Work Text:
“ Yuuri ,” Viktor whines, drawing out the vowels of his partner’s name indulgently. “Yuuri, my love, I am dying.”
Three years ago, Yuuri would have fallen all over himself to soothe Viktor’s worries after a statement like that. One year ago, Viktor may have been able to needle him into some gentle nursing. Now, however, it seems that marriage has worn off all of Viktor’s considerable charm because Yuuri just laughs at him.
“You aren’t dying,” He says, “You have a head cold.”
“I’m sick,” Viktor pouts from beneath his pile of blankets and a small mountain of used tissues, “Sicker than anyone’s ever been.”
“I’ll make miso for lunch,” Is the only comfort Yuuri offers him, apart from a kiss to his uncovered forehead.
“You used to take me seriously,” Viktor complains, lifting his nose out of the blanket long enough to destroy another tissue with mucus.
“I’m getting less gullible in my old age.” Yuuri tuts, quickly clearing the couch of used tissue and pointedly setting a trash bin within Viktor’s reach, “Plus, I refuse to feel bad for you until after you’ve taken the medicine.”
“It tastes bad,” Viktor complains, “Stays in my mouth all day.”
“So, you admit you can still taste things,” Yuuri grins triumphantly and Viktor sinks back against the armrest with a sigh, knowing his battle is lost. “You must not be that sick after all.”
“I can’t believe you’re going to leave me like this.” Viktor says as he watches Yuuri, satisfied with his cleanup job, retreat back into their bedroom for his things. “What if I die here? Alone and friendless. Abandoned by the love of my life.”
“The love of your life needs to train his quad flip or his coach won’t kiss his medal at World’s.” Yuuri reminds him, coming over to press another teasing kiss to Viktor’s forehead. “I’ll see you this afternoon. Get some sleep; you’ll feel better after a little rest. I can’t believe you’ve caught three colds this year already. We should add that to your official ISU stats, you might be due for another world record.”
The flat joke only makes Viktor pout more and he tries to defend his limited honor, but Yuuri’s already out the door.
He runs to the rink and warms up before starting his strength training program in the rink’s attached and very sizable gym. There’s a hockey team lifting together today, so he avoids the free weights and does body weight exercises in a quieter corner. He’s sweating and worn out by the time his scheduled session on the ice rolls around, having accidentally pushed himself harder than he should have without Viktor to keep an eye on his sets, but he gets his skates on regardless.
Yakov sees him enter alone, waits several minutes to see if Viktor will eventually saunter in after him, and then sighs heavily. “Where is he?”
Yuuri shrugs, “He’s home sick today.”
Yakov rolls his eyes, “Playing hooky, more like. Did he even have a fever?”
“He wouldn’t get out of the blankets long enough for me to get a good read of his temperature.” Yuuri shakes his head, “But he was definitely stuffed up.”
Georgi, one of the dozens of skaters whose practice session overlaps with his today, skates to his water bottle at the boards just in time to overhear the conversation. “Viktor used to fake fevers all the time, back when we shared a dorm.” He says, laughing at the memory, “He had a million tricks to do it. He’d do a hundred jumping jacks and then put the thermometer in his armpit.”
“Why would he do that?” Yuuri asks, tilting his head. Georgie shrugs.
“He was always the first to get a cold and the longest to have it, but unless there was a fever, we were required to keep training.” Georgie recalls, then speculates, “I don’t think he liked skating when he wasn’t feeling well, because he fell more than normal and some of our rinkmates would make fun of him. They liked seeing him humbled, I think.”
Yuuri’s finished lacing his skates now and Georgi’s had his water, so Yakov is quick to direct their attention back to the ice and the conversation ends there, but Yuuri carries it with him as he skates. Occasionally Yakov barks a few instructions at him, but mostly Yuuri directs himself in Viktor’s absence. He avoids big jumps, knowing he’ll only flub them with his mind on other things, and focuses on controlling his expression as he flows through his choreography.
He wraps up earlier than usual and Yakov gives him a hard look.
“You come back this evening, yes?”
Yuuri nods, “Of course.”
Slowly, the old man nods, “Good. Don’t let him distract you. I never argued when he risked his own career two weeks from Worlds because he wanted an unscheduled day off. As a coach, he should know better than to risk yours as well.”
