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Yuuri has a daily routine: get up, make coffee, and stare out his window while he eats breakfast. The third step is very important.
The steps after that are far more ordinary. He goes to dance practice, teaches a class in the late afternoon, stares out the window over dinner and while playing with Vicchan, stares out the window while he stretches. Then, he either throws himself into a videogame or goes out with Phichit.
Tonight, his videogame system sits untouched at the base of his television, and his drink sits untouched on the bar.
“Look,” says Yuuri, “I don’t need help with finding a boyfriend.”
Phichit flaps a hand dismissively, rolls his eyes. “Well, obviously.”
Yuuri blinks. “Then… we can go back to playing pool and you can stop sending random guys my way?”
It's been only two months since they returned from their dance tour. Phichit has tried to set him up with thirty guys.
“Yuuri, just because you’re a hot dancer who doesn’t have trouble attracting guys doesn’t mean they’re good boyfriends.” At this, Yuuri discovers that coughing up rum and coke and having it go through your nose hurts. “You deserve the perfect boyfriend. And that’s why you have me!”
“Why don’t you go find a perfect boyfriend, Phichit,” Yuuri mutters. “One for you. And I’ll go find… a dog.”
“Yuuri, you have a dog. You’re not getting another. Now, if you said you wanted two boyfriends…”
“Phichit!”
“Okay, okay. Anyway, pursuing romance is not my specialty. My specialty is getting retweets and matchmaking.” Swiveling on his dark barstool, Phichit surveys the counter.
“I really don’t need you to do this for me,” Yuuri starts. Without looking, Phichit puts a finger up to his lips.
“Shhh. Oooh, okay, there’s a guy with blue eyes over there. Blue eyes are your type.”
“I don’t have a type!”
“True, you have a specific person picked out already. One you refuse to ask out. We’ll use him as your ideal, and work backwards from there.”
Yuuri, too tired to continue protesting, turns to look at the blue eyed man.
“No,” he says firmly.
“You haven’t even talked to the guy, Yuuri. He’s tall and has nice pointy dark hair and bluuuue eyes.”
“Phichit, that’s my Bathroom Buddy.”
Phichit and Yuuri choose to haunt Stammi Vicino bar for several specific reasons. Yuuri knows approximately half of them.
- Sara, the bartender, has a strange interest in Yuuri (despite Phichit having matchmade her several weeks ago with a gorgeous redhead) and gives him free drinks
- Yuuri occasionally becomes a weepy drunk—and when he does, about 50% of the time he gets to cry at the same time as Bathroom Buddy. Bathroom Buddy’s name is Georgi. They do not talk, in the bathroom. Georgi and Yuuri cry in separate stalls, and then Yuuri watches Georgi reapply his eyeshadow and concealer, which is somehow soothing. Georgi is always too busy hiccupping about his last girlfriend to ask why Yuuri is crying, which makes him an ideal Bathroom Buddy in Yuuri’s eyes.
- Stammi Vicino has karaoke.
- Stammi Vicino has a very lax policy on clothes, called “no shirt, no serve-ice,” which means they still get drinks when Yuuri’s plastered and stripping and twirling on a pole, they just can’t have any alcohol with ice. Phichit doesn’t know why this is a rule. Phichit is not complaining.
- They have a great Tequila Tuesday deal. It is very important that they barhop on Tuesday, because that is the one day Phichit can always drag Yuuri out of the apartment.
Tuesdays, you have to understand, are the one day when their hot neighbor isn’t home.
Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut and throws back his drink, just so he doesn’t have to think too deeply about their hot neighbor.
“Can’t be your perfect boyfriend if he’s straight,” Phichit sighs, and wiggles so he swivels a bit more on his barstool. “Now, there’s a handsome blonde that has definitely checked you out already tonight. Maybe he could be your perfect boyfriend.”
Yuuri glances, and in the two seconds his eyes are on the blonde, he turns and licks his lips right at Yuuri, green eyes promising.
“When we were in here two weeks ago that guy put his hand in my pocket,” Yuuri confides quietly. This is ruined by Phichit’s responding outburst.
“Which pocket?!”
“Does it matter which pocket, Phichit? I don’t think the front is any more normal than the back!”
There’s no reply, just Phichit sliding his phone out with a practiced, serious ease. Even without looking, Yuuri knows he’s on Instagram—knows he’s scouting for another potential boyfriend.
The thing is, Yuuri does want a boyfriend. The perfect boyfriend: silver hair, blue eyes, sly wink and beaming smile, an adorable dog he’s always playfully tearing around his house after, which shows off his rippling—
“Got it!” Phichit announces, and shoves his phone beneath Yuuri’s nose. “So he’s dark and mysterious and doesn’t have the physical look you like. HOWEVER, every photo on his Instagram is one he’s been tagged in by his best friend, and most are him sitting and reading. Sounds like someone we know and love, doesn’t it?”
Randomly grabbing traits from Yuuri’s hot neighbor crush and looking for them in other people is, for some reason, not working.
“I’m sure he’s very nice,” Yuuri sighs, pressing his palms into his eyes. “But I’ll have to pass.” There’s really only one option available: Yuuri has to get over his crush, and then commit himself to a life lacking romantic love.
“Look,” says Phichit. He whips the camera of his phone back and forth along the bar, and if Yuuri hadn’t known him for years, he’d be confused. Having known Phichit since college, he realizes Phichit is checking for other people nearby, respecting Yuuri’s desire for private conversation. There’s a reason they’re roommates. “Yuuri. I’m only matchmaking you, only meddling, for one reason. Every time we get drunk at Stammi Vicino I haul you home over my shoulder while you mutter about being single and alone, and then sit in our windowsill and wait for our hot neighbor to come home. You don’t deserve to wait around drunk in windowsills, Yuuri.”
Oh.
“You should leave me to die alone,” says Yuuri flatly.
“People actually accuse me of being the extra one in this friendship,” Phichit chuckles. “And nope. No leaving you to die alone— I ‘m committed to being your best friend. And that means I’m going to continue to scour Instagram and the streets until I find someone hot, and single, and ready to experience all the joys of your butt.”
“That sounds—bauuugh.”
“Shhh,” says Phichit, squeezing Yuuri’s face between his hands and cutting him off, half teasing and half serious. “Shhh, best friend. Let Phichit work his magic.”
Yuuri loves Phichit. He loves that Phichit is charismatic, and friendly, and unstoppable. He hates that Phichit is charismatic, and friendly, and unstoppable, especially when it means he’s taking action that Yuuri knows he should be doing himself. There’s nothing wrong with his friend trying to set him up, especially when Drunk Yuuri has confessed that he wants to be. He wants to go on dates, to discover if there’s anything seductive in him at all, and specifically he wants to go on dates with… well. It hardly matters who he wants to go on a date with. So Phichit is being kind.
Except Yuuri is too proud, too stubborn, and he’s well aware of it. In a snap moment of clarity and genius, he realizes what he has to do.
“Phichit,” Yuuri says, “the truth is, I don’t need help finding a boyfriend because I… I’m already dating someone.”
“No way,” Phichit breathes, delighted, and he already has Facebook up, his fingers at the ready. “Let me see him, Yuuri.”
Oh, god. A moment of genius? What was Yuuri thinking?
