#and it would give katsuki a near aneurysm every day of his life

[willowser]

i think it's so funny all the different ways bakugou's friends would try to goad him into making his move on you LOL

like i think sero would constantly be like, "well if you're not interested, man, then i guess i'll give it a shot—" and then would have the smuggest grin when it would send bakugou walking off, red-faced and grumbling.

[iloveyoulikekatsudon]

Of Adoration and Heart Conditions

Fandom: Yuri!!! On Ice

Relationship: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov

Tags: Fluff, Domestic Bliss, Post Episode 12

AO3 link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10745964

This is the story of how Victor dies of a heart attack.

Or like, of an aneurysm or something.

…Alright, so it’s probably not as dramatic as it sounds.

But it starts during a grey September morning, Victor getting lost in his thoughts in the midst of sipping coffee, and he comes to several terrible realizations. First, he’s turning into the dreaded age of thirty this year and his youth is quickly slipping between his fingers like sand in an hour glass. Earlier this morning, Victor had seen pre-mature wrinkles on his face through the bathroom mirror and dammit, he knew he’d regret not using that anti-aging moisturizing cream like Chris had suggested.

Second, between Yakov’s training regimen from hell and his and Yuuri’s own late night training sessions combined, his back has been twinging something fierce lately. His knee joints creak ominously now whenever he overdoes his jumps.

…Okay, that’s kind of Victor’s fault, though.

Yurio had not-so-subtly hinted that he’s too old to do quads and that’s too much to let slide. Seriously, how dare that little diva. Victor may be turning thirty but he’s not called Russia’s Living Legend for nothing. He’s been landing quads since he was fifteen, he can do it in his sleep. Besides, Yurio needed to be taken down a peg. It was all for the greater good that Victor had taken him up on the challenge, really.

Third, his hair is falling out in horrifying amounts. Just the other day, he saw two platinum hair strands on his pillow. Two. Yuuri could barely console him. (Yuuri says it isn’t a balding problem; it’s only that Victor’s forehead is wide and his hairline is high. Like that’s any better.)

Makkachin happily trots into the kitchen, oblivious to Victor’s internal dilemma. He barks in greeting and then paws at his owner’s pajama pants until Victor gives a fond sigh and scratches behind his fluffy ears, playfully squishing his snout.

“Makkachin,” Victor bemoans, “we’re both turning into old men. Do you think Yuuri will still love us when we’re old and balding?”

Makkachin barks.

“You’re right, he’ll probably still love you anyway. No matter how old you get, you’re still my little puppy, aren’t you? Aren’t you, Makka-Makkachin?” Victor coos at his dog, laughing when Makkachin lolls his tongue out in delight. “What about me? How will Yuuri love me when I’m no longer as stunning, huh?”

When Makkachin fails to give him an answer and starts to whine, Victor lets him go and sighs again. Taking a sip from his cup, Victor sadly concludes that maybe some things are just too much for poor, old him to handle now. Things like jumping a thousand quads and training sessions that start from dawn until midnight. Or things like crazy exhibition skates.

Yuuri enters the kitchen and Victor chokes on his drink.

(Or like the sight of his sleepy fiancé walking out of their bedroom wearing nothing but Victor’s Team Russia jacket and boxer briefs.)

“Yuuri,” Victor croaks as Yuuri shuffles into the kitchen, and several things happen at once. His brain crashes like a malfunctioning computer, his lungs freeze around an exhale, his heart misses a beat and what the fuck.

Victor is pretty sure this is what a heart attack feels like.

The red jacket is a size too big on Yuuri, the sleeves overlapping his wrists and the hem ending low by his hips. It isn’t zipped up all the way, baring Yuuri’s graceful neck, painted with spots of pink. His underwear clings to his strong thighs, the dark fabric a stark contrast to his peach-soft skin where there are fading bite marks and light bruises scattered there. Victor’s eyes linger on the area guiltily. He can still remember how it felt against his lips last night, how indulgently smooth the skin there was, tasting of salt and heat, Yuuri’s gasps of encouragement echoing in his ears as he squirmed against the—

“What,” Yuuri grumbles.

