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Ueda, Nagano.
1984.
He drops his suitcases in front of the door of the estate with a heavy thud.
If there had been people around, then surely, he would have gotten quite a few disapproving, judgmental stares for his behavior, as is the Japanese custom. But, as it so happens, with the departure of the season has come the departure of people too. He has been walking for miles to make it to this little estate in this little Uedan village, but he has yet to see a soul cross his path. The landscape presents a lonely, barren look. The trees are empty and lifeless, the winds having stolen their leaves and shooed the birds away, and their branches are laden with snow. In fact, every inch of the estate – the whole town, really – is covered in it. The road that has brought him here and the stairs that he has just climbed up, are the only ones that are not – indicative of a loyal caretaker that has yet to abandon the village.
Viktor’s fingers – close to the point of frostbite by now - reach for the doorbell and ring it.
There is a commotion inside the house: sounds of an argument over who will go get the door, Viktor assumes, and then the sound of feet hurriedly pulling on slippers and steadily approaching the doorway.
The first thing Viktor notices about the man who greets him is his yukata. He does not know whether it is the elegance of its wearer or the fact that he has never seen a man in a yukata before, but he cannot help but think how well the simplicity of the dress suits him, though it is the first time he has ever met this human being. The navy-blue fabric looks too thin to be worn in such extreme conditions, but he can feel the warmth radiating from inside the house as soon as the door is opened. The man looks at him apprehensively, brown eyes staring questioningly from behind blue square-rimmed glasses that are too big for his face.
“Nani?” he says.
Viktor had taken some Japanese classes before he had come here, but this is his first conversation with a local since he had landed. So, naturally, he stammers to give a coherent answer to the man in the yukata. Later, he would attribute his nervousness to have everything to do with his lack of expertise when it came to the language and nothing to do with the man he is conversing with – but he already suspects the real reason.
The man figures out his speech anyway – the heavy suitcases, his white blond hair, blue eyes, gray shirt, gray pants and gray coat, facilitating his explanation somewhat.
The man’s eyes roam over him once, assessing his appearance, and then he calls inside to, who Viktor assumes is, his father – the man who has offered to host him for two months while he completes his research at Nagano University.
The man in the yukata talks too fast and too quietly for Viktor to be able to make out his words, but he understands one.
“Gaijin,” he has referred to him, and even though that is exactly what Viktor is, he cannot help but feel slightly upset that this man who he has never met before would refer to him so crudely.
The man inside the estate thinks the same thing, apparently; Viktor can hear his scolding tone, the sound of slippers quickly being pulled on – and the next moment, there is another man standing in the doorway, pushing the man in the blue yukata backwards inside the house.
“Ah, you must be Viktor,” he says, extending his hand towards him.
The man’s English is flawless – better than Viktor’s, in fact – which is unsurprising considering the man used to be an interpreter at the university, but it still comes as a welcome grace to him. Finally, something he can understand. He’s grateful that the older man does not bow in greeting, for Viktor knows he would have messed it up and embarrassed himself had he attempted it in return.
Viktor must have been looking quite somber, because in the next moment, the man bursts into laughter – a hearty, cheerful thing – that suddenly has Viktor’s uneasiness receding. He meets the man’s hand and shakes it.
“Pleasure to meet you, my boy. My name is Toshiya Katsuki.”
“It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Katsuki.”
“Please, call me Toshiya while you are here. I want to make you feel as at home as possible.”
“Thank you,” Viktor replies, “You’re very kind, sir.”
The man laughs again, “Well, it’s better than ‘Mr. Katsuki’ at least…” he says, “And what in God’s name are you still doing outside? You must be freezing! Please, please, come inside.” Viktor nods and picks up his suitcase.
“Yuuri!” Toshiya calls inside, “Come help Viktor with his bags.”
The man in the blue yukata – Yuuri – appears again from the side of the door. Apparently, he had never actually left. Viktor steps inside the house, looking back at Yuuri picking up his other suitcase, and closing the door behind him.
The inside of the house is almost too warm, in stark contrast to the outside; Viktor suddenly feels how over-dressed he is.
