#asteawrites

With a heavy sigh, Viktor plucked the glasses from Makka’s mouth and wiped them clean of any residual dirt. Glad for the oversized hoodie he had managed to grab before being thrust amongst a throng of strangers, Viktor pulled the hood tighter around his head to prevent exposure of his extremely distinctive head and weaved his way through the crowd forming around them. The soft, high lilt of the Japanese pleasantly rang in Viktor’s ears, reminding himself of why he had gone through the risk of being house arrested again. Wandering around the host city for this year’s Meeting of the Royals, it was easy to forget that his beloved companion had somehow drenched herself in mud, but the slight pressure of the glasses in his hand was a stark enough reminder.

A very puzzled Viktor made his way through the city’s populated areas and into side streets that led to pockets of silence and tranquility. His bewilderment did not stop him from marveling the wonder of the city, and he wished he were more familiar with the different kinds of human settlements.

[Practically of course. Not everything can be learned through a book.]

After finding a vending machine in the middle of the quiet street and spending his time ‘ooh’-ing and ‘ahh’-ing about it, Viktor purchased a cold green tea and a bottle of water. Making sure his hoodie covered his pants sufficiently enough, Viktor carefully seated himself in a discrete corner and proceeded to gently wash Makkachin off as much as he could with the water he had. Just as he was finishing his task, an abnormally loud sound had both him and Makka turn their heads around just in time to see a man in an oversized beige coat, scarf, face mask and is that a cat eared beanie?!?! stumbling from another side street onto theirs. The stranger managed to catch himself just short of planting his face into the wall and brushed his clothing in place. He froze on turning his head and spotting the pair staring at him, only letting his eyes turn to slits as he squinted at them.

The Russian Royal was fascinated by this man, and let his eyes roam up and down the bundled figure hoping that imprinting the scene in his mind now will let him remember this as one of the more exciting moments of his trip here. It was when he took in both the squinted eyes and the mud lined shoes the man was sporting did his mind clink. Wordlessly, he walked closer to the man, and before the stranger could flee Viktor offered the glasses to him, palm outstretched.

Cat-beanie man cautiously plucked the glasses from Viktor’s palm. As he rightfully placed them, his face lit up with relief and joy, and soon Viktor was attacked with various forms of ‘Thank you’ s and “I truly appreciate it’ s and “Your dog is adorable” s. The Japanese man punctuated every two words with a bow and Viktor could only grin as the stranger shook his hair out of his eyes each time, only to have them flop again at the next bow.

“You should really only be thanking Makkachin, she’s the real savior here!”

Cat-beanie man knelt down in front of his hero and patted her head. With the softest smile Viktor had ever seen on a person, the man whispered, “Thank you Makkachin, you really helped me out.”

His old girl barked in response and excitedly nuzzled her head into the petting, but Viktor was distracted by the image before him. Something in him trilled and put him on alert because he was sure that he had seen a watered down version of the smile before him recently. Not only that, but the way cat-beanie man moved, even when his hands were flailing about him as he apologized, made Viktor feel all the more certain that he had seen him somewhere.

Before he could voice the questions pooling at the tip of his tongue, however, the man straightened and looked at Viktor. “I’m sorry but I really need to get going. Thank you for all your help, I will forever remember this.” With a parting smile, he turned and left just as quickly as he had entered.

It took a while for Viktor to tear his eyes away from where the stranger had vanished to Makkachin’s curious ones. His body finally registered his exhaustion, and seeing that Makka felt the same, Viktor sighed, “Let’s go back Makka, we do have to get ready after all.” Shades that had been perched atop of his hoodie came back down again, and Viktor donned his urban battle costume before heading back to the stifling world he had no choice but to accept.

 -x- 

“Oh, the food is exquisite here! I need to have this in my life.”

Queen Hiroko, Empress of Japan clasped her hands together and giggled in glee. “Well, as it turns out, I actually helped make tonight’s dinner so if you ever want to learn I can always teach you!”

Viktor immediately lit up and beamed brighter than he ever thought he could, all the while completely failing to notice the gobsmacked expression on Crown Princess Mari’s face as she approached the pair. “Thank you so much, Your Majesty. It truly is an honour that you consider me worthy enough for your time and guidance. Especially as I have just gotten to know you properly.”

“Oh Your Royal Majesty-“

“Please do call me Viktor.”

“Viktor then. It really doesn’t feel like we have been recently acquainted. Why, my-“

“Mother!” A slight pressure by Viktor’s foot made him briefly glance down to the heel that Crown Princess Mari had just avoided stomping his shoe with in her haste to interrupt Her Majesty. “I think Father wants you by his side, it seems urgent.” As she straightened her figure, leaning away from her mother, the heir apparent for Japan tilted her head in the direction of the current ruler. His Majesty did seem to be glancing over at their group quite frequently, with each glance loaded with increasing desperation. Queen Hiroko sighed fondly, excused herself from their company, and made her way to her husband. King Toshiya visibly relaxed once she reached his side, and not for the first time did Viktor wish for a companion who could make him feel the same.

