Chapter Text
University of Michigan was happy to receive Katsuki Yuuri back for a masters in education. The rink in Detroit that had been the happy hell of Yuuri’s college years was on its knees in slobbering delight to have Victor Nikiforov play a relaxed coach, teaching low level courses for the community on the weekends while the weekday saw Yuri Plisetsky cutting the ice to shreds.
Yuri refused to waste his time on college. At eighteen, he saw himself with minimum ten years of competition left in his body. If Victor had been almost thirty when he’d really truly, no more take-backs, retired, then he’ll be double-damned if he stops before Victor.
They do not live in Detroit. Victor rejects the city as a homestead. The first time he encounters the back parking lot of Meijer co-opted into “trunk or treat” he thinks he’s going to get murdered. His bone-crushing hand hold on Yuuri had only just been on this side of endearing. He's sporting an irrational fear stoked by news stories and he'll just have to learn to relax. Although honestly, Victor's wary of America as a whole. Yuuri soothes him with a recollection of going to a trunk or treat on halloween with Phichit dressed as cowboys, the most American thing they could think of at the time. “It might have been this same Meijer…“
Victor and Yuri like the cider mills Yuuri takes them to a lot more. Between that and the leaves changing colors, both Russians relax. The doctor’s out on whether or not they like hot dogs.
Yuuri, Victor, and Yuri live in Ferndale, the gayest place in Michigan. They’re in a nice condo, unable to settle on buying a house. Yuuri’s education will keep him in America and the rink is rather tempting to stay permanently, but it’s still a little up in the air. It’s not like they need to rush.
So that’s the happy situation. Yuuri’s in school, desiring a career as a k-12 guidance counselor. Victor’s coaching Yuri full time, Yakov finally retiring. He calls Victor every week, but only once; he refuses to talk to Victor more than once a week. Bad for his health, he says. Victor wants to take on more skaters but he doesn’t want to overload either of their lives; he likes having lazy weekends, and Yuuri likes coming home to him. Yuuri loaded all of his classes on a Tuesday/Thursday schedule because the hour long commute from Ferndale to Ann Arbor kills him. He listens to a lot of Audiobooks and starts an affair with Biggby.
It was a big jump, after Yuuri retired finally at 27, but they were never a couple who took the time to wet their toes.
“Katsooki? Uh, Niki--”
“You may call me simply Yuuri,” is the soft, strangely formal introduction from the Asian dude sitting near the exit. “Please.”
“Yuri,” the woman next to him says, losing all the lilt over the vowel. Asian dude, Yuuri, nods with an amused smile.
“Gay,” Mark whispers, leaning over and across Ky to check Yuuri out. “And beautiful.”
And yeah, gay is rolling off the man. He’s in a boxy thick knit sweater but his pants are screaming tight and, Jesus, Yuuri crosses his legs and his thighs are obscene. Mark whimpers. Yuuri’s texting on a cell phone that has no less than seven key charms clinking together like wind chimes.
Yuuri it seems is only around campus on Tuesday and Thursdays. He has a GSA course Thursday nights. He smiles at Ky and Mark out of sheer recognition. It’s Yuuri, them, Darla and Nadine. Nadine has two kids and aside from passing mirages in the library, is never to be seen outside of class. She vampires on and off campus, Mark swears. Ky doesn’t like Darla, but Darla likes to sit next to Yuuri in Childhood Development, so it takes a solid week of passing smiles until Ky can invite Yuuri to join her and Mark for coffee.
“I live in Ferndale,” Yuuri says. “I moved here recently. I went to UMich for undergrad years ago.”
Mark’s crushes Ky’s knee at the mention of Ferndale. “Same,” she manages to say without a wince.
“I went to Ohio state,” Mark volunteers. “Go Buckeyes!”
Yuuri blinks, confusion magnified behind stylish glasses.
“Football?” Mark clarifies, disbelieving. “Big rival? Kind of impossible to ignore?”
“Oh!” Yuuri blushes and looks down into his coffee, twiddling his fingers back and forth over the other where they curl around his cup. He bites his lip, chewing a reprimand there. “Right! Sorry. I never paid attention when I was undergrad, I didn't spend much time around campus. I don't now either. Sorry. I’ve been far removed from uh, America culture? For years. I'm still getting back into the swing of...football. But now that you say it,” he squints suspiciously, hopeless and adorable, and says in a grave tone, "we should not like Buckeyes."
His accent speaks for itself. It’s cobbled, the round Japanese pronunciation peaked at the vowels with something else Ky can’t place. They don’t learn a whole lot about Yuuri at that coffee hangout. He’s an attentive listener and even better at keeping the conversation away from him. Mark and Ky, who met a few times over the years at conferences leading up to their Masters program, fall into a rhythm of friendship. But Yuuri never once looks lonely or longing.
