at Yuuri’s feet.  

Then Yuuri started grinding into him, hips rocking forward in a maddening rhythm, and Viktor had to blink through the raw lust that tried to swallow him whole.

Focus , the omega inside Viktor hissed, even as it purred at Yuuri’s attentions.   Focus, he’s talking to us, we have to listen.

“Dance with me, Viktor, I can beat you too!  Viktor… Viktor after this season ends…  My family runs a hot spring resort, so please come.”  He kept saying Viktor’s name, and it was hard not to shudder at the sound of it, hard not to say Yuuri’s name back in a voice too breathy and fucked out for a dance floor.  Then Yuuri’s eyes went wide and watery, his expression hopeful, and he was going to ask Viktor for something.  It was written in his posture, written all over his face.  Viktor didn’t know what Yuuri was going to ask for, but he knew what he’d answer.

Yes, yes.

Anything you want.

“If I win this dance off, you’ll become my coach, right?  Be my coach, Viktor!”

Viktor felt his cheeks flush hot, his eyes grow wet, his mouth fall open.  The implications of such a request were life altering.  Saying yes would throw Viktor’s world into chaos, change every aspect of his life, shift his whole identity around in jarring, unfamiliar ways.

The response was already on his tongue.  ‘ Okay, Yuuri,’ but he didn’t get a chance to speak  before Yuuri shoved away from him to finish dressing.  He snatched Cristophe’s phone, changing the music, and Viktor remembered what he was supposed to be doing.

Dancing with Yuuri.  Dancing against Yuuri.

Viktor Nikiforov’s entire life was about winning, even down to his name .  He didn’t know anything else, was suited for nothing but victory.

In that moment, with Yuuri staring at him from across the dance floor, something alive and wanting behind his eyes, Viktor wanted to lose.  Wanted to be defeated by this boy, champagne on his breath and blood in cheeks and sweat dripping down his back.  

He wanted Yuuri to win, wanted him grinning and flushed with triumph.  Wanted it so bad he could feel it growing in his bones, living in his blood, and Viktor should have been afraid.

Except he wasn’t.

Viktor cocked his head as the song began, watching Yuuri move, and it didn’t take long to figure out where he was going with the dance.

Flamenco.

Christ.

Yuuri made music all his own on the ice.  Put Yurotchka to shame with his breakdancing.  Spun circles expertly around Cristophe on a pole, like he’d been earning his money all these years one bill at a time in a club, instead of on a pair of skates.

He owned Viktor body and soul with his dancing.  They moved together as though they’d been practicing, instinctive and automatic, flowing around each other with perfect precision.  Viktor could hear his laughter, could see his eyes light up in delight, could feel his muscles moving beneath his hands whenever they were close enough to touch.

Could smell the lust in his scent when he looked at Viktor.  Could smell it in his own, rising up in answer.

Yuuri dipped him, and Viktor shattered into pieces where no one could see, down in a place that he’d never acknowledged, never explored, never given voice.

When Celestino dragged Yuuri back to their hotel room for the night, the omega inside Viktor fucking wept.

But he’d written his number on Yuuri’s hand, with an oversized heart and a little ‘V’.  Yuuri would call.  He’d won the dance off after all.

…………………………………..

The sheets had come off his bed ages ago, pulled loose by his constant tossing and turning.  They were underneath him in a heap, tangled up in his legs, filthy with sweat and scent.

And slick.

It dripped out over his knuckles, messy and shining on the inside of his shaking thighs as Viktor fucked himself on his fingers.  He pressed his face into the mattress, mewling against the fabric, his free hand working his cock ruthlessly.  His voice was all but gone from moaning, but he still managed to do so as he came.

“Yuuri, fuck, fuck…”

Viktor’s arousal jerked in his palm as he stroked himself through the shivers, gasping out rough breaths.  Tears streaked down his face, and Viktor kept going.  Kept fucking himself open, kept touching himself raw, still hard and wanting and painfully empty, but not like he was used to.

He’d barely gotten back to St. Petersburg when his heat hit him.  Hard, and vicious, and all he could think of was Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri…

The older an omega was when they went through their first real heat, the worse it was, but that was okay.  All this misery, the agony of being alone and empty and aching, it would be worth it.  Yuuri would call, and Viktor would fly to Japan.  They would skate together, and see each other at Worlds, and he’d make Yuuri fall in love before the next season started.   He’d coach his mate , and Yuuri would win the Grand Prix, and Viktor wouldn’t be alone anymore.

Wouldn’t be cold, and shining, and untouchable.

Viktor whimpered out Yuuri’s name until his voice gave out.  Whispered it soft into his pillow later, when the heat finally eased off enough for him to fall asleep.

……………………………….

Yuuri didn’t call.

And Viktor was still so fucking empty.

Chapter Text

Viktor Nikiforov.

Viktor Nikiforov was breathtaking.

Yuuri had known for most of his life, ever since he’d seen him on television skating in junior championships, but watching him in person was different.  

Viktor was alive, was vital.  Graceful.  Like liquid flowing over the ice, smooth and unfettered by gravity.  Elegant in ways that didn’t come through with any clarity on a television or computer screen, it seemed cliche to call it life altering, but Yuuri felt different for having seen Viktor there.  He’d idolized him for years, gotten into competitive skating because of him, but even so he hadn’t anticipated how wholly seeing one of Viktor’s performances in person would affect him.

Yuuri was barely sixteen.  He tried to feign sympathy for Minako when she fell ill and was unable to attend the holiday exhibition Viktor was performing in.  Tried, and failed, but Minako didn’t really hold his excitement against him.  She just gave him her ticket with a mock scowl and told him to behave himself in Tokyo.  As a competitive skater he probably could have gotten into the event without the ticket but it was a charity exhibition, and going without paying felt sort of wrong.

Minako had handed him a little piece of paper, and given Yuuri the world.

He’d always loved skating, always been driven to win, but he never had any particular goal in mind other than the vague need to do well.

When Viktor finished his routine he’d stood frozen on the ice for the barest of moments, and Yuuri was spellbound.  

Viktor smiled wide, eyes glittering under the lights, cheeks flushed from exertion.  His long hair tangled around his face, chest heaving as he caught his breath, one arm outstretched towards the crowd.  Those lithe fingers seemed to point right at Yuuri.  Reached into him, making his heart beat wild behind his ribs, everything inside fluttering and unsteady and all at once Yuuri knew precisely what he wanted.

He wanted to skate on the same ice as Viktor.  Wanted to earn his place there, to deserve it.

Yuuri wanted to stand on a podium next to Viktor and belong there.  To meet him where he was without being beneath him, to be his equal.

To be worthy.

It felt earth shattering.  He hadn’t honestly thought he was skilled enough to achieve such a thing before, but right then, he was capable of anything.  Yuuri was changed, a whole new person, his entire being twisting in place until he no longer recognized the ferocity living in his fists.  The vicious need to persevere that lurked in his palms, and his teeth, and his eyes.

Then the moment snapped.  Viktor skated off the ice, and Yuuri was left clutching at his jacket and trying to swallow around the lump in his throat.  

He held tight to the roses in his hands that he’d forgotten to throw on the ice, to the little snow globe he’d carried in his pocket from Hasetsu, and did his best not to run as he headed outside.  Viktor had been the last skater of the evening, and for good reason.

No one in their right mind would want to follow that performance.

It was mostly Yuuri’s knowledge of the location as a skater that had him standing in just the right place with a group of fans when Viktor left the building.  Yuuri waited, and waited, and waited, and was about to give up and make his way back to his hotel when he saw a flash of familiar silver weaving through the crowd towards a nearby car.  An older man stood in the open passenger door of the vehicle, glaring half heartedly as Viktor paused to sign autographs and pose for photos.  He grinned the whole time, holding up his fingers in a V for pictures, making silly faces, anything to please the fans who had gathered there.  Most of them were teenage girls or younger women, voices loud in Yuuri’s ears as he shifted from one foot to the other at the edge of the group.  

Viktor was clearly exhausted, a weariness that Yuuri knew from experience settling into his features.  Skating took a lot out of someone, especially an exhibition skate in between competitions, yet Viktor didn’t seem annoyed by the throng of people mobbing him.  His smile was strained but patient, and he addressed his fans one after another without faltering.

When Viktor eventually turned his attention to Yuuri it was an effort not to whimper under the weight of those staggeringly bright eyes.  Yuuri thrust the flowers and snow globe he carried at Viktor, gaze locked on the ground, head tilted ever so slightly to the side.  

“You skated beautifully!”  Yuuri was too loud, his English stilted, and he winced at the sound of his own voice.  Viktor just laughed, almost fond, as he took the flowers and globe and handed them off to his coach to be stacked up with the rest of his offerings in the car.

“Thank you!”  Yuuri could feel Viktor watching him, waiting for him to say more, but his mouth wasn’t cooperating.  He couldn’t make a sound, let alone form words in a language Viktor would understand or lift his head.  “Did you want an autograph?”  Yuuri finally dragged his eyes up to see Viktor waving a marker around expectantly, brows furrowed in question.

“Oh, I- uh, I have…  There’s nothing for you to sign.”  He’d brought gifts for Viktor, but hadn’t actually expected to meet the man, hadn’t brought any pictures or souvenirs to be autographed.  Viktor’s smile never wavered, though, and he pocketed his marker without hesitation.

“O-kay!  A picture?”  He was already stepping in close, ready to pose with Yuuri, but Yuuri’s phone was ancient, barely functional.  It had a camera, but not one suited for taking selfies, and he already wanted to sink into concrete.  There was no way he could ask one of the girls nearby to take his photo, not without combusting from embarrassment.  Yuuri shook his head, shrugging and trying to come up with an excuse.  A reason, a lie, anything to take everyone’s attention off him.

“Ah, my phone battery, it’s dead.”  Viktor looked at him with something like pity and stepped even closer, holding his arms out and smiling brighter.

“A hug, then?”

And Yuuri...

Yuuri should have refused.  Should have said ah, no, it’s fine, and waved Viktor off with a grin.  

Yuuri had worked out his sexuality at about thirteen with thoughts of Viktor, and his skin tight costumes and muscles honed from skating and pretty eyes and white teeth and silky hair and goddamn, Yuuri was gay as fuck.  He’d spent his formative teenage years lying in bed looking up at Viktor’s posters, biting down on his knuckles to keep quiet as he stroked himself under the covers.  He’d had countless filthy dreams about Viktor Nikiforov, doing things to him he couldn’t begin imagine when he was awake without blushing and hiding his face in his hands, even if he was all alone.  

Yuuri’s presentation heat had been composed entirely of him mewling Viktor’s name into messy sheets while he jerked off.  Whimpering, face shoved into his pillows, fingers working furiously within himself with Yuuri praying all the while that his family couldn’t hear him moaning through the walls.

There was no way he could hug this man he’d lusted after for years without showing his hand, without revealing just how desperate he was for the contact, but his body moved on its own without his consent.

He collapsed against Viktor with a whine, face buried in his throat, hands clinging too tight to the front of his coat.  Viktor giggled, patting his head affectionately with one hand, his other rubbing circles on Yuuri’s back.  Either he didn’t notice Yuuri breathing in his scent, or he pretended not to out of politeness, and whichever it was Yuuri was grateful.

It was common knowledge that Viktor was an omega.  Most celebrities’ dynamics were well known, and professional athletes were no different, especially those as attractive as Viktor.  

Knowing he was omega, and breathing him in, were two entirely different things.  

Viktor smelled like sunshine.  Like warmth.

Like gold would smell, if colors had scent.

Yuuri was sure of it.

He needed to pull back from Viktor’s embrace before he made things even more uncomfortable, but it was harder than Yuuri expected to force his body to comply.  It was doing things without his permission again, and Yuuri found himself nuzzling tighter into Viktor’s neck.  He nosed just beneath Viktor’s jaw, right against his glands, until Yuuri was nothing but Viktor’s scent in his lungs.  

God, Viktor.

Yuuri’s muscles went loose, and he swallowed down the sounds that tried to push out of his mouth.  They were keening and high pitched and needful and pathetic, the instinctive calls of an omega begging for a mate, and Yuuri wouldn’t be able to face the crowd around him if he let them escape.  He took another deep breath, letting Viktor’s scent roll into him like the tide, letting it overtake everything until Yuuri was drowning in it.

Then he felt something wet on his face.  Something that could have been sweat, but wasn’t.

It was Viktor’s scent on his nose, on his cheek.  Oil from his glands, barely there yet undeniable, and Yuuri couldn’t help himself.  He brushed his lips against it.  Gently.  So light Viktor probably didn’t notice, certainly not with enough force to be construed as anything more than an accidental touch.  

He did make a noise then, breath shuddering out of him, and finally he stepped back.  Yuuri was overwhelmed.  

His cheeks were flushed.  He could feel the heat in them, the way his eyes were wet, how his hands shook.  Viktor looked amused, and it was somewhere between sweet and patronizing when he reached out to ruffle Yuuri’s hair, fingers sifting briefly through inky black locks before falling away.  He gave everyone a wave, climbing into the car waiting for him and shutting the door as it pulled away.  The crowd dispersed around him, but Yuuri stood there, rooted into the ground, unable to move.  

The wind picked up, biting into his face where it peeked out of his scarf, whipping his clothes around, but Yuuri didn’t feel the cold.  He was hot all over, violently so, both inside and out.  Yuuri was dizzy, and his palms itched, and then his tongue darted out over his bottom lip and he tasted the faint trace of slickness there.  The oil of Viktor’s scent, still lingering on his mouth just as it did in his nose.

Oh.  Fuck.

Fuck.

Yuuri started running.  

Once he reached his hotel a half hour later he slowed down, walking calmly inside and informing the employee at the front desk that he would need to extend his stay by a couple of days.  She checked her computer, processing his request without comment, smiling sympathetically at Yuuri.  She didn’t need to ask to know why he wanted to stay.

It wasn’t hard to pick up on the scent of his heat, rising sharp in the air around them until the whole lobby smelled sweet with the saccharine tones of a desperate omega.

Yuuri hadn’t experienced a true heat before, but it was enough like his presentation a few months prior that the onset was impossible to miss.  A few hours warning was all he got before his body threw him into overdrive and truly brought him to his knees, but even in those first moments, Yuuri wasn’t a fool.

So he spent three days at a hotel in Tokyo, buried in unfamiliar sheets and hissing out Viktor’s name.  Other than the unrelenting need, his cock refusing to lay idle and his quaking thighs wanting to spread wide, wide, wider until his hips ached under the strain, it wasn’t all that different from usual.

Viktor’s name was at home on his tongue.  It’d lived there most of his life, spoken in a thousand different tones, tied up in a million phrases.  Always awestruck, always reverent, always laced with adulation.  Always wanting.  Always asking, even in the absence of a question.

And in answer, as Yuuri gasped through climax after climax with the lights of Tokyo’s nightlife shining muted through the windows, there was only silence.

As always.

……………………………..

Seven years later, at a hotel in Russia, Yuuri woke up with a brutal hangover and that familiar warmth licking at him just under his skin.  It was dulled by drugs, the synthetic hormones of his suppressants keeping his heat at bay temporarily, but Yuuri could still feel it.  He’d expected it, in fact, had downed extra pills the past few days because Yuuri knew his body.  Expertly.  Knew his heats, all their nuances and timelines and symptoms.  He should, at this point.

He’d been having them ever since that night in Tokyo, when Viktor’s scent threw him into his first cycle.  Every month without fail, Viktor’s image flitting through his head, the ghost of his scent and the flash of his eyes making a mess of Yuuri from thousands of miles away.  Once it got a taste, the omega in Yuuri had seized on Viktor, yes, mate, ours, please.   It did not care that Viktor was also an omega, or that he was four years older.  Famous, half a world away, successful and beautiful and so far out of Yuuri’s league he might as well have been living on another planet instead of in a different country.

Yuuri’s instincts didn’t care that Viktor wasn’t even aware he existed.

Month after month, year after year, the omega in Yuuri insisted their mate was missing, and threw him into an aggressively strong heat time and time again to call Viktor close with sound and scent and slick.  