“It’s very warm in here,” he comments, as he proceeds to take off his gray coat.
“Yes,” Toshiya replies, “The whole house is built on a hot spring.”
“Ah, I see…” That would explain the humidity.
“Viktor, my boy, we’re very glad to be hosting you,” the man starts, fixing his glasses on the bridge of his nose, “And I would love to chat with you more, but it’s quite late, as you can see. It’s…” he trails off.
Viktor looks down at his wrist watch, “It’s 11:35, sir.”
“Right. I was expecting you all morning but since you have arrived so late, I think you should eat some food and then rest. Tomorrow, I will give you a tour of the house.”
“Thank you, I would love that.”
“Yuuri,” Toshiya points to the man behind Viktor, “will show you to your room. Meanwhile, my wife and I will set the dinner table,” he says. “Yuuri, please assist him if he needs any help, and show him to the dining room in about half an hour.”
It is at this statement that Viktor finally turns around. The man is still holding his suitcase up, struggling with it in fact, since he has gotten the heavier one, and Viktor moves to help him.
“No, it’s fine, I got it,” he replies, in English just as good as his father’s. “I’ll help out Viktor-san,” Yuuri says, turning to his father.
“Excellent!” Toshiya exclaims, “I’ll go help your mother.”
The son nods, and watches Toshiya disappear inside another room adjoining the one they’re standing in right now. Viktor does not realize he should move until Yuuri nudges him with his elbow, lifting the suitcase over his shoulder in a move that Viktor is sure will hurt his shoulder tomorrow.
“Come on,” Yuuri says, voice crisp and all business, “Let’s go.”
The interpreter’s family is an odd bunch.
His wife – Hiroko – is a Masters in philosophy, but spends her time managing the onsen that her family owns. And she’s quite happy with her job, too. “Philosophy is boring,” she says, “and depressing, too! I taught at the university in Hasetsu prefecture for three years, and the people were just…” she often trails off at this, “And I never felt like I was helping anyone. At least, my job here brings joy to people, and pride to my ancestors that their heritage is in good hands…”
Viktor likes listening to her, she is probably one of the most cheerful and genuinely happy people he has ever met.
Then, there’s the daughter. The black sheep of the family. Quite literally, in fact. In the two weeks Viktor has spent here, he has never seen Mari wear anything except the darkest of black. He doubts her wardrobe consists of any other color. Her face has piercings all over it – in her ear, in her nose, above and below her lips, on her tongue. It’s quite shocking at first, but now Viktor thinks it suits her quite well, in fact. He hasn’t had much interaction with her; she stays in her room most of the time, listening to Western garage bands and some Japanese rock music. She defines herself as more “cultured” than her parents, and her parents, of course, laugh it off as another perk of their family. Which, Viktor supposes, is probably for the best.
Toshiya himself is quite the character too. An interpreter who had been with Tokyo University permanently for nearly five years, before he decided to leave his job to spend more time with his family in their hometown. “Tokyo was hell, I’m not going to lie,” he says, “The hours were too long, the work was terrible. And I got to see my family for barely a week in two months. It was lonely, too… I missed everyone too much so, I came to Ueda. Sure, the pay is less, and the job is less prestigious, but I’m quite happy here,” he finishes, wrapping an arm around his wife’s shoulders in a gesture that has Viktor’s heart melting.
It’s an interesting group of people, yes, but it is the interpreter’s son who intrigues Viktor the most.
Yuuri is the one who drives him to and from Nagano University every day. He is a student there too, but in the undergraduate program studying Japanese Literature. Once at the university they rarely see each other, but the drive to it is a long one. Yet, after two weeks of this routine, Viktor still feels he knows next to nothing about the man in the yukata.
He’s a quiet person. Reserved, but not in the way Mari is. A bit shy, and a bit anxious. He’s always getting nervous around his parents or sister – even when Viktor is not around. He stammers in his replies. He is not as steadfast as the other members of his family. He’s helpful but doesn’t get too close. He talks to Viktor but never meets his eyes. He tells him about himself, but nothing too personal.
