#auriger

aurata | grandaurata | aurari/aurarii

aurata - an aurihora equivalent to parent.

grandaurata - an aurihora equivalent to grandparent.

aurari/aurarii - an aurihora equivalent to daughter/kid/son.

auriger | aurifer | auriolus

auriger - an aurihora equivalent to nephew/nibling/niece.

aurifer - an aurihora equivalent to brother/sibling/sister.

auriolus - an aurihora equivalent to aunt/netle/uncle.

   Valentine’s Day had been something, traditionally, Viktor had spent holed up in his tiny, bland apartment with his cellphone off (and thrown halfway across the room, and preferably shoved beneath a thousand layers of cotton sheets) while tuning out Makkachin’s almost rhythmic whimpers from beyond the worn door to his cluttered bedroom. Before that, it had been spent at shallow bars and twisted in foreign sheets that smelled of alcohol and strangers he could never even place a face to. Long before that, it had been spent with late night wishes and soft kisses to the top of a fluffy head because he had convinced himself that Makkachin was his soulmate (and infinitely better than the meek, wide-eyed children that sang him praises without even personally knowing him).

     Never had he expected to spend it with his spine curling painfully against the wall of a small hot spring and inn thousands of miles from the country he called home with his face as flush as the color of Makkachin’s tongue. Cerulean hues as wide as the vast oceans as they stare, unblinking, at the man pushed unabashedly against him, and mouth parted slightly in surprise. But the ghost of a kiss that dances along the corner of his lips is enough to snap his jaw shut to swallow the horribly undignified whimper that threatened to crawl up his cracked throat.

     Viktor has never been an easy to surprise; he’s used to weaving careful tales and complex plans, but Yuuri, and Yuuri alone, is capable of shaking the very foundation that Viktor just barely manages to stand upon. And he does it too often and too quickly for Viktor’s fragile heart. And Viktor’s convinced he might just shatter if Yuuri keeps up at this pace (but he might not mind bending either; to give in to whatever Yuuri has in store for him). 

     “Ah - Yuuri,” he breathes, twisting his lips into a timid smile in an attempt to hide the way his voice cracks when he forces out the words. Just barely does he manage to snake a trembling hand between their bodies to wrap his fingers gently about Yuuri’s and the box pressed against their chests. “Thank you,” he manages with a bit more conviction than before. “But I have something for you, as well,” he whispers, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss against the other man’s lips that lingers for longer than it should.

❄ ————   “ Do you have my socks ?” Yuuri calls, voice brushing along the walls in exasperation -- see the problem with having an identical twin is that people tend to get you identical presents ; and sure it shouldn’t matter which pair of socks were whose, but Yuuri likes his socks a certain way -- 

       It’s almost like he’s floating through everything that follows; one moment, he’s kneeling on the ice, spent, and the next next he’s in the kiss and cry, in the hallway, in another room, answering questions he doesn’t here and making comments he doesn’t register. Viktor is there for stretches of it, he knows, but Yuri is not sure if he’s as in and out as it feels, or if it’s Yuri who’s well and truly -- out of it. ( shameful. he has pushed himself farther than this. exhaustion should not be even a tangential factor -- he should be better than this, god damn it. ) 

       ( but even the anger is -- muted. nestled in the far depths of his ocean. or, conversely, breaching the horizon while it’s Yuri who sinks, sinks, sinks. ) 

       He doesn’t know precisely how much time has passed. A substantial amount, probably, but it can’t be too much because he realizes belatedly that he hasn’t changed out of his costume or his skates, blade guards thumping, muffled against the carpet -- and then louder against the hard floor of the changing room. 

       The other thing he registers too late is that he is not alone. 

       It’s like the world crystalizes around this realization; whatever foggy nothing has taken over his mind burns away under the force of seeing Katsuki Yuuri. Something has happened to him over the course of the last two days, something he cannot identify but something that feels frighteningly irrevocable. It’s like the walls he has so meticulously constructed have been blown out and every sensation, every passing, errant thought is magnified tenfold. Case in point: his heart slams into his throat, which dries out instantly. His hands clench, little tremors raking down the length as he tightens his fists. 

       ❛ --- Don’t you have anywhere else to be? ❜ 

       The question is defanged entirely. Yuri hears it and hates it -- and fears it -- and is tired of it -- and is curious about it, and -- well, shit. If he had known taking Viktor’s advice about not thinking, about feeling instead would lead to this -- ugh, he’d take it anyway. Fuck. That doesn’t help when he doesn’t know what the hell to do, how to confront something as insurmountable as the memory of Viktor saying he’s coming back -- of Katsudon retiring -- right when Yuri thinks he’s finally managed to breach this idea of -- what he’s skating for. Who.