The problem with pretending to date someone is that you kind of need a name. A name of someone that really exists, that doesn’t have a million pictures of them and their significant other peppered all over their Instagram and Facebook profile. How is Yuuri supposed to avoid Phichit stalking someone on social media?
But it’s too late to turn back now.
“You don’t have to,” Yuuri explains, in a blind panic, and in this frantic whirling of his mind the answer becomes clear. “It’s the guy that lives across the street from us.”
The answer to “how will Phichit not stalk someone on social media” is clearly “if he can stalk them in real life.”
For the first time in months, Yuuri sees Phichit set his phone down willingly. “No way,” he echoes, brown eyes going wider and wider. “Yuuri, my brilliant best friend. You asked out your dream guy? I’m so proud of you!”
Now Yuuri has committed to this deception. Yuuri, who can’t lie for the life of him, who is definitely not in the same league as their attractive neighbor across the street. There’s a whole list of reasons why this isn’t going to work.
- Their attractive neighbor across the street doesn’t even know he exists.
- Their attractive neighbor is the perfect embodiment of Yuuri’s type of guy
- Yuuri is nobody’s type
- Yuuri is… Yuuri.
He gets the feeling he’s going to have to fake a breakup very, very soon. Yuuri will just have to wait until he’s crying about something else stress-related, and then pretend it’s heartbreak. Yuuri won’t have to wait long.
“Yep,” he finally manages, to Phichit’s excited face.
“That’s awesome, Yuuri. What’s he like? You know, I’ve only seen him a couple times! I want to know every—oh.”
Leaning to the right, eyes dancing, he smirks over Yuuri’s shoulder.
“What is it?” Yuuri asks.
“I know you keep some things private, so I wasn’t too upset. I was wondering why you hadn’t told me yet, but you invited him here tonight to introduce us, huh?”
What.
With growing dread, Yuuri turns around.
Across the bar, unwinding a designer scarf from around his neck and chatting amiably with the blonde from earlier, is his hot neighbor.
Yuuri’s getting screwed by this man. And not in the way he’d wanted to be.
“Um,” he says eloquently, and wonders if it’s completely obvious to Phichit that he and his hot neighbor have never had a conversation before, much less dated.
Energetically patting his knee, Phichit bounces to his feet. “Perfect, I’ll go shovel-talk him right now.”
“Wait!” Yuuri gasps, snagging his sleeve, and Phichit pouts at him. “Let me, uh. Prepare him? Before we subject him to that.” Maybe, if hot neighbor is as kind as Yuuri thinks he is from having watched him interact with a poodle, he’ll be willing to quickly exit and go to another bar before Phichit can pounce on him.
Leaving his best friend with Instagram and another drink, Yuuri begins the journey.
Hot Neighbor is only half a bar away, but every step feels weighed down with his own doubt.
Turn back. He’s going to think you’re creepy. He’s never going to go along with this. He’s going to—
“Oh hello,” the blonde drawls. One side of his mouth quirks up, and Yuuri is completely unprepared for Hot Neighbor to turn, silver fringe swishing.
Yuuri doesn’t even expect acknowledgement, much less the response he gets.
“Hello!” He breathes, as their eyes catch. The flutter that starts in Yuuri’s belly is completely unfair, but what’s worse is that Hot Neighbor follows this up by beaming at him. Before he can process much, Hot Neighbor is pulling out a chair, which Yuuri dazedly climbs into. He’s pushed in, just for Hot Neighbor to start swiftly rearranging the table to fit three.
“Christophe Giacometti,” the blonde introduces, chin propped in his hand, “just in case our last encounter didn’t make a strong enough impression.”
“I,” Yuuri says, barely able to keep his brain on the conversation. Hot Neighbor tugs off his long coat, flings it over the back of his chair, and starts waving down a waiter. “Katsuki Yuuri. Yuuri.”
This is when Hot Neighbor decides to enter the conversation. “Viktor Nikiforov, of course. Your beer’s warm,” he fusses, long fingers sweeping over the edge of Yuuri’s mug. They’re dangerously close to Yuuri’s own. “Let me get you a new one.”
Yuuri blinks at him, nearly clings to his glass. Nothing is making sense. This warm, cheap beer is all Yuuri has left of reality.
“Let him, cherie,” Christophe says soothingly. “We don’t mind. Now, is there any reason you’ve decided to grace us with your presence this evening?”
Yuuri almost, almost stands up and walks away. Instead, when he turns to look back at Phichit grinning toothily, camera phone already brandished high in the smoky air of the bar, he knows there is no turning back. Yuuri steels himself.
“Are you dating anyone?” He asks Viktor.
Christophe begins a slow clap, which is not what Yuuri was expecting. “Faster than even I predicted.”
Turning his head in Christophe’s direction with a sweet smile, Viktor airily replies, “don’t you ruin this.”
Viktor probably gets asked out all the time. Being his wingman, or… whatever Christophe is, must be the easiest job in the world.
“I’ll leave you kids to it.” Yuuri wishes he wouldn’t. Then again, this conversation will be bad enough with two people.
The smile that Viktor is sending his way is soft, too gentle and encouraging for someone being approached by a frumpy stranger in a bar. It isn’t fair.
“I’m single,” Viktor murmurs sensuously, and leans forward, pale elbows on the dark wood of the table. He’s a miracle, in every way. “How about you, Mr. Katsuki?”
“Also single,” Yuuri replies, and god, he’s doing this. He’s really doing this. Yuuri would never actually do this, but it being fake, he can’t take the rejection too personally. “And therein lies the problem.”
“Oh?” Viktor angles in even further, and his knee brushes Yuuri’s under the table. “Maybe I could help.”
“Maybe you could,” Yuuri agrees, and it is absolutely sinful, the way Viktor’s eyes light up, smile growing across his entire face.
“Yuuri!”
“Will you pretend to be my boyfriend?”
“Yes, yes, I’m so happy you—pretend?” Viktor breaks off, blinking at him. This was a terrible idea. Yuuri knew it was terrible. “Pretend… to be your boyfriend.”
“Sorry, this is stupid,” he winces, squirms in his chair and does not look up. “It’s just that, well, my friend over there has made it his life mission to find me the perfect boyfriend. He means well, I just—I should be able to find my own boyfriend? Anyway, to get him off my back for a little while, I might have… told him you were my boyfriend. To prove that I could get a date for myself. I wasn’t thinking clearly—you can tell me no!”
Viktor is still blinking at him, one finger tapping at his lip. “Oh.”
“Oh,” Yuuri echoes, miserably. He knots his fingers together in his lap, and wonders how quickly he can down a beer once he slinks back to Phichit’s side. “This is awkward. I… I should go.”
“No,” says Viktor, and Yuuri freezes. No. “I think I see where you’re going here. You already know what I look like naked,” he continues, “so it’d be quite easy to pretend I’m your boyfriend.”
Things are much worse than Yuuri thought. Things are catastrophic.
One important detail, for the confused: Viktor is Yuuri’s hot neighbor. Viktor is Yuuri’s hot neighbor, who almost never closes his curtains, who Yuuri tried not to watch. He tried not to intrude on his privacy, playing with his dog and cooking in the kitchen and reading, in the evening, curled up with a fuzzy pink blanket under a lamp.
Yuuri had tried. But the curtains were always open and Viktor—beautiful, graceful, heart-throb Viktor— had been addicting to watch. Yuuri would feel less shameful about the longing and the watching and his horrible, longterm crush if not for one tiny thing.
