Silver lashes flutter sluggishly against rose-kissed skin to hide wide eyes and shattered cerulean in the long moment of surprise that contorts his pretty features into something hesitant and all too soft. But a smile; perhaps too joyful and a bit too selfish, slowly drags across flushed, tender lips as realization begins to settle in. He is unused to being celebrated; unused to having cheers echo against his hears, and the weight of a gift (tangible or otherwise) placed within his palms is somewhat foreign to him. Yet, Yuuri has done nothing but celebrate him; cherish him too much and it’s drowning him in an overwhelming flurry of emotions he once swallowed back as bitter as the ocean tastes upon a chapped tongue and a bloody mouth.  

   And Yuuri doesn’t know; will never know the way he makes his head swim and his heart burst because Viktor is too good at hiding it, but if he looks hard enough the smile he wears is cracked and his heart is tangled somewhere within the muscles of his arms as he tries to mute the voices in his head that echo too many nasty lectures and unspoken promises. But when they’re quiet, his heart S I N G S; oh how it S C R E A M S, and it calls, over and over again, like his lungs are raw and his throat is crimson. The smile upon his lips is no longer a slow, sheepish thing; it’s a grin that makes Viktor look like he’s glowing, and it’s something reserved for only Yuuri.

   He wants to dig his voice out of the depths of his gut; to tell Yuuri he’s the one who should be thanking him, but it’s stuck somewhere in his chest because Yuuri’s pink face and squeezed eyelids are too much for him. So instead he lunges forward with little warning; lean, sculpted arms reaching out to wrap tightly about the other man’s shoulders as he brings his head forward to nuzzle into the warmth and safety of Yuuri’s neck. It feels as close as home and as distant as the sun in the shuddering breath Viktor releases against the other man’s skin.  

    “Yuuri,” he mumbles; hot breath beating against the younger man’s shirt collar. “Yuuri,” he repeats like it’s something precious and beautiful (because the sound his name makes when it slips from Viktor’s lips is the best thing he’s heard in years). “I should be the one thanking you,” he forces out as he lifts his head from Yuuri’s shoulder; silver locks falling in front of his features as if to hide the pain that flickers through his eyes like lightning strikes. “So, thank you for staying with me, Yuuri. I owe you more than I could ever give you; more than the world could ever give you,” he breathes.

Viktor laughed and dragged the male along as quickly as possible. “Yuuri ! Let’s dance !” Chuckles filled the air and spun around with his fiance’s hands gripped tightly onto his. The rings GLINTED in his eyes but in that moment all he wanted was to be with Yuuri forever. “Let’s dance like we did at the banquet !” He was too happy to let anything put his spirits down.

His bare feet scrape effortlessly along the slick surface of the floor, but the awkward thumping of Yuri’s is what keeps him steady and upright in the otherwise quiet room. His gaze lingers on the top of Yuri’s head, rather than on their feet where the other man has taken up such a watchful expression. He can see the other man’s hairline bop up and down in time with his movements. He can feel the warmth of Yuri’s hand within his own, and the smooth curve of his back against his arm whenever they take a slow, calculated step together.

A smile tugs gently at the corners of his lips; it’s not at all mocking or flippant, but rather genuine. He’s relaxed; if a bit too much, and he’s so engrossed in the other man that he can’t even make out the faint noises of Yuri’s family carrying on a conversation in the other room, or the more subtle noises of the establishment clicking away. His mind wanders with only thoughts of Yuri, and how he finds it amusing the other man is so careful when he moves. But so is Viktor; it’s a private, almost intimate moment, and Viktor is so incredibly grateful to be granted permission to be a part of it.

His expression softens; shifts from focusing intensely on Yuri to truly looking at him, when the other man lifts his head from the holes he’s probably stared into his own socks. Viktor takes the moment to quicken the pace of their simple dance, and he can see the corners of Yuri’s lips moves, and he thinks his heart might have just dropped into the pit of his burning stomach. And it shows on his flawless features; bright, blue eyes wide and star struck.

