Headcanon that Viktor and Yuuri do not really fare very well during fights.
They do fight like most couples do. It does not matter what they fought about; there are just those days when the timing is not right, and their reactions are not proportional to what they are arguing about. Sometimes it is Viktor who is not in the mood and it just so happened that that it is an off-day for Yuuri, too. Sometimes it is Yuuri who points something out, a minor thing like dog food running out or dishes left in the sink, but it had been a long day for Viktor and he had not yet told Yuuri that he got an earful from Yakov earlier that day over one thing or another.
So they fight. Tempers flare and sometimes it is petty. They both dislike yelling, but then there are also those days, and sometimes they say things they do not mean. One person’s eyes sting first and that usually puts a stop to things – but then, the damage has been done. Sometimes they apologize immediately, but there are also days when they just part ways. Yuuri tends to leave first more often than not, locking himself in the bedroom or the bathroom or wherever there are four walls and a closed door that would keep him away from Viktor.
There are those days, albeit few and far in between (which is good because they truly are the worst of days), when they would fight so badly that night would find them with one in the bedroom and the other on the couch. It is usually Yuuri who refuses to join Viktor in bed; he doesn’t like touching Viktor when they are in a fight.
What they never really managed, though, is to spend an entire night apart. Always, be it at midnight or as late as 4 am, Viktor would come out of the bedroom, blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
“Yuuri,” he would say, voice low so as not to startle Yuuri awake, should he already be asleep. (Yuuri never is, on nights like that.)
Sometimes Yuuri would turn to him; sometimes he would not. Either way, Viktor would pad quietly across their moonlit living room and usually find Yuuri curled up in a bundle under his own blanket, awake and miserable. He does not say anything, his Yuuri, but then Viktor knows him well enough not to expect it. So instead, he would just kneel down at the front end of the couch, move slowly so as to let Yuuri stop him any time in case he was still angry with Viktor. Yuuri never is and neither does he ever stop Viktor, and if anything his eyes would sparkle in the moonlight, sad and expectant, and it is how Viktor knows: Yuuri is sorry, too.
Viktor would open his arms and Yuuri would fall into them, his relief obvious in the way he sharply inhales like one breaking the surface after nearly drowning. The hug is never gentle, always nearly crushing Viktor’s neck by how tightly he clings to him, but Viktor never minds. He only also breathes in deeply and shakily, holding Yuuri just as tightly, before wrapping the blanket he brought around the both of them. If he had his way, he would pull the blanket over Yuuri’s head and just hold him to his chest, reclaim him for himself and hide him completely from the world. His, his, his - never to leave him, never, never not his, not even when the fights are so bad that Viktor could feel his heart break over again whenever he remembers them.
He makes do with wrapping the blanket around them as tightly as he can manage. Yuuri never complains, so Viktor wonders if it comforts Yuuri, too. They fall asleep like that, locked still in their tight embrace after many kisses and whispered apologies, limbs tangled beneath the blanket that would surely be too warm and stifling when they wake mid-morning. It is not always the most comfortable thing, waking up that way, but they never really got rid of making up like this – not when, at least in the evenings, lying together like that feels absolutely perfect, and is everything that they needed.