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Christmas Eve.
How long had it been that Christmas Eve was nothing more than a practice day to Victor? It was between Nationals and the European Championships, and the next day—Christmas—was the day that he got constant reminders of the march of time. His parents never really did presents—it was the Russian way, after all.
That was before Victor became famous, and his birthday-on-Christmas was “celebrated” throughout the skating world, and he was forced to mug and thank for well wishes he didn’t care about and accept gifts he didn’t need.
Victor hated it.
At least this year he wasn’t at Russian Nationals, where everyone would feel the need to say something. Most people knew not to mention it at practice, and Yakov often let him leave early if the young skaters got ideas that Victor would love to celebrate, and he could retreat into his home and hide away from the St. Petersburg December dark.
This year, there were promises of things maybe being different, but Yuuri’s first place in Japanese Nationals meant that he would not make it to Russia until tomorrow.
Yuuri Katsuki with a gold medal around his neck and in Victor’s bed also sounded like the absolute best birthday present there could be, but that didn’t make the hours between now and that moment go by any faster (honest-to-god they seemed slower). But at least there was vodka, at least there was instant ramen, at least there was the dark and a bedroom to toss and turn in while pretending to sleep.
👱🏻: It’s already my birthday in Japan, right?
Victor texted Yuuri, hoping against hope that he might see the text (and be awake). Victor wasn’t surprised that the message hung, unread, but that did not make it any less disappointing.
Honestly, 8pm was pitch black. It was absolutely a perfectly reasonable time to sleep, or at least lay in bed and scroll through all the new skating results. No fewer than five national competitions ended tonight, and Victor wanted to see how his friends and rivals fared. And at least all the new news would push his silver medal off the front page…
“The skating icon Victor Nikiforov skates a clean program, but can’t overcome the young and sensational Yuri Plisetsky.”
What did they know, anyway? Yuuri was skating in his own nationals that day, and he was skating without his coach for the first time. Victor’s mind had been in Sapporo, with his fiancé, rather than on his own skate (and boy had Yakov let him know that.)
It would be fine now. Yuuri was coming, and Four Continents and European Championships were separated enough that Victor would be able to be skater and coach. Tomorrow he could listen to Yakov’s notes on his programs, because Yuuri would be there too. Yes, it would all be okay, and at European Championships, Victor would reclaim his top spot from the Russian Fairy.
Twenty eight was not even old, not by a long shot.
Tomorrow was the day Yuuri came to Russia, nothing more, nothing less.
Hopefully Yakov would keep the reporters away; Victor didn’t think he had it in him to smile about ‘passing the baton of Russian skating’ a year older and defeated.
👱🏻: I miss you
With one last text to Yuuri, Victor finally closed his eyes. Tomorrow would be better than today, even if it was his birthday.
“Victor…”
When the hell had Makkachin’s snores started to sound like his name?
“Wake up…”
A prodding paw—paw?—nudged at Victor’s side.
“It’s not potty time yet Makka,” Victor mumbled at his dog. “I’ll take you in the morning.”
Wait.
Victor jolted awake, nearly headbutting the dark figure that was currently leaning over him in the bed.
“What—” The fog of sleep was lifting; whatever it was in Victor’s bedroom was a person, not Makkachin, not a sleep paralysis demon. “Who—”
“Merry Christmas,” the voice, the one that said his name, the one who asked him to wake up, Japanese-accented-English: Yuuri.
“What time—” Victor reached his hand out, finding the satiny skin of Yuuri’s cheek. “What time is it?”
“Just after midnight,” Yuuri whispered, his hand now stroking Victor’s. “I caught an earlier flight.”
“You… what?” Victor sat up, letting the vision of Yuuri’s smiling face come into relief in the dark. “Are you sure this isn’t a dream?”
“I wanted to be the first person to wish you a happy birthday,” Yuuri chuckled; his hand came around the back of Victor’s head as he leaned in for a kiss. “Did I surprise you?”
Maybe it was because he was still groggy, and maybe it was because his love was there, but Victor couldn’t find words of reply. All he could do was kiss, and throw his arms around Yuuri, pulling them both down back onto bed. Just in case this was a dream, Victor wanted to make the most of it.
