Note: This story contains a large age gap between Yuuri and Victor caused by time travel. I've done my best to write their interactions as healthy and responsible, and for them to be on an equal level. No one is abused or taken advantage of because of ignorance or their age in this story. The story has been fully written, and updates Sundays.

At 8:00 p.m., alone at last after a grueling competition, Yuuri Katsuki stepped into the shower.

At 8:20 p.m., he stepped out—into a bathroom he had never seen before.

He groaned and pressed his palms to his eyes. Not again.

His Sapporo hotel suite was clean, but it wasn't much more than a mattress, plumbing and four walls with chipped paint. This bathroom was more. Here, he tip-toed across a hardwood floor, ducked his head under planters hanging from the ceiling, and peeked through silk curtains to reveal an unfamiliar skyline and the Sun low in the west.

He next checked the marble counters and cabinets. Inside, he found luxurious towels, bottles that looked like hair and skin products, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. A dressing gown hung from a hook on the wall. Next to the sink lay a pair of glasses, a marker, and a ring.

His poodle-print pajamas were nowhere to be seen.

He winced, took the gown off its hook, and prayed that he wasn't stealing clothes from whoever lived here. He felt warmer as soon as he put it on. Yuuri reached for the glasses, which thankfully seemed to match his prescription, and he caught sight of himself in the mirror.

Oh. Oh no.

He'd had big jumps before, but never big enough to see himself visibly different. He looked old enough to be out of college now, maybe even in his mid-twenties. His stomach was a bit rounder, softer, but still had the muscles of a figure skater underneath. Had he let himself go? Or had he stopped worrying about his weight so much?

He snorted, despite the strangeness of the situation. Him, not worry? Ha.

"Yuuri!"

As if to prove his point, a voice called from the other side of the door, lilting and impatient. Yuuri startled, and his face went pale. He leaned his hands on the counter and looked down at the sink, willing himself to breathe.

Think. He had to think. He had been weeks ahead before. What had he done then?

"Yuuri," the voice called again. It chuckled. "Do you need me to help in there?"

"N-no!" he said, head snapping up. "I'm fine!"

"Alright. Whenever you're ready."

Yuuri doubted he'd be ready for whatever was on the other side of that door. He had nothing with him but a stranger's gown. Nor did anything in the room lend itself to self-defense.

He breathed deeply again. In through the nose, out through the mouth, like his therapist had told him. His hands shook at his sides. But past jumps had taught him what to do: act like he was exhausted and sleep-deprived. Which he actually was, this time. He'd tell people he needed to be alone. Then he'd take another shower as soon as he could without raising suspicion.

He swallowed, steeled himself, and opened the door.

And promptly came face-to-face with Victor Nikiforov.

Yuuri's whole body froze. His blood ran cold but his face burned, and his useless, stupid muscles wound tight like a rabbit being stared down by a wolf.

Victor had been Yuuri's figure skating idol for years. He was a dramatic performer, unfailingly nice, and the only person in the world who could land a quadruple flip jump.

He was also very naked.

Victor was laying back on a large bed, twirling a lily in his fingers. At the sound of the door opening, he brushed his silver hair from his eyes, and gave Yuuri a beaming smile.

"There you are. I was getting cold."

Yuuri shuddered under Victor's gaze, and he couldn't stop his eyes from trailing down Victor's body. Victor looked older than he remembered, but handsome, and had clearly been keeping in shape in however many years had passed. Yuuri mentally smacked himself. Now was not the time for thinking like that!

Victor sat up, making a quiet rustle on the satin sheets, and folded his legs to the side. He lay the lily in front of him, and raised a finger to his lips. He tilted his head and pouted.

"I feared for a moment that winter had come back," he said. "And that when you returned, all that would remain of me would be snow."

Yuuri blinked, eyes wide and uncomprehending. He gulped as Victor lifted a hand toward him, and tugged him forward, until Victor was looking up at him with eyes like...like...Oh, god, when had the shower skipped past his future and landed straight in fantasy land? That was the only explanation for whatever the hell this was.

Victor smiled, not breaking eye contact, his fingers twisting in the folds of the dressing gown.

"Let's make snow angels. In bed."