It’s just outside of the classroom that Mark spies Yuuri in a theatrical phone conversation. He has one hand pressed to his cheeks, eyes drifted towards the ceiling in seeming annoyance but they rove, like they’re searching for an answer, seeking to remember; then Yuuri’s face splits into an over-acted smile and a teasing drum roll of language leaves his lips: “Kotyonok! Ne kipyatis!” He titters with laughter, has to hold the phone away from his ear when a screeching resounds in response.
He sees Mark and waves, resuming his conversation in quieter English. Mark waves back a minute after Yuuri’s already turned his gaze away.
“He speaks Russian. I think he’s a spy,” Mark concludes. “Japanese, Russian? Mafia. He’s totally in the mafia.”
“The classic Mafia-spy gets his masters in Education so he can counsel America’s youth to a life of crime. I should have seen such an obvious trap.” Ky smashes a fist into her open palm, looking deceived and aghast. When Yuuri joins them, slinging his messenger bag off his shoulder, tucking his monstrosity of a phone into a front pocket, Ky springs the new information on him.
“Are you Russian?”
“Eh?” Yuuri squints, taking his glasses off to rub them on the corner of his shirt. He has a cat-eared beanie on. Mafia. Jesus. “Not technically,” this makes him smile. “I lived there for a few years. St. Petersburg.”
“What? That’s so cool.”
“How?” Mark asks stiffly. “Russia? Like. Russia?”
“Yes?” Yuuri looks more and more confused, withdrawing from them slightly. “It’s very lovely.”
Ky elbows Mark and Mark backs off.
Yuuri sets office hours on Tuesday to go along with his Thursday ones because students love him. They probably love him in a creepy way on top of the pure love he infects everyone with. A "I want to be locked in a room with him" way compared to the usually "god I hope he gets lots of sleep and is always warm and fed" way.
Yuuri mentions this at lunch. He always packs homemade meals and always shares a bite with Ky and Mark. Today it’s some weird salmon pastry thing. Yuuri hadn’t bothered to microwave it, and it’s a little doughy now with cold oil. Tastes okay though.
“They don’t need help with school. They just want to cry in the library.” He looks so worried.
“You know what you should do?” Mark volunteers, chin in hand and batting his eyes. Yuuri had said quite early on that Mark had nice eyes, that he reminded Yuuri of his friend Chris in many ways. Mark had taken this compliment and run with it. “Go out with us this weekend! You never hang out off campus.”
They had years ahead in this program. Forging strong bonds would ensure they survive.
“I can’t,” Yuuri apologies. “I’m going to the exhibition skate at Detroit University. You two should go. Yuri Plisetsky is a gold medalist skater, it’s a very cheap way to see him.”
Men’s ice skating is about the gayest thing either of them have ever heard.
“I have a standing date with that technician I met on HER,” Ky says, “at the club we’re going to. But that sounds fun!” Actually it doesn’t. Outside of the winter Olympics, ice skating occupies zero of her thoughts, and even then she only watches the women's skate.
“Ooh, I would,” Mark pouts, sitting back in his chair. He jerks a thumb at Ky. “But I don’t let her meet strangers alone.”
It’s understandable.
They’re really kind of dumb. Like. Really. Because they had assumed erroneously that Yuuri was Japanese-Russian. That Katsuki-Nikiforov was his parents’ last names and that they were divorced. Yuuri has a gold ring on his right hand but he also has cat earrings and he wears cute hair clips, so the jewelry all merges into one innocuous blur.
The jig ends in Dovetail.
They’re in Warren because Mark had been sick for most of the week, So Ky ran into Yuuri when she was going to swing over and bring him to the land of the living. Yuuri, who was planning to eat a thermos of miso soup, immediately offered his lunch, swearing by its healing properties, but had gotten roped along for the trip.
“Trust me, Yuuri. One look at your cute face and Mark will be good as gold!”
Yuuri blushed all over and damn. Ky sent a frantic text to Mark:
To: Marky Mark
Yuuri is coming! I suggest showering and putting on cologne!
From: Marky Mark
WHAT
OMH
GNMG
NO PLEASE
Aside from a red nose and bags under his eyes, Mark looks good. Like actually put in effort, is wearing a clean shirt and everything. There’s argyle, so Ky doesn’t give him too much credit.
“These thermoses are amazing,” Yuuri explains, pouring out a steaming cup of miso into the lid. “They keep liquid hot almost all day. I hate the microwave in the department office.” He wrinkles his nose judgmentally but pushes the soup Mark’s way with an encouraging smile. Mark’s gonna start crying real tears right there.
There’s a group of teenage girls in the booth beside them. They’re looking over. Like, a lot. They’re looking at Yuuri and whispering, clicking away frantically on their laptops. Oh, sweet young love, Ky thinks. Yuuri’s frowning, head cocked their way, clearly trying to eavesdrop, a pink radiance firmly fixed on his face. Ah, the flower is embarrassed. He’s as sweet as a cream puff. And she really needs to lay off the weird comparisons.
One of the girls shoves the closest girl across the booth bench, towards Yuuri. “Ask,” they whisper-hiss.
