#everymanwillbeaking

There’s good reason for it. He’s jetlagged six ways to Sunday, his internal clock more of an internal rat on a wheel: confused, nocturnal, and always vaguely hungry.

Usually Yuuri would take this awakening as a cue to roll over and go straight back to sleep—and he almost does just that—but then Victor is clutching his hand from where he’s holding Yuuri’s, and Yuuri instantly forgets about the prospect of a continued sleep.

He’s having a dream, it seems. A good dream, Yuuri hopes. Certainly not a bad one, though an active one, based on the way Victor’s lids flutter, his hand gripping Yuuri’s yet again, a wisp of air parting from his lips.

Yuuri reaches out with his free hand, tapping the tip of Victor’s nose. He doesn’t stir at this—only sighs, an exhalation so great that the whole mattress shifts with it.

Yuuri follows the arch of Victor’s nose up to a pale eyebrow, skating across it, then down to circle at Victor’s cheekbone, prominent just under the gentle caress of his eyelashes.

It’s so strange to Yuuri: the extent of the love he has for this man. How far does it go? What truly is Victor Nikiforov? Is it his eyes, the window to the soul? His mind, sharp and quick-witted? His heart, strong and true? There are so many facets to Victor that Yuuri hardly knows where to direct his attention. He’s finding new sides all the time—new layers, distinct and nuanced—and he falls in love with those too, adding to the whole, completed picture of a dream Yuuri never wants to wake up from.

Victor, however, does.

“Mr. Katsuki-Nikiforov,” Victor murmurs, his accent thick and luscious, “tell me, what has you smiling so beautifully this morning?”

Yuuri couldn’t define it if he had all the time in the world. But he answers anyway, “You already know, Mr. Katsuki-Nikiforov,” thumbing across the sleep-warm gold on Victor’s fourth finger, recently refurbished with a twinkling diamond, white as fresh-fallen snow.

Victor hums. “Remind me?”