Archive of Our Own

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.

Chapter Text

Eventually that coffee shop moment had to end. Ky had to drive Yuuri back to campus because Yuuri had night class and had to go home to his secret Russian Olympic husband. But the weird awe didn’t leave. The world had shifted several degrees and taken Ky and Mark for its crooked journey.

Mark facetimed Ky the second she’d texted him that she was home.

“I Googled him and he’s beautiful,” is the first thing out of Mark’s mouth. “I’m so shook.”

Ky hadn’t yet. She’d been driving and she wanted to be home and not wearing a bra and possibly be drunk before she began this foray into Yuuri’s private life. This is the closest brush with a famous person she’s had since she was at a bar the day after Lady Gaga had been there.

“Look at him, Ky. Victor Nikioforov. What the actual fuck. I’m sorry, but this is unfair. This is -- like -- I’ve been watching ice skating videos for three hours straight since I got home. I still can't tell what the difference is between jumps. I’m mad. I don’t know how to process my feelings. I thought being gay meant I had a better grasp on my emotions but this is -- I’m… I don’t?? Help me. Ky, come over. I need you,” Mark whines plaintively into his phone’s camera.

Ky thumb-swipes away from Mark’s pathetic, shattered expression and pulls up Google. ‘Victor’ is all she needs because he’s the third option. God damnit. Just for curiosity’s sake, she types in ‘Katsuki and he’s the second option! God! Damnit! They could have known this weeks ago if they had any basic internet stalking sense. But Yuuri hadn’t even had a Facebook and they’d given up too soon.

She’ll save this for an interview question: I learned the value of going to extra mile because I didn’t internet stalk my friend enough to know that he’s an Olympic athlete.

Anyway. Back to Victor Nikiforov.

A man’s never made her feel this way before.

“Oh my god,” she inhales, hand over her mouth. Mark can’t see her but he starts screaming in sympathy pain. It makes Ky feel 15 and like her best friend is getting asked to prom by the star quarterback.

“ARE YOU SEEING THIS WILD SHIT? THEY KISSED ON INTERNATIONAL TELEVISION! I ACTUALLY REMEMBER HEARING ABOUT THAT. I REMEMBER SEEING IT I JUST NEVER REMEBERED THE NAMES. THIS IS -- IM DYING.”

Mark goes quiet when he hears the sultry, up-beat music of Yuuri's 2016 short program.

"That's Yuuri? Our Yuuri?" Ky's grinning at the dark figure gliding across the ice, feet a fanciful blur and hips doing all sorts of naughty beckoning to the crowd.

"Is that the Cup of China video?" Mark asks excitedly. Ky checks the tags and grunts an affirmative. "No no no go to his free skate!"

"His what?"

"It should be the next video down. God, watch it. Oh my god, they kiss. Watch it."

Oh. So that's Victor Nikiforov, smooching Yuuri on the ice. How had they missed this?

That same night, Yuuri texts them inviting them over Friday night for dinner at his home.

From: Yuuri
Victor really wants to meet you two! He’s mad I kept him a secret. (¬_¬)

From: Yuuri
Also please don’t tell everyone about me and Victor.

From: Yuuri
Not that I’m married to a man ! ! !

From: Yuuri
But the athlete business. It’s too much attention. (≧o≦)

They play it cool.



Ky finds Yuuri on Instagram but doesn’t tell Mark. She doesn’t follow Yuuri either. His profile is public and he has several thousand followers. Victor features heavily in the photos; when she goes to his page, his follower count is in the millions. There more than three pictures of him with Karl Lagerfeld, probably wearing something designer. It’s too famous. Ky goes back to Yuuri’s page, homier and less daunting. They have an old, gray-faced dog. There are beautiful wedding photos: purple and pink suits. Unbelievable. How iconic. Ky knows from her recent Google searches that the colors coordinate to the costumes they’d worn for their dramatic exhibition pair skate. She’s friends with a gay icon and didn’t even know it. Someone come get her.