Then threw him into a depression afterwards, instincts not understanding why their mate hadn’t come and mourning his absence for days.  Some omegas went a year or more without a heat, or longer, never needed to suppress, and forgot what it was like from one cycle to the next.

Yuuri didn’t have time to forget, or the luxury of a full suppression.

Suppressants could usually hold off a heat without any symptoms, though omegas couldn’t avoid one for more than a month without the resulting cycle being fairly debilitating.

For Yuuri, suppressants were a band-aid over a bullet wound.  He could function, but his emotions still ran high, his temperature hot, his scent strong.  They also made him feel like shit, so he tried to avoid taking them whenever possible.

Yuuri swallowed a double dose before getting on the plane to Sochi, and another when he got to his hotel, trying to keep the inevitable in check.  He wasn’t due for a heat, not for another two weeks, but that didn’t matter.

Not when he would be watching Viktor skate from rinkside.  Not when he might be passing him on his way to or from the ice, or seeing him do interviews, or greet fans.

Not when he’d be close enough to touch.

The day of the short program a fresh dose of suppressants rushing in his veins still wasn’t enough to quell his body’s response as he watched Viktor move during his warm up.  Celestino’s hand on his shoulder, eyes knowing and sympathetic, was all that kept Yuuri in place.  Without that grounding touch he would’ve been over the partition in an instant, across the rink, fast as his skates would carry him.

At Viktor’s feet.  On his knees, head tilted, an omegan whimper pouring out of his throat.

Celestino held him fast, and Yuuri rocked in place, trying to swallow the soft whine he couldn’t quite keep back.

It had been less than a week since his mother called to tell him Vicchan was dead.  A day since he’d flown in from Detroit, jet lagged and weary and itchy from the suppressants.  A few hours since he’d seen Viktor for the first time, less than that since he’d watched him on the ice.

A few minutes since his heat started fighting his suppressants in earnest, struggling to break free of the sway of the drugs, his instincts trying to draw Viktor in.

He skated onto the ice, hands trembling and eyes shining and body alight with too much emotion.  Yuuri took his position in the center of rink, facing the judges, hands up by his face.  Then, as if drawn by a magnet, his gaze found Viktor’s, locking onto him and refusing the budge.  The music started, but sounded far away, like Yuuri was under water.  Leagues below the surface, long past drowning, down where the light faded into darkness.  Viktor was too far away to hear, but Yuuri whimpered anyway, a wretched sound he could feel vibrating in his throat.

Yuuri blinked through the sting in his eyes, shook the muscles of his hands loose, and on legs that didn’t want to stand anymore, he stumbled into his routine.

He stumbled out of it a few minutes later, off the ice, and shattered like glass.

And Yuuri was never very good at putting himself back together, not without slicing himself open on errant shards.  Misplacing this bit or that, until he wasn’t shaped as he should be, shifting and too small and uglier than before.

He was still not fitting right in his skin when he sat up in bed the day after the banquet, every muscle screaming in agony and his head throbbing with each thudding beat of his heart.  Yuuri remembered Celestino dragging him downstairs to the banquet hall, his first few glasses of champagne, and then, nothing.  

A black hole.  One that felt like metal in his skull, sharp and unrelenting, and he pressed a palm over one eye and swore.  All Yuuri had left over from the after party was a murderous headache, sore muscles, a serious need for an extra dose of heat suppressants…

And a smear of ink on his hand, shapeless and illegible.  

Yuuri showered, and packed his things, and flew home to Detroit.  

……………………………………………

He didn’t call Phichit to pick him up when his plane landed, waving away Celestino’s attempt to share a taxi and choosing to get his own instead.  Being around his coach was draining after a loss, and he was already running on empty, nothing but fumes to keep him going.

Too much coffee, too many pheromones, and the promise of sleep.

In a bed he knew, in a room that felt more like home than anywhere outside of Japan.  

He staggered through the door of his apartment almost drunkenly, throwing his luggage to the ground and dropping to his knees.  Yuuri pawed through his little carry on bag in a panic as anxiety began to rise in him.  One more dose of suppressants wouldn’t kill him, even if he was already miserable from them.  His head ached, and this time not from the hangover.  Yuuri’s mouth was dry, vision starting to blur despite his glasses, the hormones from the pills trying in vain to counteract his own.  

A few more hours of holding his heat at bay before he let it take its course, he could give himself that.

He could already feel the frantic swell of emotions at the edge of his mind.  Failure, disappointment, self-loathing, all fighting for dominance just beneath his carefully constructed facade of calm.  Yuuri had lost, and lost badly, and there was no way to avoid the fallout his nerves were trying to throw at him.  It was shitty enough without his omega adding even more negativity into the mix.

Abandoned, it cried soft in Yuuri’s thoughts, tamped down by drugs and exhaustion.

He abandoned us.

Trying to reason with his instincts was like trying to reason with a child.  There was no way to make them understand that Viktor wasn’t theirs in the first place.  It wasn’t that he’d abandoned Yuuri.

He didn’t even know who Yuuri was.

‘A commemorative photo?  Sure.’

Yuuri’s hands started shaking so hard he dropped the pill bottle, little white tablets scattering across the floor.  He leaned forward, lifting his trembling palms to clutch at his hair, blinking fast.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t-

“Yuuri!”

He hadn’t heard Phichit come in, but he was there suddenly, kneeling next to him.  His hands were pulling at Yuuri’s, trying to tug them away from his face.  Phichit threw a glance at the floor, at all the suppressants, and put his arms around Yuuri. He knew Yuuri well enough that he didn't need to be told everything to understand.

“Yuuri, you shouldn’t take any more of those.  I know you’re hurting right now, but-”

“He didn’t know who I was, Phichit.”  Yuuri leaned into his friend, hiding his face in Phichit’s chest like he could keep him safe from his own feelings.  The tears he’d been blinking back slipped free, first one, then another, until he was choking on sobs.

“What?”

“Viktor, he…. he-”  Yuuri shivered against him, voice coming out rough and broken.  “He saw me after the final.  He asked if I wanted a photo, he-”  He pulled in a shaky breath, wiping uselessly at his eyes from the cocoon of Phichit’s embrace.  “He thought I was a fan.”

The silence was heavy for a moment, and then-

“Oh, Yuuri.  I’m sorry.”

Yuuri cried for a long time, Phichit stroking his hair and hugging him tight.  When he finally stopped Phichit slapped his hand away from the fallen pills and dragged him into the bathroom.

Yuuri showered, and ate the food Phichit cooked him, some sort of elaborate ramen he didn’t really taste.

Then his heat hit him, and Yuuri fell into bed, and kicked off his clothes.

He cried some more, until his eyes were on fire. Fucked himself raw.

Fell asleep, and dreamed of Viktor.

Chapter Text

It was only when his heat was over, body wrecked and sore with an ever present ache behind his eyes and his emotions roiling just beneath his skin, that Viktor realized he had no idea who to call.  He needed help, for the first time in what seemed like an eternity.  Physically he probably could have managed by himself, though it would be difficult.  Viktor could order takeout and have it delivered to his apartment to avoid cooking, could stagger to the shower on his own, wrestle clean sheets onto his bed before collapsing into it to get some much needed rest.  Most omegas who went through heats alone had a friend or family member to care for them afterwards, and now Viktor knew why, but he could have handled the physical aspects with some effort, even in his wretched state.

It wasn’t his aches and pains that were the problem.

Viktor sat on the floor at the foot of his bed and felt like crying.  His hands shook, and his breathing was unsteady, and he had the strangest urge to curl up into a ball in the corner.  Make himself small, pull a blanket over his head and sob for no reason at all.  Tears filled his eyes, and a pitiful sound built up in his throat, Viktor’s omega ready to keen with sorrow.  

Why?  

Yes, he’d gone through a heat, and his body was ravaged from it, that was a given.  He was dehydrated, skin chafed in places, cock throbbing where it lay abused against his thigh.  Viktor’s hips still didn’t feel quite right, and his lips were chapped, slick drying uncomfortably between his legs.  But there was nothing to justify the utter anguish overwhelming him.  Why did he feel like a failure?  Like he’d lost something vitally important?  Why was he trembling all over, jaw shivering, a breath away from weeping?  

A voice spoke up inside him in answer.  His omega whispering without words, Yuuri, Yuuri.

Yuuri didn’t come for us.

The thought was ridiculous, absurd, and yet as soon as it flitted through his head the cry that had been welling up in his throat slipped out.  Viktor wailed, coiling up into the fetal position  and shuddering hard.  It went on and on, until his voice gave out and he was left whimpering low with his face shoved into the hard wood of his floors.

There was something wrong with him.  Viktor needed…  well, he wasn’t entirely sure what.  A hug, a shower, a meal.  Clean sheets.  Cool water.  Quiet affection.  Viktor needed help, and he didn’t mind asking.

Except there was no one to ask, really.

Viktor had absolutely no family he could call.  His parents were long gone and he had no brothers, no sisters.  There were a few distant cousins he sent checks to every month, because why shouldn’t he.  It wasn’t as though he could spend all his money himself, but if he didn’t see their names on his accountant’s statements periodically, Viktor wouldn’t have remembered what they were.  Most of his skating buddies were thousands of miles away, and he wasn’t close enough with any of them to enlist their help with something so personal anyway.  

Yakov would be obligated as his coach to come help, but the very idea of an alpha in his apartment right then sent his instincts reeling.  Nausea rolled over him, and his skin started itching, and he tucked further down into himself and mewled involuntarily.  Okay, then.

No alphas.

Yuri would help, even if he bitched the entire time, and he knew Viktor better than almost anyone.  Yuri watched where others didn’t, those eyes of his catching more than most, keen and aware and missing nothing.  He was too young, though, and Viktor couldn’t imagine how awkward it would be to ask him.  Not to mention the fact that he hadn’t presented yet.  Viktor was fairly certain Yuri was destined to be an alpha, and being so close to an omega post-heat, looking after one in such an intimate way…  It could very well draw out his first rut early.

Viktor was not prepared to deal with that, and he doubted Yuri would forgive him for it.

After he calmed his shakes enough to pick up his phone without dropping it, Viktor called Mila.  She was an omega, too, and even if they weren’t incredibly close, Viktor knew she’d been in heat before.  They were rink mates.  Mila wouldn’t leave him high and dry if he asked for help.  She answered on the second ring, and from the sounds in the background he could tell she was at the rink, Yuri’s shouting about something Viktor couldn’t quite make out.  Yelling at Mila for being on her cell, probably.  

“Vitya!  Yakov stepped out for a moment and left his phone.  I can tell him to call you, if you-”

“Milochka.”  Viktor’s voice was rough, strained.  It was obvious he’d been crying, and he couldn’t even manage to feel embarrassed about it, not with the sadness that was swelling up in him, higher and higher with every passing moment.

“Viktor, what happened?  What’s wrong?”  All the appropriate things to say ran through his head.

Nothing is wrong, really.  I just need help.  I went into heat, could you come over?  Bring some food, run me a bath, change my sheets?

But none of those came out, the omega in Viktor surging loud in answer.  Irrational.  Illogical,  inconsolable, and unwilling to be silenced.

“He didn’t come, Mila.  He left me alone.”

Viktor cried until Mila got there, and then crawled into her arms and kept on weeping.  He was bigger than her, a lot bigger, but she managed to tuck him into her chest and rock him like a child all the same.  She didn’t ask who triggered his heat, and when Viktor mentioned it, Mila smiled and sifted her fingers through his sweaty hair.

“Has he texted you since Sochi?”  Viktor shook his head, burrowing down into Mila’s shoulder.  It was idiotic to be so upset over absolutely nothing.  It had only been a few days, and Viktor knew how busy skaters were after a big competition, even if they didn’t win.

It was also impossible to bargain with hormones and thousands of years of evolutionary instincts screaming at him that he’d been rejected by his chosen mate.  Mila kept stroking his hair, patting his back through the thin fabric of the blanket she’d thrown around him.

“I know heats suck, especially the first one, but give it some time.  Sochi was less than a week  ago, and he got last place.  He lost hard, let him lick his wounds.  You saw him at the banquet, you know he likes you.  I’m sure he’ll call.  You’re Viktor Nikiforov, how could he not?”

Viktor nodded without answering, still unable to quell the tiny hitching sobs that stuttered out of him, unable to stop the tears from falling.  But Mila’s words comforted him, and the presence of another familiar omega was soothing, letting Viktor relax into her.  

You saw him at the banquet, you know he likes you.

Viktor clung to her words, and her clothes, and allowed himself to hope.

…………………………………………

Once Viktor’s hormones calmed down some and he returned to the ice to train it was easy to rationalize Yuuri’s lack of communication.  

At first, anyway.

Russian and Japanese nationals took place at the same time, a handful of days overlapping in late December, and after Viktor got over his lingering post heat symptoms there wasn’t much time left for practice.  Barely a week, and between Georgi and Mila’s nerves and Yakov driving him viciously to make up for the training days he’d missed during his cycle, he hardly had a moment to breathe.  Yuuri was probably similarly busy, his coach trying to help him shake off his loss so he could perform better in his country’s national competition.  His routines had winning potential, if he could work through his nerves and land the jumps properly.  The composition was there.  Yuuri just needed better execution, and he could easily take gold, at least in Japan’s nationals where competition was a little less fierce than the GPF or Worlds.

Viktor found himself worrying less about himself and his own rink mates and more about Yuuri.  Halfway around the world, likely still brooding over his performance at the Grand Prix, pushing himself too hard every day in practice.

Yuuri would run himself ragged, and go home sweating and exhausted and sore.  If Viktor was there he would massage the tension out of Yuuri’s shoulders, work the ache from his thighs.  Ease his hands under the fabric of Yuuri’s boxers, kneading his fingertips into the thick muscle there.  Brush Yuuri’s hair out of his eyes, and lean in close, thumb trailing over his lips.

Into his mouth, across the wet velvet of his tongue...

He wanted to blame the near constant filth in his mind on his recent heat, but when he mentioned it, Mila assured Viktor that was all him and had nothing to do with his hormones.

In any case, Yuuri was probably trying to focus on his upcoming competition, and didn’t want  distractions that might negatively affect his performance.  Viktor couldn’t blame him, really, it was the smart thing to do.

No one ever accused Viktor of being smart, though.  Clever, perhaps, when he was on the ice, but he tended to leave common sense behind when he stepped out of the rink.

Viktor spent some of his free time before nationals creeping through various social media sites, trying to find a trace of Yuuri there.  He had an Instagram account.  Twitter, Facebook.  All clearly geared towards the public eye, a handful of professional photos on each one, Yuuri on the ice in various costumes or in his blue and black training gear.  

Abandoned, as far as Viktor’s purposes were concerned, only brief, concise updates popping up to announce his performances in different competitions.  Relevant dates, ISU links.

There wasn’t a selfie anywhere in sight.  Viktor definitely didn’t pout about it for an entire day.

Definitely.  Did. Not.

It felt too soon to try and contact him on Instagram when he’d already given Yuuri his phone number.  Tagging him in a random post or messaging him less than a week after they’d seen one another reeked of desperation.

Not that Viktor didn’t feel desperate.

He just wasn’t eager to appear that way quite yet.

But Viktor’s omega was desperate, riled up and on a hair trigger, ready to go off at the slightest provocation.  Sometimes Yakov snapped at him when he got sloppy in practice, which was nothing new, and in the past Viktor would have waved him off with a flippant hand gesture and a singsong reply.

‘Oookayyy, Yakov!’

After his heat when he half assed a jump, his mind on Yuuri and his glands swollen and sore, Yakov got in Viktor’s space and snarled out his usual criticisms.  

‘You can’t just be lazy because you think you’ve got gold in the bag!  You need to put in the work, Vitya!  One day someone will push you off that podium, and it will be your own fault for getting complacent!’

For a moment though, Viktor’s mind didn’t register Yakov, his coach, giving him advice that was mostly true, if poorly delivered.

All that came across, Viktor’s instincts running high, was alpha, close, loud.

Aggressive.