Yuuri purses his lips, feeling sharp words rise to his tongue, but he holds them back and only offers Yakov a short bow in acknowledgement, before sweeping out of the rink.
He takes a bus to a specialty Asian market to get a few extra ingredients and to the pharmacy for more tissues and cold medicine. When he arrives home, he finds Viktor asleep in their bed. A tablet is propped against Yuuri’s pillow with the credits to an old Soviet cartoon film still rolling across the screen. Smiling a little, he shuts the door and gets cooking.
He can’t get an image out of his mind. It doesn’t take much imagination to recall Viktor’s delicate, angled features and his long hair from his early days training. How awful and small must he have felt, flubbing jumps and missing steps because he couldn’t take a full breath, only to be met with ridicule, rather than sympathy, from his peers.
These days, the worst of his cold symptoms fade in a day or two. If they used to linger, Viktor’s body really must need the rest.
He gets out the last of his homemade chicken stock – he probably won’t have time to make more until after Worlds – and adds it to a pot with plenty of water. He lets that come to a simmer as he washes the rice and then puts that in the pot as well before covering it with a lid. He stirs the mix occasionally, adding salt and a few spices.
When the rice is cooked down to a thick, creamy texture, he breaks two eggs over the porridge and mixes it in thoroughly before killing the heat and ladling everything into bowls. He pours a spoonful of chili oil into one and a dash of sesame seeds and green onion over both.
Viktor barely lifts his head up when Yuuri enters the room. The tablet has gone dark. “Yuuri? Is it lunch already?”
Yuuri lets the starchy smell of cooked rice filling the room answer for him. “Did you sleep all morning?”
“Yes,” Viktor nods, turning over to blow his nose into a tissue before sitting up against the head board. “Eating in bed? How adventurous, my Yuuri!”
The impact of his teasing is dampened by how scratched-out and aching his voice sounds and Yuuri doesn’t even swat at him in protest. “Just this once,” he says, “I don’t want to make you get up yet.”
He passes the second bowl over and settles against his own pillow, their shoulders just barely touching as they both dig in.
“Oh, Vkusno! ” Viktor sighs as he gets his first bite, his eyes fluttering closed. Yuuri smiles privately and presses their shoulders together firmly to say thank you for the compliment.
Viktor takes a few more happy bites, then deflates, letting the bowl come to rest in his lap.
Yuuri turns to him, surprised and worried. “Is something wrong with the food?”
“No,” Viktor reassures him with a sniffle, “It’s wonderful. You’re too good to me sometimes, Yuuri.”
Frowning, Yuuri shakes his head, “That’s not true.”
But Viktor presses the argument. “It is. I’ll come to the rink this evening. I just need to bundle up a bit and–”
“No,” Yuuri insists, leaning in to silence his husband with a kiss to his temple. “I want you to rest more. I’ll be fine tonight. Maybe tomorrow you’ll feel better, but we’ll wait until then to decide.”
For some reason, this simple announcement brings tears to Viktor’s eyes and Yuuri pulls him in close to kiss each one from his cheeks, not acknowledging them otherwise. “Eat your porridge,” He insists, “It’s no good cold.”
And Viktor obeys him with all the enthusiasm his tired body can muster.
Yuuri stops teasing him for getting sick so often after that.
“Yuuri,” Viktor says, the syllables clipped and urgent, “I think you’re dying.”
“Noooo,” It’s clearly a struggle for Yuuri to speak, his stuffed nose and sore throat fighting every word, “It’s just a cold. I’ve skated through worse.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.” Viktor protests, coming to stand behind his husband who is leaning heavily against the bathroom sink while trying to brush his teeth. He raises a hand to Yuuri’s pale and sweating forehead. “You have a fever.”
“I have a Grand Prix event in two weeks,” Yuuri protests right back, weakly trying to push his partner’s hand away. “I don’t have time to be sick.”
“It doesn’t work like that, my love.” Viktor says, “You don’t have the strength to brush your teeth; you aren’t skating today.”