Even with this link to Yuuri’s social media, and the obsessive amount of creeping Mark’s done in about 30 hours, they aren’t prepared for Victor Nikiforov. If they were more acquainted with the skating world, they would know that one cannot prepare for Victor Nikiforov. In fact, preparation and Victor Nikiforov are antithetical concepts.

Mark steps out of his car wearing a suit. His beard is fluffed and combed, his hair braided. He’s got his best attempts at dapper going on.

“Mark,” Ky sighs, slapping at the itch she can't extinguish under her braids. She steers him back to his car in the lot of Yuuri’s complex. “Ditch the tie. Yuuri’s gonna be in one of his uniqlo sweaters.”

“And his rich husband will be wearing Gucci!” Mark protests, but he takes off his tie and tosses it in his passenger side chair.

Ky’s a simple lady. She feels safe in a denim shirt and slacks. Yuuri hadn’t mentioned a dress code and he rarely seemed inclined to formal wear.  Yuuri screamed comfort. Mark had said Yuuri could be the marshmallow fluff to his hot chocolate. Ky could be the spoon, he’d generously offered. Swirling them together. Like a wingman.

“Don’t be weird. Don’t proposition them for a threesome,” Ky preps Mark at the door, dusting off his jacket.  

“Ha Ha,” he bites, pushing her away. “Don’t act like you don’t wanna make both of them cry at your feet.”

“Neither here nor there,” she says tartly, pinching Mark’s cheek. Their jabbering must have alerted the household because the door of Yuuri’s apartment flies open; there’s a blond teenager in a sweatshirt staring blankly at them. Mark touches the collar of his shirt, grateful that it’s now unbuttoned.

“Uh,” says Mark.

“Hi,” says Ky.

“Katsudon!” calls the teen. He knocks his hip into the door to keep it open. His Russian accent is thicker than sheep‘s wool: “You must be his friends. Come in. Shoes come off. Victor and Yuuri are fighting upstairs. Or fucking. Maybe both. Who knows. Want wine?”

They’re barely in the door before the kid’s turned away, turning into the kitchen that’s just off from the entryway and popping a bottle. “Never mind; it’s champagne. Oops.”

Mark’s instantly pleased, eyes bright like a kid in a candy store, mouth gaping open. He kicks his shoes off and ditches his jacket, following after the kid who can only be Yuri Plisetsky. Mark’s an instant fan of the unaccountable crassness. Ky creeps in more slowly, taking in the neat rack of shoes at the coat closet, the umbrellas in a stand, the small table hosting a dog leash and poop bags and a jar of bone support treats.

The condo’s pretty big. Makes sense; these two probably host wild international parties. The kitchen’s marble and dark wood, shiny but not too modern. Yuri’s sitting on the counter drinking from a flute, with Mark on a stool at the island.

“So, you must be Yuri, it’s nice to meet you,” Ky introduces, holding out her hand. Yuri takes it, grip firm but the shake quicker than a bat out of hell. “I'm Ky. This is Mark. Yuuri’s hasn’t told us much about you.”

Yuri barks out a laugh. “Apparently. It broke Victor’s heart to find out Katsudon kept him a secret. He said it was almost as bad as people thinking he’s straight.”

Both of them guffaw. Ky accepts a glass of champagne gratefully but she cocks a manicured brow at Yuri. “Aren’t you underage?”

He's unimpressed and sly. “Lady. I am Russian. My mother, she gave me vodka from the teet. You do not need to worry a bit."

“She might not but I certainly will,” comes a stern voice. Yuri twitches as Yuuri marches into the kitchen. “One glass Yuri,” he chides.

“Coming from you,” Yuri sniffs but he abandons the champagne bottle to Yuuri who puts it on the island, far away from the teenager’s reach. It’s only after the bottle is settled that he dares recognize his company; he bows a few times, face red.