Viktor hissed at Yakov through his teeth, chin pressed tight against his own collarbones to conceal his scent glands, eyes sparking with fire.  Yakov took a step back immediately, brows furrowed in utter confusion, head cocking to the side.  Then realization dawned on him, and he rolled his eyes at Viktor and turned away without a word, heading towards the other side of the rink where Mila was working on an intricate step sequence.  Yuri had been nearby, and he skated over to circle Viktor where he stood in place, a disgusted sneer marring his features.

“You’re gross, Viktor.”

It was only when he skated away that Viktor even became aware of what he’d done, and why.  He’d never been so totally ruled by that baser part of himself that he acted without thinking like that.  It was foreign, and strange, and he blinked stupidly a few times before stepping off the ice and calling it a day without so much as a backwards glance.  He wasn’t going to get anything accomplished, not with the way he was feeling, too much emotion simmering just beneath the surface.  

Nor was he eager to go home, the loneliness of his apartment like a fog that even Makkachin’s presence couldn’t fully breach.  It was hard for him the breathe there sometimes, the ghost of his own voice calling out Yuuri’s name through his heat echoing in his ears.  So Viktor did the only thing he could think of to make himself feel better, or at least the only thing he could do so close to a competition, since drinking was definitely off the table.

He went shopping.

He’d never gone into regular heats before, and therefore hadn’t had a reason to buy any of the myriad products available for such a thing.  When he’d asked Mila how likely it was that he’d go into another one, she’d shrugged and said she didn’t know, it was hard to say.  It all depended on how emotionally attached his omega was to their prospective mate.

After a few days of watching him mope around the rink, putting off scent like a freshly bonded newlywed and scrolling through pictures of Yuuri on his phone, she’d amended that response.

‘You’re fucked, Vitya.  Go buy a dildo and a poster of your boy and be ready to settle in for the duration.’

So Viktor made an appointment with his doctor so he could get some suppressants, and after hissing at Yakov like an alley cat and fleeing the ice, he found himself spending an offensive amount of money at Chanel.

And not on a dildo.  They didn’t sell them there.

Viktor asked.

But there were lotions specifically made to heal raw skin after a heat, in a handful of different varieties.  Others were designed for use during a heat to dampen scents, or as antiperspirants.  Chapstick an omega could wear to breathe in cherry vanilla, or lavender, or rosemary, to overpower the potent sugar sweet smell of slick.  Salves to apply directly to the glands to reduce the amount of oil produced.  Viktor probably wouldn’t really need most of the things they sold there.

He bought one of everything anyway.  Along with several sets of ‘heat sheets’ from Ralph Lauren, soft enough that Viktor wanted to rub his face on them but made to wick away moisture from the body and still wash clean afterwards.  He got distracted in the outerwear section, the scarves drawing his gaze and making him perk up with interest.

His omega wanted his glands covered.  Wanted them tucked away behind layer upon layer of fine, soft cashmere, where no one could see or smell or touch them.  Viktor had scarves, of course, in many different colors, but none quite as plush as these.  He ended up with a dozen of them, and just as many turtlenecks, something he could wear on the ice to hide his throat without impeding his movement.

Viktor had to arrange to have his purchases sent to his apartment, unable to carry all the boxes and bags he’d acquired.  He’d planned to go home after that, use some of his new bath salts and soak in the tub for awhile, but a window display at Cartier caught his eye.  There were several pieces there, something that he’d never quite understood the appeal of, but now Viktor couldn’t look away.

Necklaces.  Omega necklaces, specifically.  Shorter than a normal chain, not quite a choker, but instead of one charm at the base of the necklace there were three.  One held in place on each side, roughly beneath an omega’s scent gland, and one that hung down between them.  They were designed to draw a suitor’s eyes to an omega’s throat.  A carryover from the past,  originally used in formal courting rituals, now they were little more than jewelry omegas used to tease their potential mates or showcase their bond marks.  Put something silvery and bright next to a scent gland, and marked or unmarked, people were going to look.  It wasn’t exactly polite to stare at an unmarked omega’s throat, and the charm of a necklace was the perfect excuse to let one’s eyes wander.

At the moment Viktor wanted to tuck his scent glands into high collars and thick scarves so no one could see them, but if Yuuri was there…

Viktor imagined having one of those glittering chains tight around his throat.  How Yuuri’s dark eyes might flit to it, lingering there, caught by the shine of the stones and held by the thought of Viktor’s scent.

It took longer to get out of the jewelry store than anywhere else, because Viktor couldn’t just buy  all the necklaces he fancied and decide which one he liked best later like he usually did.

Well, he could, but even he would acknowledge that spending nine hundred and fifty thousand rubles on jewelry he might never wear probably wasn’t the best idea.

In the end he selected a chain with three zircons, bright blue stones that would bring out his eyes, one on each of the necklaces charm rings.  The stone at the base was larger that the other two, inset in a circle of tiny diamonds, the chain they hung on brilliant platinum.

Viktor had enough gold to wear around his neck.  Gold was a lateral move.

Viktor needed to escalate.

He tried it on once, at home, that night.  Looked at himself in the mirror dressed in nothing but the thin weave of the chain, its weight almost intangible against his throat, moonlight creeping in through the windows of his bedroom.  Viktor let his fingertips ghost over it, imagining they were Yuuri’s instead.

Wondering how Yuuri would touch him.  If it would be gentle, a soft caress of the chain, forefinger dragging light across it.  Or would he dig in his thumbs until Viktor’s scent surged up between them, the metal of the necklace biting rough into his glands.

He ended up on his knees, cheek flat against the mirror, breath fogging over it as he stroked himself.  Moisture slipped from his mouth to drip down the shining surface, his mouth open, eyes half lidded.  Viktor caught his own image in the glass, flushed and frenzied and fucked out, and thought, look at you.

Look what you’ve become.

He came hard against the mirror whining out Yuuri’s name, the pearly drops of his come obscene, the Viktor in his reflection even filthier than he was.

Viktor took the necklace off and put it back in the box.  He wouldn’t need it until January, when he saw Yuuri at Worlds.  He’d wear it with his costume during the free skate, where it would be obvious underneath his open collar, there for all the world to see.

There for Yuuri alone to see, if only he would look.

…….

Yuuri wasn’t going to Worlds.  Wasn’t going to Four Continents, either.  Wasn’t going anywhere but home, as far as the figure skating season was concerned.

Yuuri didn’t have to take first place in nationals to represent Japan at Worlds, but he did need to medal.  The number of entries a country received in Worlds was dependant on how they performed the year before, and Japan would be able to send two representatives.  So gold, or silver, and Yuuri had a good chance of getting to Worlds.

Yuuri placed eleventh.  

Only when Mila wrapped an arm around his waist and hugged him did Viktor realize he was whimpering.  His teeth sank viciously into his bottom lip as the camera panned briefly over Yuuri, who was collapsed in on himself, face buried in his hands, shoulders shaking.  It was obvious he was crying, his coach leaned in close and whispering in his ear.

Viktor was devastated, and not just because Yuuri wouldn’t be competing against him at Worlds.  Yuuri was suffering, and Viktor wasn’t there to comfort him.  That little voice in Viktor’s head that had been silent most of his life, but was becoming louder and more insistent every day he spent without Yuuri, was screaming wrong wrong wrong.

This is wrong.

He needs us.

Hours later, when night fell in Russia, Mila had to coax Viktor into his costume with soft words and quiet encouragement.  It wasn’t working all that well.  He couldn’t find it in himself to care how he performed after watching Yuuri lose so brutally.  His limbs felt heavy, like he’d already skated for hours when he hadn’t stepped onto the ice that day.  Just before he was set to don his skates, Mila sighed and patted his shoulder.

‘Even if he doesn’t watch tonight, he’ll see your performance eventually.  Skate it for Yuuri.’

Skate it for Yuuri.

Mila was being clever, being manipulative, Viktor knew.  His instincts didn’t, though.

When he headed out onto the ice that night, the crowd wasn’t even there.  He closed his eyes.

Thought of Yuuri.  Heard music.

And danced.  Stammi vicino, non te ne andare.

Stay close to me.

Don’t go.

………….

Viktor took gold at Russian Nationals.  

Of course he did.

The new year came, and went, in silence.  No phone calls, no messages.  Nothing.

Viktor was fucking lovesick, and too far gone to pretend otherwise.  It was obvious, especially to his rink mates, and they were varying degrees of helpful, annoying, and so done with him.  

Mila assured Viktor he just needed to be patient, and helped him prepare for a heat that she seemed to think was inevitable.  Yakov rolled his eyes a lot, sighed a lot, made Viktor skate his routines again, and again, and from the top, get that awful look off your face, you’re performing  not going to a funeral!

Viktor was forced to listen to Georgi prattle on every day, a stupid smile on his face as he tried to give Viktor unsolicited dating advice.

When I first asked Anya out, I brought her two dozen pastel roses, and chocolates from that little boutique in Nevsky.  On our first date, Anya and I went dancing, at that club downtown with fountains, you know the one?  On our one month anniversary, I bought Anya a sapphire bracelet, and took her on a picnic.  When Anya gets mad at me, when I want to surprise Anya, when Anya is feeling down…

Anya was going to have a corpse instead of a boyfriend if Georgi didn’t shut the fuck up.  Viktor wouldn’t even have to do anything, wouldn’t even have to drop his poorly constructed facade of polite interest.

Yuri would stab him and Viktor both to death with an ice skate well before their next competition at this rate.

Yuri glared at Georgi, threatened him with violence.  Skated the difficult parts of Georgi’s routine on his breaks, flawlessly, while Georgi struggled through his quads.  When Georgi looked like he might actually cry, Yuri asked him if his mascara was waterproof.

Yakov eventually had Georgi train at a separate rink time.  It was probably for the best.

Except then Yuri was shooting all those annoyed glances at Viktor instead, making irritated sounds through his teeth, eyes narrowed and nose wrinkled and Christ, Viktor, you stink of omega, could you not?

Viktor just smiled wide, well I guess you won’t be able to tolerate my scent long enough for me to teach you choreography next season, I’m sorry Yurotchka, and Yuri fell silent with a huff.

Viktor went into heat again a little over a week before the European Championships in January.  For all the numerous products he’d bought to aid with his cycle, it was even more miserable than the first.  He was better prepared this time, a variety of food and juice in his kitchen suited to heat endurance and recovery.  Lotions for his skin, decadently soft sheets, candles made to drown out the scent he put off.  Viktor had everything he could possibly need.

Except Yuuri wasn’t there.  Why wasn’t he there?  Why hadn’t he called?  Memories surged up, vivid and unwelcome.  Yuuri, sweat slick and writhing on a pole.  Yuuri, feet moving artfully over the floor of the banquet hall.  Yuuri, wrapped tight around Viktor, smiling and euphoric, I love you, Viktor, I- I love you.   But it wasn’t true, was it?

Rejected, his omega whined.

He doesn’t want us.

Three days after it started, Viktor’s heat vanished from him like a storm washing clean out the sky.  He lay in bed, tired and filthy and pathetic, limbs sprawled wild and skin too warm as he tried to catch his breath.  Felt lost, and alone, and empty.

He cried for a long time before he called Mila over, trying to get it out of his system.  Loudly, blankets fisted up in his palms, body curled in on itself.  But then Mila came and he started again, the omega in him seeking comfort the only place they could find it.  

Eight days later he flew to Slovakia.  Performed his short program mechanically, every quad and spin and step flawless but without emotion.  The points were there, that’s all that mattered.  Then, when it came time for his free skate, he went out on the ice and let his omega take the reins.

Closed his eyes.  Thought of Yuuri.

Stammi vicino, non te ne andare.

Stay close to me.

Don’t go.

…………………………………………

Viktor left his gold medal from the European Championships in his luggage, and never bothered to take it out.  And Yuuri?

Yuuri was a ghost.  Didn’t exist, except to make Viktor hurt inside.  A phantom limb, something that was vital once, if only for a few hours, then ripped away to leave Viktor aching.

Viktor didn’t go to Four Continents in mid-February.  Russia didn’t compete there, but Yakov often liked to drag him along, to ‘keep an eye on the competition’.

Viktor didn’t even watch it on television.

He was in his apartment, shaking off the last vestiges of his third heat, two days after its passing.  Mila had already come and gone, and Viktor was lazing around in pajamas and fighting off the constant headache that always lingered once his cycle ended.  

Worlds was at the beginning of March, and Viktor felt even emptier than he had before the Grand Prix.  If someone had asked him, he would’ve said that was impossible.  There is rock bottom, and nothing underneath, but Viktor was digging into the dark earth to bury himself alive.

Bloodless and hollow, nothing left of him to give, and Viktor was turning himself inside out.

He cried himself to sleep most nights.  The rest he lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling and missing someone he didn’t even know.   The majority of the information he knew about Katsuki Yuuri, Viktor had found on Google, and yet his instincts didn’t give a solitary fuck.

We’re his, where is he, why won’t he claim us?

He was tired of waiting on a phone call that was never going to come.  Tired of snatching up his phone at every text only to be disappointed when it was Yakov, Mila, Georgi, Yura.  His bank, his renter, his tailor.  If Yuuri wanted anything to do with him he wouldn’t have waited three fucking months to pick up his cell and dial Viktor’s number.  

All the things Yuuri had told him in December had been fueled by champagne and the sting of loss, thoughtless and impulsive and without meaning.   Yuuri had no intention of being anything to Viktor besides a name next to his on the scorecards.  Viktor was a high water mark to roll past, a statistic to overcome, a legend to dethrone.  Nothing else.  To Yuuri, to the world, Viktor wasn’t a person.  He was an idea.

His life was more than this, though, was made up of too much to be broken down by one half drunk encounter with a stranger.  There was something in him besides gold, and want, and emptiness.  When the lights went down on him for the last time, when he put up his gold blades, when he stepped off the ice for good, there would be something left of him that was worthwhile.  Viktor would still matter to someone, all on his own.

Wouldn’t he?

Wouldn’t he?

Viktor tried to go out the weekend before he left for Worlds.  Get drunk, get laid, and fuck what Yakov would have to say about it.  He dressed in clothes that cost more than some people’s cars, wore too much cologne, filled Makkachin’s bowl with extra food.

Put on that stupid goddamned omega necklace he never should have bought, fingers shaking, barely able to fasten the tiny clasp.  It didn’t have to be for Yuuri.

It could be for anyone.  

Viktor didn’t make it past his front door.  His hand wouldn’t work the knob, everything in him screaming at once, so loudly he lifted his palms up to cover his ears.  Like that would quiet something that came from inside his head, from inside his chest.

Still the blood in his veins, hush the air in his lungs.

When he fell to the floor and wept Makkachin was there, nosing at his face, not understanding but trying her best.  He hugged her too tight, and she let him, and they slept together on the rug by the door.  It was too much effort to get up, change clothes, get in bed.  Viktor barely had the energy to exist at all.

He went to Worlds the first week in March.  Skated out on the ice on the last day of competition, ready to strike his opening pose, willing his lips not to quiver through his smile.

He thought of Yuuri.  Heard music.

Cried, a tear slipping down his face, mostly hidden by his hair.

Stammi vicino, non te ne andare.

But Yuuri was so far away.  Had never been close.

Was already gone.

………………………………

Viktor threw his Worlds medal at the wall of his apartment.  It smashed a hole in the plaster before clattering to the floor, chunks of sheetrock and chips of paint raining down with it.  

Yakov told Viktor he wasn’t allowed on the ice until he could get his shit together.

He wasn’t sure his shit had ever been together, nor did he know how he was supposed to remedy the situation.  Some of the sadness had ebbed away to leave anger in its wake, but Viktor didn’t know who he was mad at.  Himself, probably.

He was ready to burn down the whole world.  

The medal was still in the floor, the ribbon moderately chewed now, when he woke up on March tenth to hundreds of notifications on his social media accounts, along with at least a half dozen text messages.  From Yuri, his other rink mates.  From Cristophe, as well as Cris’ lover.  All linking back to a video on YouTube, and when Viktor clicked on it he felt dizzy.

‘[Katsuki Yuuri] tries to skate Viktor’s FS program [Stay Close To Me]’

There were several versions of the video already, dubbed over with different songs, but the original upload didn’t have any sound.  Viktor could hear it, though.