Viktor finds it upsetting for some reason, even though he knows that Yuuri owes him neither explanation nor apology for his behavior. But it’s bugging him. And he decides he wants to know.
So, one day, when Viktor cannot bear the silence in the car anymore, he asks him.
“Yuuri,” he says, “do you not like me?”
At once, Yuuri’s grip around the steering wheel tightens, and through the scarf he is wearing, Viktor can see the hints of a blush creeping up his neck.
“W-what makes you think that?” he asks.
“You never talk to me. Have I done something to upset you?”
“No, no, no,” Yuuri assures, “It’s nothing like that,” he shakes his head. “I’m just – I’m – not very good at communicating with people. I’m sorry if I’ve made you think that I don’t like you.”
It was Viktor’s turn to feel guilty. “No, Yuuri, please don’t apologize. I’m sorry for asking the question, I really didn’t mean anything by it –”
Yuuri shakes his head even more determinedly, face almost completely red now. “No, it’s my fault. You deserve an explanation, I’m –”
“Really, Yuuri, please. It’s alright,” Viktor tries to reason in the calmest voice he can manage, “I’m sorry for bringing it up. I hope you can forgive me.”
That seems to placate Yuuri for a bit. There’s quiet in the car for a moment. And then –
“It’s not that I don’t like you, you know,” Yuuri says, pulling up into the parking lot outside the university, “I do.”
Yuuri turns his face to Viktor’s, cheeks red and his eyes bright, “I want you to know that,” he says.
Viktor finds his speech lost in his throat for an unexplained second there. “I do now,” he replies, “thank you, Yuuri.”
And that was that. Viktor thought the conversation was over and done with. The two had made their peace with each other, what more was there to say?
A lot, apparently, or so Viktor discovers when he joins Yuuri at a game of koi-koi the very same night.
The family is asleep. Has been, for a few hours now. Yuuri, who had earlier at dinner proclaimed himself the King of Koi-koi (a statement that had been as surprising in its title as it had been in the sudden confidence of its speaker), had offered to teach Viktor the rules of the game. Viktor, of course, had whole-heartedly accepted. And hence, four hours later they now found themselves on the dining room floor, Yuuri splayed out on the tatami mats while Viktor sat opposite him, his legs folded, posture straight, and back stiff. Suffice it to say, it had been quite the turn of events for his and Yuuri’s relationship since morning.
Yuuri takes a sip from the beer can in front of him, and places one of the ‘sun cards’ on the board – Viktor has been trying to keep up with the names of all the Hanafadu cards, but they are really too many to remember in one night. Especially when he’s two beers in.
“Three sunnys, please,” he grins, picking up Viktor’s cards from his side of the board.
“Oh, come on! Again? How do I know you’re not cheating?”
Yuuri smiles – Viktor doesn’t remember if he’s seen Yuuri’s smile yet – and answers, “Pfft, I don’t need to cheat to beat you.”
“You’re mean,” Viktor complains, takes a sip from his can.
“Yeah, well…” Yuuri says, “I’m the king.” Viktor does not miss how Yuuri’s eyes linger for just the slightest moment longer on his Adam’s apple as he swallows the gulp of his drink.
Viktor picks up a ‘pine card’ – Plain card, is it? – from his stack and places it on Yuuri’s side.
“Koi-koi?” he asks, tentatively.
At this, Yuuri practically guffaws, and it is the kind of laughter that Viktor swears melts his goddamn heart. “You really don’t understand this game, do you?”
Viktor scoffs. “I’m the foreigner. And you’re the king. So, no.”
Yuuri grins at him. “Gaijin,” he says.
“Well, I’m a pretty gaijin.”
The man lifts his eyes to meet Viktor’s blue ones, “Yes. You are.”
The eye contact lingers too long to be comfortable, and it’s Viktor who breaks it first. He can hear Yuuri sniggering in front of him, as he concentrates on his cards. If he had known getting Yuuri drunk would result in this, he would never have offered the man a drink at dinner.