The sound of a throat clearing drew his attention away from his silent musings. The Tsar immediately plastered an apologetic smile for Mari who dismisses it with a wave of her hand and a nonchalant expression. “Honestly, they can be such a handful. The same can be said for us though.”

Viktor chuckled shortly before casting his gaze around the room. “I was told that you would be joined by His Royal Highness too for this event, was I mistaken? Or am I just not able to locate him here?”

Mari emitted her chortle behind a gloved hand as she said, “Oh Yuuri hasn’t made it to the floor yet I believe. It is his first time attending the event so I assume he’s nervous. The boy surprises me sometimes, so I wouldn’t put it past him to arrive exactly when he’s needed.”

“Hmm.” Viktor had been intrigued by what he had heard of the elusive second-in-line’s reputation and prowess. Loved by the majority of his kingdom, His Royal Highness Yuuri Katsuki rarely showed himself publicly and preferred to handle work in the shadows. Despite the obscurity, his reach and success in helping the rest of his family rule the country is apparent to his subjects and other nobility alike. The few times Viktor had seen the Prince were in broadcasts of the entire family, and even then he could not recall the Prince’s face for those public appearances were few and far between. By attending this year’s Meeting of the Royals in Japan, Viktor had hoped to finally be acquainted with the enigma. Seeing that he wasn’t even present at the event, though, made the Tsar slowly lose hope.

Well after his conversation with the Crown Princess of Japan, and his subsequent ones with the Crown Princes of France and Italy, Viktor found himself staring at an abandoned rose by a corner of the room, next to a high table littered with used glasses and plates. Drawn in by the striking hue of the flower, Viktor bent to pick up the midnight blue flower, marveling at the unusual shade. His fingers abruptly halted the turning of the flower when he heard a timid “Excuse me” and glancing over his shoulder he found a familiar face twisted in embarrassment.

Viktor could not move a muscle as he watched Cat-beanie man flap his mouth open and close for a few seconds before stuttering, “Um. I was searching for that but. Uh. It seems, you’ve,” Viktor’s eyes automatically flickered to the man’s lips as he licked them nervously, “found it. The rose. Ah, it’s for you. I mean, I got this for you so. Uh. It found it’s intended.” The sweet smile that punctuated his explanation twisted Viktor’s heart in a way he didn’t dislike, and he wanted to know more about the interesting man twisting his hands in front of him. Before he could ask though, the man suddenly jumped, and only when he straightened did Viktor’s mind finally put two and two together, the click echoing in his mind mockingly audible.

Day 3: Family

Viktor hums happily around his breaded pork as he savours the flavours Hiroko’s katsudon never fails to deliver on. He has tried katsudon in the airport, on the way to Hasetsu, and he knows that Hiroko’s is far superior. He may have cheated on her katsudon once by trying the one from the izakaya’s next door to Nagahama Ramen’s but even then, nothing compared to the Katsuki’s katsudon. Viktor is happy enough with his two other ventures into the land of katsudon to declare himself unbiased in opinion and fit to vote for the Katsuki-katsudon as the lord of the land.

Even if her katsudon is other-worldly, Viktor cannot have the dish every single day but he finds himself happy nonetheless. Between tempura, sashimi, soba and even miso soup, Viktor is as happy as a baby dragon nestled in the warmth of its mother’s wing. And Viktor admits to himself that he views Hiroko as a mother to him, which in turn makes him guilty because in her eyes he’s her son’s coach. A guest that could become a family-friend if fate felt kind. Viktor never dwells on this for too long, and he takes what he gets in stride, prepared to deal with any negative consequences when the time comes. It is Yuuri’s moment now, and if he can make Hiroko happy by extension, he will do it. Anything to help return even a smidge of the comfort he gets when he digs into his weekly katsudon.

Little does he know that Hiroko sits opposite him unabashedly counting Viktor as one of hers, blissed by the content the pure unfiltered joy that resides on Viktor’s face brings. She is as aware of his movements in the inn as she is of Mari’s and Yuuri’s, and she is learning to read Viktor as she reads her children. She knows that Viktor has a penchant for exploration and she never expected him to live by her cooking alone, but she ensures that Viktor’s dishes contain the same ingredient Mari’s and Yuuri’s do so that at the end of it all they gravitate back to the humble dishes of the inn.

Day 2: Cooking

Is our next door neighbour cooking again?!

