Viktor Nikiforov has lived his international life getting ferried places by Yakov, exploring with world-savvy Christophe Giacometti, and being led around on the arm of rich sponsors who wanted to take him out for a night.
Yuuri, on the other hand, has spent several years in Detroit– not quite the crime capital of the USA, but close.
This shows when the Katsuki-Nikiforovs start taking more vacations.
In Rio de Janeiro. “Why can’t we just take a shortcut?” Viktor asks, peering down a narrow and dark alley. “We’d make it back to the hotel faster.”
“Vitya, no,” says Yuuri.
In Chicago. “Yuuri, that was such a nice man, and his dog was the best dog, besides Makkachin.”
“Good dog,” Yuuri says, grabbing Viktor by the lapels to pull him in for a kiss, and to tap his cheek with Viktor’s leather wallet. “Terrible pickpocket. Don’t worry, I got it back for you.”
It even shows when they’re traveling close to home.
“This is my favorite restaurant in Sochi!” Viktor chirps. “Their shades are closed, so paparazzi can’t see in. They’re all fans, and always ask me about skating, but they never bother me for pictures with them! So discreet! It’s like my own little escape, so I wanted to share it with you. Do you like it?”
“It’s wonderful,” says Yuuri through gritted teeth. He grips Viktor’s hand tightly throughout the entire experience, and every time Viktor pitifully tries to ask, “how is the borchst?” Yuuri just smiles grimly at him and scoots closer.
“Darling,” Viktor pouts once they’re back in their hotel room, “I’ve told you that if you’re anxious we can always leave, but you never gave me the signal we agreed on–”
“Vitya,” Yuuri says, and sits him down. “Vitya, that restaurant is very clearly a cover for the Russian mafia.”
“Oh,” says Viktor. “Um.”
“I’ve always thought it was a miracle that you were alive,” Yuuri sighs and snuggles down into his husband’s lap. “Now I’m realizing just how much of a miracle it is.”
In London. They go out for a pub trivia night with Yakov and Yurio. Their team– carried completely by the living legend– destroys the rest, even though Viktor is tipsy and has been chattering with both the French family at the neighboring table and two Germans at the bar in their native tongue. Facts? Viktor knows them all: 18th century literature. Obscure historical references. Chemical compositions. The exact words Beyonce tweeted 3 months ago.
“What the hell,” says Yurio. “This idiot introduced himself to me five times when I first came to the rink. He can’t remember what he ate for lunch. What. The hell.”
“I think I love him,” Yuuri blurts. They have been married for two years, and his husband is showing the Germans his belly-button. “We have to protect him.” Yakov just smirks.