It’s Yuuri’s turn. “Looking for four bright, aren’t you?” he says. Viktor supposes that that would be a good move in this game, but he doesn’t remember what four bright even is. “Too bad…” Yuuri continues, and picks up a card from the stack at their side. He smiles, and lays it down in front of him – a clover.
“Three plains,” he says, flashing Viktor an almost Cheshire-cat-like grin. “I win.”
Well, Viktor had long since lost interest in the game anyway. “Koi-koi?” he tries to bargain, unenthusiastically.
“Nope,” Yuuri declares, “Kings don’t bargain.” He throws his cards on the board, and lies down properly on the mat.
“Well, it’s unfair for a king to challenge his peasants. He should know that there is no winning against him.”
Yuuri smirks. “There really isn’t,” he turns to looks towards Viktor. Yuuri’s legs have begun to wander, and one of them had made its way across the board to nudge Viktor in the knee.
“Lie down with me,” he says.
“It’s late. We should sleep.”
“We can sleep here,” the man reasons.
“We have to go to university tomorrow. You need to be sober and well-rested. I can’t drive.”
“I’m always sober around you, though,” Yuuri whines, his leg pushing Viktor back. Viktor catches Yuuri’s foot in his hand before it sways anywhere else. “Let me have this,” Yuuri says.
There’s something strangely intimate about looking at Yuuri like this. His cheeks flushed from the alcohol, his hair a mess. Half his body lying on the board, his foot in Viktor’s lap. Viktor knows he shouldn’t, but he’s feeling uncharacteristically bold today, so he dares to look into Yuuri’s eyes in that moment.
The look in them is almost scorching.
There’s something highly inappropriate, too, about looking at Yuuri like this. The son of the man who has been kind enough to host him for two months while he finishes his thesis about Asian languages at the university. The very university his son has been kind enough to drive him to every morning, free of charge.
He shouldn’t be looking at such a kind, selfless person with such selfish desires.
Viktor lets go of Yuuri’s foot. And moves to stand up. A firm grip halts him.
“Just for five minutes,” he pleads with him, “Just stay here for five minutes. And then you can go.”
Viktor is apprehensive of this request – nothing good can come out of this. He knows this. So really, he should just bow politely, apologize to Yuuri and leave the room.
But he’s not a very selfless person, anyway.
Viktor complies, folds up the board with the cards still stuck between its flaps, and sets it aside before lying down next to Yuuri on the tatami mat.
There’s nothing much to stare at up at the ceiling. Out of all the gorgeous rooms in the Katsuki estate, the dining room is probably the most boring. That is to say, by Japanese standards. To a Russian-American man who has had a mostly cultureless life in his small apartment in Boston, everything in Japan is fascinating.
“What are you thinking?” Yuuri asks him.
“Oh, nothing much. Just how beautiful this house is.”
Yuuri nods. “It is very beautiful, yes. I love it.”
“Me too.”
“I didn’t move here until recently, you know. My parents sent me to a boarding school in Osaka when I was twelve. I only graduated from it two years ago, and enrolled at Nagana, so my parents decided to let me move back in.”
“Why did you go to boarding school?”
“Oh. No particular reason. It’s quite common for boys to go to boarding schools here…”
“Ah, I see,” Viktor muses, “And did you like the school?”
Yuuri grins coyly, like Viktor is not getting something very obvious here. “Yeah,” he replies simply, “It was fun.”
“Well, I’m glad –”
The sole of Yuuri’s foot is moving up Viktor’s leg.
“You were saying?”
Viktor turns his head to look at Yuuri. It’s a goddamned blessing that the man is not wearing his yukata today, or else all Viktor would be thinking about right now would be how the paleness of his collarbones protrudes out of the front, and the light dusting of moles under Yuuri’s jaw and down the straight lines of his neck, and –
“What are you thinking about, Viktor?”