“Vic—Victor!” God Yuuri’s laughter sounded like music. “Wait! I’m all smelly from the flight and—” Finally Yuuri pressed his hand to Victor’s chest, putting space between them. Victor only whined a little bit. “And I wanted to give you your present.”
Victor pulled Yuuri back to him, resting his nose in the nape of Yuuri’s neck.
“I already have the best present I could ask for,” Victor purred, pleased to feel the way that Yuuri shuddered at the insinuation. “Although it looks like my present still needs to be unwrapped.”
“I need a shower first!” Yuuri scrambled just out of Victor’s reach, giggling as he backed away. “But—but… after that then… yeah.”
“I’ll come with you.” Victor was out of bed before Yuuri could protest, scooping up his fiancé and making a mad dash for the bathroom.
Maybe finally, for the first time that Victor could remember, he was going to have an actual good birthday.
“That wasn’t your present.” Victor would never tire of the way Yuuri sounded when he was happy. Especially when that happiness came from reunion sex.
“Well, that was the best present anyone has ever given me for my birthday,” Victor ran his fingers through Yuuri’s hair, guiding his head onto Victor’s bare chest. “Unless my birthday present is another round, then that would be the best.”
“I missed you too,” Yuuri murmured, crawling out of Victor’s reach and off the bed. “I’ll be right back.”
If the view of Yuuri’s bare butt was not so glorious, Victor would have protested his absence. But the absence was only temporary, so could be forgiven. Yuuri wandered just outside of their bedroom, rustling through what Victor imagined was his backpack. When he returned to the room, to their bed, he had a small hand-wrapped box in his hand. The wrapping paper was light blue, and covered in small cream-colored poodles.
“It’s—it’s not much, but…” Yuuri dropped it into Victor’s hands. “I didn’t know what to get you so—” Even in the dark, Victor could tell that his eyes were sparkling. “Open it.”
Victor eyed the box, which fit nicely in the palm of his hand. He carefully peeled back the tape on one of the folds of the paper, making sure to unwrap the gift fold by fold—Yuuri had wrapped it with such care, it was only fitting. Slowly the dancing poodles revealed a lidded box within.
“It’s—it’s…” Yuuri stuttered, now looming over Victor as he pulled off the lid.
“A mug?” Victor stared at the elegant handle and the white porcelain. When he pulled it out, Japanese writing stared back at him. “What does it say?”
“Oh um, just rotate it.” Only Yuuri Katsuki could blush in his voice; Victor heeded the request.
Suddenly, the Japanese characters gave way to Cyrillic ones, in bold black handwriting: World’s Best Coach.
“I had someone help me with the Russian words. I hope… I hope I got it right.” Yuuri’s voice wavered as he spoke.
“World’s Best Coach,” Victor sniffled, turning the mug a bit more to find the English words there too. “Did you make this?”
“O—only the handwriting. Mari bought me that kit. Her mug for me says World’s Okayest Brother,” Yuuri answered, excitement replacing the anxiety. “I know you don’t like celebrating and—and didn’t want some big huge gift so… so I thought I could give you something from the heart.” Yuuri had closed the distance between them. “You gave me the best gift I could have ever asked for when you became my coach. And I feel like the luckiest skater on the planet that you are still my coach, even though you’re returning to skating. So—so… it’s just a mug and all but—”
World’s Best Coach. Victor Nikiforov was twenty eight years old. His professional skating career was going to come to an end, that was an inevitability. But the future was not as bleak as a dreary St. Petersburg winter, it was a path that Yuuri set Victor on, one of bringing out the best in others. One that brought him a husband and opened a new door to finding joy in skating.
World’s Best Coach.
“It’s perfect,” Victor interrupted, blinking away a tear that was clearly obviously from sleep deprivation and not because his fiancé had found yet another way to make him feel like the luckiest man on the planet. “The best birthday present anyone has ever gotten me.”
Those were the last words that Victor said that night, now an hour into his twenty eighth birthday, because all that came next was kissing his fiancé (soon to be husband; Victor had not forgotten that Yuuri took gold at Nationals) and falling asleep in each other’s arms.
And the next day, Christmas day, Victor actually smiled when people wished him a Happy Birthday, because for the first time in as long as he could remember, he looked forward to the future.
Artwork commission by MiliDraws