Viktor lounges around his apartment in the nude.
“So,” Yuuri squeaks, finally, because he has no idea what to say. “You… know I’m your neighbor?”
Has he caught Yuuri watching, once? Has he decided to publicly shame him for basically being a Peeping Tom, no matter how innocent or accidental at first?
“Oh, Yuuri,” Viktor sighs, the strangest droop in his shoulders. “I know a lot more than that.”
Unsure of anything, least of all this being reality, Yuuri turns back to look at Phichit. Phichit, ever helpful, flashes him a peace sign, and a thumbs up with a wink.
“What is happening,” Yuuri hisses to himself and his warm mug of beer. “What. Is happening.”
“So,” Viktor cuts through his panicked internal monologue, “a fake date then?” Viktor is still willing to go on a fake date with him. “Friday, if that works for you, at 6?”
“I—sure,” Yuuri agrees, and tries to subtly study Viktor’s face for any sign of this being a prank or trap. Maybe Viktor will ask to meet him at the police station. This man has been staring through my windows! Arrest him!
“Great,” Viktor replies, sounding somewhat relieved. His voice is deep and lilting and music to Yuuri’s ears. There is no way this perfect man is willing to entertain his loser, creepy neighbor’s fake date. Yuuri is going to jail. He’s totally going to jail. “We could meet in one of our building’s lobbies.”
“Meet me at mine,” Yuuri blurts. He’s already invaded Viktor’s privacy enough. “I’ll—I’ll pay for everything. This will be the best date you’ve ever had! Even if it’s fake. I promise.”
There’s that smile again—still too warm, too welcoming, too full of hope. Yuuri’s not sure how to respond.
“I have no doubt it will be,” Viktor says smoothly. “I love fake dates.”
Yuuri knows how to respond now. He flushes, gapes, and then runs.
“I love fake dates?” Viktor moans. Christophe is still laughing beside him, nearly doubled over, and Viktor sticks out his lip and gestures to the bartender that he needs a new glass. It’s a Tuesday. It’s a Tuesday, and this was a terrible idea. Yuuri and his friend are long gone, Yuuri having taken off like a shot mere minutes after Viktor’s ridiculous words. “Why would I say that? Who says that? Christophe. He must think the worst of me.”
“Look at it this way. Regardless of what he thinks, you’re doing him a favor. You get a date with him, and he is, for whatever reason, grateful that you helped him out. A win-win, Viktor. Your time has finally arrived.”
His time. Viktor feels like he’s been waiting far too long for it to be his time—time for love. Time for a real life.
“Okay,” he says, “okay. Friday is the day.”
It is Wednesday. Yuuri shouldn’t look—he really, really shouldn’t. Viktor’s proved to be painfully aware of the fact that Yuuri lives across from him, and can see in his windows. Yuuri shouldn’t look.
But then Viktor decides to do yoga, of all things. Yoga with his dog.
Yuuri looks.
He comforts himself with the little things. He’s just trying to do the dishes, and where else is he supposed to stand except at this large window, scrubbing at them? At least Viktor has on sweatpants, this time, even if they’re very tight and riding his muscular hips. Really, all Yuuri is doing is watching his shirtless hot neighbor play with his adorable poodle, and there’s no crime in—
Yoga is over. Apparently the striptease has begun. The pants are coming off, because Viktor is going to bed.
Yuuri drags the blinds down so fast he nearly smacks himself in the face. The dishes lie forgotten in the sink, and the blinds are still open. Yuuri screws them shut, desperately, watching as the naked man he’s had a crush on since forever slowly winks out of sight.
“I swear,” comes Phichit’s voice, and Yuuri yelps, turning and flinging a cheap plastic cup off into a corner of the kitchen, spattering bubbles everywhere. “Our dishes never sparkled this much before we moved next door to Viktor.”
“Phichit! How long have you been standing there?”
Yuuri’s roommate sips from his mug, shrugs with the shoulder that’s holding his phone. “I made coffee in the kitchen, settled in to watch you watch him. You were too busy to notice.” Yuuri wants to die. “Hey, it’s cool. Maybe you’ll see his abs up close soon! Remember when we used to joke that such an attractive guy would have an obnoxious speaking voice, and a laugh like a hyena?”
“…yes?” Yuuri agrees. Back when this was a crush and he’d never officially met the man, it was easier to accept that he was head-over-heels for someone with the body of a god but that was still human in some way. Some way that made him more accessible to mortals like Yuuri.
“Well,” Phichit emphasizes, impatient. “Tell me! You haven’t given me his last name, so I can’t stalk him yet.”
“Russian accent,” Yuuri reveals honestly, helplessly, “gorgeous laugh. Genuinely nice. Just… gorgeous.”
“The whole package, huh. And his Insta handle is…”
“I don’t know it yet!” Yuuri has decided that their fake relationship is very, very young.
“Wow,” Phichit mutters, “it’s like you’re courting in the dark ages. Let me send my beloved mail, and flowers, and look upon him from afar. Maybe I’ll buy his attention with a goat.”
Yuuri snorts, feeling the tension drain from him. “Just one goat? Have you seen him, Phichit?”
There is vague hand-waving. “Okay, three goats and a poodle. It’s fine, Yuuri. I’ve held back for your sake, but now that you two are dating, I’m finding him online. I have my ways.”
“Why look online,” Yuuri says desperately, staring at the closed blinds.
Phichit does find Viktor, and Yuuri resists for about ten minutes before following him.
v-nikiforov has followed you.
It is Friday.
Across the lobby, Viktor is poised in a sofa, chin propped lightly on his palm, long legs crossed. Yuuri’s seen him from a distance thousands of times.
This time, he’s there for Yuuri. When Yuuri approaches, he sweeps to his feet, crosses the room in a few smooth strides.
“Hi,” he says warmly.
“Hi,” comes Yuuri’s automatic response, and he has the strongest urge to duck his head. To look away, and never meet Viktor’s eyes again. But the feel of their gazes locking is so addicting that he can’t—just stumbles forward, holds out his hand.
Viktor reaches out, takes it, pumps it once. Then lingers.
This would be perfectly fine with Yuuri, letting Viktor’s thumb rub in soothing circles over the back of his hand while they continue to make electric eye contact. This could be it; this could be the entirety of the date, and Yuuri would walk away happy. Viktor is so close—
There is a shutter noise. Instinctively, Yuuri whirls, hisses “Phichit!”
Before he can find his traitorous roommate, Viktor snags his shoulders and tugs him back to facing straight. “Let’s go on the date now?”
Yuuri’s too busy staring over Viktor’s shoulder into the window, where he can see the blurred reflection of a young man, wearing large sunglasses and a hamster beanie that tastefully complements his tan skin. A hamster beanie, honestly, like that wasn’t as obvious as Phichit’s own face. Busted.
This was Phichit’s mission, apparently, and he wanted to see it through. Yuuri should have been pleased—this would get Phichit off of his back. Still.
He knew he’d told Phichit he was dating Viktor, but did Phichit really have to follow them and make sure Viktor was the “perfect boyfriend”? Of course Viktor was perfect. Clearly his only issue was either blindness or a terrible sense of judgment, as he’d agreed to go on this fake date with Yuuri.
Yuuri had sworn to make this the best fake date. He has to come through, regardless of whether Phichit is following them or not.