His voice is pure sin, there’s no other way to describe this. And to think that merely yesterday, they had barely looked at each other twice and today –
Today, Yuuri’s foot is enticing. The arch of his sole is soft, so soft, as it presses against Viktor’s inner thigh, and up and up and up…
Yuuri tilts his face to meet Viktor’s, takes in one long, deep breath, and then mashes their lips together. He turns his body completely to the side to face him, foot incessantly rubbing, his groin incessantly rutting against Viktor’s outer thigh, and moans – fucking moans – into his mouth to assert his dominance. His tongue is unrelenting, slipping past Viktor’s lips in one smooth, slick motion that Viktor has neither the heart nor strength to resist. Viktor’s arm comes up to envelope the man, to pull him closer – their tongues colliding in their mouths again and again and –
“Wait,” he stops himself, some semblance of a conscience and a consciousness bleeding through, “We can’t – you’re drunk.”
“And? You’re hard.” His hand joins his foot to prove his point.
“Ah – Yuuri – stop. Stop, stop, stop.”
“Yeah, say my name. Just like that.”
“Yuuri –” Viktor’s protests die on his lips as they crash again with Yuuri’s. But he can’t lose his self-control. He shouldn’t.
This means something to him, his relationship with Yuuri. More than lust, and far more than just a one-night stand. It means to him, first and foremost, as a friendship. A friendship that was on the edge of crumbling, from the moment they had met, but he couldn’t let it crumble and die the very moment he had salvaged it.
Viktor removes Yuuri’s hand from his groin, detaches his arms from his, and pulls away.
“Yuuri, we can’t.”
The man looks a bit lost for a few seconds there. He bites his lower lip but keeps his eyes closed as if savoring the pleasure. When he opens them, he blinks questioningly at Viktor a few times. But when the words start to filter in, his eyes go ablaze with anger.
“I don’t do it for you, Viktor? Is that it, hm?”
“No, that’s not it at all –”
Yuuri has already gotten up, and fixed his shirt and his pants before Viktor has even come back to himself yet. Goddammit. They’ve all drunk too damn much for this conversation. Everything is processing in slower.
“Yuuri, just wait a second. Listen to me –”
“What else is there to listen? You don’t want me, plain and simple. It’s fine. I’m not going to hold it against you.” The expression on his face, though, definitely said that he was going to hold it against him.
“Yuuri, will you please –”
“Forget it, Viktor. I’m sorry I did anything,” he says, already moving towards the door, “Have a nice night.”
And just like that, he has stormed out of the room, the sliding door closing shut behind him.
But as all things, the morning dawns on this incident too. And Viktor groans as he wakes up discovering he has gone to sleep right there on the mats in the dining room.
It is Hiroko’s sweet humming that wakes him. She’s filling up the rice cooker with rice – or maybe she’s removing cooked rice from it…? Viktor is still a bit dazed to know which.
“Good morning,” she says; the smell of warm rice fills his nostrils. “You looked very tired so I didn’t wake you up.”
Viktor gets up, too quickly in fact, because his head starts spinning and he has to clutch it to stop the throbbing pain. Hiroko puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Easy, dear. Are you alright?”
“Yeah, just a bit…” Viktor starts, “Hungover.”
The woman laughs. “I can imagine,” she says, “Sit down, dear. The others are still sleeping. And it’s early so you don’t need to get ready anytime soon. Here,” she hands him a bowl, “Eat some. You’ll feel better.”
Viktor utters a thank you, and sits back down on the mat. The warmth from the bowl seeps through his skin. He picks up his chopsticks and takes a bite.
“So…” Hiroko starts, “You seem to like Yuuri quite a bit, don’t you?”
Viktor gulps, sets down his bowl on the kotatsu before him. “I don’t think I understand what you mean, ma’am.”
“No, no, I’m not insinuating anything,” Hiroko clarifies, “Yuuri seems to like you too. I was just… asking.”
Viktor takes a sip of water from the glass on the table. “He is a nice person to be around, I agree. I think we could be really good friends.”
Hiroko smiles at this. “Well, I’m glad. Yuuri keeps to himself most of the time, as you know. He’s not comfortable around strangers. So, it’s nice to see the two of you interact.”
Viktor tries to return her smile. “I’m glad, too,” he says.
He eats the rest of his bowl in a comfortable silence with his hostess, until Toshiya comes to the dining room half an hour later, and then Mari, and finally Yuuri.