He’s barely had the strength to skate for three days now, even though he’s been doing an admirable job powering through anyway. As a coach, Viktor doesn’t approve of his skater hiding an illness, but as a former competitor, he was a little jealous that Yuuri can land a textbook triple axel even with a head cold.
“Victoru,” Yuuri’s accent often thickens when he’s tired or drunk, but Viktor’s never heard it when he’s feverish before and his weak heart breaks, “What if this is my last chance?”
Startled, Viktor looks at Yuuri through the mirror and then turns his head to peer at him closely, asking, “What do you mean?”
“I want to give you GPF gold,” Yuuri’s bottom lip wobbles treacherously as he struggles to form the words, leaning his weight back against Viktor’s strong chest. “I’m twenty-seven. What if this is my last chance and I miss it because of a cold?”
“You have the flu, at least,” Viktor informs him, wrapping his partner in his arms and rocking him gently. “You’ve won Four-C and Worlds, half a dozen National titles and hold two world records. You could never skate again and still have given me more than my wildest dreams.”
Yuuri makes an unhappy sound, buries his face in the crook of Viktor’s neck. “You deserve more.”
“You need sleep,” Viktor laughs, guiding him by the hips out of the bathroom and towards the bed. “You’d never say such sweet things to me in your right mind.”
“‘M too hard on you.” Yuuri murmurs as he collapses against his pillows.
“I need someone to be a little hard on me,” Viktor replies, climbing onto the bedcovers beside him, smoothing back his dark hair so he can press kisses to Yuuri’s damp forehead. “You’re perfect, my Yuuri. Now rest and I’ll do all the sweet things you do for me when I’m sick. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
“Miso soup and soda crackers sound good,” Yuuri murmurs, his eyes falling closed. For three days he’d used every remedy in his considerable arsenal to keep his temperature down and his cold symptoms managed well enough to keep himself on the ice. But retching up the contents of his stomach at 6 AM seemed to be the proof Viktor needed to finally make him take a rest day.
Viktor huffs a laugh, “Then miso soup and soda crackers you shall have. Rest now.”
And Yuuri murmurs something in garbled Japanese before falling into an uneven sleep. Viktor just sits, watching him breathe for several long minutes. When his heart finally feels full enough to move, he finds his phone and steps out of the room to make a call.
For all they’ve been together for years now, Viktor’s never been the one tending Yuuri’s bedside. It’s always him fussing and making a big deal out of a seasonal cold or two. Now that Yuuri is finally sick enough to surrender to his care, Viktor intends to do a remarkable job of it.
“Ohayo, Okaa-san!” He sings out cheerfully when the ringing ceases and the line connects, “Did I wake you?”
“I told you to call me Hiroko,” Yuuri’s mother insists and Viktor smiles; he can practically hear her blushing through the phone. Then she reminds him, “Japan is in your future; I’m just starting to prepare lunch service.”
“Oh, right,” Viktor chuckles awkwardly; despite a lifetime of international travel, he’s never fully grasped timezones. “I hope you’re not too busy to give me advice! My Yuuri has fallen terribly ill and I’ve never played nursemaid before!”
“Um,” Hiroko says, slow and uncertain, “I’m not sure I understood?”
“Oops,” Viktor says, belatedly remembering her understanding of English is less good than her pronunciation lets on. More simply, he explains, “Yuuri’s sick. I’d like some advice on how to take care of him.”
“He’s sick?” She repeats with a note of alarm, “He said that himself?”
“Well, not exactly,” Viktor explains, “But I found him falling over trying to brush his teeth and had to argue him back into bed.”
Hiroko lets out a little laugh, musical and full of fondness. “That sounds just right. Even when he was little, he never liked to admit it. As if he can make the sickness go away by ignoring it.”
Viktor sighs, a little relieved that this is not a new phenomenon brought on by the pressure of his advancing competitive career and his anxiety around winning what might be his final Grand Prix run, not that Viktor thinks he’s actually anywhere close to retiring. “He asked for miso soup and crackers, which I think I can manage. But is there anything else I can feed him?”
“Those are a good start. Do you know congee?”
Viktor thinks back to the few times Yuuri indulged his colds over the years. “I think so? It’s thick porridge, yes? Kind of like oatmeal.”