Yuuri’s body made music, after all.

Viktor watched Yuuri skate his routine, brows furrowed at the screen.  Stared at his phone until the video ended and started over, once, twice, three times.  He didn’t understand.  Yuuri had come into his life like a whirlwind and wrecked it in a matter of hours, then vanished like he’d never existed at all.  

Yuuri…  Yuuri didn’t want Viktor.  He hadn’t called, hadn’t texted.  Had left Viktor to heat on his own, and the bitterness of solitude tasted foul in his mouth.  

But the image on Viktor’s phone painted a different picture entirely.

There was longing in Yuuri.  Every movement, every step, every flourish.  He dripped with feeling, his execution flawless as he bared Viktor’s soul with his own body.  Viktor’s omega was soaring inside, giddy with euphoria, and it took him a few more replays of Yuuri’s video to figure out why.

Posting this routine served no purpose.  It wasn’t going to help Yuuri in any way.  He had never sought fans, or fame, or popularity.  It was obvious from his career, from his social media accounts, from his very demeanor, what the public thought of him wasn’t really his concern.

It would get Viktor’s attention, though.

He’s reaching out to us.  He wants us.  He needs us.

The song played in Viktor’s mind, syncing up with Yuuri’s dance, until Viktor could feel the notes singing in his veins.  All that emptiness in him fell away, until Viktor was full to bursting.  

Stammi vicino, non te ne andare.

Viktor packed his bags.

It was time to go.

Chapter Text

As soon as he got off the train in Hasetsu, Viktor was greeted with Yuuri’s face.  Or pictures of it, at the very least.  They’d wallpapered a good portion of the station with a promotional image of Yuuri in his team Japan gear, surrounded by falling cherry blossoms, wind tousling his hair.  Some of the posters were framed on the walls, while others hung from strings overhead, and Viktor wanted to rip one down and take it with him.  He refrained, not out of embarrassment but because he had nowhere to put one without folding it up and that seemed like some sort of sacrilege.  Viktor snapped a shot of the poster with his phone, and briefly wondered if he could buy it online somewhere.

He would hang it on his wall back in St. Petersburg and not give a shit who saw.

Yuuri  was smiling in the picture, reaching out, in motion.  Viktor couldn’t help but stare at the curve of Yuuri’s waist, the swell of his thigh, his long, slim fingers.  The photo was incredibly flattering, and he was torn between jealousy and gratitude.  Everyone who came through the station could ogle Yuuri.

Our Yuuri, a stupid part of his brain was keen on reminding him, flaring in annoyance at the idea of covetous eyes on their mate.  Except he wasn’t their mate, but that didn’t really matter to his omega.  

An unimportant technicality, as far as it was concerned.  Viktor’s instincts had decided that no one else had the right to lust after Yuuri.

Mostly, though, Viktor was grateful that Yuuri had so much support from the people of Hasetsu.  It was a small place, and Viktor imagined Yuuri was quite the hometown hero to those who lived there, even if he hadn’t completed the full skating season this year.  Someone from their own ranks was out chasing medals, competing against the best of the best from other nations.  If he played his cards right, Yuuri could easily help represent Japan in the next winter olympics.

Hasetsu was right to be proud.

It wasn’t hard to find Yutopia.  There weren’t any taxis to be seen, but the first person Viktor asked was able to give him directions, and it wasn’t much of a walk.  Makkachin needed to stretch her legs after all that time in customs, and she seemed to appreciate the chance to run a bit.  Snow fell as they made their way to Yuuri’s family hot spring, but it wasn’t terribly cold outside.  Not to Viktor, anyway.

It was nothing compared to the weather in St. Petersburg.

Part of Viktor was hoping to see Yuuri as soon as he walked in the door, and he deflated a bit in disappointment when he was met with his parents instead.  Viktor stood a little straighter, smiled a little wider, combed through his hair with his fingers.  It placated his instincts, which were demanding he make a good impression on his future mate’s family.  He honestly hadn’t even considered them until they were right in front of him, and now felt foolish.  Viktor should have brought wine, or food, or some kind of gift.  He’d have to make up for it later, with something extravagant, after he knew their tastes better.

Especially since Yuuri’s mother looked exactly like him.  Their faces were shaped the same, their eyes, their mouths.  Viktor loved her already, squealing into his palm excitedly and fighting the urge to hug her.

“Oh, you look just like my Yuuri!”  He’d spoken in Russian without thinking, so no one understood, but it got their attention nonetheless.

Yuuri’s mother recognized Viktor immediately, going wide eyed and covering her mouth with one hand in shock.  He introduced himself anyway, polite and as well mannered as he could be in broken Japanese, and asked after Yuuri.  Hiroko flitted about excitedly, ushering Viktor towards the bathroom and taking his bags as she shoved a robe at him.

“Yuuri’s still asleep, why don’t you take some time to bathe and soak in the hot spring and he’ll be awake later on.”

Her English wasn’t great, but Viktor pieced it together well enough.  He didn’t understand a word of what followed, Hiroko chattering at her husband  in rapid fire Japanese.  Viktor had studied the language, but after basic greetings and phrases he was mostly lost.  Even if he’d been fluent he probably would have had trouble following their conversation.  Hiroko’s husband seemed confused at his wife’s wild gesturing, frowning at Viktor before shrugging and shuffling off.  

Viktor had a feeling Yuuri’s father didn’t follow skating very closely unless his son was on the ice.  He certainly had no idea who Viktor was, or if he did, gave no indication of it.  Hiroko assured Viktor that Makkachin was welcome to roam as she pleased, both Hiroko and Yuuri’s father eager to lavish the dog with attention.  

Viktor had researched Japanese hot springs after the banquet, curious as to what kind of inn Yuuri’s family owned, so he knew the basic etiquette of soaking in one.  He showered in the separate bathing area, sitting on a little stool, the vague discomfort of being naked in front the few other men there fading quickly when they didn’t even acknowledge his presence.

He’d been to Japan many times, but had never taken the opportunity to stay at an onsen, and as he eased himself into the steaming waters outside, Viktor regretted that decision.  It was perfection, the water relaxing the ache of his travels almost instantly, working the soreness from his muscles.  Viktor felt a bit envious, really.

Yuuri gets to train all day and then come home to this?

Except he’d only returned to Japan a month or so before, at the first of March, according to various news sources.

Not that Viktor obsessively checked the news for information about Katsuki Yuuri or anything.

Now he was sinking deeper into warm waters that Yuuri grew up floating in, and something about it soothed his omega.  Calmed him all the way down to his soul, something stilling inside Viktor that had been twisted up and shaking for months on end.  Viktor was in Yuuri’s home.  Yuuri breathed this air, soaked in this spring, walked on these stones.  There were traces of him everywhere, even if Viktor couldn’t pick them out, exactly.  This place was a part of Yuuri, and Yuuri was a part of it, and it took a few moments for Viktor to figure out why the thought had him soaring inside.

Territory, his omega sighed.

He was in Yuuri’s territory.   It wasn’t that the place belonged to Yuuri that had his omega pliant and pleased and euphoric.  There was nothing defensive or aggressive about the idea of being in Yuuri’s home, not right then. Just a sense of belonging, an overwhelming feeling that of all the places on earth, Viktor was right where he should be.  That he was home, even if he had never slept under Yuuri’s roof before, hadn’t seen most of the inn.  Hadn’t even seen Yuuri.

It was the simple fact that Yuuri was there.  Close, curled up in soft blankets that were inundated in his scent, resting.

Viktor could find him, if he really wanted to, right that instant.  Could go into his room, see him lying there, gentle and quiet in sleep.  Or maybe he’d gotten up already, and Viktor could crawl into his bed and pull the covers around himself until all he smelled was Yuuri.

Yuuri.

His head tilted back at the thought, lolling slack against the stone of the outdoor bath, until his throat was bared.  Viktor could feel the pull of his necklace against his skin, his omega preening, eager for Yuuri to look at it.

To look at him.   To see all of Viktor on display for him, unmarked and unclaimed and just for Yuuri.

Viktor shifted in place, restless suddenly, unsure how much longer he would be able to wait.  It was all he’d done for months.  Waiting, waiting, waiting, and his patience was washing away all at once now that the object of his desire was within reach.    He stretched languidly in the spring, trying to shake off the nervous energy coursing through him.  Viktor was considering abandoning the bath entirely and putting his robe back on when he heard a commotion from inside.

Then the doors to the inn opened, and there he was.  Stumbling and flustered, staring at Viktor in confusion, brows drawn together, mouth open.  Soft hair and dark eyes and smooth skin and a pretty mouth and Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri.

Yuuri, please.

He wondered if he’d said it aloud, but Yuuri was still just staring, so Viktor’s mouth must not have caught up with his thoughts yet.  He’d expected Yuuri to be pleased, to be happy to see him.  Viktor had been ready for a sly smirk, a coy glance, a heavy stare.  A suggestive remark, maybe.

An outright proposition, if Viktor was especially lucky.  But Yuuri just looked shocked.  Like he was seeing a ghost.

Like he was fucking horrified.

“Vik… Viktor?  Why are you here?”

Viktor let out a low whimper before he could stop himself and fought to keep his expression bright and open.  Why was he there?  Yuuri invited him there.  Begged Viktor to coach him, danced with him like they were brand new mates, everything in Yuuri dripping with want.  The way he’d looked at Viktor, the way he’d touched him, spoken to him, smiled at him, all of it spelling out his desires in explicit detail .  I want you, I need you, I love you.

No one had ever treated Viktor that way.  Not without ice underneath him.

He’d swept Viktor off his feet, charmed him right down to his toes, then months later skated one of Viktor’s routines and posted it online for everyone to see.  For Viktor to see.  Not just any routine, but one that left no room for interpretation in its message.

Stay close to me.  Don’t go.

Viktor wanted to whine again.  Wanted to walk up to Yuuri and drop to his knees and keen.   Bare his throat and clutch at Yuuri’s legs and fucking weep with the injustice of the moment.

What did he mean, why are you here?

You called for me, Yuuri.

Yuuri didn’t look like someone whose heartfelt invitation had been accepted.

Viktor stood up and smiled, even as his omega started putting off scent that was full of distress.  Yuuri was far enough away, the air full of steam from the baths.  Maybe he wouldn’t pick up on the anguish rolling off Viktor like a fog.

“I came for you, Yuuri.”

Yuuri still looked baffled.  Vaguely frightened, like he was spooked and ready to run, and fuck, maybe Viktor had totally misread the entire situation.  Yuuri hadn’t posted the video himself, but Viktor had assumed he’d given his permission, that it had been a deliberate grab for his attention.  Maybe he didn’t want anything to do with Viktor at all.  Not as coach, not as a mate.

Rejected.  

The realization that Yuuri might not want him pulsed in his head, in his chest, viscerally painful.  It was like a knife wound, and Viktor spilled out of himself, dizzy with the loss of something he’d never had in the first place.  

Then his instincts raged loud, unwilling to fall back and accept defeat.  Unwilling to be sidelined.

No, no, he’s ours.

We’ve waited long enough.

“Starting today, I’m your coach.  I’ll help you win the Grand Prix Final!”

It was a jumping off point.  Something Viktor could cling to in his uncertainty, because Yuuri had left Detroit.  Left his coach, his rink, his training there.  He’d been drunk at the GPF banquet, but there was no faking the honesty in his voice when he’d told Viktor all those things.

‘I’ve been watching you skate since I was little, I’m your biggest fan.’

‘I love you, Viktor, I love you…’

Maybe he was embarrassed about his behavior in December, about acting so wildly uninhibited with people he’d only just met.  If he didn’t want to talk acknowledge what happened, Viktor could pretend on his behalf.  For awhile, anyway.  Besides, who could refuse when their idol offered to coach them personally?  Not Yuuri, that was for sure.

Viktor wasn’t taking no for an answer.  Not when he could see Yuuri every day.  Live with him, eat with him, train with him.

Bathe with him, both of them naked, easing into the decadent waters of the hot spring together.  Viktor could slip his arms around Yuuri, run his hands through those ink black strands.  Bring their mouths together, soft and unhurried, until they melted into one another.  Yuuri was strong.  Maybe he would pick Viktor up and carry him back to their room, splay him out over silky sheets.  Knee Viktor’s thighs apart, rough and eager, fingers sliding messy over slick-wet skin...

The distress melted out of Viktor’s scent, and it changed in a rush, oil shining fresh on his throat.  Sweet, and potent.

An omega full of need and on the cusp of a heat.  Viktor had a day, maybe less.  He knew it might happen, that seeing Yuuri in person would probably throw him into a cycle.  It would probably be difficult to hide from Yuuri, but Viktor could claim he needed time to settle in before beginning their training.  He had all his heat aids with him, scent blockers and pheromone reducers and candles and lotions.  Things that were utterly useless back in St.Petersburg when he lived alone, but might come in handy surrounded by an inn full of family members and guests.  Concealing it wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility, if he was careful enough.

Except his omega wasn’t having it, at all.

Let him scent us, let him hear us, let him see us.

Let him touch us, let him take us.

Yuuri, please, please.

God, he didn’t even know Yuuri outside of the rote answers he gave for interviews, or the scant information available online.  Viktor had spent a few hours with him months ago, and most of that had consisted of Yuuri owning everyone on the dance floor or drowning Viktor in praise.  It wasn’t enough.  Not for a serious decision like taking someone as his mate.

Viktor didn’t fucking care.  He’d seen Yuuri on the ice, and held him in his arms, and then been left behind, and that was enough.

Enough to know he didn’t want to be without him again.  Viktor would start from square one if he had to, so long as he could stay close to Yuuri.

Viktor was nothing if not relentless, and he always got what he wanted.

……….

Viktor had overestimated his own patience.

Katsuki Yuuri was beautiful, and adorable, and too precious for words.

He was also goddamned oblivious, if he hadn’t noticed just how pathetically desperate Viktor was for him.  It was in everything Viktor did, swimming in his voice, pervading every look and word and touch.  Viktor had passed out in the floor of the inn after bathing and then eating with Yuuri, jet lag hitting him hard all at once.  When he did wake up at the sound of a loud voice, though, he couldn’t resist feigning sleep to listen to the conversation around him for a while.  

Nor could he stop himself from craning his neck to better display it, knowing that Yuuri was nearby, watching.  Viktor wasn’t above posing and posturing to try and catch Yuuri’s eyes as he eavesdropped.  He’d always loved being the center of attention, but he’d never craved it from one specific person as intensely as he did right then.  

I’m right here, and I’m already yours, look at me, Yuuri, look at me.

Pretending he was asleep did have its disadvantages, closed eyes being chief among them.  The woman who’d barged into Yutopia was talking then, and though he was more concerned with what Yuuri had to say, something she told him caught Viktor’s ear.

‘Viktor came here because he chose you, Yuuri.’

Which wasn’t totally true.   He chose me first, Viktor wanted to say, but it didn’t really matter, not anymore.

If Viktor was a little harsh on Yuuri as he ate Hiroko’s apparently famous katsudon, it was mostly Minako’s fault.  She was so familiar with him, sitting so close, shooting Yuuri knowing looks.  Viktor was envious of that familiarity.  Minako was too old to present any legitimate competition where Yuuri was concerned, but it didn’t stop Viktor from bristling.  He’d never had much of a filter when it came to speaking his mind, and Yuuri did need to drop some weight if he was going to get back on the ice anytime soon.

The way Yuuri’s face fell when Viktor pointed that out made his instincts flutter erratically.  

You hurt his feelings, you made him sad, tell him you’re sorry.

Viktor asked after his room instead.  Only after Yuuri had moved all the boxes into his room did it occur to Viktor that perhaps he should have helped.  He was so thrown by Yuuri’s reaction to him that he was being a bit of an asshole, but Viktor was having a hard time coming to terms with just how different this Yuuri was from the one he remembered.  There was none of that confident self assurance, no easy sensuality, no cocky words or knowing grins.

