Yuuri is ill, and decides to look through his old Viktor posters to cheer himself up. It's a good thing that Viktor's out at the rink all day, right? Right?


1. Lovesick


When Yuuri wakes up most mornings, sure, it's a pain. He's got the typical bad breath and tangled hair, eyes stuck together with half-finished dreams. Sometimes he'll over balance when he stands up, which leads to wondering why he ever decided to become an ice skater in the first place when he can barely keep his knees from knocking together.

This morning is different. This morning is hell.

Yuuri's head is spinning in a dozen different directions, his grip on reality woozy like it's spent the night drinking. He stretches and his neck cricks painfully, shooting thunderstorms under his skin as his eyes snap open to greet a bloodshot sunrise. Something is wrong- he's hot, much too hot, his whole body slick with sweat. His hair is lank and greasy, his temperature probably similar to the centre of the earth's core.

"Mum?" Yuuri croaks at his closed door, slowly rolling into his side. "Mum? I think I'm sick." 

No answer.

"Mum? I'm-"

I'm sick and I'm in pain and I really can't be bothered right now.

Yuuri flops onto his back again, and lets exhaustion overtake him.


When Yuuri next opens his eyes, it's eleven o’clock. He should be halfway through practicing a program with Viktor. That's where he's meant to be: at the rink, with his boots pinching his feet and curling his toes and reminding him that he's alive and this is real and he's seriously skating and Viktor Nikiforov is his coach.

Right now, Yuuri feels anything but alive. 

At least he feels a little better than earlier this morning.

He sticks one foot tentatively out of bed, wincing at the cold. One foot on the ground, then the other. Nice. Good job, Yuuri. You can do this.

Yuuri slides completely out of bed and onto the floor. His stomach rumbles and he realises that he's starving for some food- but he also genuinely doesn't know if he'll be able to make it downstairs without passing out or dying. So.

No food for now, then.

What else to do?

He eyes his bed longingly, before his gaze skates down and under it. Under the bed is where Yuuri's hidden all his Viktor posters and Viktor photos and limited edition Viktor trading cards. He's not touched them since he took them down, in case the real Viktor caught him with them... But now, Viktor's out, right? He's at the rink, and he'll be at the rink all day. 

There's no harm in Yuuri taking out the posters again. He's ill, after all. That means it's practically his duty to indulge himself. 

Yuuri removes the posters from underneath the bed, spreading them out in front of him as if he's trying to redecorate his floor with Viktor's face. He focuses on the images one by one, letting his gaze wash over them with the kind of indulgence with which Eve bit into the fated apple. 

There's Viktor at his first competition, his hair long and his eyes outlined in excitement. Yuuri's heart beats fast.

There's Viktor on the podium with his fourth Grand Prix title, his smile wide and full as the clouds. Yuuri's heart beats faster.

There's Viktor just last year, a photo he didn't expect to be taken where his mouth is relaxed into an easy 'O' of surprise, his hands up in surrender. It's Yuuri's favourite picture in his collection, and when he looks at it his heart hits the accelerator and goes into full on overdrive. I'm going to end up dying, thinks Yuuri, and blushes. I'm going to end up dying of a Viktor Nikiforov induced heart attack. 

It's stupid and it's shameful and Yuuri looks away from the photos with his hands over his eyes. It's stupid and it's shameful and- oh, it's so perfect.

Viktor Nikiforov is so, so perfect and Yuuri can't stop himself from wanting to drown in it all.

Sometimes, when no one is around to watch him, Yuuri imagines sea-green eyes staring into his own, hair the colour of silver moonlight tickling his nose, and lips against his that tempt and push and rub and kiss and-

And it's never going to happen, Yuuri reminds himself. Why would Viktor ever be interested in an embarrassing nobody like me? His stomach twists in sudden frustration, and he reaches forwards to crumple the photo closest to him. It's Viktor with his current poodle Makkachin, and Yuuri tries to tell himself not to care as the paper rips and tears and folds in on itself like some sort of disease.  

He's got to stop being so... Attached to Viktor. He's only going to end up hurting himself, after all. Yuuri tosses the photo in the waste paper basket and is about to reach for another when there's a knock on the door.

"I'm sick," he says loudly, his eyes widening. "Don't come in. It, er, might be contagious." 