Yuuri can’t help the feelings of slight dread and admiration for the first year college student whose flat is right next to theirs. [Yuuri also has to take a moment, even after a year of being married, to absorb the idea that he shares a flat with Viktor Nikiforov of all people] If Yuuri was as bad at putting together a dish as the poor student, he would have resorted to take out within months of trying. Yuuri ‘Stubborn’ Katsuki-Nikiforov [internal whale noises], would give up then. That alone speaks volumes.

To be fair, Yuuri muses, it’s not as bad as it usually is. The charred smell borders just on the lighter side of uncomfortable, and there is not accompanying odour which is always a positive sign. Righting the shoulder straps of his backpack, Yuuri makes his way to his-their- apartment, only to stop when he realizes that the smell is unmistakably originating from within.

Yuuri frankly thinks that this is absurd.

Despite what the world thinks, Viktor can actually cook edible food. Not just enough to make do, oh no, the man has to make sure that he is a Living Legend in everything because the dishes he produces are worthy of being served in Michelin star restaurants. This has been a point of frustration to Yuuri time and again, beginning from the first breakfast in bed he received. He would never forget the day one of his favourite 13-year old fantasies of making-sure-‘The Victor Nikiforov’-could-only-eat-Yuuri’s-undisputed-superior-homecooked-meals shattered, because Viktor could survive on making a living out of his food and still afford his wardrobe.

Which is why the fact that anything could be burnt to the point that it could be evident to their whole floor is just plain absurd to Yuuri.

Steeling himself, Yuuri opens the door slightly and peeks around the frame.

“Vitya? Makkachin?”

A happy ‘boof’ greets him, but none of the flat’s occupants actually make it to the door, so Yuuri lets himself in, sets everything down while slipping out of his shoes and into his pair of fluffy poodle ones [he couldn’t resist] and makes his way to the kitchen.

What greets him at the door makes him screech to a halt by the frame.

Everything that Viktor’s fans have ever speculated about the state of the kitchen once he has worked his way through it is laid out right in front of his eyes. From splattered cream on the wall to flour coating every surface visible to egg shells scattered across the floor in a manner mimicking the minefields Yuuri saw just the other day in an anime he was watching. There’s an unidentifiable – ‘crap mountain’ is what Yuuri’s mind helpfully supplies – in one corner, and Makkachin noses at her water bowl that has a smear of cream on the side.

What Viktor’s fans got wrong, though, was Viktor himself. In all the fanfiction that Yuuri has read (and oh has he read many), Viktor is essentially some variant of him standing sheepishly in the kitchen with an apron that could rival one of a waitress’s in a maid café but still proud of being able to create something that could be tasted. And all the Viktors had bright, wide smiles on their faces in every scenario.

His Viktor, Yuuri finds, is propped against the island in the kitchen, seated on the floor in what must have originally been a plain white apron but is now adorned with splatters of cream and beige and brown, a shellshocked look on his face as he stares at the glowing oven door right opposite. He hasn’t even noticed that Yuuri is there.

“Vitya?” tries Yuuri tentatively starting to inch towards him but holding back in fear of ruining his slippers.

This Viktor hears, because his head turns ever so slowly towards Yuuri, and he barely manages a strained, “Yuuri” before tears spill.

Yuuri scrambles to get his slippers off so that he can reach Viktor as fast as he can, but he’s only halfway through when he hears the familiar wail-whine he fondly associates with his husband.

“I failed Yuuri! I wanted to make the best croquembouche and I failed. I don’t have a wow factor in me anymore, look at this failure of a husband you have!”

Yuuri gets lost at cro-what the hell is that.

Realizing that Viktor is waiting on him, Yuuri clears his throat.

“I’m sorry Viktor, but I don’t understand…”

That is all it takes for Viktor to start. “I was watching this video that I got tagged on by a fan of mine because the thumbnail looked so interesting and so edible and I couldn’t help myself. Croquembouche, Yuuri. How have I never heard of this before? And did you know MasterChef also happens in Australia? Because I didn’t but now I do and they do croquembouche as a challenge and it’s so amazing Yuuri it’s the perfect dessert and I wanted to make it and I can’t and I’m the biggest failure ever!”

Thankful that this wasn’t serious, and exasperated as well, Yuuri sighs.

“And a croquembouche is..?”

Viktor is up and by Yuuri’s side in a flash, phone ready in hand open on a picture that has grandiose labelled all over it, with flowers too. Yuuri can see why Victor was attracted to it (Yuuri is too) and he leans into Viktor, rubbing his palm vertically on his back, “There there. I understand. It looks tough.”

“It is!” Viktor’s impossibly huge eyes always manage to reel Yuuri in, and now he’s reduced to just listening to him ramble about Masterchef Australia and recurring appearances of croquembouche. When Viktor rounds his speech back to mournfully wailing about his failure, Yuuri puts a finger to his lips, effectively cutting him off.