“I’m sorry to leave you down here. Victor and I were, uh, talking. I didn’t hear the door. Yuri uh, already got you drinks. I'm gone three minutes and you're talking about his mother's vodka nipples...," he mumbles before picking up his voice again, "I didn’t have time to cook, so Victor is gong to run out in just a minute for Indian takeout. I hope that’s okay. Our day got a little hectic--”

“It’s all good, Yuuri,” Ky interrupts, laying a hand on his elbow. She can't watch that kind of nervous flagellation. Yuuri shuffles his feet, socks slippery on the floor and adjusts his glasses. He’d clearly made an attempt to slick back his hair but it’s been rumpled, maybe over-styled or…grabbed by eager hands for a pre-dinner party quickie. As expected, Yuuri’s in a lightweight cream turtleneck and nice dark wash jeans.

“We’re just happy to get to know you better,” Mark tacks on, turning on the charm with a reassuring smile. “We’re really excited. You don’t have to do much to keep us happy.”

So his crush will never amount to anything, he‘ll get over it. Yuuri‘s a catch, more than that, really. An educated queer man, breathtaking to look at, in the same field as Mark? The shit dreams are made of, but that‘s just it: dreams. It’ll be an awful crush to get over and he can feel himself starting to pine as the seconds tick by.

Yuuri returns his smile but he’s still fidgeting. Yuri kicks him in the ass with the toe of his foot, just able to reach, and the contact makes Yuuri relax and take a deep breath, like he’s centering himself. He closes his eyes and when they open, he looks on his game, like when he’s tearing apart an argument in class.

“Thank you both for coming. I’m still sorry my life took you two by shock.“

“I’ll say,“ Mark mutters into his flute of champagne. Ky sips hers delicately. Dry and bubbly. Nice.

Yuuri winces. “I have some cucumber water prepared…and board games! My friend Phichit likes to play Settles of Catan, if you like that? I haven’t ever had to entertain friends before that don’t know me well. You’re some of our first guests in this apartment.”

They start to talk, the whole awkward first few minutes in a new friend’s private space kind of talk. Yuri’s a great ice breaker, brash and mouthy like a kid should be, and even though what he says is outlandish, it makes Yuuri relax by degrees.

Then there’s a flight of feet down the stairs and a bright voice singing out: “Yuuri!”

Victor Nikiforov dashes into the kitchen, sliding up behind Yuuri and embracing him in an embarrassing and affectionate hug. “Sorry, sorry. You know I’m late to everything! Even my own party!”

“It’s not a party for you, dumbass,” Yuri gripes.

Yuuri’s stock-still and blushing to the root of his hair while Victor nuzzles his cheek. “V-victor. You said you’d behave,” he whispers, reaching around and pinching Victor’s side. Victor squeaks and detangles himself with a pout, but he’s nothing but a calculated level of radiance, silver hair sparkling and teeth even sparklier, his blue eyes set off by a dark turtleneck.

Ky and Mark are on the edge of their seats, metaphorically speaking. Well, Mark is, but Ky’s standing and her knees have locked up, her heart beating faster. Mark’s clutching his chest, bowed slightly in premature death.

“Hello! It’s nice to meet you. You must be Mark,” Victor points to each of them respectively before enthusiastically shaking their hands, “and you must be Ky! Yuuri has actually told me about you both even if he is a terrible husband and kept me a secret like he’s embarrassed or something heartbreaking like that,” Victor goes on, flippant and dramatic. He puts a hand to his cheeks. Mark recognizes the gesture from the one Yuuri sometimes did when it sounded like he was putting on a character “And now I have to run and grab dinner. I’ll be back shortly. I’m excited to get to know Yuuri’s friends.”

He waves at them like he’s the queen riding by on a float and then whistles shrilly. It takes several minutes for the old poodle Ky had seen on Instagram to sloth its way down the steps.

“You’re taking Makkachin?” Yuuri questions, distracted and moving towards the doorway. He leans down to pet the dog in passing. The dog circles past him to sniff Ky and Mark, earn some scratchies, before ambling back to Victor.

