victuuri drabble: eyes


Because Victor’s eyes are so much more than we deserve.

“Your eyes are really pretty,” Yuuri mumbles once they sit down on the couch, fingers curling into weak fists around Victor’s shirt. He smells like cheap alcohol and fried oil.

They’d gone to the nearest bar - a shady old joint just a street away from their apartment - in order to celebrate Yuuri getting his Russian beginners’ level certificate after six months studying hard. Victor had to deal with his fiancé fretting and labelling every single item of clothing they own with post-its so he could remember basic vocabulary, and he thought he deserved a little break, too. Yuuri got so excited about it that kept chugging down vodka and insisting on how russian he was, reciting random words. Victor laughed and kissed him after every shot, tasting the sweetness on his lips.

Now, though, Yuuri is undoubtedly, completely trashed.  Sometimes a drunk Yuuri means naked pole-dancing, or Victor waking up to find his fiancé dancing to ‘Single Ladies’ at 4 am while Makkacchin watches him attentively. Those are usually quite entertaining. This time, though, the exhaustion is simply too much. Yuuri’s lazily supporting himself on Victor’s shoulder on the couch, drooling and murmuring words in three different languages.

“My eyes are pretty?” Victor asks, amused, rubbing his cheeks gently and chuckling when Yuuri leans into it like a cat. He helps him take off his shoes with a bit of necessary guidance, kicking them off lest they get dirt on the pillows.

Yuuri nods enthusiastically, his whole expression lighting up, and crawls his way into his lap without trouble, already familiar with the ins and outs of Victor’s physique. Just as familiar as he should be. “It’s like,” he bites his lower lip. “They’re blue.”

Victor smiles, unspeakably fond, “Yes, that’s right.”

“But not, like, normal blue,” Yuuri adds hurriedly. He lifts his hand to Victor’s face, his fingertips touching the upper part of his cheek and pointing towards his eyes. He’s a little off, but Victor will cut him some slack. “They’re really, really light at the bottom. Like the sky!” he insists, gesturing towards the floor.

“The sky?” Victor presses a soft kiss to Yuuri’s temple, butterflies going off in his stomach. “That’s original.”

“Sshhh,” Yuuri shushes him by covering his mouth with his hands clumsily, sticking some of his fingers inside by accident. “I’m not finished.”

Victor raises his hands up in surrender. He’s curious to see where this is going.

“The bottom is light and clear,” he continues, rambling a bit. “I really love how you, er.” He frowns a little. “When you read in bed, the light does this thing -”

“it reflects?” he offers, voice muffled around Yuuri’s fingers.

“Yeah! It reflects and I think it makes you look really soft. I wanna kiss you a little. A lot.” True to his word, Yuuri lays a wet, messy kiss on Victor’s left cheek, almost getting his ear.  Victor is having a hard time not letting himself squeeze this lovely man to death. “The bottom part is really nice.” Yuuri continues. “But then they darken as they go up. It’s like,“ he falters, before suddenly seeming to get inspiration. "Like your eyes go through all the blues. They’re unique.” Yuuri sighs dreamily, resting his cheek against Victor’s chest and letting out a tired breath. “I love your eyes so much.”

Victor is about to cry, and he’s not ashamed of -

“I hope our kids have your eyes,” Yuuri mumbles, a barely audible murmur as he fades into sleep in his arms.

And well. No one can judge him for crying then, can they?

2

More photos of Mongolia’s reindeer-herding minority ethnic group, the Tsaatan, by Joel Santos.

Children are responsible for training reindeer for riding, because the reindeer are not strong enough to carry an adult until they are fully grown, and it works best to introduce them to the idea early. A two year old reindeer, old enough for a child to ride, is called dongor; an adult reindeer is a hoodai.