Yuuri's face was on fire. He had more than his share of dreams like this, imagining Victor in all sorts of positions that would never happen in reality. Stupid eighteen year old hormones. But to hear it was—not arousing. More like terrifying.

Victor was still watching him, and his brow furrowed as the seconds ticked by and Yuuri stood frozen. Then, Victor smiled again, and traced his finger down the line of Yuuri's hip. The dressing gown felt far too thin.

"It's okay if that's not your thing," he said. "I'm up for anything tonight."

His voice was soft, husky, yet it rang like a bell in Yuuri's ears. Yuuri shook his head in disbelief. The real Victor Nikiforov would never—not with Yuuri—what the hell?

"No?" Victor tilted his head, completely misinterpreting Yuuri's response. "Some lighter fare, then? I could feed you strawberries, and kiss the juice off your lips. Or cuddles. You give the best cuddles, you know."

With every word, Yuuri felt himself starting to shake. His mouth opened and closed a few times, with no sound coming out. His chest tightened. He had to get away, to get out of there. Yuuri pulled back from Victor, bolted back into the bathroom, and locked the door behind him. He slumped to the floor. He pulled his knees up to his chest, and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Yuuri?" Victor's voice was dismayed. "Are you okay?"

Yuuri shook his head, even though Victor couldn't see it. He stifled a sob. Stupid, stupid anxiety. Stupid tears. Stupid him, for hearing his idol talk like that and promptly running away.

A soft thump settled on the other side of the door.

"Is it one of those nights?" Victor asked. He sounded like he was sitting down on the other side. "I didn't mean to push you."

Yuuri's chest heaved, and he lifted his head, willing himself to move.

"I," he said, voice trembling, "I need to be alone."

As soon as the words were out he winced. Here Victor had somehow met older-Yuuri, taken him back to his apartment and laid himself bare, and what had Yuuri done? Slammed the door in Victor's face. Yuuri hid his face in his knees. Victor was surely mad at him now.

"Okay," Victor's voice came through the door. "I'll be in the kitchen and make us some tea. Take as much time as you need."

Another soft thump, and then Victor's footsteps faded away.

Alone, in the quiet bathroom, Yuuri allowed himself to cry. It wasn't a big cry. Just stress tears, really. Because he'd been through a lot of terrible jumps, especially when he was younger and didn't understand how they worked. But now that something nice might happen, he had to go and ruin it. This was just like Yuuri, though. He'd never felt comfortable with good things happening to him. Anything good was one more thing that could be taken away.

He glared over his knees at the shower head. It looked harmless, like all showers did. He sighed. At least he had a way of getting back.

He stood up, and as quietly as he could, cracked open the door and looked around Victor's bedroom. Victor wasn't there, thank goodness. If Yuuri's clothes weren't in the bathroom, then they should be around here somewhere.

He only needed to give the king-size bed and the floor a quick glance. Except for the books scattered across the desk and end tables, Victor kept a tidy house. A glimmer caught Yuuri's eye. He drifted over to the golden trophies and medals collected over several bookcases. His lip quirked up at the thought of how many competitions Victor must have won to earn them all. Then he leaned over to check out the actual books below, and saw everything from The History of Ballet to Star Trek, along with a surprising number of videogames Yuuri had in his own library. Huh. He hadn't known Victor liked gaming.

With a burning mix of stalker-ish fascination and guilty shame, Yuuri opened Victor's closet. He hesitated to look inside. This was way too creepy and invasive. Wait, was that Yuuri's long-sleeved Pokemon t-shirt on the right?

He tilted his head, and picked through the clothing size labels. Yep. Someone had hung up Yuuri's clothing on the right, near Victor's. Yuuri took out the shirt and his pants with a blush. His heart started beating fast, and he mentally told it to shut up.

Victor was a gentleman. Of course he'd let a visitor store their clothes properly. Yuuri shouldn't read too much into it.

Although, why on earth had he been talking to Victor while wearing a Pokemon shirt? And not even a semi-mainstream character like Pikachu? No, it was the salsa-dancing duck one. Perhaps Yuuri should hop back in the shower then and there, to spare himself the mortification.