“Yes,” he says, after too long of a pause, “let’s go.”
The moderately expensive restaurant Yuuri chooses to take them to is fine. Just… fine. Nothing special—decent food, polite waitstaff, and a room loud enough that Yuuri has to keep leaning in and flinching as he mouths “what?”
It’s the fanciest he could afford. At least there’s white tablecloths and centerpieces—it’s probably the only reason Viktor hasn’t rolled his eyes and left. Best fake date, who is Yuuri kidding. He might as well still be spying on Viktor across an alleyway.
Then, he sees those sunglasses again. Phichit, he thinks grimly, and leans to the right to glare at him, because Yuuri is private—
Viktor leans at the same time, blocks his view with his broad shoulders and an enthusiastic circle of his fork. “So! What exactly does one do on a fake date?”
“Uh,” says Yuuri, and feels his cheeks heat. “Probably… talk? Flirt?”
“On it,” Viktor purrs, and reaches his hand across the table, palm flipped up and fingers wiggling enticingly. Yuuri stares. The wiggling slows to a stop. “What? No holding hands? We should be putting on a show, should we not? Here, I’ll take a picture. That should be good proof for your friend. Give me your phone?”
Silently, Yuuri hands it over. “Listen,” he tries to begin. He still has no idea why Viktor is entertaining the idea of a fake date for Yuuri’s sake, but the fact that he is? It makes Yuuri wonder if, just maybe, he might not laugh if Yuuri asks to go out again.
Lofted up, the phone flashes before Yuuri manages to paste on a smile. Viktor glances at the screen, touches Yuuri’s strained expression on it with a long finger.
“I want this to be a good experience for you,” he says. The restaurant is loud. Yuuri must have misheard.
“You too,” he replies anyway. He wants Viktor to have such a good time that he’ll ask to be friends—maybe they can post up messages on their windows, walk their dogs together occasionally, and Viktor will smile at him instead of just in front of him. He wants to have the courage to—
They’re still being watched. Phichit is at the next table over—as much as Yuuri would enjoy other people seeing how devoted he and a real boyfriend would be with each other, he can’t enjoy this. This date isn’t real.
He didn’t realize until now how desperately he wanted it to be. How he’s going to need to change it.
The waiter drops off their modestly sized meals, spills water on the white tablecloth as he refills Viktor’s glass.
“Thank you,” says Viktor, but his eyes are on Yuuri. Right where Yuuri wants them. Yuuri has looked for so long. Look back at me, his heart demands, look at me, Viktor, always.
“Can we have the check,” Yuuri asks. Startled, the waiter nods and shuffles off.
“Do you,” Viktor says, and bites his lip before he smiles widely, “not want to finish the meal? Are you not enjoying yourself?”
Yuuri glances at their plates. “You don’t even like shrimp,” he says, and Viktor fusses with his napkin, cheeks slightly pink.
“But you do. How did you know…”
“I know what you eat for dinner, six days a week,” says Yuuri bluntly. He’s seen it, through the window. As soon as the words come out, he realizes it’s a horrendously creepy thing to say. Viktor does not immediately stand and run, so Yuuri awkwardly plows on: “right. So. We’ll take this to go?”
“Okay,” Viktor agrees. The waiter squints at them as he hands them their check and some boxes, and Yuuri nervously refuses to look at him and face judgment. Viktor probably plans on going home immediately.
Still, when they’re out on the sidewalk, Viktor puts a hand through his elbow.
“Hey,” Yuuri says, voice going faster as he continues, “do you like the ramen place on Bei street?”
Viktor’s hand tightens, nestles further into his arm. “I don’t know!” Viktor says brightly. “But I’d love to find out.”
When Viktor is halfway through a bowl of ramen, making noises Yuuri couldn’t have imagined, he slides the mediocre shrimp meal into the trash. He should feel ashamed for wasting food. Hiroko raised him better.
Yuuri doesn’t care. There’s no one watching them, and Viktor is beside him, licking his lips and smiling sideways at Yuuri, offering another picture for proof of the fake date.
“I appreciate it,” Yuuri says, looking down at his lap and frowning, “but you don’t have to put on a show for my sake. I asked you out selfishly, but I hope you have fun.”
Somehow, this makes Viktor scoot closer. Viktor asks the oddest questions between bites and sips. Favorite color? What pet he’d get, if he could?
“I have a pet,” Yuuri explains, and feels his stomach sink a little. Just because he knows Viktor has a standard poodle—even knows the poodle’s name, from one day when Viktor left his windows open and sang to her—that doesn’t mean Viktor has the same obsession. “A toy poodle.”
“Wow,” says Viktor, eyes shining. “I can’t believe I haven’t met your dog.”
Throwing out food, running away from his nosy best friend, taking his unattainable crush to a hole-in-the-wall ramen bar on a fake date.
Sure, Yuuri is brave enough tonight to bring him home.
“Would you like to?”
The first thing Viktor notices in his apartment are the windows.
Oh, no. Well, it’s all over now. Yuuri may as well have a telescope pointing directly at Viktor’s loft, a label of for spying slapped right on it.
“Wow, I thought I liked my décor,” Viktor muses, index finger tapping at his lip. “But viewed from a distance, it seems like too much floor space. Empty? Maybe?”
Privately, very privately, Yuuri has thought that too. For someone as wonderful as Viktor, his apartment is so empty. Friends visit on occasion, brief and limited mostly to coffee at the marble countertop in Viktor’s kitchen.
Yuuri’s image of Viktor is, for some reason, stuck with him naked on the couch save for a fuzzy throw blanket, Makkachin curled up against him and a thick book (Anna Karenina) propped on his knees.
This image can’t be right, it can’t be. After all, he can’t see Viktor’s bedroom through the windows. That’s probably where all the excitement happens, the images Yuuri doesn’t really want to see, because Viktor with someone else, god—
So Yuuri blazes past it, focuses on the windows again. The windows that provide a flawless view of Viktor’s apartment.
Yuuri wants to say: I don’t ALWAYS look at you. Except that would be a lie.
Luckily, he is saved by the telltale scritch of tiny poodle claws on his cheap floor. Vicchan tumbles from the bedroom with a high yip, headed straight for the new and exciting visitor.
“So little!” Viktor coos to Vicchan, immediately crouching, and kisses the soft place between her ears. She wriggles, managing to prop her front paws up on his knees. “No wonder I didn’t see you. What a darling.”
Yuuri stops staring long enough to close the front door. Viktor’s here. In his house.
“Just so you know,” he says, “Vicchan is my best attribute. This is how I take a fake date from awkward to tolerable.”
“Funny,” says Viktor kindly, after a little chuckle, “I do the same thing. Except with my dog, obviously. And with, well, real dates.”
“Sure,” Yuuri snorts. He can imagine Viktor’s real dates. Most people probably bring him to the best places, followed by lengthy adventures in the bedroom. No one fumbles social situations like Yuuri.
Should he invite Viktor into his bedroom? This disastrous chain of thought is, luckily, interrupted.
“I’d date you for real, to be with Vicchan,” Viktor informs him, serious enough that Yuuri’s stomach ties itself into knots. What does Viktor expect him to say? Here, have my dog, I know you’d never want to really date me in a million years. “When can I see you again?”
Yuuri had already been planning their fake break-up. Sad enough that he’d go into mourning, and be unavailable to date any guys Phichit wanted to send his way.