His family have all seen his Viktor posters before, of course, but it's still going to be embarrassing if they walk in and find them scattered all over the floor. Who knows, they might even jump to the completely accurate conclusion that Yuuri has a massive, burning, heart-eating crush on the guy. 

"What was that?" calls a voice on the other side of the door. Not just any voice. Viktor's voice. "I didn't hear! Yuuri? Can I come in?"

Yuuri's cheeks darken to approximately the same colour as the blood pounding through his head. "Viktor!" he shouts frantically, trying to gather up the photos with fumbling fingers. "Don't come in!" 

"What was that, Yuuri? I think I have some ice stuck in my ear or something. It's been a hard day skating." Viktor is infuriatingly nonchalant, and Yuuri can practically hear his easy smile. "Okay, I'm coming in! Don't be naked or something!"

Viktor flings open the door to see Yuuri clutching reams upon reams of photographs of his face.

Yuuri's mouth gapes open like his soul's trying to find an escape route. "Viktor! Um- I'm- This is not what it looks like, I promise. I'm, ah, holding these for, um, a, erm... A friend! My friend's a very big fan of yours, um, and-"

Viktor's smile is so big, Yuuri swears it's going to dance off his face. He practically prowls towards his student, grabbing Yuuri by the collar and letting his fingers trail down his neck. "And does that friend happen to be someone who - until very recently - was quite the little piggy?"


"You should always be honest with me, Yuuri. I am your coach, you know?" 


Their faces are so close together, Yuuri can almost taste Viktor's breath. He closes his eyes and then opens them again- as if to confirm that yes, this really is the worst and it really is happening. Pulling away from Viktor's touch, Yuuri shakes his head vehemently. "Actually, I was just throwing these away. I don't- I don't want them anymore."

Viktor's eyebrows knit together. "Really?" He crosses to the bin and plucks out the crumpled up photograph with badly concealed disappointment. "Ah. I guess - if your friend lives nearby - they can always come here and see the real me, after all."

"Yes," says Yuuri. He swallows. He can do this. Viktor is his coach, like he says, and it is important to be honest and- "Um. I wasn't really keeping the photos for a friend, Viktor. They're mine." 

"Yes, I know." 

"What?!" Yuuri half-squawks, then feels like hiding underneath his bed in embarrassment. "Oh. I mean-"

"For someone who spends half their life on the ice rink, you've really got no chill. Or particular subtlety."

Yuuri fights the urge to pass out, and takes a long, deep breath. He can do this. "Okay. Well. The things is, Viktor, I've always had an admiration for you. Almost- almost an obsession, I guess. Ever since I was little. You're so beautiful and you skate so well and I... Now you're here, and you're my coach. It's unbelievable. I was just... I think it's time I move on from that kind of..." Yuuri gestures feebly so he doesn't have to speak the word 'love'. He shrugs. "It's weird."

"This is why I came to Japan. Everything here is so cute, especially you." Viktor smiles softly, his eyes never leaving Yuuri's. "I don't think that love is weird, Yuuri. Love's not weird."

"I never said it was lo-" 

Yuuri stops as Viktor slides a hand over his mouth, his expression so serious that the lines of his face don't seem used to it. "Let it be love, then." And he takes his hand away so delicately, so gently, it might have been blown aside by the breeze- and then Viktor leans forwards and presses his lips to Yuuri's, tender but sure. 

Yuuri watches sea-green eyes staring into his own, hair the colour of silver moonlight tickling his nose, and lips against his that tempt and push and rub and kiss and-

He pulls back, away from Viktor. He can't keep stop himself smiling, his cheeks red and flushed for reasons other than the fever, but still he shakes his head. "Wait! We can't. Not now, anyway. You might catch something from me- I'm sick." 

Viktor tilts his head to one side and winks- a little flutter of movement that makes Yuuri's heart perform an entire acrobatic routine inside his chest. "That's perfect- I'm sick as well," he declares. "We should be quarantined together. We'll bond over our shared plight!"

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. "You're ill too? Really?"

Viktor laughs, wrapping his arms round Yuuri's waist and sprinkling his neck with kisses. As Yuuri moans in sheer pleasure, arching his back, Viktor whispers into his shoulder. "Sure. I'm really sick. I’m totally, completely lovesick for you.”

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