This Yuuri blushed every time Viktor met his eyes.  Looked away shyly, bit his lips, stuttered over his sentences.  Glanced up at Viktor through his eyelashes, sultry without trying even as he shifted nervously.  He gestured awkwardly, and flustered easily, and was almost another person entirely.

Not that he wanted him any less.  There was simply… more of Yuuri than before, and Viktor needed to adjust.

“Wow, what a classic tiny room!  Is there a sofa?”  Yuuri was still on the floor trying to catch his breath, and Viktor felt another pang of guilt at not moving some of the boxes himself.  It had been so long since Viktor did any sort of manual labor, the idea seemed somewhat foreign.  

Viktor exerted himself on the ice, in training, or in bed, and nowhere else to speak of.

Yuuri smiled, though, shaking his head and looking up at Viktor from where he knelt.

“No.  I’m sorry it’s so small, we only had an unused banquet room available.”  

Viktor blinked at that, because, an unused banquet room?  

Was Yuuri fucking with him?   No, apparently the irony of putting Viktor up in a banquet room was lost on Yuuri, because he still radiated nervousness.  They weren’t close enough for Viktor to scent him, but his posture was tight, his eyes full of uncertainty.

“You look anxious.  You can pay the coaching fee after you achieve success.  I’ll bill you later!”  

Which was a lie, because Viktor wouldn’t dream of charging Yuuri anything.  He already had more money than he knew what to do with, and being Yuuri’s coach was the ultimate exercise in self indulgence.  Even if Yuuri won a dozen gold medals, Viktor was still getting the better out of deal.

Getting to be with Yuuri was more rewarding than any amount of gold or silver or bronze strung around his neck.

Yuuri stuttered out his gratitude anyway, words tumbling stilted from his mouth.

“Th-thank you.”

Yuuri looked up at him again and it slammed into Viktor all at once like a punch to the stomach as their eyes met.  He was there, he was right fucking there, and Viktor still hadn’t touched him.  Not a hug, not a pat on the shoulder, not a brush of their hands.  It was painful, suddenly, to have Yuuri so close and yet so far away.  Viktor needed to feel him, needed it like he needed to breathe.  He crouched down in front of Yuuri, voice going low and rough and needful.

“Yuuri, tell me everything about you.  What kind of rink do you skate at?”

Viktor reached out, unable to stop himself, and let his fingers rest just beneath Yuuri’s chin.  That first contact was electric, heat lighting up in his skin where they were touching, and Viktor let out a harsh breath through his nose to keep from whimpering.  He was touching Yuuri, and it was too much to process, yet not enough for his omega.  It shouted a dozen things at once in his head, and Viktor could hardly think through the litany.

Scent him, kiss him, bare your throat, and it was difficult not to throw his knees wide and tug Yuuri between them.  Viktor lifted Yuuri’s chin a bit, his fingers spreading out against the too warm  skin.  

It could have been wishful thinking, Viktor’s own imagination, but it felt like Yuuri was leaning into the touch.  Looked like his pupils had blown wide, a flush painting his cheeks.  Sounded like his breathing was coming faster.

It had to be Viktor’s imagination, because Yuuri smelled like lust, like… like the too sweet scent of an impending heat.  But that was Viktor’s own scent washing back on him, right?  Had to be.  Viktor continued, letting himself pretend Yuuri was shoving into his hand like he wanted him to be.

Lying to himself, the way his instincts seemed happy to lie to him, Yuuri needs you, Yuuri wants you...

“What’s in this city?  Is there someone you like?  Before we start practicing…”  Yuuri looked like a deer in headlights, a moth drawn into flame, and Viktor trailed a hand down his arm to grab his hand.  Let their fingers twist up together, and he couldn’t be imagining the wild flutter of Yuuri’s heartbeat, the nervous sweat on his palms.   “Let’s build some trust in our relationship.”

It hit him hard then, Yuuri’s scent, frantic and panicked and sweet, god, was that really him?

Did Yuuri really smell like sex and slick and heat?

He threw himself away from Viktor, scrambling backwards on his hands until he was pressed flat against the wall across the hallway.  Everything in Viktor demanded he chase after Yuuri, get back in his space, put his hands back on him.  But Yuuri seemed downright terrified, and Viktor didn’t want to push, regardless of how much he craved that closeness.  He frowned at Yuuri, head cocked to the side, voice puzzled.

“What?  Why are you running away?”

It hurt more than Viktor expected, to have Yuuri reject his advances, to shut them down so thoroughly.  After months of being ignored Viktor should have been used to it, thought they were past this when he left Russia.  That Yuuri had called out to him, decided he wanted Viktor after all.  But Viktor wasn’t certain of anything anymore, and he waited for an answer, and tried not to whimper.

“Uhh…  No reason!”

There was definitely a reason, but Viktor didn’t have a chance to ask what it was, because Yuuri staggered to his feet and fled down the hallway.

…………………..

One more time.  Viktor had to try one more time, because it was his last chance to get anywhere near Yuuri for at least a couple of days, and he couldn’t admit defeat just yet.  He stood outside Yuuri’s room, a pillow tucked underneath his arm, and knocked on the door.

“Yuuri, let’s sleep together!  As your coach there’s so much I need to learn about you.”

Viktor’s heat would be on him by the next afternoon at the latest, and once it hit, there was no way he could approach Yuuri.  It was unethical, to wait until his cycle was full blown and then throw himself at the person who triggered it.  Anyone would be hard pressed to resist a heating omega trying to seduce them, even if they didn’t truly want them, and Viktor wouldn’t do that to Yuuri.

If he could sleep next to Yuuri that night, though, there would be no mistaking who’d brought about his heat.  Yuuri would know, would know without a doubt that Viktor wanted him, and he wouldn’t have to say a word.  Perhaps if Yuuri knew, if there was no room for uncertainty, things would be easier.  He could just tell Yuuri, but he didn’t know where to begin.

I’ve been in love with you for months.  You triggered my first heat, even though I’m twenty seven fucking years old and that sounds ridiculous, it’s true.  I dream about you at night even though we’ve barely spoken.  You’re all I can think about.  

I skated for you, Yuuri, did you see?

Yuuri didn’t even have to fuck him, didn’t have to spend Viktor’s heat with him if he didn’t want to yet.  Viktor would be happy if he could simply lay down next to him for a while.  He’d been agonizingly lonely, and not just since December.

Viktor had been lonely for years and years.  It took Yuuri filling up the hollow places within him and then vanishing to leave him more vacant than before for Viktor to realize just how gutted he was.  Barren.  Desolate.  Void.

Empty, empty, empty.

God, Yuuri, please, let me in.

“No!”  It was muffled through the door, and tinged with panic, and it tore through Viktor like a gunshot.

No.

“Yuuri?  Yuuri.”  

As though saying his name would make the answer different somehow.  Yuuri’s door remained closed, and Viktor’s chest clenched brutally as he turned and went back to his room.  Before all this he hadn’t known the word heartbreak was meant to be taken quite so literally.

Viktor’s chest fucking ached.  

He unrolled his futon and shook out the blankets they’d provided him with, and Viktor tried not cringe at the flowery laundry detergent smell that overwhelmed him when he crawled beneath the comforter.  His senses were already hyperactive, every little smell and sound and sensation threatening to tip over into too much.  There was an outlet nearby, and he plugged his dying phone in and opened his gallery on autopilot.

Viktor thumbed through the images, and if they’d been physical pictures, they’d have been worn at the edges, fucked up from how many times he’d looked at them.  But he needed to see Yuuri dancing, Yuuri smiling, the two of them together.

Yuuri was champagne flushed and grinning wide, and Viktor lingered on one of the photos, the memory attached to it so visceral he could almost feel Yuuri’s hand on his face.  On his thigh.  Fingers easing into his hair, combing through the messy strands.

Makkachin nosed into his back with a huff, snuffling at him unhappily.  It was only when a shining drop of water appeared on his phone screen that Viktor realized he was crying.  Tears slipped down his face, and he was making the most pathetic noise, and Viktor tossed his phone down and wiped at his nose before turning to bury his face in Makkachin’s side.

He let himself sob into her fur, wrapping his arms around her, feeling guilty when she whined with uncertainty and nosed harder into him.

“What do I do, Makka?”

She wiggled around in Viktor’s hold until she could lick at his face, one foot hovering in the air to paw at him occasionally.  He leaned heavily on her, already missing her, because he’d have to let her have free run of the inn for most of his heat, especially in the absence of a proper bed.  The last thing he needed was his dog sniffing around with worry while he fucked himself stupid on a futon.  He’d lucked out in St. Petersburg, with a dog loving neighbor who was almost reluctant to give Makkachin back to him after his cycles passed.  Viktor supposed he was also fortunate Yuuri’s family seemed so fond of her, but he couldn’t feel all that grateful right then.  Not when Yuuri had shaken off his touches, run from him, refused the slightest contact.

Viktor was already too hot.  Already itchy.  Keyed up and restless, his heat lurking just beneath the surface.  His omega was wailing inside, both indignant and devastated.  Yuuri was here.

Yuuri was here, so close, but he might as well have still been on the other side of the world, because he didn’t want them.

Hope was a vicious thing, and Viktor had given it teeth in the last few weeks.  Now those teeth were sunk in deep, drawing blood, scraping bone.

Tearing Viktor to pieces, and he watched snow fall past his windows, and cried until everything hurt.  His eyes, his jaw, his throat.

It still didn’t hurt as much as his chest, but a heart could be broken and keep on beating.  Viktor reached down and put his hand over his own, pressing down until he could feel it.  

Wondered why it was steady when he was so shattered, and let the rhythmic thudding lull him to sleep.

Chapter Text

Yuuri couldn’t breathe.  

There was air, but he choked on it for a moment, unable to make his lungs work properly.  Maybe he’d never actually woken up.  The snow falling down outside through April skies, mixing with soft pastel cherry blossoms, the dog that had tackled him in the entryway, looking for all the world like an overgrown Vicchan…

Viktor Nikiforov standing naked in his family’s hot spring, water slipping down the muscled lines of his body, one hand reaching out towards Yuuri as if beckoning him closer…

All of it was a dream, and he’d wake up in a moment and blink the sleep from his eyes and it would be just another day.  Everything certainly felt unreal.  Ethereal, impossible.  

Too good to be true.

Except then Viktor was eating at their table, and sleeping on their floor, his throat bared to show a presentation necklace Yuuri had never seen before.

Viktor was touching Yuuri’s face,  and smelling like need, asking if there was someone he liked.

It was too good to be true, except Viktor was knocking on the door of Yuuri’s bedroom and asking to sleep with him.   ‘There’s so much I need to learn about you,’ and Viktor’s voice sounded like sex and he could scent him through the door, and Yuuri-

Yuuri still couldn’t breathe.

The air he did manage to suck in through lungs that were trying to fail was laced with Viktor, but familiar in a way Yuuri couldn’t quite place.  It itched at the edge of his awareness, taunted him, made him want to squint and scrunch up his nose.  

Made him warm all over, mouth wet, his teeth too large and sharp within it.  He also felt dizzy, mind working to come up with a logical reason to tell Viktor they couldn’t sleep together.

Something besides I’ll be in heat before midnight with you next to me.

Besides I can’t be trusted to have you so close.

Besides I am greedy, and selfish, and want all of you.

And half asleep, body surging up on the edge of his cycle, Viktor pressed close just like in all his favorite dreams, Yuuri was afraid he would try to take what he wanted.

“No!”

Then Yuuri glanced around his room and was suddenly confronted with incontrovertible evidence of just how pathetic he was.  The epitome of a ridiculous fanboy, Viktor’s face stared back at him from every wall in silent accusation.  A dozen posters at least, and sure, most of them were older.  Hung up when Yuuri was still a teenager, colors a bit faded with age, corners worn where the adhesive had gotten old and had to be reapplied.

But one of them had been published that very month after Viktor’s fifth win at Worlds, the page clipped carefully out of a sports magazine and placed with the rest after Yuuri had returned to Hasetsu.  Viktor was still knocking on his door, and Yuuri had the sudden, irrational fear that he would come in despite his refusal.  Would he be freaked out by the fact that a grown man had posters of him all over the walls?

Would Viktor decide not to coach him?  Go back to Russia?

Would he realize what a lost cause Yuuri was before even watching him skate again?

It felt like deceit, doing anything that might convince Viktor to stay.  Like he was lying through omission, failing to tell Viktor what a waste of time all this was.

If it was a lie to make himself less pitiful, Yuuri would simply have to be a liar.

He tore the posters down in a frenzy, slipping them into his desk drawer, feeling a little pang of loss when he glanced around the now barren room.  It was stupid.  He was twenty three years old, he shouldn’t be sad about something so insignificant.  Yet he’d spent almost a decade laying down at night looking at Viktor, and when he crawled in bed later on it was strange not to have him there.

Then Yuuri’s breathing stuttered, hands coming up to cover his face, because Viktor was there, in the flesh.  In the very next room.  Yuuri had heard him earlier, quiet steps drifting around as he got ready for bed.  Even right then a low noise drifted through the wall, like Viktor was talking on the phone, or maybe listening to music.  

Yuuri’s heart fluttered wild in his chest, beating so hard it was almost painful.

Viktor Nikiforov was in his house, was going to be his coach.  

Yuuri screamed silently into his palms before drawing them down his cheeks, feeling the heat there where he was flushing bright, all alone in the shadows of his room.  His breathing was erratic, and his cheeks hurt from smiling, and Yuuri hadn’t ever really understood the phrase ‘so happy I could die’ until that moment.

With his heart trying to pound its way out of his body, Yuuri knew what they meant.

The elation was brief but intense, and then the reality of the situation sank in and threw cold water on his joy.

Yuuri would be going into heat soon, of that there was no doubt.  Just seeing Viktor skate had triggered it hard and fast a few months ago, there would be no escaping an early cycle now that he was sleeping next door.  Already Yuuri felt his hormones fighting against the suppressants he’d taken right before bed, his body wired and strung tight.  

He could feign an illness, but hiding away in his room for two days wasn’t foolproof, not with how strong he tended to smell during a heat.  If Viktor wanted to check on him, if he so much as walked by Yuuri’s bedroom door as he opened it, the secret would be out.  Or Yuuri could say he had a trip planned to visit family outside of Hasetsu that couldn’t be rescheduled, slinking away to run through his cycle at a nearby omega hotel.  Right then he didn’t know what to do.  He couldn’t think straight, and it wasn’t just his omega rising up, desperate for attention and convinced Viktor had come to claim Yuuri for his mate.

Viktor was going to see him skate.  Pick apart his many failings, scrutinize his every move.  The most decorated figure skater in the history of men’s singles was going to be watching for errors, for flaws, for weaknesses.

He wouldn’t have to look very hard.  It had taken Yuuri years to accept criticism from Celestino without beating himself up constantly.  He wasn’t sure how he’d survive doing the same with Viktor.  A man he’d idolized the better part of his life.  A man whose career be followed fanatically, whose personal life he knew every detail of.

A man he went into heat for every month without fail.

It was like the gods coming to earth just to tell him he’d been praying wrong, and anxiety twisted sharp underneath the looming threat of lust.

Yuuri’s most outrageous fantasies seemed to be coming true, and he was already fucking them up without even trying.

He tossed and turned, blankets tangling up around his legs, both nerves and pheromones coming together to make him overheated and restless.

Yuuri dozed in fits and starts, whined into his pillow in his sleep, and did not dream.

………………...

He eventually woke to the sound of knocking, and Mari’s voice calling through the door.

“Yuuri!  Don’t sleep all day!”  He groaned quietly, content to ignore her and pretend he was still sleeping.  Then her tone softened, low enough that Yuuri could barely hear her.  “Are you okay, Yuuri?”  Mari, unlike the rest of his family, was aware of who caused Yuuri’s heats every month.  He heard what she was really asking.  

Knew he didn’t want to answer.

“I’m fine!  I’ll be out in a little while!”  He heard the annoyed click of Mari’s tongue, wincing at the noise, because he could tell from experience she wasn’t going anywhere.

“Yuu-ri.”  