“Um,” says Yuuri. Then the front door opens directly onto his foot.
“Hey!” Phichit joyfully announces, sweeping in. “Oh, dang, Yuuri, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you—Vicchan, no!”
In the commotion, the toy poodle darts between their three pairs of legs. She always has liked the outdoors. Or, more accurately, she’s liked escaping into their apartment’s hallway.
Though Yuuri doesn’t know it, his dog enjoys being chased the most. And there are four people chasing her, now. Four?
“Hi, Yuuri,” Christophe greets, looking glamorous even as he runs down a hallway. He and Viktor’s legs are the longest, and though Yuuri has stamina, he’s not much for running speed. On a mission, Viktor and Christophe round the corner, two six-foot tall men hunting a tiny little poodle. Yuuri has to laugh despite himself. When he and Phichit turn, Viktor already has her propped up on his shoulder, scratching at her ears.
His cheeks are pink with delight and the brief run. Yuuri feels like he’s spying again—like his eyes are unwelcome. But Viktor turns, smile so bright Yuuri would fling himself out his own window if it meant getting closer.
“Dogs,” Christophe huffs, breathing in and shaking his head.
“Are the best,” he and Viktor finish insistently, together. Viktor rubs his cheek against Vicchan’s fur, strangely bashful—and smiling. Still smiling right at Yuuri.
He’s beautiful and floating, and all Yuuri can do is sink deeper into his own crush. Things are perfectly terrible, until Phichit meanders over to Viktor’s side.
“Date went well?” He asks, innocent enough. As though he wasn’t watching, for half of it.
“I enjoyed it,” Viktor agrees simply, and that’s all it takes: fake or no, Yuuri’s heart-rate speeds up.
“I hope they all go well!” Phichit says, full of cheer. Sweet, and supportive, and so destructive. “In fact, get this, I happen to have these extra tickets to a musical. Would you guys like them for your next date?”
Say no, Yuuri thinks, desperately. You don’t have to say yes, you don’t have to—
“I love Wicked,” Viktor says, eyeing the tickets in a way that Yuuri can only describe as restrained.
“What, so does Yuuri! The perfect coincidence.” Phichit’s patting the tickets into Viktor’s hands. Yuuri wants to set a hamster loose in Phichit’s room and watch it eat all of his The King and the Skater merchandise.
Except. The only one who’s been dishonest here is Yuuri.
He’s been dishonest about a lot of things.
Chris and Phichit are wandering off—since when are they friends?
“Well,” Yuuri says. “I don’t think committing to even more deception about our relationship status is… a good idea.”
“Probably not,” Viktor agrees, smile quirking the corner of his lips. “But we both do love Wicked.”
Yuuri wonders, briefly, if Viktor might have truly enjoyed their first fake date. It seems impossible.
Maybe Yuuri can make up for their first fake date, with escaped dogs and not one but two restaurants, with a second fake date. That’s not impossible. Just… improbable.
“Come with me?” Yuuri asks, against his better judgment.
It’s Viktor, the man he’s admired from afar, who was sweet and silly at the ramen bar and completely willing to devote his valuable time to Yuuri for something ridiculous, like a fake date. All of that. For all of that, Yuuri has to try.
“If you’ll have me,” Viktor replies. Viktor gets one ticket, and they say their goodnights.
Despite his better judgment, Yuuri waits at his window. Watches. Viktor enters his apartment, floods it with light, greeting Makkachin. There’s things about him that are familiar—the way he spends an obscene amount of time sitting on the couch, his dog’s face in his hands, seemingly recounting his day. His coat isn’t even off, yet. Viktor doesn’t seem to care. He cuddles his dog, then spends a few moments writing in a notebook he pulls off a bookshelf. Yuuri has seen it before—he used to think it was a planner, but who leaves their schedule at home? It’s probably a diary.
Yuuri wonders if his name is going to appear in Viktor’s diary, now. If tonight made enough of an impression.
Viktor snaps the notebook shut, picks another small book to read for five minutes. This, Yuuri understands. He’s watched Viktor doze off to it, recognized the cover—it’s poetry. Viktor reads poetry to get ready to sleep. Of course someone—someone sophisticated like Viktor would do that.
Yuuri’s so absorbed that he forgets the last part of Viktor’s nightly routine, in this kind of situation.
The coat comes off, and that’s normal—Viktor hangs it on his coat tree, smooths it out. His maroon v-neck comes off then, and oh, that’s…
Viktor is naked before Yuuri’s conscience kicks in and starts screaming look away, Katsuki, you utter creep! How can one person take off their clothes so quickly? How good would Viktor be at taking off Yuuri’s clothes? He seems so practiced—
Yuuri really is going to look away. Or, at the very least, he was going to cover his eyes with his fingers and force himself to escape from the window. But he doesn’t get the chance.
Viktor slots his poetry book into its space on the bookcase, turns in his fully naked glory to the window, with one pale, muscular arm still raised in a curve. He’s like a statue—perfection incarnate, a work of art. But his eyes are so electric, lively, so blue—
They’re making eye contact. Yuuri can see Viktor’s eyes because they’re looking at each other.
Yuuri slaps his hand over his mouth instead of his brow. No. He’s caught. It’s all over. He can hear the police sirens now, see the newspaper headlines.
Crazy Infatuated Neighbor Caught Peeping at Detroit’s Most Beautiful Man, Put In A Place Where The Only Windows He Gets Have Bars!
Viktor’s arm goes back to his side, and Yuuri swallows. He’ll have to rip up his Wicked ticket, he realizes. It’s a silly thing to think about. He’d already known these fake dates wouldn’t go well. The idea of losing one of them, of losing Viktor, shouldn’t make his chest seize up.
But… Viktor’s hand is skating down his naked side, the curve of his bare ass. It’s teasing. Tempting. Impossibly inviting.
He looks at Yuuri, smile daring but warm, and winks.
Viktor is still sitting in Yuuri’s lobby the next Friday night, dressed in a fashionable suit.
Yuuri brings flowers, because he is an idiot. Yuuri stares at Viktor, disbelieving, and waits for Viktor to mention The Wink, which has been blowing Yuuri’s mind to smithereens since it happened. The Wave, which happened shortly after The Wink, was the finishing blow.
The Wink could have been a fit of Yuuri’s imagination, any old blink turned into an invitation. But Viktor, waving him goodnight before walking off to his bedroom? That, Yuuri couldn’t ignore.
Viktor does not mention either of these things. He offers Yuuri his arm, and they head off, conversation easy.
“How did Phichit get these tickets, anyway?” Yuuri muses, from their admittedly excellent seats in the theatre. Phichit’s a dancer, too—neither of them are exactly rolling in cash at this stage in their career.
“I have no idea,” says Viktor, clueless and… far too innocent? Why would he need to be innocent? “He seems very resourceful.”
“Maybe one of his Youtube fans,” Yuuri hums, and then it’s forgotten.
They’re poring over the playbill together, and reading the descriptions in a way that’s somehow amusing and enjoyable, when Yuuri sees it, in a far away row.
The hamster beanie.
Phichit, he thinks, frowning. Then he feels foolish. Phichit gave him these tickets—he knew exactly where Yuuri would be, and when. This was the easiest way for him to follow Yuuri on a date.
It doesn’t seem like Phichit, to follow Yuuri on a date and invade something Yuuri considered to be personal, but the evidence is there.
