I can’t help but think about Yuuri being constantly mesmerized but also FULL OF SALT because Viktor, like a fine wine or good cheese, just gets BETTER with age. He is the SILVEREST OF SILVER FOXES. Yuuri can’t handle it.
Like yes his forehead gets bigger, but that just makes him look distinguished somehow? And the lines around his eyes give him this graceful wisdom. The glasses he has to wear later in life make him look like one of those beautiful professor-type men in movies–just looking at them, you know they’ve got to be over the fifty hump, maybe even pretty far over, but you still really want to see them with their shirt off?
Viktor plans a beach trip for their thirtieth wedding anniversary and Yuuri watches as his sixty-year-old husband shakes salt water out of his hair and rubs sunscreen into the freckles on his shoulders. What the fuck. Yuuri is sitting here in a giant T-shirt and shorts with an overlarge sunhat and sunglasses, and next to him Viktor is reenacting the ads for Gucci’s summer 2049 beachwear ad. The only thing missing is a lion cub and a yacht.
“Aren’t you going to swim?” Viktor asks, leaning back on his elbows, legs crossed at the ankles. His whole body is laid out as though to soak up as much sun as possible, and Yuuri is huddled under the umbrella, every bit of him that will fit in the shade folded into it.
“My hip is bothering me today,” Yuuri tells him, mostly as an excuse.
“The water might help with that,” Viktor tells him, and kneads a hand into the meat of Yuuri’s hip. “It’s nice and cool. Aren’t you having fun, Kitten?”
Yuuri bows his head towards him, smiles and butts their noses together. Viktor has a smear of unincorporated sunscreen on his nose that transfers onto Yuuri’s cheek. “Of course I am. I’m with you.”
Viktor makes a weak little sound against his shoulder. “The things you say. Even now.”
“They’re true,” Yuuri says, and takes his hand through Viktor’s hair.
“I know,” Viktor sighs. “But sometimes I still can’t believe that you’re spending your life with me. Thirty years, can you believe it?”
“No,” Yuuri chuckles honestly. “I can’t. But I’m glad it happened. And that it’s still happening.”
“Thirty years and you’re still just as beautiful as they day I married you,” Viktor says.
Yuuri looks at his husband, Number 27 on People Magazine’s list of Fifty Sexiest Men Over Fifty, and blushes harder than he has since he was in his twenties.
“Says Russia’s Golden Silver Fox.”
“I hated that article,” Viktor says. His fingers are tracing patters on Yuuri’s thigh. “It made no sense. Silver and gold clash. Anyone with a brain knows that.”
“I don’t think that was the point, Vitya.”
Viktor grabs his hand. “Come swim with me!”
“No!” Yuuri laughs, halfheartedly trying to tug his hand back. “We’re on a beach surrounded by twenty-somethings and unlike you, I have the waistline of a fifty-six year old man.”
“Then come back to our hotel room and I’ll show you the things your fifty-six-year-old waistline can do to me,” Viktor murmurs, and nips gently at Yuuri’s thigh just below the hem of his shorts.
“Well…” Yuuri twirls a lock of Viktor’s hair in his finger. “We do have a few hours before dinner.”
Yuuri lets Viktor cling to him like an octopus on the walk back to their room. Yuuri may be thirty-two years older than he was in the winter of 2016, but he is still the man who took pride in stealing Viktor Nikiforov out from under Russia’s nose–and he is still the only man who Viktor Nikiforov, Certified Fine Wine, Good Cheese, Silver Fox, has eyes for. It’s enough to make anyone feel good about their love handles.
(Viktor thinks that Yuuri’s love handles are to be celebrated. But that’s another post.)