There was a finality in it, and Yuuri dragged himself out of bed and opened the door, rubbing at his face.  Mari leaned against the frame, letting her eyes flit up and down him, and Yuuri didn’t need a mirror to know what she saw.  Flushed cheeks, slick throat, lips bright with color.  Scent overwhelming, even to a beta like herself.

He hadn’t taken his suppressants yet, and shouldn’t have allowed himself to sleep so late knowing his heat was close.  It had been much too long since his last dose.  He would have to double up and take two different prescriptions if he wanted to hold his cycle off until he figured out what to do.  The combination of drugs was hard on his body, and Yuuri would be miserable before his heat even started.  Nauseous and achy.  Moody, if his former roommate was to be believed.  

Phichit always watched Yuuri closely to make sure he took his hormones on time, but after his long absence, Mari was out of practice doing so.  She eyed him skeptically now, disapproval written all over her features, knowing what he intended to do before he did it.

“Yuuri.”  He smiled, guilty, raising his eyebrows and lifting his shoulders in a helpless shrug.  There was nothing he could say.  Self care was not one of his strong points.  She tisked at him again, rolling her eyes.  “Viktor was up earlier.  He says he’s going to take a couple of days to settle in, asked if we could please keep an eye on Makkachin when he put her out and leave his meals by the door.  He said to tell you that training started bright and early on Tuesday, and he’d see you then.”

It was Friday.  Three days before he had to face Viktor again.  Long enough for his heat to pass, long enough to give him an extra day for recovery.  Once upon a time his own heats often dragged on for three days, but after so many years of them, Yuuri had heating down to an art.

Yuuri sagged against the wall next to the door, a hand clutched over his chest, his relief a tangible thing.  He’d honestly expected Viktor to ask for his assistance unpacking, considering how much help he’d been moving his own belongings into his new room.

Which was absolutely no help at all.

Vanishing into his room for a weekend after arriving without warning was a bit unusual, but Viktor was a celebrity.  Yuuri supposed he should be grateful for the eccentricities.  

Now he didn’t have to worry about faking a stomach flu and covering his scent, or taking a wildly impromptu vacation three streets over to the only omega hotel in Hasetsu.  Yuuri could let his heat run its course in relative peace.

He could feel Mari frowning at him, taking a cigarette out of her pack and rolling it absently between her fingers.  Yuuri didn’t know what she was going to say, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t like it.

“You’re going to have to tell him eventually.  You’ll go into heat again every month, unless things have changed with your cycle, and you can’t bullshit your way through all of them.  The season’s too long for that.”  Yuuri grimaced, tilting his head down and looking up at his sister with furrowed brows.  He wanted to argue, but she was right.  It was eight months until the Grand Prix in December, and another three if he competed all the way through Worlds.  Mari continued, reading his mind, saying the things he was trying not to think about.  

“You can’t get sick for three days every month like clockwork.  Viktor seems… flighty, but he’s not that stupid.  No one is that stupid.”  She thumped Yuuri lightly on the forehead.  “Except you, maybe, for thinking that something like that might work.”  

Yuuri sighed, wishing he could retreat in his room and avoid this conversation and everything it entailed for a little while longer.

A hundred years, give or take.

But even if he wasn’t talking about it, the worry would still be there, eating away at him.  Making his muscles tight, his jaw clench.  Even then his shoulders were pulling in, and he hunched forward, mouth a thin line.  Sooner or later he would have to tell Viktor that he went into heat every month.  And Viktor being Viktor, from what Yuuri had experienced of the man firsthand, would definitely ask questions.

Questions that Yuuri wouldn’t be able to answer without embarrassing himself, or lying.

Yuuri was an expert at the former, and failure at the latter.

He could evade.  It was a skill he’d honed since childhood without trying, fine tuning it, turning it into a weapon to keep others away, but he had a feeling evasion would be useless against Viktor.

Anyone who’d won over a dozen gold medals had to be a little bit relentless.

Sooner or later, Viktor would know Yuuri’s heats were all for him.

Yuuri’s heart thundered behind his ribs, and he felt more than heard himself gasping just a little, breaths coming fast and heavy.  His hands shook, and he blinked away the sting in his eyes, and-

“Yuuri.”  Mari’s hand was feather light on his shoulder, drawing Yuuri’s attention rather than trying to comfort him.  She didn’t hug him, barely even touched him.  As soon as he looked up at her she dropped her arm, holding his gaze instead.  “Deep breaths.”  Yuuri obeyed automatically, because he’d been listening to Mari’s voice as it tried to soothe him down from his anxiety for as long as he could remember.  She didn’t count, but he could hear the numbers in his head anyway, her voice drifting through his childhood the settle in his thoughts.  He inhaled, the ghost of Mari’s Japanese calming and known and safe, ichi, ni, san, shi.  Air filled his lungs until his chest puffed out, and he held his breath for a beat, letting it swell in his lungs.  “Out.”

Yuuri exhaled slowly, mouth a little ‘o’.  Mari stood there while he calmed himself, breathing mechanically in and out, trying to relax the knot of nervous energy coiled up in his stomach.    After a while he nodded again, and glanced up at Mari expectantly.  She shrugged one shoulder, putting her cigarette between her lips and talking from the corner of her mouth.

“You have a month, anyway.  You caught a lucky break this time.”  Something flashed in her eyes, and one side of her mouth quirked up, just like it did when she had a secret she didn’t plan on sharing.  “Awfully convenient though, isn’t it?  Viktor arrives.  Viktor the omega, wearing a presentation necklace at an onsen, oh my god, the guests were scandalized.  Meets you, and then needs precisely the length a heat to ‘settle in’?”

Yuuri frowned, not following, reaching up to adjust glasses that weren’t there.  Mari sensed his obliviousness, and her grin hitched up wider, sly and amused.

“Bet you five thousand yen not a single one of those big ass boxes is unpacked on Tuesday and Viktor looks like he got hit by a truck when you meet up to start training.”  Mari pulled out her lighter and walked off, leaving Yuuri standing in the doorway looking confused.  She waved her hand in the air, calling loudly over her shoulder as she padded down the hall.  “I’ll tell mom and dad you’re gonna be hiding in your room this weekend, too.  See you and Viktor on Tuesday!”

“MARI!”  He hissed, as though to shush her, but she was already disappearing around the corner.  Yuuri slid his door shut and held it in place, like someone might try to pry it open even though no one was there.

‘Awfully convenient though, isn’t it?’

It took him a few moments, sleep clinging to him, the wash of his impending cycle making things muddled, but Yuuri finally realized what she was implying.  That Viktor was going into heat, too.

That Viktor was going into heat because of him.

Which was ridiculous, the logical part of Yuuri reminded him, and he wanted to chide himself for entertaining the thought, however briefly.

But there wasn’t much left of the logical part of Yuuri right then.  He was going warm, and soft, and pliant.  Yuuri clenched his thighs together as his omega grew and stretched and purred within him, humming just beneath the surface.  Viktor was close, and his instincts knew it, drawing him into his heat more mercilessly than ever.  

Viktor is next door, go to him, he wants us.  He wore a necklace, he presented himself to you.  

Yuuri shook the idea away, fisting his hand at his side, clenching his jaw.

Only to have it come right back, stronger and louder and impossible to ignore.

What if Viktor is in heat because of me?

Lust pulsed hot in him like a knife.  He bared his teeth, shuddering, struggling to work through it and hold onto his rationality, but failing.  

What if Viktor wants me, too?

Yuuri whimpered and leaned into the wall, letting it support his weight, head tilted to the side to bare his throat to the empty room.  The strength in his arms and legs flagged, trying to drop him to his knees.

Trying to put him face down on the floor, ass in the air, slick already starting to leak through his clothes.

Mouth already trying to beg, even though he was alone.

Please, Viktor, please.

Yuuri managed to wobble to his closet and yank out his heat bag from behind the clothes.  He hadn’t gotten around to properly unpacking it, despite using its contents once since he’d been back in Hasetsu.  There were a handful of half burned scent neutralizing candles he needed to light, air freshening sprays that counteracted pheromones to stash by the door, lotions to put on.  All sorts of preparatory things he should do in order to prevent Viktor from happening by his room and realizing he was in heat.

He fumbled out a moderately sized black plastic case instead, pawing it open with sweaty hands to reveal an embarrassing number of sex toys.  Well, one would be embarrassing enough, for Yuuri at least.

There were a solid half dozen dildos of various sizes and colors.  Mostly pastels, the larger two bearing inflatable knots at the base, others with knobs to control vibration.  They’d all been washed and sanitized and dried after his last heat before being carefully tucked away and shoved back into his closet.  Normally he would’ve washed them again anyway, just because, but right then he couldn’t be bothered.  He snatched up one of his smaller toys before letting the box fall closed, a vivid blue silicone cock with little rows of texture curving around the shaft snug in hand.  There was lubricant in his bag, stored separately from the toys and sealed away to keep it from leaking anywhere, but Yuuri didn’t need it right then.

He was wet, and empty, and desperate enough to weep.

His omega was discontent.  It knew what Yuuri had planned and wanted so much more.

Viktor is here, he’s here for us, he can give us what we need, he’s-

Yuuri shoved it down.  It would be harder to ignore as his heat progressed, and if he didn’t brutally rein it in now, things could get dangerous later on.  Viktor was sleeping nearby, and Yuuri refused to put him in a compromising situation.  

He nearly had to crawl to his bed, desire trying to take his legs out from under him.  He tossed the toy onto his mattress and managed to keep his feet long enough to push his sweatpants and boxers down.  The rest of his clothes weren’t important in that moment.  He’d lost one of his socks in his sleep, and his shirt was rumpled and faded, soft from too many trips through the washing machine.  His pants and underwear were tangled up around his left ankle, but he couldn’t be bothered to remedy the situation.

Yuuri’s hair was wild, and he was half dressed.  His thighs were slick, and drool pooled heavy in his mouth.  He was already a fucking mess and his heat hadn’t fully hit yet.  The definition of disarray, both inside and out.

Please, Viktor, please.

Yuuri fell halfway onto the bed, his knees hitting the floor hard enough to bruise, upper body sprawled over the mattress and legs spread so wide he could feel the strain in his muscles.  He pushed forward to lift his hips higher, toes seeking purchase on the hardwood until he could comfortably reach behind himself.

Sometimes at the start of his cycles, Yuuri took things slow.  Coaxed himself open, teased and tormented, flirted with the razor’s edge of climax for as long as he could.

This wasn’t one of those times.

Yuuri buried two fingers in himself, stifling his moan in the blankets, reveling in the warm press of flesh.  Tight but smooth, and Yuuri scissored his fingers only briefly before impatiently adding a third, mewling louder against the fabric of his comforter at the stretch.  He was rushing, but his body was made for this during a heat, made to take what was given to him.  

Viktor’s body, too.  Made for me.  Made to take me, and give to me.

Mine.

Yuuri growled then, the noise impossible to muffle entirely, lip curling back from his teeth.  He gathered some of the mess between his thighs with his free hand and palmed his cock, hips canting up higher into the air so he had just enough room to stroke.  The slide was easy, his slick hot and wet and perfect, the fingers of his other hand still working in and out of him.  Rougher now, bending and twisting, making sure he was ready.  His eyes were wrenched shut, closing out the world, and all he could see was Viktor.

Viktor on the ice, spinning through the air, weightless and ethereal.

Viktor on a podium with eyes alight, kissing his medal, lips shining and glossy where they pressed into perfect gold.

Viktor on his knees reaching towards Yuuri, smile full of mischief.  A presentation necklace wrapped taut around his throat, skin smelling like lust, voice low and fucked out.

What if Viktor is in heat for me?

Yuuri’s whole body jerked hard, air sawing in and out of his lungs, and he realized he was still growling.  Guttural, a steady rumbling that made his throat ache and his teeth itch.  He withdrew his fingers from himself and grabbed blindly at the blankets until he found the toy, wiping the excess slick up and down the length before taking it in hand.  

Yuuri wasted no time.  He edged it into himself, slipping the head carefully past that first bit of resistance before pressing the rest inside in one rapturous stroke.  The toy wasn't what he truly wanted, silicone instead of skin, but it left him stretched and groaning at the intrusion nonetheless. He stopped and let the feeling of fullness overtake him for the barest of moments.

A few blissful seconds.  

A handful of dazed heartbeats.

There was no finesse left in Yuuri after that.  No patience, no subtlety.

All that existed was heat, and hunger, and fuck, Viktor, please.

He drew the toy out out and shoved it back in again, and again, wrist straining under the angle, but he’d take the throb of soreness there in exchange for the sparks climbing up his spine.  Yuuri’s palm slipped warm over his cock as he kept working himself, thumbing over his crown, rutting thoughtlessly forward and back.  His imagination painted pictures behind his eyelids, things too pretty to be real.

Viktor on his back, legs thrown open, ass shining and sweet with slick.

Yuuri rocked back against the dildo, meeting himself with every thrust, one side of his face smashed into the bed.  Open mouthed, snarling, unable to stop himself.  He’d been in heat with Viktor’s name on his tongue so many times, spent countless days lost in the sway of devastating need, ice blue eyes and silky grey hair and long fingers tearing him apart.

It had never been like this.

Never so possessive, Yuuri’s omega vicious in his chest, clawing and unsated.

His thighs trembled, mind still spinning out fantasy, everything too much, too close, too quick.

Viktor’s throat under his teeth.  Viktor’s heels digging into his spine.

A moan punched its way out of his throat, and Yuuri fucked himself faster, mattress squeaking under the abuse.  There was a damp place under his mouth, and slick dripped obscenely down the toy and over his fingers.  His spine arched, and he ground the dildo as deep as it would go, muscles straining.  Noisy, shit, he was being far too noisy.  Normally he kept music playing, or loud movies, anything to drown out the din of his heat.

Mouth spewing a litany of growls and whimpers and please, Viktor, please.

Head a thousand miles away, yet right next door.

His mark on Viktor’s neck.  Bruise-violet, an omega’s mark instead of the vivid red an alpha would leave.  All his own.

Viktor’s mine.

Yuuri’s orgasm surged up to swallow him, and he sobbed out Viktor’s name into his bedding and prayed for it to swallow the noise.  It was eviscerating.  Yuuri quaked like he was dying, jolting out hot ropes of seed onto the blankets underneath him.  Curving in on himself, biting his lip until it bled, head tucked tight into his collarbones.  On and on, and when it was finally over he withdrew his toy with a shudder and let it fall to the floor.  Yuuri curled up on his side, come soaked hand still clutching his softening cock, trying to blink the stars from his eyes.

Yuuri hid his face in the sheets, whining in embarrassment.  It wasn’t as though he’d never masturbated to Viktor before, but he’d never done it with the man next door.  Nor did he think he’d ever been quite so loud.

Certainly he’d never growled like some hotheaded alpha keen on staking their claim.

All Yuuri could do was hope that Viktor hadn’t heard him, and wait for his heat to overtake him again.  The wetness between his legs was unpleasant, but there was no point in showering, not when he’d be a mess again so soon.

So Yuuri lit his candles, and put on his lotions, and took off his clothes.

Pulled the posters back out of his drawer.

Please, Viktor.

Please.

Chapter Text

Under other circumstances, Viktor would have been less than pleased about sleeping on the floor, even considering the extra futons he’d been provided.  He wasn’t exactly used to roughing it, his bed at home a mass of enough plush pillows and soft blankets to get lost in.  Makkachin often did, burrowing down into his comforters and throws until only her head stuck out, happily cocooned in lavish warmth.  The hard floor of Yutopia was a far cry from the accommodations he was accustomed to, but right then, Viktor didn’t care.

He’d moved his futon into the corner, but it had slipped out from beneath him at some point, utterly forgotten. Viktor hadn’t noticed when it happened, his attention focused on more important things.  

He was kneeling on the floor, naked from the waist down with his thighs spread wide, ear pressed into the wall.  The robe he’d been wearing had come untied and fallen off his shoulders long ago, catching Viktor at his elbows, tangling around his waist.  The fingers of his right hand were working furiously, sunk into himself to the knuckle, slick dripping down them to pool on the hardwood underneath him.  Viktor’s left hand was wrapped around his cock, not moving, just closed tight on his abused length.  To give some relief.  Some pressure.  He was sore from his incessant stroking over the last couple of days, the muscles in his arms and legs protesting, Viktor’s body still not used to the constant, intense exertion of his heats.