Yuri’s face is red, but Viktor’s seen every single color of the rainbow upon his features at least a dozen times already, but it stop him from hearing, feeling, the small beats of laughter that slip out, and he’s left breathless despite the pace of their dance. Yuri is comfortable with this, and Viktor is far more at his mercy than he believes the other man will ever take notice of. 

Lips tangling into a fond smile that’s so rare, he draws Yuri in, and the other man is so enchanting he loses the words that normally form so easily within his throat. He’s good at speaking; good at charming, but he’s far from talented when he tries to force out incoherent thoughts that are sincere rather than scornful.

@deliquesxe​ | Starter Call

“I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.”

         It’s nearly two in the morning when the frustrated huff that had been trapped within the man’s throat finally eases past his slightly parted lips. Blue eyes wide as they glared at the bland ceiling hanging overhead, but the dim and flickering light the small room provided all he could possibly make out was the rather off-putting splotches of disjointed paint strokes along its surface. But in the raging and ever aware mind of the older skater they managed to form rampant images of countless performances he remembers more clearly than should be possible. Had he not personally been behind the composition of each movement dancing about the only slightly familiar room, they would have started to blur together towards then end; each one so similar that even their dictator has a difficult time differentiating them.

         His brows knit in mild agitation while his immaculate features wrinkle in the darkness. There must be at least a dozen different scenarios running through his head, and no less than a thousand different outcomes of each one. With them, the timing changes, the music is different, and the movements are never the same, but not a single routine floating through his mind feels like the right one. They don’t stand out, and they seem to fade out of his thoughts they moment they are conceived because they are not worth committing to. 

           Fleshy, pink lips purse, and he’s becoming concerned that the crevasses he’s digging into his forehead will risk becoming a permanent feature upon his skin if he keeps mulling over ideas for future training sessions and performances of a certain Japanese figure skater, who currently has him far more clueless than he would ever willingly admit. He hadn’t walked into the life of coaching without a bit of research beforehand, but he didn’t think doing so would turn his hair actually gray in the span of a painfully short collection of days that played out almost exactly like Viktor hadn’t actually poured effort into plotting them out at all.

            But when he looks back at the past few days, he’s painfully aware of the fact that knows so little about Yuri, with the exception of what he’s learned thus far, and to be honest, despite the handful of breakthrough he’s been witness to, that isn’t a lot to work with. He’s now horrifically aware of how difficult a job this actually is, no matter his own desire to succeed (because he’s never been one to give in), or his own wish to watch the other man improve (and win, because he’s rather confident in both his own, clearly wayward, instruction and Yuri’s talent as a skater to begin with). But he never dreamed it would be so difficult to compose a piece for another skater when they seemingly came so naturally to himself.

       Lifting a hand to run it through his smooth hair, he heaved a sigh of defeat, but the sensation of failure didn’t linger for long. Springing to upright position upon the bed, he shoved hos toes against the wad of curly fur snuggled against his legs; a smile creeping upon his lips as an idea managed to weave its way through his head. Yuri was still a bit of enigma to him, but that was something he could change rather easily. “I’m not going to lose, Makkachin,” He breathed out into the chilled room, but the dog didn’t stir, as if it was somewhat used to its master’s random midnight ramblings.

        Kicking off the thin blanket from his athletic frame, Viktor is stumbling out of bed while trying to yank his collection of discarded, and messy clothes on (with a tired dog huffing out cries of complaint in the background).  Throwing open the door, he’s only just barely managed to stand properly on his own two feet, as he attempts to quietly make his way down the hall, but with all of the noise he just made his efforts are bit pointless now. Reaching the door to Yuri’s room, he wastes approximately five seconds debating on if he should bother knocking, before flinging open the door; the handle smashing into the other side of the wall, as he invites himself into the other man’s space without a single moment of hesitation.