They share a podium at the Worlds, in the spotlight, but he still doesn't know anything about Otabek Altin.
(Asides from distance and a permanently brooding expression.)
Viktor's curiosity wants to get the better of him. The most he learns over two flute glasses of champagne is Otabek is from Almaty and has four younger sisters. No names are spoken.
Otabek's use of English is choppy at best. Viktor gets the impression he's not comfortable using it for lengthier conversation and switches to Russian mid-sentence, putting the other skater seemingly at ease.
"Your skating is expressive—it says a lot about you," Viktor points out cheerfully, folding his arms.
He watches as Otabek's thumb presses against the lip of his smudged glass.
"… What does yours say about you then?"
Viktor's smile widens.
"I like to be… surprised," he says, dropping his voice to a softer, contemplative note. His arms unfold. Viktor's fingers touch lightly against the peek of Otabek's wrist beneath his jacket sleeve. "It's thrilling. People get bored quickly… there's nothing else like breaking expectations and thriving on it. Hmm?"
Not many people can surprise Viktor either, but he's pleasantly hopeful by how Otabek's nostrils flare, how their fingers brush and Otabek's trembles as he leans towards the banquet's table, setting down his glass.
He considers Christophe a good friend by now. Perhaps his best friend.
Christophe would laugh at him if Viktor admitted it so openly, tease him endlessly. Likely not believe him. Viktor doesn't wish to push their relationship in any certain direction.
It winds and oscillates in no defined pattern, as always. Viktor has lost count of the selfies, of restaurant visits with only them, of midnight, bubbly drinks. Christophe's lips nudging his, gentle and sweet.
There's a part of Christophe that clings to the hero worship between them. He's still the little boy staring admiringly from the crowd, with eager, pudgy hands grasping for Viktor's rose. The emotion is like a poisonous, thorny reminder, winding itself harder and tighter around Christophe's perception of him.
Viktor feels immense relief when Christophe seriously dates another man, and leaves all romantic attraction behind with him. He moves in with his handsome and very mysterious choreographer.
The relationship stagnates as friends, and only friends—Christophe's lips briefly touching Viktor's cheek.
Steam veils everything but the gleam of red hair near the locker-bench. Mila peers up from unwinding her towel. "You don't belong in here," she murmurs, grinning coyly when Viktor's hand skirts her bare thigh.
"I suppose not," he answers, murmuring too. Viktor calmly waits for her to toss aside the fluffy, pink towel.
The rest of Mila is just as glorious, with her alabaster-pale skin and curvy limbs. Her breasts are small and warm. Her pink, round nipples harden under Viktor's fingertips skimming around them.
"If you want a fuck, you better make up your mind," Mila tells him, her warning playfully. She inhales and swallows down a whimper, Viktor's empty hand resting to her hip. "I've got a date in an hour."
"The hockey player?" Viktor's smile doesn't falter, but the corners of his mouth stiffen. "He's no good."
"So says everyone, but he's also a good fuck, so—"
Mila arches her head backwards, pressing her mouth upside to Viktor's. It's barely a proper kiss, and she turns completely around when Viktor's palms slide up her waist, gripping onto her and yanking her closer.
Being rinkmates has never spoiled this, but Yakov scolds them when one of the girls accidentally walks in.
Viktor doesn't think much of Georgi. He doesn't have Yuri's ambitions, or the natural grace of Mila.
Georgi's skating has deep, abiding emotions connected to his personal life. While it's heartfelt, Viktor doesn't think the structure of Georgi's programs will allow the other skater to fully succeed as a competitor.
As a romantic partner, Georgi appears to have even less success.
Two ex-girlfriends and an ex-boyfriend. It's definitely not Georgi's cock, Viktor muses—the younger man fucks like a dream, memorizing every sensitive area and uses it to his advantage. He wrung an orgasm so hard out of Viktor once that he blacked out for a moment on Georgi's bunk, on the cock seated inside him.
The lack of romantic success falls on from Georgi's dangerously possessive nature.
He hopes, at least, Georgi may overcome that with time.
Hasetsu, Japan is the best place in the whole world—no, Yuu-topia and the onsen is.
Viktor hasn't felt this relaxed in ages.
Until he realizes there's no bathrobe to cover himself up. Damn.
There's nobody roaming around in the corridor leading to his room, and Viktor hurries down it. When he bumps into someone exiting a room, Viktor nearly gasps out his apology, presenting out his hands.
A woman—Mari, she's Yuuri's sister?—curses in Japanese and then stares him over, eyebrows furrowed.
"I'm sorry," Viktor apologizes again, this time using the little bit of Japanese he's learned. Oh my god, he's very naked all over. She does not look remotely happy about being collided into. "I didn't—"
Mari straightens the lit cigarette in her mouth, raking her fingers through dyed hair and saying through clenched teeth, "It ain't bothering me." Viktor's ears pick up her rough, accented English, but also the glimpse of her sudden and amused smile. The crumbly, old cigarette gets held out between Mari's fingers.