Viktor bit down on the mewling sound trying to creep out of his throat, not because he was embarrassed, but because he didn’t want to miss anything.  The noises coming from the other side of the door were muffled, but Viktor could hear them if he was quiet enough, now that the music had stopped pulsing from Yuuri’s laptop.

Because Katsuki Yuuri was loud.

Viktor had woken up just after sunrise two days prior, overheated and frantic with desire, thighs wet and cock hard like they’d never been before.  Being near Yuuri as he entered his heat was definitely not helping, everything closer to the surface, vivid and potent and making Viktor shake.  His emotions high, his libido fierce, his patience thin and waning.

The omega in him noisy and unsettled, until it was all he could do not to whine and crawl into Yuuri’s room, legs spread and throat bared.

He’d spoken briefly with Mari when she happened to walk down the hallway, her steps loud enough to bring him to the door.  Viktor arranged to have meals brought to him before setting Makka loose on the inn’s unsuspecting inhabitants and locking himself in.  

Viktor wondered what Yuuri would think about him disappearing into his room for three days right after his arrival, but there wasn’t much he could do about it except hope that his heat passed quickly.  The sooner he spent more time with Yuuri, the sooner he could court him.  Surely it wouldn’t take Yuuri long to realize just how desperate Viktor was for his attention.

Stars in his eyes and a presentation necklace on his throat, all long looks and private smiles and unabashed want.

It was only a few hours later, his heat in full swing, that Viktor heard it through the wall.  Muted but unmistakable, and if he’d been a few feet further away he might have missed it entirely.  Viktor was on his back, spine arched, working himself steadily towards his fourth orgasm when his quiet panting and gasping whines were interrupted by a different sound.  

His name.  Not once, or twice, but at least three times, Yuuri calling for him, all alone in his room.  

Viktor, Viktor, Viktor, Yuuri’s words tangled up with soft growling that Viktor only caught after he laid his ear against the wall and held his breath.  The auditory equivalent of Viktor looking into a mirror, the noises an echo of those he was making, and there was only one thing Yuuri could be doing.  

The same thing Viktor was doing, hand stroking wildly, fingers wet and cramping as he worked them inside.  It was easy to tell when he reached his peak, Yuuri crying out Viktor’s name like he was in pain, something wounded and sore in the sound of it.  

Viktor came into his palm, and tried not to weep, vicious joy burning through his veins like fire.  

Yuuri liked him.  Yuuri wanted him.  

Viktor’s omega was wailing inside, elation something twisting and alive in his chest, swelling up until he thought he might burst.

But that wasn’t all.  Over the course of the morning it became abundantly obvious, from the sounds through the walls and the breakfast tray left outside Yuuri’s room.  From the smell that wafted down the hall once when they were both retrieving their lunch, Yuuri slamming his door in his eagerness to retreat.  Yuuri’s scent.

Saccharine, and warm, and mouth watering.  Yuuri’s desire, refined into something tangible, something real.  After breathing it in Viktor shut his own door, softly, carefully.  Bit into his fist and leaned into the wall.  Slid down, legs unwilling to hold him up, until he was liquid on the floor, boneless and smiling at the ceiling like an idiot.

Yuuri was in heat for him.  

God.

It was revelatory.  A fundamental piece of Viktor’s very existence shifting under his feet.  

Constellations realigning themselves in the heavens to better guide Viktor home.

Yuuri’s growling and whimpering tapered off Saturday afternoon, not necessarily vanishing, but overpowered by tinny pop music that blared through the wall instead.    A deliberate choice, probably.  An attempt to keep Viktor from hearing him, even if it was too little, too late.  It didn’t stop Viktor from listening close, time passing in uneasy fits and starts as heat surged up in him again and again.  Saturday evening blurred into Sunday morning, broken up more by the meals left at his door than anything else.  

Yuuri’s music changed at some point, shifting over to something softer and classical, dulcet piano notes lulling Viktor in and out of rest in between the tides of unforgiving lust.  Waves of need rolling up, swallowing him, and drifting back out to leave him empty and exhausted.  

Something wet and ragged and almost drowned, breathless and shaking himself to sleep.

By Sunday evening Viktor felt like he was dying.  His migraine was constant, mild dehydration combined with the incessant screeching of his instincts until his head throbbed with the pulsing beat of his heart.  Both wrists were tender, protesting every movement, overuse making them feel brittle and weak.  It would have been easier with a toy of some sort, but Viktor still hadn’t been able to locate the box with his toiletries and heat aids.  Every time he worked up the energy to start searching his need flared up again, leaving him with a half dozen open boxes full of absolutely nothing useful.

Yuuri’s music blocked out anything of interest for most of the weekend, but faded out into nothing Sunday night, long after sunset when the rest of the inn was quiet and sleeping.  

Now Viktor was straining to hear, struggling to shove himself impossibly closer to the wall that separated him from Yuuri, body shivering.  Every point of contact was too much and yet not enough, his skin hypersensitive.  Viktor craved sensation, yet the fabric of his blankets and clothes felt wrong, chafing and rough and devoid of heat.  

Yuuri, his instincts supplied, loud and unhelpful.

We need Yuuri.

Like air, and water, and warmth, and food.

Viktor needed Yuuri.  Was starved without him, cold and desiccated and breathless.  Empty,  waiting to be filled.  He was close enough that Viktor could hear him, Yuuri whimpering out his name, totally clueless.

Yuuri owned Viktor unaware, held him fast, enraptured by the faintest of sounds. The briefest of touches.  Memories of dancing, of Yuuri on the ice making music.  A song that no one else could hear, playing for Viktor alone.

Yuuri owned Viktor, and he didn’t even know.  

They could be together, and maybe the yawning chasm of emptiness inside of Viktor would stitch itself shut.  The bruised hollows in his bones filling and healing and holding him upright again.

It was with brutal desperation that he worked himself towards orgasm, lingering against his will just short of his climax, pleasure welling higher and higher but refusing to overflow.  

Viktor’s hand jerked viciously at his cock, three fingers crooking and twisting and fucking into himself, body shuddering as he tried to go faster, deeper, harder.  It was impossible, he was already exhausted, but Viktor needed more.  Tears slipped down his cheeks, breath catching painfully in his throat, something that would be a sob if he would only let it loose.  He held onto it, air trapped in his lungs, spine curving, body folding in on itself.  His toes curled, knees falling closed until his wrist was trapped between his thighs, the wet sucking noise of his fingers in himself obscene.

Closer, closer, and Viktor was sobbing now, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, glands like open flames in his throat and wrists and thighs.  He hadn’t known it was possible for something to feel so good that it hurt.   That he could be so broken down by his own need.  So wholly and utterly wretched with it, all of Viktor made of glass, shattering apart.

Then Yuuri was there, being everything Viktor needed without realizing it.  Again, and again, and again.  Hissing out something rough in Japanese, and then, ‘Viktor, please.’

Please.

Viktor quaked all over, fresh slick dripping down his fingers, come painting pearly stripes on the floor underneath him.  When the rush of ecstasy rolled back he felt gutted, and Viktor laid down on the hardwood, pressing his face into the cool surface and panting for breath.  There were still little shivers running through him, and he didn’t try to fight it.  

Just laid there, trembling and filthy, savaged by his own biology.  He thought of going through it all again in a month, and just the idea was enough to make his chest go tight, dread pooling in his guts until he wanted to be sick.

He wasn’t sure he could do this again, not all alone.  Not here in Japan, but still without Yuuri.  

Not knowing that Yuuri wanted him, too.

But Yuuri could barely meet Viktor’s eyes without flustering and looking away.  He wouldn’t initiate anything himself, either afraid of rejection, or just anxious in general, Viktor didn’t know.  Maybe given enough time Yuuri would push past his nerves and find the courage to make a move, but Viktor wasn’t exactly patient in that moment.

Wasn’t exactly shy, either.

He cleaned himself up a little and dug through his belongings until he found a throw blanket he’d brought from home, something purple and soft that was tolerable on his skin.  Viktor covered himself with it, rubbing deliberately at his throat with the blanket, drowsiness tugging at his eyes as oil from his glands soaked into the fleece.  By the time his heat was over it would be filthy with his scent, Viktor’s need written into the very fabric, a message that was too plain to be misunderstood.

Viktor fell asleep with his face shoved into it, the rest of it tucked between his thighs, and all his dreams were bright with need.

And Yuuri.

….

He knocked on Yuuri’s door late Monday evening, fresh out of the shower and dressed in one of his own robes, barely through his cycle.  Viktor was still sore all over, his skin feeling as though it had been badly sunburned, like all of it had been peeled away to reveal a tender new layer underneath.  Red lips, flushed cheeks, the faint scent of his heat still clinging to him.  He expected Yuuri to be in much the same state, beautiful but bedraggled, ready to collapse into bed.

When Yuuri answered the door looking entirely put together, clean and fresh faced and rested, Viktor was surprised.  His brows furrowed briefly, and he swallowed down a huff, momentarily envious of the ease with which Yuuri had shaken off his cycle while Viktor himself was still vaguely miserable.  He took a step into Yuuri’s room, not far enough inside to be considered intrusive, eyes flitting greedily around the little space to take in as many details as he could.  Viktor hugged the bag he carried against his chest, and smiled.  Something wide, and genuine, and as different from the one he wore on the ice as day was from night.

“How are you feeling, Yuuri?  Ready to start training tomorrow?”  

Yuuri’s nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply, eyes going wide as he took in Viktor’s scent.  He shoved his glasses up higher on his nose, making a vague gesture in the air beside his head, still holding onto the door with one hand.

“Ahhh, fine, yes, I’m ready.”  Yuuri paused, still breathing too deeply, too quickly, nose scrunched up in confusion.  When he continued his voice was higher than before, careful and curious.  “Did you, ah… get yourself unpacked?”

Viktor waved his hand through the air dismissively then, fighting to urge to rifle through Yuuri’s belongings.

Lay in his bed.  Mark it with his scent.  Tuck himself under the blankets and wait for Yuuri to crawl in next to him.

“Oh, no, I wasn’t unpacking.  I was in heat.  You’re better at it than me, aren’t you, Yuu-ri?  Faster, at least.  It takes me three whole days.”  

The look on Yuuri’s face was entirely too amusing, blatant shock and disbelief written all over him.  Viktor felt bad for a moment, guilty, but then he remembered the vicious, deep seated ache of spending his heat alone, and it ebbed back to something manageable.  Yuuri choked on air, blinking fast, cheeks flushing bright hot as he stammered over his reply.

“Ehh… B-Better at what, now?”  Viktor just smiled wide, shrugging, utterly nonchalant.

“At being in heat.  I can barely even smell it in here, you must have finished yours yesterday to have aired it out this well.”

Yuuri gaped, mouth falling open, hand coming up to fist in his own shirt just over his heart.

“I wasn’t-  I don’t- I- I- I think you’re, uh-”  Viktor cut him off, saving Yuuri the embarrassment of denying something that was brutally obvious.  He thrust the bag in his arms towards Yuuri, giving him to choice but to take it.

“I have something for you Yuuri!”  Yuuri grabbed onto it instinctively, still staring at Viktor’s face.  Ingrained politeness kicked in, and Yuuri bowed, stuttering out his thanks even before finding out what Viktor had given him.

Still ten steps behind, but gracious nonetheless.

“Thank you, Viktor, but I can’t accept this,” Yuuri said, even as he clutched the gift tight and made no move to hand it back.  The words sounded automatic, an answer he was expected to give, but not one he necessarily meant.  Viktor clasped his hands behind him, an obvious refusal to take back the bag, rocking up and bouncing on his toes in excitement.

“No, no, I insist!  I know it’s a little old fashioned, but lots of people still do it in Russia, especially in the smaller towns.  I’m guessing it’s the same in Japan.”

The custom wasn’t unheard of in St. Petersburg, even if he personally hadn’t known of anyone who’d done it.  The presentation necklace he was wearing was a little less outdated, something that had been converted from an archaic custom into a more modern flirtation, but they still sold traditional courting blankets in plenty of places.  The purple fleece he’d used wasn’t one, but it was what he’d had available, and technically any blanket would do.

As long as an omega spent their heat with it before presenting it to the alpha courting them.  The one who triggered their heat in the first place, otherwise it was meaningless.  Maybe Yuuri wasn’t an alpha, wasn’t courting him, wasn’t expecting such an offering.

Viktor didn’t care.  The point of it was to show an omega’s interest in someone, in a visceral inarguable way.  The details were less important.

Everything was less important than the way Yuuri’s pupils blew wide as he pulled the blanket out of the bag, Viktor’s scent swallowing up all the air in the room.  Yuuri stared at the fabric in his hand, lifting it up to his face.  Pressed it to his nose, eyes closing as he breathed in deep.

Getting lost in the scent, like Viktor wasn’t there watching him, like he was alone in his room.  

He made a low noise in his throat, and Viktor felt want flare up in him again at the sound.  In his gut, and in his chest, and he leaned towards Yuuri without meaning to, instincts thrilling inside.  Yuuri’s fist went tighter in blanket, and when his eyes opened up again he looked dazed.  Blinking slow, lids heavy, cheeks still flushed bright.  He spoke without moving the fabric away from his nose and mouth, words muffled in the fleece, slow, almost drugged.

“This is a courting blanket, Viktor.”  It wasn’t a question, but Viktor nodded anyway, and Yuuri whined, hiding his face in the blanket for a long moment before letting just his eyes peek over the top, lenses of his glasses glaring.  “We barely know each other.”  Viktor shrugged one shoulder, index finger laid over his mouth, eyes flitting coyly up to the ceiling.

“You made quite an impression at the Grand Prix Final, not to mention the banquet.”  His eyes found Yuuri’s again, the corner of his mouth quirking up, totally shameless.  “I’ve had a heat every month since then.  Do you know what that’s like, Yuuri?  No one told me they were quite so miserable.”  

Viktor laughed, airy and high.  Yuuri was still staring, something else creeping into his expression alongside the shock.  Something deadpan and unamused, and Viktor felt like he was being judged somehow, but shook off the sensation and continued.

“It’s usually customary to reciprocate a month later, but you don’t have to do anything like that.   I want you focused on your training.  But I’m most likely going to have to take three days off again in a month, and the month after that, and I figured it would be better if things were out in the open between us.  It’s important to be honest with one another if I’m going to coach you, don’t you think, Yuuri?”

Yuuri was quiet for long enough that it started to get awkward.  He knew Yuuri was less forward than he’d initially thought, and he hadn’t expected an immediate response, but he’d expected… something.  Something more than this protracted, anxious silence, Yuuri staring at him like he was a puzzle to be worked.  One that was turned the wrong way, missing pieces.

More trouble than it was worth.

Yuuri had thrown himself at Viktor months ago, reckless and unabashed.  All those long months of silence, and Viktor thought Yuuri had changed his mind, but the last few days had made it clear that Yuuri was still interested.

Interested enough that his body had thrown him into heat.  Interested enough to call out for Viktor in the midst of it.  He’d thrown himself at Viktor, and now Viktor was throwing back, putting himself out there, heart on his sleeve.  Making himself vulnerable in a way he never had before.

Giving someone the power to break him, when Viktor was unbreakable.  At least on the outside.  

He did all his shattering alone when no one else was looking, but now he’d handed Yuuri a hammer with a smile.

Yuuri didn’t say a word.  Just looked increasingly stressed, eyes darting from the blanket to Viktor and back again, breathing too fast, folding in on himself.  Shoulders hunched, brows furrowed, panic rolling off him in waves.  

The blanket was meant to be a gift, something he thought Yuuri would be pleased to receive.  Surprised, but pleased.

Yuuri seemed the opposite of pleased.  Like he weighed a thousand pounds suddenly, and it was Viktor’s fault.  He’d moved too fast.  Too much, too soon.  Careless, and impatient, and now he’d managed to hurt Yuuri, even if he wasn’t sure how.  Yakov’s voice echoed in his head, something he’d said again and again.