“She likes the Indian place. Beside, I’ll take her for a walk before I come back in so she’s done for the night,” Victor explains, leashing her. Yuuri hums and the pair exchange a quick parting kiss before Victor calls out another farewell to the company. Yuuri turns back, sees everyone, and blinks like he’s forgotten about them.

The moment reeked of a domesticity that Ky can barely grasp. Yuuri has this whole complex life, and yet he’d walked around for two months saying nothing of it. He’d been a nobody, just another graduate student, another face in the classroom. Nadine, for all her aloofness and business, made it clear she had a family, had a work history, all this stuff. But Yuuri had been able to quietly continue on another phase of his life. Ky isn’t sure if she’s jealous or concerned. Is that good to be able to do? She feels like she can’t shut up about the vet tech she’s been on three dates with.

“Sorry,” Yuuri says, apologizing unnecessarily. “Victor will be back. We lost track of time and he’s particular about his looks.”

“Well he was in Vanity Fair,” Mark shrugs.

“Oh, you looked him up? He’s in lots of magazines. That’s kind of why we got messed up today.”

“Yeah, busybodies needed to know about Victor Nikiforov even though he’s a washed-up coach,” Yuri scoffs.

“Yuratchka, he’s your coach. And get off the counter,” Yuuri scolds, tugging the boy down and, clearly just to be annoying, ruffling his long hair.

“Wow, cool, dad,” Yuri replies, flicking his hair back. Yuuri smiles after Yuri, full of love as the boy skulks off to play on his phone on the living room couch. Yuuri fixes his attention on Mark and Ky once more, tapping the frame of his glasses to fix a crookedness that isn’t there.

“Would you like a tour?” he offers, spreading his hands theatrically.


Everyone’s ravenous when Victor returns with several cartons of Indian takeout. It gets spread across the island and they go round like a buffet with their plates but eat in a dining room. Yuuri clucks around Yuri and encourages him to eat, eat!

Victor leans towards Ky and Mark, hand walled around his lips for secrecy: “Our Yura counts calories too much. But I was like him too once.” He winks meaningfully before stealing a piece of lamb of Yuuri’s plate and stuffing it in his mouth. “But I can eat whatever I want now! Like all of Yuuri‘s cooking.”

Yuuri pokes him in the cheek, smile small.

“You’re lucky,” Ky acknowledges. “Yuuri lets us try the lunches he brings when we don’t recognize the food.”

Victor lays a hand over his heart, big-eyed and mouth a snoozed heart. “Tell me everything my Yuuri does at school. He’s quietest about himself.”


Victor’s a lot. He’s loud and kind of an attention whore, but he also seems to love putting the attention on Yuuri as well. He laments Yuuri’s modesty.

“Even when he was Japan’s number one skater, he acted like a nobody,” Victor cries. “He broke my world record, you know, for the free skate. I never did get it back.” He doesn’t seem bothered by this past a contemplative downturn of his lips.

Yuri at every chance, drags him in the mud: “You act like you also didn’t know who he was when you met. I knew him way better.”

Yuuri oscillates between protesting all of this and eating with his head down, putting away the champagne like a champion.

Ky and Mark are more than happy for once to be on the receiving end of all things Katsuki-Nikiforov. They gush about Yuuri when they can. Victor seems to know everything about them that they’ve told Yuuri, which both flatters and despairs them. Victor asks after Ky’s new lovebird Tianna; he even congratulates Mark’s little brother Mamadou on getting accepted to university! He asks them particular questions about their studies, what they think about American education, as natives, all this thoughtful stuff. Every time Victor talks, Yuuri looks at him gratefully, for both Victor’s social grace and for proof of Victor’s devotion to this new part of his life. All this time, Yuuri had been learning about them, and they hadn’t done enough to poke past his humble private defenses.

“You’re getting an earful now,” Yuuri says in response to this observation. “And I did it on purpose, anyway.”

Mark’s decidedly sure that Victor is fondling him under the table because Victor looks devious and Yuuri is squirming. Ky already texted him her thoughts on the turtlenecks and Yuuri’s sex hair.