"Thank you," he says, accepting it from her, also switching back to English.
"You're cute for a foreigner. Got anyone back home?"
Viktor's next exhale blooms out thin, white smoke. "Just who I brought with me." He hasn't seen Makkachin, and Yuuri probably invited him in to sleep on his bed with him. Viktor can admit he's a tad jealous of his dog.
Mari's dark eyes land on Viktor's exposed cock.
"You any good with that?" she asks, her smirk forming out of interest than mocking him. Viktor can taste ashes on his own skin. It's similar on Mari's tongue plunging into his mouth, claiming a taste for herself.
(Viktor does not tell Yuuri he slept with his older sister. Twice.)
Even giggly drunk, Minako seems a bit intimidating. Ballerinas are tough and not to be underestimated.
(If living with Lilia Baranovskaya taught Viktor anything as a boy.)
"Yuuri likes you sooooo much, Viktoooor," she slurs out, tipping a little more whiskey into Viktor's glass tumbler. "He's practically in LOVE with you, since… pppffft, forever! Oh my gawd!"
"I like Yuuri, too," Viktor mumbles, humming thoughtfully.
Yuuri is… not quite what he was expecting upon arriving here. He runs away from Viktor's flirting, and blushes constantly and avoids eye-contact. It's a very, very different Yuuri from the GPF banquet.
No matter! Viktor promised to coach him, and that's what he'll do. Yuuri will come around eventually.
Minako's giggles tamper off, replacing with outraged incredibility. "You're so hot," she exclaims, placing her elbows on the kotatsu in front of them and dropping her hands. "Why doesn't he just ask you out?"
When Viktor doesn't say anything and continues sipping his whiskey, Minako groans. "His loss—let's go, we're getting WASTED tonight!" she yells, stumbling onto her feet with determined enthusiasm.
A confused, bleary-eyed Viktor gets pulled up by his shirt-collar, and pulled right out of Minako's door.
He doesn't remember returning. Or why there's a used condom sticking to his left thigh in the morning.
Viktor never knew Yuuri Katsuki's biggest fan had been a competitive skater as well.
Minami Kenjirou comes off as highly spirited and naive, as well as talkative. Overly talkative. He loves swing and his family, and of course, Yuuri Katsuki. Viktor witnesses their brief interaction, how much Minami admires him and draws inspiration from Yuuri. Finally, Yuuri attempts to encourage him.
By… apparently, slapping Minami on the lower back.
He winces a little at the execution, for both of Yuuri and Minami's sake. For even a brief moment, Viktor's mind creates an image of Yuuri hitting lower, striking against the crease of Minami's firm, tan aa—
Viktor shakes his head wildly, grinding a leather-gloved hand against his forehead. Now is not the time! Especially about any obscenely sexual fantasies involving Yuuri and someone else.
Especially when they'll never happen… right?
(Yuuri should have tried swinging with less ferocity and strength, and more of a downward aim. It's easier to control the force that way. And for the record: Slapping is not the same as spanking.)
He's never calling him Ciao Ciao.
Not even during a blowjob.
Before he knows it, Viktor ends up staggering with an armful of a hollering person.
Guang-Hong's eyes bug out impossibly huge in a matter of seconds as he recognizes the other person, lurching forward and upright. "Oh no, I'm sorry!" he cries out. "I—I thought you were someone else!"
Viktor laughs with his face bowed, patting himself off. The stadium itself is plenty vacant near the rink, minus them. He wonders who the other skater could have been expecting to show up and catch him.
"It's alright," Viktor tells him faintly. "No harm done. Have I win your trust?"
The offhanded question reddens Guang-Hong's freckled, adorable cheeks, traveling up to the tips of his pale ears. He fidgets nervously under Viktor's smug, upward glance.
"I'll take that as a yes," Viktor says gleefully, holding out a hand. Guang-Hong flushes brighter, and squeaks when Viktor entwines their fingers, lifting the younger's knuckles to press dryly against his lips.
Oh, he's gonna enjoy this…
It's been months of coaching. Viktor anticipates a lot of things, but Phichit Chulanont is not one of them.
(And thank god for Phichit.)
"Yuuri's so shy," he whispers, circling his brown arms around Yuuri's middle and snuggling. "I love it." Viktor half-grins and agrees in silence when Yuuri buries himself further into Viktor's chest and whines out.
Yuri on Ice isn't mine. Last day of YOI Rarepair Week! I decided it should be WILD AF. Viktor/Everybody (almost)! Thank you to everyone who encouraged me to do this, and also convinced me to not write six more Viktor ships into this omg. It was so tempting. BUT ANYWAY. HOPE YOU HAD FUN! Comments/thoughts appreciated!