You have to think before you speak, Vitya!  Before you act!  You can’t just do whatever you please and expect it to work out in the end.

But Viktor had never quite learned how that worked.  Didn’t realize he was doing something thoughtless until after it was already done.

Ten years later, more, and he was still a child, seeing something he wanted and reaching out to claim it.

It had served him well so far in life, that unceasing hunger to be the best, to take what he wanted.  But Yuuri wasn’t a medal, wasn’t a podium, wasn’t a victory.  He was a person, bending under the weight of what Viktor had laid out for him.  Strong in places, fragile in others.  Silk over steel, glass over stone.

Viktor shifted in place, the discomfort thickening between them until he couldn’t stand it any longer, backing himself up into Yuuri’s doorway.

Running away.

“Anyway, I’ll see you in the morning and we can start of getting you back into shape!”

He laughed, high and forced, before turning back towards his room and calling for Makkachin.  Viktor waited for her in the hall, Yuuri’s eyes boring into his back, drilling down into him.  Picking him apart, and when Makka bounded around the corner Viktor crouched down to lavish her in affection, grateful for the distraction.  He baby talked her all the way into his room, and then when his door was closed he sat on the floor leaning against it, face in his hands.  There it was, inevitable, inescapable.  Like clockwork.

His post-heat depression, something else he’d given teeth, biting into him with a vengeance.  Except there was no Mila here to help him, no familiar bed, no comforts of home.  Only Makkachin, and the unforgiving floor beneath his futons.

The merciless solitude of things he wanted, sitting just out of his reach.  

Chapter Text

Viktor rolled out of Yuuri’s room like a storm.  

Just as destructive, just as oblivious to the devastation left in his wake.  Yuuri stood there for a long moment, frozen in place, blinking at the doorway after him.  He felt forlorn, like driftwood clinging to the sand after a night full of thunderous waves, debris scattered along the shore in the sunshine of a new day.  Bereft, out of place in his skin, something stronger than panic clawing its way out of his chest.

Yuuri moved on autopilot and closed his door, robotic steps carrying him back to bed, more muscle memory than intent.  He sat on the edge of the mattress, body screaming for air, except he just couldn’t breathe.

The tangle of his emotions was tight around his chest, and they drew Yuuri in on himself, making him smaller.  Yuuri pulled his knees up, holding the blanket Viktor had given him at arm’s length and staring. As though studying it would force it to make some kind of sense, would make it more believable.

A courting blanket.

Just thinking the words had Yuuri sucking in a shuddering breath, and exhaling rough, a whine pouring out of his throat unbidden.  A gift from Viktor.

Because Yuuri had triggered Viktor’s heat.  Which was…

Impossible.  Something out of Yuuri’s fantasies, so embarrassing in their absurdity that he’d never dared give them voice.

Except Viktor showing up in Japan to train him was impossible, too.  Absurd, and yet there he was, against all odds. Sleeping in Yuuri’s home, eating his mother’s cooking, soaking in the hot springs.

Going through his heat a few feet away, nothing but the inn’s thin walls keeping them apart.  Writhing, and moaning, and sore. Aching.

Aching for Yuuri.

Yuuri made another desperate little sound without meaning to, warmth flaring up weakly in his belly.  Need, unable to assert itself as fiercely as his instincts wanted in the aftermath of his cycle, his body too spent.  His ears rang, and his hand shook, straining in spite of the feather-light weight of the cloth between his fingers.

Slowly, like it might disappear, Yuuri brought it in close to his face.  Shut his eyes, and pressed it to his nose. Inhaled, and inhaled, and inhaled.  It wasn’t hard to breathe, anymore.

It was all he could do.

Viktor’s scent inundated the fabric, honey sweet and overwhelming, filling up Yuuri’s lungs until it felt like they might burst.  He couldn’t stop his mind from running wild, imaging Viktor naked in his room, rubbing the soft fabric of the blanket against his glands.  Into his throat, over his wrists. Between his thighs, the faintest trace of something else clinging to the cloth, something stronger than the warmth of Viktor’s scent.

His slick, and his come, things that weren’t technically supposed to make their way into the folds and fleece of a courting blanket, but usually did all the same.  Under the nerves, under the painful tangle of anxiety, under the frantic breaths he took, something in Yuuri was preening in triumph.

Something that insisted he’d been chosen by Viktor, that nothing else mattered.

Except Yuuri’s hands still shook.  His lungs hurt, and his eyes stung, and he couldn’t stop making a wounded noise in the back of his throat.  Why would Viktor want him, of all people?  They’d only crossed paths briefly at the final, and Yuuri had been an embarrassment, both in competition and afterwards.  Viktor said he’d made an impression at the banquet, but Yuuri didn’t even remember anything after his ninth or tenth glass of champagne.  

Was this just something Viktor did?  Hand out courting blankets as a flirtation?  Only heats were evidence of more than a casual interest, not a passing fancy.  Viktor had also implied he wasn’t used to going into heat, especially not more than once in a row, and it wasn’t something he could feign.  The proof was right there, swirling through Yuuri’s lungs, creeping into him to coil in his chest.

Yuuri’s mind kept reaching, desperate to make sense of Viktor’s actions, to make it less real.  Force it to make sense. Trying to find falsity, and coming up empty.

‘I’ve had a heat every month since then.  Do you know what that’s like, Yuuri?’

He’d said it so blithely, like Yuuri couldn’t possibly know what it was like to endure a handful of heats in a row, as though he was suffering in a way Yuuri couldn’t understand.

Poor Viktor, with his three cycles, how awful.

It had been hard not to scoff, not to roll his eyes, not to laugh darkly in Viktor’s face.

Hard not to start crying, the weight of all those years of heat pressing down on him until it felt like Yuuri was burning with it.  Alone— again, and again, and again. Miserable in the solitude of his want with no end in sight.

Except there was, now.  The promise of fulfillment, of all his dreams come true.  Of Viktor in his bed, and in his arms. Underneath him, splayed out in Yuuri’s sheets, tangled up in the fabric, flushed and wet and desperate.

He’d come to Hasetsu to coach Yuuri, but now that seemed secondary.  A side quest, a subplot. Was this what he was really after when he boarded a plane to Japan with all his belongings in tow?  Was coaching an excuse to get close, to try and make Yuuri his? It was flattering that Viktor wanted him. Vindicating, satisfying.  And yet at the same something bitter surged up in Yuuri, resentful and displeased.

Yuuri wanted Viktor, but he didn’t only want Viktor.  He wanted to be Viktor’s equal, to be worthy of his attentions, both on and off the ice.  For most of his life trying to keep up with Viktor had been a driving force in everything he did.

Having all his dreams handed to him without fighting for them was a hollow sort of victory.

Did Viktor see anything worthwhile in his abilities, in his talent, or was it instinctive attraction driving him to claim what he desired by any means necessary?  Hurt simmered just beneath his skin, layered with uncertainty, but even as it bloomed in him he felt ridiculous.

Fate had come through with miracles, and Yuuri was still ungrateful, always wanting something different, something more.  Wanting everything, but on his own terms, without compromising or settling for less.

Greedy.

God, he was greedy.

He could feel himself spiraling, taking something that should have been a positive thing and twisting it into something dark and ugly instead.  

Taking a gift, and fixating on all the ways it could go wrong.  

All the ways he could ruin it, and waste it.  Weighing the risks versus the benefits.

How much will it hurt when I fuck this up?

Yuuri fumbled out his phone and tapped at it one handed with clumsy fingers, refusing to drop the blanket away from his face.  He held his breath, muttering to himself as it rang.

“C’mon, don’t do this to me man, pick up.”  A click, a rustle, some music playing faintly in the background, and then-

“Hey, Yuuri!  Your heat over?  How’d it go, everything okay?”

Yuuri whimpered, a nasal, unattractive sound, dragging on for what felt like ages.

“Phichit.”   It was spoken into the blanket, coming out muffled and quiet.  There was a pause, and when Phichit spoke again he was louder, closer.

“You sound weird, I can barely hear you.  What’s wrong? Did something happen with Viktor?”

Yuuri had been texting him incessantly since Viktor arrived, channeling his wild emotions into barely articulate keysmashes and random punctuation, though he’d slowed down a bit during the peaks of his heat.  Now Phichit sounded worried, and he knew Yuuri well enough to be worried for the right reasons.

Worried that Yuuri was stressing, even if nothing bad had happened, and Phichit was always there for him.  Assuring him that what he was feeling was valid, that it wasn’t an overreaction, that he was allowed.

That he could own his emotions, without them owning him.  

Yuuri made another throaty whimper, then turned his face toward the phone so it wasn’t buried in fleece.

“Viktor went into heat after he got here.  He knows I went into heat, knows it was because of him.  He gave me a courting blanket, Phichit.”

There was a loud clattering noise, followed by Phichit swearing in Thai, and Yuuri couldn’t help wondering what he’d just dropped.  His lips curved in a shaky grin, and the tiniest bit of his anxiety ebbed away. Enough that he didn’t feel breathless, that he didn’t feel made of glass.

“He did not,” Phichit hissed, and Yuuri’s smile went wider, even as his eyes watered, moisture filling them and threatening to spill over.

“He absolutely did, yes.”

Phichit made an inhuman noise, something between a squeal and a groan, with enough volume that Yuuri had to pull the phone away from his ear for a moment.

“Oh my god, he just got there, he’s so stupid,” Phichit said, and Yuuri laughed.  

“He’s not stupid, he’s-”

“ He’s so dumb!   Why would he do that before you even start training, you’re going to be a mess, Yuuri, he couldn’t have waited?  I knew something like this was going to happen, but I didn’t-”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Yuuri interrupted, cutting off Phichit’s rant, “what do you mean, you knew something like this was going to happen?”

Phichit huffed out a weary sigh, and Yuuri could feel his judgemental stare, even without seeing it.

“Yuuri.  You posted a video of yourself skating one of his routines, and Viktor ‘I-have-no-fucking-chill’ Nikiforov immediately dropped out of competition, loaded up everything he owns, and hauled ass to Japan on a red eye to coach you.  He trolls my Instagram for pictures of you religiously. He wanted to sleep in your bed with you.   I knew he was going to be ridiculous, but I didn’t think he’d be this ridiculous.  I assumed he’d spend the pre-season flirting shamelessly with you and ease you into things, not give you an honest-to-god courting blanket on his third day there like some sort of trashy 1950’s pulp romance novel.  Yuuri, he’s brilliant, and he’s pretty, but-”

“He’s so stupid,”  Yuuri said through a smile, holding his phone between his face and his shoulder to paw at the overwhelmed tears tracking down his cheeks.  

“He’s so stupid.”  

Yuuri took a few steadying breaths, nose buried in the blanket again, Viktor’s scent swirlling around him.  Mixing with his own, making his instincts settle and calm in spite of everything.

“What do I do, Phichit?  What if he doesn’t really want to coach me?  Or- or what if he coaches me, and then changes his mind and realizes he’s not really interested?  He doesn’t even know me, what if he gets to know me and doesn’t want me anymore? I’m a stranger, and he just-”

“Shhh, hey, just breathe for a second, okay?  All of this applies to you, too. What if you don’t really want him to coach you?  What if you change your mind and realize you aren’t interested? What if you get to know him and don’t want him anymore?  He’s a real person, and he’s probably nervous too, he’s just more impulsive than you are. I bet he’s second guessing himself like crazy right now.  What did you do when he gave it to you? What did you say?”

“I…  I didn’t really say much of anything, just that we barely know each other.  Then I just kind of… awkwardly stared at him until he left.”

“Oh god, that’s beautiful, he’s probably in his room crying,” Phichit said, more amused than he had any right to be, laughter in his voice.

“Phichit,” Yuuri groaned, covering his face with his palm, “I don’t know what I’m doing, you’re supposed to be helping!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, okay, here’s what you do.  You be honest. We both know you’re going to sleep with that blanket, so leave it on your bed where he can see it.  Thank him for it, tell him you like it, but that you’re understandably a little overwhelmed right now. Ask him to be patient with you, tell him you want to focus on your training.  He won’t mind giving you some time, and if he does then he’s an asshole and he doesn’t deserve you and I’ll fly over there right now and stab him with an ice skate.” Yuuri laughed again, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand.  “I’m dead serious,” Phichit continued, undeterred, “I’m not afraid to go back to prison.”

“You’ve never even been to prison.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”  Yuuri huffed in response, rolling his eyes, but still grinning.  The silence stretched out between them, and it was Phichit who finally broke it, his voice soft and low.  “You okay?”

Yuuri sighed, swallowing a few times, blinking the lingering wetness out of his eyes.

“Yes.  Yeah, I’m-  I’ll be okay.  It’s not a bad thing, right?  It’s… amazing, actually, just… big.  Fast.”

“I think this could be good for you, as long as you don’t go jumping in head first and getting hurt.  Slow it down, take your time. Make Viktor work for it, yeah? Bat those stupidly long eyelashes-”

“My eyelashes are not st-”

“-and smile that fucky, shy smile you have, where your cheeks go all pink-”

“ Shut up-”

“He’s done for, Yuuri.  You’re gonna kick this season’s ass.  You’re gonna land the podium, and you’re gonna land your man, and I’m gonna be cheering you on the whole damn way.  You got this, okay?”

Yuuri took a deep breath.  Held it, one, two, three. Let it out slow, nodding, sitting up straight and squaring his shoulders.

“Okay.”

-

A sharp noise broke through the fog of Yuuri’s dozing, tap tap tap, just loud enough to have him stirring.  He stretched, spine arching as he twisted in his sheets, reaching out with one hand to pull the warm fabric of Viktor’s blanket up tighter against his face.  Willing his eyes open was more of an effort than usual with Viktor’s scent in his nose, trying to lull him back to sleep, and he rolled over on his back with a quiet little whine.  

“Yuuri.”

Viktor’s voice, louder than it should have been through the door.  Yuuri’s hips twitched up at the sound of it, cock throbbing in his pajamas, the cloth tented up as it often was in the morning.  He pried open his lids to find Viktor just inside his room, a starstruck expression on his face, eyes wide and lips parted.

Oh, he thought, that’s right.

He’d gone to sleep without setting an alarm, left his door open wide, and waited for morning.  Because Yuuri would talk to Viktor, sure, but he wasn’t always good at conversations.

Yuuri was better at show than tell.

So he’d let Viktor find him in bed, hard in his clothes, flushed and aroused with the courting blanket pressed into his nose.  Yuuri blinked slow, and smiled, and Viktor’s hand came up to absently fist in his clothes, right over his heart. Embarrassment riled hot in Yuuri, but he tamped it down, refusing to give an inch.

“Mmmm, Viktor.  ‘m sorry, I forgot to set an alarm.”

Viktor waved one hand through the air, a placating gesture.

“No, no, it’s okay.  It’s our first day, no worries.”

Yuuri gritted his teeth against the mortification that was trying to take hold in him, and arched again, shoving the blanket tight against his mouth to breath in deep.  He eased his other hand down his chest, his fingertips slipping under the waistband of his pajamas. Suggestive, the intent unmistakable.

“I think I need a few minutes, if you don’t mind.  I’ll be out in a bit.”

Viktor blushed bright and hot, eyes locked on Yuuri’s hand as it dipped further into his clothes.  He nodded mindlessly, but didn’t move, and Yuuri fought down a smile.

“Shut the door on your way out?”  Yuuri said, voice lilting.

It broke Viktor out of his stupor, and he stumbled backwards through Yuuri’s door, tripping over his feet briefly before finding his balance again.

“Oh, of course, uh, I-  I’ll just-”

Viktor closed the door on himself before he could finish speaking.  There was a single thud, and Yuuri snorted into his knuckles, unable to help himself.

He knew what it sounded like when someone banged their head on the wall.

Yuuri pulled a pillow over his face, and left it there for a bit while he tried to remember how to exist.

Then he took himself in hand.  Called Viktor’s name, maybe louder than entirely necessary, and came hard, fingers slick, fluid pooling messy over his belly.

If he reveled in the hissed Russian profanity he could hear through the wall, well.

This was all Viktor’s fault, anyway.