Yuuri is going to have to damage his pride, and admit the truth. He’d lied to Phichit: he and Viktor aren’t dating. But Yuuri would like to change that, so if Phichit could please give Yuuri some breathing room and let him summon up his courage…
He stands, to Viktor’s questioning hmm?
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he says, and then tries to awkwardly squeeze past Viktor into the aisle.
“Wait!” Viktor says, standing too, and their faces and hips are far too close for Yuuri’s comfort, has him nearly falling into the next row. Viktor snags his waist as politely as one can snag a waist to steady him, and looks him in the eyes. “Are you leaving?”
“No, no,” Yuuri deflects, listening to his blood sing. Viktor’s hands on him, Viktor’s body next to his. Yuuri’s not ready for this. Yuuri’s used to look, don’t touch.
He’s still not completely sure what that wink and wave mean, but oh, he wants to find out. First, he’s going to deal with Phichit.
After having his butt far too close to his crush/fake date, he pads down the stairs, to the section he’d seen the beanie in.
He leans in, taps him on the shoulder, and is met with Phichit, as expected, who looks up from his phone to beam at his roommate.
“Hey,” Phichit greets. “What, did you want to switch seats?”
“No, I—“ Yuuri starts.
“I specifically gave you the seats that it’s easier to make out in.” Yuuri blinks. This is a new voice.
“Christophe?”
“Yes, darling. It’s me.”
“Phichit, why are you here with Christophe?”
“Because he asked?” Phichit says, raising an eyebrow. “Because he gave me two extra tickets and said to pass them along to a friend? Christophe and I have been hanging out since I heard you and Viktor were together.” Phichit pauses, then a sly grin comes over his face. “You thought I was following you on your date.”
“I’d never,” Yuuri begins, and then admits, “okay, yes, I did.”
“My innocence!” Phichit crows, flinging a hand to his forehead, snapping a picture with his other hand. “My best friend thinks I’m some kind of spy!”
“No, no,” Yuuri soothes.
“Too late, I already tweeted it. Hashtag betrayal. Hashtag besties4ever.”
“But you followed us to the restaurant the other week!” Yuuri splutters, suddenly seeing a hole in the story. “Phichit, the one on the same street as our pole class!”
“Your pole class?” Christophe interrupts, interest peaked, and Yuuri moans.
“Oh, I guess I did go there,” Phichit hums, thoughtful. “You were there too? Christophe and I were seated… oh.” Perfectly serene, he pats Yuuri on the arm. “I’m not the one stalking my friend on his dates, Yuuri.”
“Ahh, and the game is up,” Christophe sighs. “What a pity.”
Yuuri can only stare. The other man adjusts his tasteful, expensive tie.
Why would Christophe follow them around?
“Oh,” Yuuri realizes, stomach plummeting, “you like him too.”
While Christophe is one of Viktor’s friends, handsome and tall and oozing sex from every pore, Yuuri is Viktor’s creepy neighbor and pathetic fake date.
If they fought for Viktor’s affections, it’s not hard to tell who would win. Yuuri’s hands fist at his sides, his brain suddenly darkly insisting, I can do it. I can be the man of Viktor’s dreams. I can work harder—
“You do?” Phichit says, looking up abruptly from his phone.
Christophe snorts, rolling his eyes at Yuuri. “Oh, cherie, no.”
The voice goes quiet. “Um,” Yuuri clarifies, “no?”
“No,” Christophe confirms sweetly, “I’m just here for moral support. Of course, Viktor didn’t invite me—he’s all about ‘fighting on his own’ to achieve his goals—technically, he didn’t tell me no, he knows I’m here. But I tired of getting the occasional pining text. It seems like all is going well this time, however.” This time? Their second date has hardly begun. But Christophe nods at Yuuri, directs his next words to Phichit. “I hope you don’t feel used, darling.”
“Mm, very used,” Phichit says, snapping a picture of the stage, which is beginning to dim. “We’ll consider my free ticket an apology.”
“I thought so.”
Yuuri makes it back to his seat in time for the music to begin. Any thought of confessing his secret to Phichit is lost in the swell of sound, the gentle scent of Viktor’s cologne and shampoo as he leans over, smiles at Yuuri.
“Did Phichit get you to stay?”
“No,” says Yuuri, confused. He wants to be here. Nothing could get him to leave. Viktor watches him for a few moments, strangely tense, then settles back as the intro continues.
“I’m excited,” Viktor replies. “I’m actually excited, Yuuri, thank you for inviting me.”
“T-thank you for coming.”
Christophe… is here for moral support? On Viktor’s fake date with Yuuri. Does Christophe think they’re really together? Why would Viktor do that? He clearly doesn’t need help finding a date—
Viktor is leaning on the armrest between them. In his hand is the playbill—Yuuri just wants to see it, he tells himself. Maybe set it down on the floor. Instead, when he plucks it from Viktor, they somehow end up holding hands.
It’s dark. There’s no one watching, no one for them to put on a show for. Yuuri squeezes his hand, because his heart is squeezing helplessly in his chest, and Viktor squeezes back, twice.
Maybe, Yuuri thinks, remembering The Wink and The Wave, feeling insane. Maybe.
They end up back at Stammi Vicino, which was stupid on Yuuri’s part. The more he interacts with Viktor here, the more likely he is to lose his and Phichit’s favorite bar.
Yuuri can’t bring himself to care. He’s going to show Viktor what he’s got, even if what he’s got is a nice bar and a liberal amount of thirst for Viktor’s body, his heart, his cleverness. His… dog, honestly. They’re sitting in a booth together, casually chatting and pleasantly buzzed, but not drunk enough for Yuuri to act on his brain’s demand to sit in Viktor’s lap, instead.
“What do you do, Yuuri?”
“I dance,” Yuuri explains, nearly flinching, and gets ready for the inevitable follow-up question to this. “Ballet. I perform and instruct.”
You? Really? You don’t look like a dancer.
Victor’s probably seen him stumbling around his house in pajamas before coffee, he can’t think that Yuuri would be paid to stand on a stage. Yuuri can’t think of why Yuuri gets paid to be on the stage.
“I know,” says Viktor.
“Right, it’s the messy hair and my face and my larger thighs,” Yuuri is already backtracking, “those makeup artists are magical, though—uhm. You… you know?”
“Of course,” says Viktor, like this makes perfect sense. Of course Yuuri is a dancer; of course Yuuri stares at his naked, godlike body through his windows and invades his privacy. “How else could you move like that?” Like what, Yuuri’s brain screams. All Viktor has to do is tell him how, what, when, and Yuuri will do it again. “Though, I don’t know where you perform?” Yuuri wants the explanation to like what, and Viktor asks him where instead.
“Mostly the Detroit Opera House? My company, Eros Entourage, just got off tour… a month ago? Two?”
“That’s where you were,” Viktor mutters.
“Uh, yes?” Viktor hadn’t even met him at that point. Then, Yuuri realizes something far more pressing: “I have no idea what you do, Viktor.”
“Me? Oh, I’m a nude model,” Viktor informs him brightly, cheerfully. “You’ve racked up quite the debt through my window, Yuuri.” He smiles, and Yuuri just gapes in horror for a few moments, feeling his chest clench up painfully. Then:
“You’re joking.”
A wink, just a flutter of silver lashes, is all he gets. “Maybe.”