“Do you want to hear about how we met?” Victor purrs, chin in hand and leaning towards his innocent guests. The light catches on his wedding band and it throws off a spark ominously.

“Oh god, not this crap,” Yuri whines. “Stop embarrassing Katsudon, you’re gonna kill him.”

“What’s Katsudon?” Mark finally asks, sparring Yuuri who looks like he’s going to combust from whatever epic secret set his life on a course to this finale.

“A pork cutlet bowl,“ Yuri explain, weirdly engaged. “It’s fried pork over rice. It’s really good but sooooo many calories. No skater should ever eat it during the season. It makes everyone fat. Yuuri was all fat from it when we found him. He taught me how to make it when I lived in Japan and then my grandpa,” there’s the slightest hitch in Yuri’s voice. Yuuri and Victor seem to sober instantly and straighten in their seats, “my grandpa learned to make it into pirozhki. Do you know what that is?”

Mark and Ky shake their heads on cue. Yuri’s animated, a little red in the face from food and the second glass of champagne that Victor had snuck him.  “Pirozhki is a bun filled with foods, like meat.”

“So…a dumpling? A meat bun?” Mark says.

“Yes, but better. Russian. Pirozhki,” Yuri insists.  

Mark nods. Yuuri and Victor let out a quiet sigh in tandem and share a look that their guests can’t discern. The ‘dads’ take the chance to bring Yuri into the fold, proudly exclaiming over the work he’s been done and asking for Ky and Mark’s opinions on few colleges, even though Yuri swears he’s not going and “besides, Victor, you barely graduated high school.”

The evening passes in a bizarre dream that Ky and Mark struggle to remember by the stroke of eleven. Oh, so late! Wow, truly! Everyone hugs. There’s a lot of hugging and back patting and handshaking.

“Thank you for coming over.” Yuuri repeats for the hundredth time that night. Victor, who’s supposed to be cleaning up the kitchen, instead joins his husband, the most demure he’s been all night, wrapping an arm around Yuuri’s waist. He’s smiling, looking at Yuuri proudly, all affection, all of him laid bare to Ky and Mark.

“It’s nice to make new friends,” Yuuri finishes quietly. It’s like a blow to the stomach. Ky kisses his cheek and hugs Victor again. Yuuri sends them home with the leftover Indian food.


“Do you wanna go back to my place and get shitfaced and deconstruct the night?” Mark offers.

“I’ve never wanted to be gay-married before but that made me a believer,” Ky says as way of confirmation.

“I know it’s, you know, inaccurate to, what’s that quote: judge your life by someone else’s highlight reel? Something like that. But I just feel,” Ky blabbers from her slumped position on Mark’s beat-up couch that she’s mostly sure Mark found off the side of the freeway, “I just feel so good but sad? Like, full of hope for love but also I really want love right this second?”

Mark pats her foot companionably when he sets down, passing her another beer. “Ky, you’re twenty-three. I’m twenty-four. We have plenty of time.”

She sniffs and wipes under her eyes carefully for mascara. “Why are you handling this so well? You’re the one whose crush got crushed.”

“Don’t remind me,” Mark mutters, taking a long pull from his beer. “I don’t know. It was a crush. And Yuuri is, well it’s still him, he’s not different in nature than the Yuuri we knew of a few days ago. But he’s got a whole story with Victor we didn’t know. I like it. I feel…fulfilled tangentially to them. Besides, Victor said he wants me to show him the clubs around here. That Chris guy Yuuri mentioned? He’s supposed to visit soon with his fiance and they need to know the scene. Maybe I’ll find my husband blackout drunk pole dancing.”

“That’s so inspiring,” Ky whispers. They don‘t even have the TV or the living room lights on, and the dark and the quiet eases their bodies. “Do you think it’s too late for me to text Tianna?”

“It’s never too late for anything,” Mark says sagely. Ky side-eyes him, flutters an eye roll and pulls out her phone.