“Just because you can’t make this croquem-thing-a-ma-jig doesn’t mean you can’t cook. And it definitely doesn’ label you as a failure. Plus, you just told me that everyone in this Masterchef struggles with it and barely manages to do it perfectly, and they are training to be professionals. You are a figure skater-turned-coach. You can take your time to make a perfect dessert, you don’t have to do it today.”

Viktor sniffles and Yuuri knows that the storm’s over. They both then simultaneously turn to look at their disaster of a kitchen. Viktor sighs, “Let me clean this while you go relax. I’ll be out soon.”

“I just spent a day at Yurio’s beating him at Mario Kart. I am relaxed. I’ll help.”

Before Viktor can protest, Yuuri adds, “If we do it fast together, we can both watch and study how croquembouches are made on Masterchef with Makkachin.”

Yuuri looked at the weather doll hanging from the window and then turned to look at Victor, who seemed to be scrutinizing the doll the same way he scrutinized Yuuri’s jumps. Looking back at the doll, Yuuri noticed the St.Petersburg skyline in the backdrop and the imagery was so disconnected from what it usually used to be he felt slightly disconcerted.

Yuuri had never had good memories associated with the ‘teru-teru-bozu’ itself. As a child, he was often disappointed that it wouldn’t be effective against the weather whenever he wished for it, that the skies were always undeterred in their agenda when he wanted them to change. After the third failed attempt at wishing the rain away, he lost faith in its charm, and no matter what his mother would say, he would always be skeptical about its potency.

Blinking once, Yuuri realized that other than the backdrop, the difference between his past and present was not significant. The skepticism about the whole process was still present, the fluttering doll seemed to taunt Yuuri all the same, and the air was warm – reminiscent of the atmosphere that would linger in Yuutopia. His mother would hang the ‘teru-teru-bozu’, Mari, having clasped her hands, would recite the special prayer she made, and his father’s amused chuckle would always serve as a background soundtrack. Yuuri realized that the only other difference from then was the presence of his family, and although he missed them as the nostalgia rolled over his soul in waves, watching Victor being unable to look away from the swaying doll was more than enough to keep him from feeling the pangs of homesickness.

Twining their hands together, all the while staring at Victor, Yuuri said, “We usually pray after hanging it up. Most people back home either use a simple ‘Please do not let it rain’ or sing the song for it but Mari wanted to make a special ceremony just for family so she made a custom prayer for us. Would you like to hear it? We can say it together then.”

If you had told 14 year old Katsuki Yuuri that in approximately ten years time his biggest idol and crush would greet him at his family onsen - stark naked - while announcing his intentions to coach Yuuri for the Grand Prix, Yuuri would’ve called you a variant of the phrase ‘Don’t be stupid’ depending on how close you were to him. The closer the person the stronger the insinuation.

If you had told 24 year old Katsuki Yuuri that he would someday be rolling his eyes and harshly critiquing Victor Nikiforov’s step sequences while training alongside the Russian elites of figure skating in a year’s time, Yuuri would’ve scoffed, rolled his eyes and said “Don’t be silly, Victor is only here for this season and I’ll most likely be here (Hasetsu) for years to come.”

[An eavesdropping Victor would visibly wilt at this statement and spend the evening drinking away his sorrow at Nagahama Ramen’s]

At present, Yuuri thinks back to all his past selves and wonders what they would say if they saw their lifetime idol, goal, and biggest celebrity crush rolling around on the floor and crying crocodile tears into Makkachin’s fur, a PS2 controller dangling precariously from his fingertips.

Especially considering the man is almost thirty five years of age now.

Yuuri sighs fondly, reaching to push his hair away but almost whacking himself with his own controller while Victor continues to wail loudly. The television screen glows innocently, with Yuuri’s half of the screen flashing the words ‘YOU WIN’ in bright green. Victor’s half, on the other hand, depicts a battered car planted nose first into the side of a building.

“Victor, at least finish your game – look you’re almost there!”

Victor sniffles and lifts his head from Makkachin’s belly, nose unfairly adorable as it scrunches in dismay. “What’s the point?”, he whines, “You’ve already won anyway.”

And then he pouts. Yuuri is very, very weak against that pout.

“How about we just call this a practice round then , eh?”, he suggests softly. Victor stares at Yuuri with eyes resembling the blue saucers collecting dust at the back of their cupboard, and not even the competitive monster within Yuuri screeching its disapproval against the surrender can win against Yuuri’s utter weakness for his husband.

“Yuuuuuri, no, you won fair and square.” Victor regards him with a grave look, not unlike the ones he gives at the end of a long and unsatisfying practice. “But if you do feel bad about winning against me,” and here his face twists into a mischievousness that could rival a kitsune’s, “then teach me your ways.” The lilt of his voice, along with an accompanying wink at the end of his sentence is not lost on Yuuri, who feels like he had just trecked through Satan’s abode and back.