Victor’s attention snaps back up and his heart restarts with a jolt. He swallows, remembers how to breathe. “Nothing.”

Yuuri squints at him from behind his glasses, scrunching up his nose in confusion. He’s still half-asleep, bleary-eyed with a bedhead that sticks out at every angle. His mouth is pushed out in a pouty scowl and Victor is tempted to bite his lower lip.

Good morning, Victor tries to say except his throat is too dry and his idiot brain is still rebooting so all that comes out is an embarrassing, “Guh.”

Is this a heart attack, Victor wonders.

“Mrrffm,” Yuuri answers anyway as if their conversation is coherent, which Victor translates as either good morning or shut up. Or both. This early on in the morning, Yuuri doesn’t really do well in the speech department. All he can do is blink grumpily, like he’s angry at the world for waking him up and he’s about to curl up on the floor and go back to sleep any second now. When he notices Makkachin looking up at him, Yuuri bends down a little and pets the poodle softly, making more gibberish noises in an attempt to talk to the dog. It’s ridiculously cute and Yuuri is lovely.

Victor has the strongest urge to bundle him up in a blanket and keep him safe forever.

The next strongest urge is to pin him against the wall and kiss him until they’re both breathless.

Thankfully, Victor follows neither of these urges and instead clears his throat, getting Yuuri’s sleepy attention. “Coffee?” Victor offers, for a lack of things to say, and raises his own cup.

“Coffee.” Yuuri parrots. He blinks, intrigued, and then shuffles nearer until he’s close enough to pull on Victor’s hands supporting the mug, his fingertips radiating warmth from where they brush against Victor’s skin. Yuuri takes a sip, closing his eyes, and makes the first happy noise at the back of his throat.

Victor almost swoons.

Is swooning one of the symptoms of a heart condition? Is Victor dying?

“Good?” He asks weakly, heart hammering in his throat.

Yuuri doesn’t answer, still drinking from Victor’s mug, but he tightens his grip around Victor’s hands and Victor can only stare helplessly, watching with impossible fondness as the love of his life steals his morning coffee right in front of him. Yuuri pulls away once every drop is gone, humming in satisfaction.

“Hi,” Victor greets once more, smiling when brown eyes peer up at him, much clearer now. “You’re wearing my jacket.”

“M’cold,” Yuuri mumbles in defense. He presses closer, grumbling until Victor understands what he wants and opens his arms with a chuckle, wrapping him in a hug. Yuuri’s hands settle on Victor’s lower back, plastering his face against Victor’s neck. “Why’re you shirtless? How are you warm?”

“I’m Russian,” Victor reasons.

“I’m Japanese,” Yuuri retorts, missing the point. Victor laughs.

“I meant that I’m built for this weather. It seems like my solnyshko is not,” Victor says, cuddling Yuuri tighter. “It’s our free day, isn’t it?” He mentions offhandedly as he spares a glance at the window.  It’s dreary outside, the sun hiding behind thick clouds. Victor hums in contemplation, and then voices out, “Want to skip our morning jog today and stay in bed a little longer? It looks dreadfully cold outside.”

“That’s nice,” Yuuri sighs, pleased. “Let’s do that.” He presses a kiss on Victor’s shoulder for his genius idea and then burrows further against his collarbone like he’s trying to physically leech off heat from his fiancé. The gesture makes Victor weak in the knees, makes his heart skip another beat.

Seriously though, Victor is almost sure he’s dying. Should he tell Yuuri he’s having a heart attack?

“You could have called me,” Victor teases instead, ignoring the very possible fact that his heart is in the middle of an organ failure right now, and drops his voice lower, “I would have warmed you right up. I can think of several ways to keep you warm right now.”

“Like how?” Yuuri asks.

“Like this.” Victor gives a playful peck on top of Yuuri’s head, and then another on Yuuri’s forehead when his fiancé turns to stare up at him. He peppers kisses all over Yuuri’s face, all of them ending with an exaggerated ‘mwah!’, and grins as Yuuri starts to break into a smile.