She laughs at the comparison, but does not counter it. “Yes, it’s rice porridge. Easy on the stomach, but good nutrition. Good for sickness. A guest requested it for dinner. Warm up miso for now and then we’ll cook it together. Very simple; you’ll have no trouble.”
Viktor doubts that, but he’ll do his best anyway. Grinning at her optimism, he says, “Thank you Mama Katsuki!”
“Of course,” She tells him, “Thank you for looking after my baby.”
“Always,” Viktor promises, “Forever.”
“He’s very special, you know,” She continues, voice wistful, “We were told I couldn’t have another child. He was such a surprise!”
Viktor’s heard the story many times. As he puts water, miso paste, and dashi into a small pot, he grins and says, “It’s one of my favorite things about him.”
When the thin soup is warm to the touch, but not scalding, Viktor pours it into a coffee mug and fetches crackers from the pantry. He carries the mug, the crackers and his phone to the bedroom.
Yuuri is turning over fitfully on the bed and Viktor frowns. It’s clear he hasn’t properly dozed off since Viktor left.
He puts the mug and crackers on the nightstand and puts his phone on speaker. “Mama Katsuki’s here!”
“ Kaa-san ?” Yuuri grabs the phone and pulls it close to him, then begins a miserable tirade in exhausted Japanese that Viktor can’t follow.
As Hiroko talks him down, Viktor feeds his partner pale little crackers and encourages him to drink the soup. When he’s satisfied that Yuuri’s no longer resting on an empty stomach, Viktor pries his phone back from his husband’s hands and returns to the kitchen, switching over to headphones so he can cook in time with Hiroko.
She’s not a very patient teacher and her instructions are limited by her stilted English, but with very little prompting she tells him the sort of stories Yuuri always cuts off before he can hear the ending. She tells him about the first time Yuuri walked himself to school sick.
An administrator saw him entering and turned him right back around. Hiroko and Toshiya had already started working in the onsen, so neither of them saw him come home. He spent the day alone in his room, eating nothing but a bag of chips that he’d stashed there for an after school snack. No one thought to look for him until after Mari got home from cram school and dinner was nearly ready.
Viktor laughs when she does, describing the image of little Yuuri hidden under his bedcovers, refusing to acknowledge his illness. But the thought of it sticks in his chest and when there’s a lull, Viktor finds his finger resting on his chin.
“Why does he do it?” He finally asks, letting out a sigh he’s been holding in all day. “Ignoring the problem just makes it worse, does it not?”
Hiroko sighs with him. “You’re right, but he hates to be a burden. Sometimes I think he forgets that love doesn’t run out, so he tries not to ask for too much in case he needs it more later.”
They are both quiet for a moment, thinking privately of this person who is so special to both of them, who is incredibly strong but also fleetingly fragile. Then Hiroko makes an industrious sound and asks, “Now, lift the lid and stir your porridge. It should be thick and sticky.”
But when Viktor lifts the lid, he can immediately tell that something is wrong. The rice only doubled in size, not tripled like Hiroko said it wood and there’s an acrid, smoky smell that wafts out of the pot. Viktor pokes at the mixture with some hesitation and finds it firm and unyielding.
“Viktoru-chan?” Hiroko asks after his prolonged pause. “Are you still there?”
“I’m here,” Viktor says, scratching his chin thoughtfully. Although he has learned more about his own kitchen in the last few hours than in the previous years combined, and even though he enjoyed chatting with his mother in law, he has to admit, “This may have been ambitious, Mama Katsuki.”
In the end, he finds a place in the city that will deliver to the apartment. It’s apparently Vietnamese style congee and the person taking his order seems mildly baffled by his request to remove all but the simplest ingredients, but Hiroko promises it will do the job.
When it arrives the morning has tipped into the afternoon and Viktor plates everything on a tray along with a cup of hot tea sweetened with honey, a glass of water, and a bottle of painkillers. For good measure, he takes a daisy from the bouquet on the entry table and adds it to the tray as well.
Yuuri is sleeping when he creeps back into the bedroom. Light from the slightly cracked curtains fall across his body in long slants. His nose is red and puffy; his mouth hangs open with a spill of drool in one corner. His chest rises and falls steadily, occasionally interrupted by a sharp cough that isn’t strong enough to wake him.