“Viktor! What do you really do?”
“I choreograph,” Viktor says, and that’s crazy, Yuuri has to be imagining, but Viktor really said choreograph. As in, “choreograph a dance.”
“For…”
“For whoever hires me. I mostly work on Tuesdays. You are with Eros Entourage, you said? I work with them under a pseudonym, sometimes. On Ice and Agape were dances I made for the Mariinsky, originally, but to know that you’re dancing them, Yuuri…”
“You,” Yuuri whispers.
Yuuri may have been looking into the windows of Viktor’s home, but Viktor’s choreographed the dance that is the windows to Yuuri’s heart. On Ice, that’s Yuuri’s favorite number—beloved enough for him to have managed to not screw up his audition to be one of the lead danseurs.
The mystery choreographer Yuuri admired so deeply, so passionately, for his artistry. And Yuuri’s ended up—ended up peeping at him and asking him on a fake date and then asking him on a second fake date and…
“I love On Ice,” Yuuri says, “the way it grows throughout. The way it tries to express love.”
“Tries?” Viktor repeats.
Yuuri flushes. “I mean. Well. It feels like the main danseur is still… learning?”
Maybe it’s because Yuuri is still learning. Yet the only reaction Yuuri gets out of this is a wide-eyed stare.
“I’m going to be very forward,” Viktor says. Yuuri doesn’t know why he’s announcing it, this time. Viktor always seems forward—voicing his thoughts and preferences and praises—though sometimes he phrases them as questions. He’s done that throughout both the dates they’ve been on.
Fake dates. They were fake dates. Yuuri has to remember that. “I’ll pretend to be surprised,” he says, squinting at Viktor. Their relationship is a million surprises, accidental entanglements everywhere.
“Ha, I know I’m probably embarrassingly obvious by now, but I think I can actually surprise you.” Viktor always excites him, either way. “On Ice is yours.”
This is so impossible that Yuuri doesn’t even absorb it. “On Ice was choreographed for the Mariinsky… over a year ago.”
“Of course,” says Viktor, again. Of course. “Soon after we met for the first time at Stammi Vicino bar, and I realized we were neighbors.”
No, no. Yuuri is the one who’s been pining; Yuuri is the one who laid eyes on Viktor’s smile and his glamorous, too-empty apartment years ago and thought I need you, please need me.
“Is this some kind of joke?” Yuuri asks.
“No?” Viktor hedges.
Yuuri narrows his eyes, thinking of Tuesdays and the way he gets at bars. It becomes clear. “I was drunk.”
The pale column to Viktor’s throat is right there, so close. Viktor swallows, shifting in the booth, readjusting his beer. “A lot of fun, though.”
Tears sting and crowd the corner of his vision. Of course. He’s a happy drunk, a tipsy fool. Viktor wasn’t surprised at his ridiculous offer for a fake date because Yuuri is ridiculous. Yuuri should’ve stopped going over his limit while out in public ages ago.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” he says abruptly, and Viktor lets him.
Bathroom Buddy is already in his assigned stall, small splashes of glitter-mascara-stained tears on the tiles. How could Viktor say On Ice was for him, because of something Yuuri did while drunk? It’s hard to focus, hard to think rationally, with several beers already in his system, with the memory of Viktor’s fingers between his.
“Love is a harsh master,” Bathroom Buddy says, while he reapplies his eyeshadow. “Beautiful, and fickle, and harsh.”
Nobody owns Yuuri. Not even love. Love would be meeting someone where they are, not the massive imbalance between him and Viktor. Ordinary dancer and brilliant choreographer, a fake and a generous man, a drunk and a success story, a watcher and the beautiful man he’s watching through two panes of glass.
“For love to give me Anya and snatch her away,” Bathroom Buddy begins to moan, but the bathroom door is already swinging behind Yuuri.
Everyone is talking too much.
“Why are all the blinds closed,” says Phichit. “We never close our blinds. Or our curtains. Do you think this tan glow comes from me going out to nightclubs? Because I promise, it doesn’t. Also, where is Viktor?”
“Listen,” Christophe says, before Phichit wrestles him out the door of their apartment to hang out somewhere else. “I can tell something’s off. This is why I tried to get involved, cherie.”
“Yuuri,” says Celestino, during practice, “focus, please.”
“What is wrong with you,” says Yuri Plisetsky, the leading danseur for Agape.
“I’m sorry,” Viktor says on his voicemail. “I think. I’m not sure what I’m sorry for, exactly, Yuuri. But I do regret it. Was it On Ice? Was it strange to hear that I choreographed something for you, when we’re not… well, together? If it helps, I’ve created a lot of dances about love. Some before I met you.” There’s a long pause. Yuuri removes the phone from his ear, then realizes there’s still time on the voicemail. He puts the phone back to his ear and waits. “They were very good stories, Yuuri. This one might have been a bit more personal.” Another awkward, precious few moments. “Goodnight to my favorite neighbor, I suppose. Goodnight to my favorite fake boyfriend. Unless, of course… you want a fake breakup? Is it what you want, Yuuri? Never mind. Goodnight for now.”
It’s been two days since Yuuri learned that On Ice was made for him, that he and Viktor had met before.
The voicemail is what has Yuuri flinging open the curtains in his apartment, tugging at the blinds. Light spills into the room, onto Vicchan, sleeping peacefully on the floor.
When Yuuri’s eyes adjust from the darkness, Viktor is there. Stretching out on his floor, all his clothes on and his dog tucked happily against his back.
He hadn’t closed his blinds. Viktor has been open to him. Open and waiting.
“Where is it,” he mutters, and as he does, Viktor looks up. Yuuri could hide behind a curtain. He could escape to his bedroom. Instead, he finds the latch on his window and pushes it open.
Hanging half out of a window, a modest alley between them, Yuuri does it.
“Viktor!”
Viktor scrambles up, to Makkachin’s displeasure, fusses with his window desperately between glances at Yuuri, still leaning on his sill.
“Are you okay?” Viktor shouts, once the window gives and they’re both propped into the sky. “What are you doing?”
“I like you!”
Viktor’s jaw drops. “Yuuri.”
“I’m sorry I spied on you!” Yuuri calls. “Honestly, who walks around their house naked when their windows are uncovered? It’s just, you’re really hot! Crap, that doesn’t excuse it. Again, I’m really sorry about that! I swear I won’t do it anymore if you don’t want me to—“
“Hey!” Yuuri blinks across the alleyway. There’s a voice, with a Russian accent, but Viktor’s lips aren’t moving and Yuuri is fairly sure ‘ventriloquism’ is not one of Viktor’s talents. He and Viktor look down to the street.
Inexplicably, there are two riders sitting on a purring motorcycle. One yanks off his helmet, blonde hair spilling from it.
“Yuri? Yuri Plisetsky?”
“Is nowhere safe from you?! Why are you having a screaming confession several stories up in the air, where anyone can hear you? We have phones. Hell, we have stairs. Are you too out of shape to use them? He lives next door. Use the technology.”
“Why are you in an alley—“
“Neither of you will shut up about each other!”
They’re gone, in the blink of an eye. Yuuri wonders if they’re always motorcycling through back alleys. Well, with Yuri, who knows.
“Can I come over?” He asks, feeling surprisingly cowed. The blush spreading on Viktor’s pale face, accompanied by the growing smile, has him thinking the answer is yes.