“Don’t stop,” Yuuri says when Victor leans back, and tilts his face up at Victor. “Kiss me more.”

“Like this?” Victor asks, kissing Yuuri’s cheek softly.

“Properly,” Yuuri demands.

“Like this?” Victor kisses Yuuri’s other cheek.

“Victor.”

“Okay, okay.” Victor leans in slowly, carefully, watching Yuuri through lowered eyelids as he closes the gap and…

…kisses the tip of Yuuri’s nose.

“Victoooorr,” Yuuri groans. He grabs Victor gently by the nape, grumbling in annoyance as Victor pulls away with a grin. “Don’t bully me,” he whines, nosing on the hollow of Victor’s neck. “S’too early.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Victor asks, already having too much fun. “You stole my jacket.”

“I was cold.”

“And then you stole my coffee.”

“You gave it to me.”

“And now you’re using me as a pillow, Yuuri. Yuuri. Yuuriiiii—“

Victor is cut off as the hand on his neck yanks him downwards, and then chapped lips are stealing his breath away, Yuuri’s mouth warm and soft and wet and Victor is melting like butter under the sun. They kiss tenderly, exchanging kitten licks and gentle presses of their mouths, with their eyes closed and hands roaming.

They break apart once they’re out of air and Victor’s lips won’t stop tingling with the lingering taste of coffee and Yuuri’s toothpaste, and his heart beats so fast it’s as if his chest is going to burst open.

“Like that,” Yuuri whispers, and places one last kiss on Victor’s slack mouth.

“Yuuri,” Victor breathes.

Pressing their foreheads together, Victor closes his eyes at the sound of Yuuri’s beautiful laughter, a warm flush of emotion heating up his face. Yuuri is so wonderfully breathtaking that Victor’s heart hurts when he’s near. “Yuuri, Yuuri,” he repeats, “if you keep that up, you’re going to send me to an early grave, solnyshko.”

“Yeah?” Yuuri chuckles, bringing a hand up to stroke his thumb against Victor’s cheekbone. Victor leans into the touch helplessly.

“Yes,” Victor admits. “I feel like I’m having a heart attack every time I see you.”

Yuuri snorts.

“I’m serious,” Victor insists. His eyes blink open, staring into Yuuri’s brilliant brown ones, and reaches down to guide Yuuri’s free hand over to his bare chest, right above where his heart won’t stop banging against his ribcage. “Here, feel.”

“You’re such a sap,” Yuuri complains but flushes once he feels the race of Victor’s heartbeat thrumming underneath his touch. He stays frozen like that for a few seconds, with his palm splayed protectively over Victor’s heart, his eyes wide with awe.

“See?” Victor says softly, achingly. “Heart attack.”

“Victor,” Yuuri stammers and averts his gaze, pulling his hand away with a blush. “This is unfair.”

Victor tilts his head. “How so?”

Squirming in embarrassment, Yuuri reluctantly glances back at him. “It’s just, it’s not—it’s not fair. You shouldn’t get to complain about how I make you feel this way when for the first few months we’ve known each other, you made me feel like I’m seconds away from hyperventilating every time I saw you.”

“Did I?”

Yuuri scoffs. “I mean, have you seen yourself? You’re gorgeous.”

Victor huffs out a weak laugh, shaking his head. Trust Yuuri to diffuse all his previous insecurities with just two lines. “You’re gorgeous,” he throws back and leans in to kiss Yuuri once more just because he can.

When they pull apart, a tender sort of silence takes over between the two of them. Yuuri reaches for Victor’s hand the way Victor did moments ago and carefully places it over his heart, peering at Victor softly from under his lashes as he whispers, “Here, feel.”

Victor does as he’s told.

And under his fingertips, he feels the race of Yuuri’s heartbeat, completely in sync with his own.

.

.

.

.

.

.

(Later in bed, Victor asks, “Does this mean you’ll still love me even when I’m bald?”

“You’re not balding,” Yuuri sighs for the millionth time, exasperated, “Your forehead is just wide.”

Victor whines. “That’s not any better, Yuuri!”)