i just didn't want to leave my own face as the last post on here before i sign off

daiyanodumpster  asked:

okokok i need to come up with something better how's. this. "Here, take my coat, you look cold"

Sankt Petersburg is cold. This is not unusual. What is unusual is Victor’s miserable state. He’d left his coat at the rink, and it was probably completely closed now. While he did have his wallet on him, his keys to his apartment (and the rink) as well as his phone were in his coat.

Not to mention Sankt Petersburg is cold, and now he’s cursed himself to going home in this miserable weather. He jogs as quickly as possible, trying to keep himself warm. His breath puffs out into the air almost like steam, and he can’t hold back a shiver as he waits at a crosswalk.

Suddenly, there’s a tap on his shoulder. “Here, take my coat. You look cold,” someone says in English.

Victor turns around in surprise, the first thing he registers being a fluffy-looking burgundy coat. “Pardon?”

The coat is lowered, and Victor is taken aback at the man offering it to him. Short black hair, brown eyes, clearly Asian features. His English sounds flawless. “I think you need it more than me,” he says.

“I can’t possibly-” Victor hesitates, of course. He’s more used to the infernal weather than this foreigner, surely. “That’s very kind of you, but…”

The pedestrian light signals to walk.

“I have a ride waiting around the corner, so I insist,” the man says. “Please, take it.” He drops it in Victor’s hands and walks past him onto the crosswalk.

Victor shivers again, hesitating still. He follows after him. “How will I give it back?”

“You can keep it.” Once they’re on the other side of the street, Victor watches, at a loss, as the man walks in a different direction from him now.

“At least give me your name?” Victor calls. He wants a name to put to this kind Samaritan.

He sees the man pause, a smile on his lips when he turns around. “Yuuri!” he replies. He looks immaculate for some reason, in that moment. The lightly falling snow contrasts with his dark hair and dark outfit, and the smile transforms him in a way that makes ‘He’s beautiful’ cross Victor’s mind.

He opens his mouth to give Yuuri his own name, but he is already gone.

Victor ends up donning the coat on the way home. It stops him from shivering, and smells the way that all clothes do when they’re freshly laundered. Comforting. He manages to show the doorman his ID to be let in and get the building manager to open his apartment for him.

Yuuri stays on his mind the whole time. Victor knows it’s foolish to think so much of a random encounter, but few people give away their coats so easily. Especially ones as nice as this one. He remembers the smile, the offer, the gentle way he’d spoken. The kind insistence that Victor take the coat.

What kind of person is Yuuri? Did he like dogs? Why was he in Sankt Petersburg? From Japan, or America, or where?

Deep down, Victor wants to meet him again. Return the coat, maybe ask him for a coffee and get to know him better.

He wants, and it’s silly, but he can’t help it.


The next day, Victor wears the coat on the way to the rink. If he looks around for Yuuri on the way there, well, only he knows that.

Yakov berates him for leaving his coat and everything at the rink last night — as well as Yuri for not noticing before he had left and locked up. Victor hardly notices, too light on his feet about Yuuri and his kindness.

It takes Mila shaking him while he’s tying up his skates for him to snap out of it. “Victor, you didn’t have your phone last night, right? Then you haven’t heard of what happened to Politician Duma.”

Victor frowns. He cares little for politics and politicians. “No, what happened?” he asks anyway.

“Someone blew up his residence!” Mila steals his phone and unlocks it, tapping in something before shoving the screen in Victor’s face. “Everyone’s talking about it though because it was some internationally wanted criminal, and no one knows the motive.”

The face that looks at Victor is blurry, likely from some low-res security camera shot, but a jolt of recognition goes up his spine. The person has slicked-back dark hair and pale skin, and the collar of a black shirt pokes up from their burgundy coat.

“He’s called Eros apparently. This is the best picture they’ve gotten of him, so it’s being televised everywhere.” Mila pauses. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing,” Victor says. “Nothing at all.”

The burgundy coat burns a hole in his awareness now. The pockets had been empty when he had checked, not a single sign of the owner’s identity. Had Yuuri even been a real name?

As Victor gets on the ice, he feels his hopeful fantasies crumble. Was it really kindness, or did he want to get rid of coat to throw authorities off his track? Was I just convenient? he wonders.

If his skating has a heartbroken tint to it that day, no one dares to comment.


(Send me happy things and I’ll turn them sad/murderous!)