Viktor stares at him for entirely too long, wrestling with the impulse to take a photo.
In the end, he spares Yuuri’s dignity, sets the tray on his night stand and then slips into his usual side of the bed, pulling the softly snoring man into his arms.
“Yuuri,” He whispers, each word a puff of breath against his ear, “My sleeping beauty, it’s time to wake up.”
The best Yuuri can manage in response is a wordless groan. “Mmmgh.”
Viktor laughs, softly. “I know, love. But you should eat something and take pills for your fever.”
“Don’ wanna.” He manages actual words this time, turning to bury his face in Viktor’s collar bone. “‘M tired…”
“Of course you are, but you need to keep up your strength. You want to get better soon, don’t you?”
With gentle cajoling, Yuuri is brought to wakefulness and eventually he sits up and blindly reaches for his glasses, but finds the tray in the way. He frowns at it, squinting at the contents.
His voice is lucid, but still nasal and groggy from the sickness, when he asks, “Did you make this?”
“I put it in one of our bowls to make it look nicer,” Viktor admits, a bit sheepishly. “Mama tried to teach me, but my cooking skills weren’t enough to keep up.”
“Ugh, sorry,” Yuuri says, palming the sleep out of his eyes, “She’s hard to learn from. She refuses to measure anything properly.”
Ah. Viktor thought it was an English translation issue, but Yuuri helpfully explains that “some rice” and “plenty of water” and “little little pepper” were standard Katsuki Hiroko measurements. It makes him feel a bit better about his abject failure.
He suppresses a groan at the thought of the pot currently soaking in the sink. No doubt the bottom of the rice mixture is a thick crust on the metal by now. And he can’t just throw it out and start fresh – that was Yuuri’s favorite pot!
He’s distracted from his private moaning when he sees Yuuri’s hands come together over the bedsheets, fingers tangling nervously. Noticeably, he does not reach for the tray.
“Here,” Viktor says, reaching across him, grabbing the tray, and placing it on Yuuri’s lap, “You don’t have to eat all of it, but at least have a few bites so you don’t take the pills on an empty stomach. And the tea, too! You have to drink while it’s still piping hot.”
Viktor scoops up a generous spoonful and holds it up to Yuuri’s mouth, staring at him with eager expectation.
He is not ready for the way Yuuri’s bottom lip wobbles and his eyes fill with tears.
“Sorry!” Yuuri apologizes instantly, hands flying to his face to cover up the tears, “I’m so sorry!”
“My Yuuri, what’s wrong?” Viktor asks, putting the spoon down and pulling Yuuri’s hands away from his face so he can dab the tears away with the corner of his sleeve. “Why are you apologizing?”
“It’s too much…” Yuuri says, head shaking, “You already do so much for me. I shouldn’t have gotten sick so close to a competition.”
“ Yuuri ,” Viktor interrupts him, a gentle smile stealing across his face despite everything, “Yuuri, look at me,” He says and waits, insistently, until he obeys. With sparkling eyes, Viktor asks, “Of course I don’t wish for you to be sick before a competition. But do you have any idea how excited I was when I realized you were running a fever?”
“Wha-?” Yuuri’s mouth drops open, “Viktor, how can you say that?”
“It’s awful, I know!” Viktor says, smiling wickedly, “But I was just so excited to get to take care of you!”
“Viktor…” Yuuri says, mouth turning down in the corners, but Viktor doesn’t let him say anything.
“You take such wonderful care of me when I’m sick! I finally get to return the favor!” Viktor says, gleeful, “I’ll do all the chores; I’ll call the doctor if I need to; I’ll figure out how to make rice porridge! All of the things you do for me, I’m going to do them just as well. Don’t you have faith in me, Yuuri? Don’t you think I can do it?”
He turns on his considerable puppy dog eyes and Yuuri’s exhausted, worried expression finally melts into something a little more easy. “Of course you can, Viktor,” He says, then pinches his bottom lip with his teeth, “I only wish you didn’t have to.”
“Well too bad,” Viktor says, leaning in to kiss Yuuri’s bitten lip even though his breath is terrible and there’s snot dripping from his nose. “My only wish is to do it. Now drink your tea. It’s getting cold.”