“Please,” says Viktor, instead. Yuuri shuts his window, tugs on his shoes, and runs.
Yuuri is made for stamina, not speed. By the time he starts barreling through the lobby of his apartment complex, he is tackled and ends up in a heap on the carpeted ground.
“I like you,” Yuuri repeats, to the floor. He’s a little quieter, this time. Viktor squeezes his arms around Yuuri, presses a cheek to his.
“The last few days I was so worried, Yuuri. I was waiting for you. I wasn’t sure if you’d ever open your curtains again.”
“My curtains,” Yuuri laughs. “Mine? We’re seriously going to talk about how often my curtains are open, when you’re always…”
They go to Stammi Vicino in broad daylight. It’s relatively empty, just two other men eating in a table in the corner, one nodding to Sara on occasion.
“So,” says Yuuri nervously, and goes quiet.
“So I’m in love with you,” Viktor finishes, as simple as that. “I don’t want to fake date you. I don’t want to fake anything in my life, anymore. I want to be real. And I want to be with you.”
“I don’t want to fake date you either,” is what Yuuri manages to say. “I want to hold you and play with Makkachin and talk about stupid things and go to musicals and, well, see you naked. But I think you’ve already figured that out. Again, I’m really… sorry. I know spying is wrong, I know that’s probably creepy, I know the fake dates were stupid, and I’m grateful you don’t seem to mind.”
“You realize,” says Viktor, “that windows go both ways.”
All of the blood drains from Yuuri’s face. Has Viktor seen him naked? Has Yuuri done something ridiculous while drunk in full view of the man he desperately desires? WAS that lipstick on the windowpane, once, and did a drunken Yuuri put it there?!
At this breakdown, Viktor brushes a hand over his shoulder.
“Yuuri,” he chuckles, smile slight. “Solnyshko. I just mean that I’ve seen you in too-big pajamas, stretching out, drinking coffee, having game nights with Phichit, and chasing Vicchan around the house. I’ve seen you… dancing. I had hoped you were dancing for me?”
“W-what? But you didn’t know—know I was watching? You were always wandering around… without…” Then comes the final blow.
“Why do you think I lounged around my home while so scantily dressed?”
Everything is for Yuuri. Everything. It’s overwhelming, the love he feels, the love that exists and is pointed at him.
One night had caused this, followed by two fake dates that felt painfully real. They were excuses, Yuuri realizes. An excuse for both of them to be with the other.
“I was a lot of fun while drunk, was I.”
“Yes,” Viktor agrees, eyes going soft, and oh, Yuuri hasn’t understood anything. “We danced. Nobody moves like you do, all melody and vitality. I was so sad when you were out of town on tour with your dance company. I was scared you and Phichit had moved out. But then you were back, and you were watching, and…” He sighs, plaintive. It’s like a starburst in Yuuri’s chest, his brain. Together.
“From here on out,” Yuuri says, “let’s keep our eyes on each other.”
There’s nowhere they’d rather look.
“I have a confession,” Yuuri says, at his next roommate game night. “Viktor and I weren’t originally dating. It was, um, fake.”
“Yeah,” Phichit says, punching his videogame character into a wall and grinning at him. “I figured that out. Unlike you and Viktor, Christophe and I are capable of communicating. Some might even call us… gossips. Crazy, right?” Yuuri reels. Phichit wins the game in a landslide.
They’re lounging on the couch that Yuuri has spent so much time looking at from afar, dreaming of sharing it with Viktor, and Yuuri is aggravated.
Between new dance choreography and the sequel to one of Viktor’s favorite novels coming out, their time spent on the couch the last week has involved Viktor’s eyes on Yuuri for a very limited portion of time.
Yuuri needs to do something. “You know,” he says, taking Viktor’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilting it down. The book clatters to the floor, and Makkachin hops off with it, pads away to the kitchen. Viktor’s breath hitches—Yuuri likes that too, moves his thumb up to drag Viktor’s lip down a bit. Soft, and slick with balm. “I’ve seen so much of your skin, but I don’t think I’ve told you which patch of it is my favorite.”
“Oh,” Viktor breathes. He scoots in closer. “Is it my abs? One ab in particular?”
“No,” Yuuri hums.
“My… knuckles?”
“No.”
“Yuuri,” he laughs, a low rumble, “is it something scandalous?”
“Something tempting,” Viktor’s lips quirk up beneath his fingertip, “and vulnerable. Let me kiss it and show you.”
“Okay,” is Viktor’s hasty reply. Yuuri watches his pale throat, the swallow at his words.
Nimbly, he pops one button free on Viktor’s shirt, leans up to whisper in his ear. “Vitya. Take off your shoes.”
“Okay!”
Viktor drops to a crouch, has one shoe half-off before Yuuri strikes. He’s not an entirely cruel man—he lavishes attention on the spot. Three kisses. Gentle strokes over the surrounding hair, before cradling Viktor’s head to his chest.
“I love you,” he tries to murmur seriously into Viktor’s crown of hair, but he chuckles at the end anyway, presses another kiss in.
“Did you,” Viktor says, peeking up with vulnerability in his eyes, “did you just say my bald spot was your favorite patch of skin and kiss it?”
“It’s small,” Yuuri protests, “it needs attention. Do I need to do it again?” Viktor reaches up and presses their lips together, then. “I’m sorry about teasing you with shoes. I know you like feet.”
Viktor shrugs, shakes his head happily. “I like your feet more. I just figured if you kissed mine, you’d want me to kiss yours back.”
“We can kiss anything we want to,” Yuuri says, “just let me shut the blinds.” They look to each other, flushed and warm. “On second thought, we could… leave them open.”
“Anyone could see in,” Viktor challenges with a laugh, “I’m not sure how much I approve of that.”
Yuuri shakes his head. “You like it,” he contradicts, and returns to popping Viktor’s buttons out, one by one. “I know you do.”
“I like you,” is all Viktor replies, “I like you.”
“One thing,” Viktor hums one day. There’s a slight flush to his cheeks. “If you didn’t know we, well, knew each other… did you think I was crazy, for running around naked with my windows open all the time?”
“Oh.” Yuuri blinks. “I, well. I grew up with naked people.”
“What,” says Viktor, looking eager and far too curious for the topic at hand. “Yuuuuuri?”
“T-that came out wrong! I, you see, I grew up in an onsen. I’m very comfortable with seeing naked people. With… being naked.” Yuuri bites his lip. “You look like you don’t believe me.”
“I guess I’ll have to see it to believe it.”
“Oh my god.”
“Yuuri, you realize that I have not once looked over to see you in a state of undress? I suspect the patrons of Stammi Vicino bar have seen more skin than me.”
“Is that so?”
That evening, things change. Yuuri tosses off his clothes except his boxers, lounges in the window-seat, and waits.
Viktor stares for five minutes, but this is only because Yuuri takes pity on him. He stands, taking his sweet time as he leans a bit too much over his kitchen table in his tight boxers, writes in huge letters on a piece of paper.
Hey neighbor, want to see something even better?
“How did you two meet,” people ask. “How did you find each other?” How did you find your soulmate, is what those people mean, because that’s what they are. The two don’t spy on each other through apartment windows anymore, but that’s just because they live in the same house.
“Which time?” Viktor and Yuuri will ask right back, hands laced together. “When our clothes were on, or off?”