Their breakfast is nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, Yuuri seems to be talking more to Viktor today, than he has the many previous mornings. He looks well-rested even. Not a trace of what (almost) happened last night, on his face.
They get dressed. Viktor in the same drab professional clothes he always wears, Yuuri in his t-shirt, pea coat, and simple blue jeans. And in under less than an hour, they’re out of the door, and inside the confines of Yuuri’s old worn-out Suzuki truck.
The silence unnerves Viktor, though a glance at Yuuri shows that the man has something of a smile on his lips. That unnerves him even more. Does he not remember what happened? No, that couldn’t be; he wasn’t nearly that drunk. Does he not care? No, that couldn’t be it either, if the look of hurt that had flashed across his eyes when Viktor refused him last night was anything to go on. It puzzles him, and unnerves him, and Viktor is almost about to ask Yuuri about it – when he pulls over on the side of the empty road.
“Yuuri? Why are we stopping?” Viktor questions.
Yuuri does not answer, just quietly unbuckles his seatbelt, and in the next moment, there is a heavy, heady breath on Viktor’s lips, soft brown eyes looking into his, shining golden in the rays of the sunlight from the window. And a whisper:
“I’m not drunk anymore.”
Neither is Viktor. But he lunges forward to catch the man’s plump lips anyway.
But as all good things, the sun sets on their little escapade as well. That time in the car is their first time with each other, but a last time comes too – and sooner than either of them would have liked.
On the last day of Viktor’s visit, he spends the day entirely with Yuuri in his room. Rediscovering everything that he had had two months to learn, committing them to memory, ensuring that this does not remain a one-time fling. Yuuri cries, and so does Viktor, tears mingling together, salt on their tongues.
They have never talked about what they mean to each other. They have said “I don’t want you to go” under the covers, high on their own pleasure, but have never told each other why when the daze subsided. So, when Yuuri promises to him he will write, Viktor does too. Even though, there are doubts in his mind as to how long. Yuuri is young, and so is Viktor. Neither will be much affected if the fling remained – well, just that.
Then why does Viktor’s heart clench so tightly at the thought of Yuuri one day forgetting about him – or worse, him forgetting about Yuuri – while he gets into the car with him for the last time?
Yuuri drives him to the airport. Pulls over and fucks him in the car with a desperation that has Viktor’s very skin searing and burning. Their hair stick to their faces with sweat when they part, and Yuuri looks at him like, like he wants to forget him – but also die with only Viktor’s name on his lips.
They clean up, fix their appearance. Yuuri starts the car, and steps his foot on the accelerator a bit too much. Viktor wants to tell him to slow down a bit – there is still snow on the roads and a mishap would mean almost certain death – but it’s good. It’s fast. It’s like pulling off a band-aid.
Yuuri cries into his shoulder when he parks the car in the driveway of the airport three hours later. Viktor shushes him, gives him empty reassurances, lets him find the comfort he needs in his warmth.
But some things cannot be delayed. His flight leaves in an hour, and it’s probably best if he got checked in already. Yuuri does not go with him inside the airport – and really, Viktor understands why. They cannot do this outside. Cannot have witnesses to how they are breaking.
So, he leaves Nagano. With every assurance that he would not hear from Yuuri again.
He puts up his walls, drowns himself in work.
But no matter how strong he thinks he is, he cannot help how his heart soars when he discovers the letter with the familiar address in his mailbox two months later.
And they keep coming too.
And he keeps writing back.
And Yuuri tells him how he is applying to Colorado for a post-graduate program. How his parents miss him. How he misses him. How he wishes he can see him again if he comes to the United States.
And then one day, there is a man standing at his door when he comes home from work. His head is a mess of floppy brown hair that is sticking out awkwardly in places – strands that used to make Viktor resist wetting his thumb with his tongue and smoothing them out.
The man turns. Viktor scoffs when he greets him.
“Gaijin,” the man says, laughing.
Viktor cannot stop the face-splitting smile that he gets as Yuuri moves to kiss him.