Number 99 for the drabble challenge really speaks to me... For both Victuuri and Kalagang, please š
I KNOW you really meant 100 (because I asked, lol, but also because I know you would never pass up an opportunity for a sandwich). Hereās your part 1: 100 for Victuuri.
(takes place sometime before Cup of China)
Nobody looks good in an airport. Maybe itās the lighting, or just the perpetual exhaustion and substandard hygeiene of every time zone stumbling into each other in one place at any given moment.
Sometimes, people manage to convince themselves that they see beauty in someone there, but thatās relief, not aesthetics. You can trick yourself into thinking someoneās the most beautiful person in the world when you havenāt seen them in a long enough time. But that is certainly beauty that comes from the inside.
Except Victor Nikiforov. He didnāt even fucking try; he was wearing the same navy-blue sweats heād been wearing since theyād gotten on the train in Hasetsu yesterday morning at - he looked at the clock - just about this time. Ā Who knows how long it had even been? Was this the same day?
Even so, Victor still managed to look like someone was about to set up a reflector and tripod and shoot an ad for Adidas or whatever the hell brand he was wearing today right there in the middle of this airport in - wherever the fuck they were until they boarded their delayed connection flight.
Not that Yuuri was biased in any way, of course. The fact that Victorās head was now resting on his shoulder in some state of sleep had nothing to do with this line of thought, either. With his eyes closed like that, he was ready for his close up in whatever ad for a sleep aid or toilet paper that needed a sleeping angel.
Phichit would have some choice words for him later if he didnāt get a picture of this, but Yuuri didnāt dare move for fear of disturbing Victor. It was only a matter of time before he realized what he was doing and this was over.
Yuuri had never really mastered the art of sleeping on planes. No one came out of an airplane well-rested, but Yuuri couldnāt even manage the weak, shallow sleep that most people seemed to on flights. Ultimately, staying awake for however long it took to travel made it easier to adjust to the new time zone. It was hell in the meantime, though. Every sound grated on his ragged nerves and his eyes watered. He didnāt even want to think about what he looked like right now.
On top of that, he hadnāt eaten in - Yuuriās stomach rumbled loudly the moment he even let the thought cross his mind.
āHmm?ā Victorās eyes fluttered open. Great, now they were in an ad for laundry detergent or face wash or some shit like that. No oneās eyes were really that clear when they first woke up.
āWhat? Uh, no? Sorry.ā Great. His stomach was so insistent that it was complaining to other people, now.
āOh, I thought I heard you say something.ā Victor mumbled rubbing his cheek up against Yuuriās shoulder as he settled himself back against it, which gave Yuuriās body the idea that it might want something else besides a sandwich. Yuuri closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. In. Out. In. Out. He really didnāt need this right now. In. Out. He was not going to let himself be unprofessional like this. In. Out.
Maybe he should just close his eyes for a little while and see what happened. Even if he couldnāt fall asleep, sometimes it helped to just give them a rest like that. He could feel the rest of his face relax as his eyes shut. Would it be too much to?
Yuuri let his head tentatively loll to the side, gently resting on top of Victorās, the platinum hair soft under his cheek. One more deep, slow breath. This was almost comfortable, as much as was possible in these molded monstrosities of chairs. The burning in his eyes eased a little. He could feel the exhaustion tears running along the seam of his eyelids, trying to seal them shut.
Fuck, he thought, eyes flying open, someone needed to watch their carry-on luggage. It would be just his kind of luck to catch five minutes of sleep on the entire trip and have someone manage to take their stuff in that tiny window.
Yuuriās stomach rumbled loudly again, like some sort of challenge. He could almost hear it as words in his head: You can only suffer through my whining for so long until you get up and make me a sandwich.
Victor shifted his head against Yuuriās shoulder but didnāt wake up this time. Yuuri inhaled sharply through his nose. Victor really needed to stop doing that if Yuuri was going to pull off this whole āprofessionalismā thing, even if the truth was that Yuuri would be perfectly happy to stay like this forever, red eyes and grumbling stomach, Victor asleep on his shoulder.
Archaeologists, centuries later, would just find a smiling skeleton in a remarkably-unchanged orange plastic chair, another with its skull resting against the ball of the humerus after starving to death.
And then they would put it in an ad for something. Because Victor would still look that good.