Yuuri looks young, yeah, could easily pass for his early twenties, but not for a teenager. His jaw is too strong, his body too thick. He’s got a baby-face but that’s a man’s body and yikes @ the girls.
But a big, cheek-busting grin bounces onto Yuuri’s face and he turns to them. “Would you like autographs?”
Uh huh huh what now?
A muffled scream swells in one girls throat, and the other bursts out “I knew it!” and the other one, closest, holds up her phone, eyes big. “We thought we saw you at the exhibition the other week.”
“Ky, I think my fever’s back,” Mark proclaims, disoriented and groping at her shoulder. “Yuuri’s taking selfies with teenage girls.”
“N-no…no that’s happening.”
“Is Victor really teaching community kids classes?”
“Is it bad if we go?”
Yuuri laughs. “He is. Only on the weekends. You can check the website for hours and availability.”
“Okay. Okay. We’re sorry. You’re with your friends. Hi Yuuri’s friends!” The girls wave. Ky and Mark wave back and they’re not sure why. “Oh my god. Okay. Tell Victor we love him and tell Yuri that he was amazing at the exhibition. Tell him he has angels in Michigan. But Victor too. Just because he‘s retired doesn‘t mean he doesn‘t have fans. You too. You too, Yuuri. Uh, wow. Okay.”
“I will.” Yuuri promises seriously, nodding his head and shifting back to his seat. He’d maintained his cool, but his ears are scarlet, and even as he picks up his coffee cup, there’s a mild tremor in his hands, a dazed look in his eyes. The girls can‘t seem to recover and after a second hesitation, scramble out of the coffee shop to scream in the parking lot and slam into a car.
“Sorry,” he mumbles bashfully.
“What the fuck?” Ky asks.
“Who‘s Victor?” Mark adds. He has the back of his hand pressed to his forehead, checking himself futilely for a fever.
“Victor?” Yuuri’s face scrunches up. In what reality could they not know Victor? His Victor? The audacity! “That’s my husband.”
“Your -- your --husband?” Mark gasps. His hand falls into his lap.
“That’s an interesting personal fact,” Ky says stiffly, eyes wide. “That one would share over almost two months of knowing people.”
Yuuri looks down at the ring on his finger and holds up his hand.
“Fashion!” Mark wails.
“My names hyphenated. Katsuki-Nikiforov…”
“Divorce!” Mark defends.
“I’m not divorcing Victor?” Yuuri looks frazzle, sinking into his seat and pulling his shoulders up. “We’re very in love.”
“Okay, husband. Husband Victor. Victor Nikiforov?” Ky tries. Yuuri nods slowly. She pats Mark on the thigh. “That’s lovely, Yuuri. We hope to meet him.” She pinches Mark into obedience when he grunts a protest. “How about the whole uhm, autographs thing?”
Yuuri’s mouth goes round. He has no right to look surprised that they don’t know. He wiggles in his seat. “I’m a retired competitive men’s figure skater. I won several golds for Japan.”
“The fuck, Yuuri,” Ky laughs, putting her face into her hands. “How do you keep that shit on the DL?”
“It never seems appropriate to say?” he offers, shrugging. “Uhm. Victor, m-my husband. He’s a retired competitive skater too.”
“From Russia?” Mark guesses glumly. Yuuri nods, smiling brightly now, fucking warmed to the core by talking of his husband. Disgusting.
“Yes. He won the gold in the Olympics back in 2006 and 2018, just before he retired. He’s uh,” Yuuri catches sight of Ky and Mark’s bug-eyed looks at the mention of Olympics, and he stumbles along, “he’s uh, I guess, the most, decorated skater in men’s singles…like ever?”
There’s a long silence. Mark’s mumbling deliriously under his breath. Ky folds her hands in front of her, fingers laced, assuming full counselor mode with a critical eye.
“And this other Yuri? Is this the Yuri Pli-plissy-platypus-what’s his name, that skater you mentioned before.”
“Plisetsky,” Yuuri corrects. “Yes. He’s our protégé. Victor’s coaching him. He’s also a gold medalist, although he’s only eighteen. We like to think of him as our son,” Yuuri finishes with a beaming smile. “Sorry to have kept this from you, I didn’t mean anything by it. It just doesn’t seem fitting to drag my whole life into everyday conversation.”
“Right,” Ky drawls. “Hey, so Yuuri, did you go to the Olympics?”
“Oh… yes. I got bronze. My friend Chris, who I said you reminded me of Mark, he got silver!” Yuuri volunteers this like it matters the most in this situation.
“Oh, naturally,” Mark agrees. “I remind you of your Olympian friend. Who stood next to your two-time gold medalist Olympian husband.”
“Well, hey,” Ky says, “That’s cool. That was a fun thing to learn. Legally, you have to invite us over simply so we can like, ceremoniously close this story with drinks with your secret husband and secret adopted son. How about that?”
“S-sure. Victor’s wanted to meet you anyway.” Yuuri sips his coffee, still looking a little off-balanced but there’s a smile peaking from the corner of his lips.