.

.

He's eighteen and this is his first kiss.

He's eighteen and it's more of a dare, encouraged by others. It's more spit than emotion, and the surface of Phichit's warm, pliant lips tastes… unexpected. A hint of raspberry vodka.

Yuri scoffs at the peal of laughter following, from a gleefully drunken Mila and Viktor.

There's no blaming alcohol for the pasty pink coloring on his cheeks. He hasn't had a single drop.

The second kiss comes like a whirlwind, with Phichit's holler of relief and his arms locking around Yuri's middle. He's spun around, caught in the thundering background noise and electricity of skin-to-skin pressing, even if it's momentary, even if it's unexpected to the pair of them.

Gunfire had been reported inside the stadium. One person shot in their vitals by the assailant; four people injured while leaving in a blind panic, nearly trampled to death by the crowds.

Yakov doesn't survive the bullet. Wrong place, wrong time.

News spreads fast, and that's how Yuri expects Phichit found him on the outskirts, glimmering in his crystalline, white outfit beneath a lone, dusky streetlight. Yuri's feet bare on the concrete. He's not trembling harshly against Phichit's hands reaching up to cradle the sides of his face.

He hardly knows him.

Phichit's hands are not as warm as his lips, but more contemplative, marveling.

His brown fingertips skim across Yuri's knuckles, across the prominent veins traveling up Yuri's hands, tracing every possible shape. One day, Yuri allows him a glimpse of crisscrossing, faded burn-marks on the inside of his left arm. They'll probably always be right there, lightly discoloring the ultra-pale skin.

Yuri remembers heating up that silver fork, again and again. He kept it carefully hidden, either under a mattress or in a pocket of his book-bag. Remembers crying out through exposed, gritted teeth; remembers being only eleven-years-old and thinking he needs to be good enough, or else.

Or else always scared him, even if it was only his own mind talking.

Phichit asks solemn-faced, and Yuri appreciates him trying to understand, but hushes him with a kiss.

It's not friendly—they're only friends. Friends probably shouldn't mutter each other's names with open, roughly-sliding mouths, pulling at their clothes and gripping their hips possessively.

He's lost count if that's the seventh or fifteenth kiss.

Yuri isn't "Yurio" with him, when it's them by themselves, and that's a welcomed change.

He doesn't mind "Yurio" as much. Phichit doesn't label him "Yurio" on SNS, when the other man squishes their faces together and snaps a quick selfie to upload—Phichit grinning widely to the camera, while most of the time, Yuri is only smiling halfheartedly or pretending to look away grumpily.

Being grumpy happens less.

He's eighteen and this is the first time Yuri thinks he loves someone who loves him back.

He's eighteen and this is more unconditional than he ever dreamed it would be.

.

.


Yuri! on Ice isn't mine. It's the FILL PARTY on the Yuri On Ice Kink Meme and I decided on a challenge! "Phichit/Yurio + first kiss, any rating." This is a super rarepair even for me! My goal was, even for just for the context of this one fic, to make you believe this was a workable idea and relationship. I hope it worked! Please tell if it did! Comments/thoughts are eternally thanked and appreciated!