“You know,” Yuuri murmurs, quiet in the early dawn light, running his thumb along Victor’s cheek with such open tenderness that Victor could almost weep, “I was so afraid of it, for so long.”
“Afraid of what, my love?” Victor replies, kissing Yuuri’s palm, his wrist, as he continues to touch.
“Sex,” Yuuri says, matter of fact, unashamed.
“Ah,” Victor says, trying to keep the note of surprise out of his voice.
“I was so afraid it would hurt,” Yuuri continues, beginning to hesitate a little bit and monitor Victor’s expression.
It’s fine, Victor tells him with his eyes, the nod of his head, I don’t mind you talking about this.
“I heard, ah, it’ll hurt the first time, but your instincts will make you like it. That it would hurt because alphas don’t prepare you enough even if you can get wet yourself. I was scared. So,” he went on, quickly, “I’m glad my first time was with you. And that it didn’t hurt. And it was good, so good.”
“It should be good,” Victor says, thoughtfully. “It should always be good.”
It’s good with you, Victor thinks.
“Am I enough for you?” Yuuri frets. “I mean, I can’t… Biologically, I can’t…”
“Am I enough for you?” Victor shoots back.
“Yes,” Yuuri gasps, “Yes, but you’re Victor Nikiforov.”
They are in Hatsetsu, taking in the peaceful, quiet moments between the Rostelecom Cup and the Grand Prix final. It’s cold outside, but they warm each other with the heat of their bodies. Makkachin slumbers in the small space next to them, blissfully calm after her near-death experience.
“Haven’t we already been over this?” Victor laughs. “You’re perfect. Japan’s ace.”
“I’m sorry,” Yuuri blurts out, “I don’t mean to be so anxious about this. I’m just not used to wanting. Or, wanting and not being too nervous to do anything.”
“Oh?” Victor teases. “You want me?”
“Yes,” Yuuri says, softly.
“Oh Yuuri,” Victor breathes, lips turning up into a giddy smile. “Please believe how much I want you, too.”
Yuuri blushes cutely and Victor kisses him, inhales something sweet like cherry blossoms. Their relationship is so new, budding just like a flower in spring, and even though Yuuri knows about him, about the trauma in his past, he can’t quite verbalize it to Yuuri yet.
Communication is still an elusive, flighty thing. When they can’t find it, there are misunderstandings and tears. Victor needs to learn how to process and support Yuuri’s anxiety, and Yuuri needs to take in Victor’s past without judgement. Victor is still so wary of what Yuuri might say.
One day in the near future, after the stressful Grand Prix Final is finished, he’ll sit down and make Yuuri tea, just like Hiroko showed Victor Yuuri likes it. It will be quiet and soft and Victor will be calm, content, fighting through the fluttering nerves in his stomach.
He’ll explain, “I don’t need an alpha. I don’t want an alpha. I still can’t think of being knotted by one without wanting to vomit, so please - you’ve always been enough. And I’m so, so glad that I love you and that you’re an omega, because I never want to sleep with an alpha ever again.”
Yuuri will cry, and Victor’s heart will thump painfully in his chest, and they’ll hold each other after, during a bitterly cold winter night. Yuuri won’t judge him, though, won’t tell him what he should need or should want.
And Yuuri will whisper I love you as he cries, pressing the words into Victor’s cheeks and hands and forehead with his lips, and Victor will feel lighter than he has in years.
It’s been so, so long since he’s been loved like this.
Oh, it’s hot, it’s so hot. Victor is eighteen and wanton and moaning loud enough that the neighbors already came down once to bang on the door. There’s an alpha behind him, whose name Victor didn’t bother to learn because it won’t matter come tomorrow morning.
It’s not his heat, but he’s so good, so hot and so good. A full-bodied giggle makes his back curl upward, and he ruts back onto the fingers scissoring him open, wide and thick.
“Moooore,” he moans, barely coherent. “Faster, faster.”
The alpha teases him more, licking a wet stripe along the curve where his thighs meet his ass, taking in his slick and his sweat. He spreads his cheeks wide and licks him, pressing his tongue into Victor’s hole, and Victor squeals in pleasure.
“Yesss,” he nearly sobs, “Yes, yes, yes-”
Victor practically begs the alpha to shove his thick cock inside him already, pretty pretty please. Victor wants, he wants, he wants.
The friction burns delightfully, the sounds of skin and the smells of alpha and omega pheromones mingling is almost enough for Victor to lose himself completely.
(He never loses himself completely. Even at the peak of his heats, his rational mind can remind him to drink, to eat, to think - he’s never fully gone, and he suspects his partners aren’t either.)
“I’m going to fill you up,” the alpha growls as he fucks him, “I’m going to fill you up with my come, till you’re swollen and full of me.”
“Oh, oh, oh,” Victor gasps. He’s not worried about pregnancy, he’s been on birth control since he was fifteen and his single heat a year isn’t for another two months, but he can let the alpha pretend.
The alpha grips his long silver hair, pulled back into a thick braid, and pulls.
Victor comes, and comes, and moans at the way the alpha fills him, on his hands and knees, sloppy and begging and having so much fun.
The next morning, in the early light of dawn, he snaps a picture, then another and another, struggling with the angle as he can’t see himself on the gen-one iPhone camera. Eventually, annoyed, he prods the alpha awake and asks him to take the picture.
It’ll go on Myspace later, probably. The description will probably be Mornings in Venice, because he’s in Venice, celebrating a successful touring ice show, but he’ll be sure to play up the playful pout of his kiss-bitten lips, the gentle part of his thighs, barely covered by a buttondown shirt two sizes too big.
This alpha was a good lay, but he wasn’t too much better than the one in Paris, or the one in Beijing, or the one in Colorado Springs.
Yakov is probably going to yell at him, but Victor lies back, sated and giddy, and finds he doesn’t mind.
The cameras flash, bright and loud. Yuuri blinks, still half-blind without his glasses, grasping for something to ground him from the overwhelming rush of emotions. A scent wafts over him, sweet and cloying and sharp like wintermint - and he relaxes, breathing it in along with the familiar heady cold of fresh ice.
Victor comes up behind him and holds him close, warming him with his body and his scent, his arms wrapping a tight embrace around his stomach and his cheek cool against Yuuri’s flushed face.
“You were wonderful, solnyshko,” he murmurs into Yuuri’s ear, and Yuuri shivers.
The press is jabbering already, throwing questions at him that quickly blur together as he stammers out answers.
“N-no, I’m not retiring after this season.”
“Yes, I feel I improved greatly from the last season.”
“I think it’ll be very interesting to be competing against my coach next season.”
Yuuri can picture the press releases already, his red-flushed cheeks, Victor pressed up behind him - but it’s hard to worry about that now, not with the heavy weight of silver against his chest and the softness of Victor’s skin right there.
“Your program was bold, sexual - almost scandalous. I know every alpha in the building had their eyes on you. Tell me, did your coach play a part in that sexual awakening?”
Yuuri goes bright red. He feels Victor stiffen, and not in a sexy way. He’s not sure whether this particular reporter is commenting on his and Victor’s relationship, very public very quickly, or Victor’s famously (or infamously, depending on who’s commenting) shameless sexuality.
Yuuri has always admired his confidence. He hates that anyone would want to take that away.
“My program was on love,” Yuuri says, hoping he sounds firmer than he feels under the reporter’s strangely intense stare, “All kinds of love. Eros is just one component of a feeling too big for me to put one label on, and it’s inspired by the people in my life who love me.”
The reporter, Russian going by his accent, makes a small tutting sound. “Come now, don’t be shy. It’s hard not to see some threads of young Victor in you, with you in a costume of his that infamously was inspired by bondage and lingerie.”
Yuuri knows this. Fifteen year old Victor had been quite clear on this costume’s inspiration - and had even expressed interest in modeling actual lingerie, which had caused a lot of gleeful squealing on the forums Yuuri frequented as a kid but was in no uncertain terms shot down by a furious Yakov Feltsman.
This reporter’s gaze, a strange mix of leering and disapproving, flicks from Yuuri to Victor back to Yuuri.
“I have always loved this costume,” Yuuri stammers. “It’s what Victor wore at his senior debut, a-and the program he skated is still one of my favorites. It was such a big part of why I decided to take up skating professionally. Even at such a young age, I knew. I wanted to skate on the same ice as Victor.”
The other surrounding reporters make cooing sounds, already crafting headlines about how the grand prix silver medalist fell in love with his childhood icon, and Yuuri relaxes a little bit. Feels Victor relax a little bit.
“This will be the first time you’ve really earned significant prize money from a senior event outside of Japanese nationals,” a different reporter pipes up, Italian maybe, and Yuuri winces at the reminder of his late success, “What do you plan on doing with it?”
“Is Victor forcing you to put it away in his charity?”
There’s that same reporter from earlier. Yuuri swallows, caught off guard by just how aggressive he is.
“He’s a brilliant skater and he won on his own talents, therefore he can do what he wants with the prize money,” comes Victor’s voice, sharp and annoyed, “How much did you bribe for your press pass this year, hm?”
There’s a very awkward pause at this, and Yuuri feels the tension, thick as fog in the air. He really doesn’t like this reporter.
“I am going to do what I want with the prize money,” Yuuri echoes Victor, staring the reporter in the eye. “And what I want is to donate all of it to Victor’s charity.”
Victor stiffens again, but his arms tighten around Yuuri’s stomach and his breath hitches in Yuuri’s ear.
The reporter’s eyes widen in shock, and he glares, furiously writing something down.
“If you’ll excuse us,” Victor smirks, “We are both very tired and need to prepare for the banquet. No more questions at this time.”