As he got dressed, a kettle hissed, boiled and shut off somewhere nearby, followed by a small clatter. Right. Yuuri should at least try to act normal, or as normal as possible considering the situation. He owed Victor an apology.

He slunk into the living room, looking back and forth as if he'd be caught and arrested for dirtying the place with his presence. The problem wasn't that Victor's home was intimidating. In fact, he'd placed lots of touches that reminded Yuuri of his own home: houseplants, framed photos, a deep plush rug that felt like clouds under his feet, and a wide-screen TV with a gaming console. More bookcases. A ratty crocheted afghan, draped over a sleek modern couch. And draped over the afghan—Makkachin.

Yuuri's eyes widened. He had never dreamed of Makkachin. He certainly hadn't dreamed of her launching herself off the couch and knocking him over. He landed on his butt, face full of dog, and she reminded him so much of Vicchan it hurt.

"Makkachin!" Victor called, and she bounded off of Yuuri. She leaned against Victor, who stood by the kitchen counter, cup of tea in one hand and now stylishly dressed. Victor tsk'd, but leaned down anyway to pet her.

"I don't know what we're going to do with you," he said. "You're a puppy. A big old puppy. You need to greet Yuuri like a respectable doggy, okay? He's not your squeaky toy."

As Yuuri watched them, he felt a small smile tugging on his lips. He stood up. Victor looked at him, then, and Yuuri felt the heat rise to his cheeks. Victor held out the mug, and the tea smelled perfect after the terrifying bewilderment of the last fifteen minutes.

"No jam in it this time, I promise," Victor said with a wink. Yuuri raised an eyebrow at that.

He looked around the living room, cup in hand, unsure where Victor would want him to sit. Instead, he followed behind as Victor went back to the kitchen and retrieved a cup for himself. The fact that he got to look at Victor's backside, and watch his shirt ride up as he pulled a jar from the top shelf on the wall, was just a nice bonus.

Then Victor opened the jar and spooned raspberry jam into his tea.

Yuuri's mouth hung agape. That decided it: this was no dream. Yuuri would never have dreamed of his idol bastardizing tea that way.

Victor looked back to Yuuri, and his mouth quirked up.

"One of these days, I'll convert you," he said.

Yuuri stared at him as if Victor had two heads. "What did the tea ever do to you?"

"People drink sweetened tea all the time," Victor said, smile widening, "And you like rose and orange herbal teas. This isn't so different."

Yuuri shuddered, and took a sip from his cup. It tasted normal, thank god. "Those aren't real teas. They don't count."

Victor laughed, leaning against the counter. "So elitist, Yuuri."

Yuuri flushed, half indignant, and was about to defend himself when he caught Victor's gaze. It was gentle and easy, and in a moment Yuuri realized the ridiculousness of the situation. Here he was, several years in the future, with Victor Nikiforov. The man of his dreams, in more ways than one. Who apparently had the taste buds of Satan.

Across the kitchen, Victor's eyes never left Yuuri's. His mouth curled into a smirk as he drank his jam-infested tea.

"Let's make snow angels," his voice echoed in Yuuri's mind.

Yuuri shuddered again, this time for a different reason. Only Victor could make that terrible line sound sexy. Yuuri swallowed, and looked away.

"Feeling better?"

Yuuri jolted. "Oh, um, yeah."

He cringed. Wow, so articulate. Victor would definitely be impressed. Not.

"I mean," he said, staring into his cup, "Sorry about earlier."

"It's fine," Victor said, voice soft. "Do you want to talk about it?"

As if Yuuri could. What could he say? "Sorry, the older and cooler Yuuri is unavailable right now. Instead, here's a confused virgin with complimentary panic attacks"? Who would even believe that? It was the weirdest, most pointless power ever, and to anyone else it would look like he was delusional. He had thought he was delusional, at first, until his "delusional memories" started coming true.

"Yuuri?" Victor was looking at him with concern.

"Sorry," he said again. "I'm not—I'm kind of out of it today."

Victor glanced at the mug and Yuuri's trembling hands. He frowned.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "It's fine. Anxiety disorder acting up again?"

Victor knew about that?!

The words shocked Yuuri into dropping his mug. It smashed into several large pieces and a tea-colored splatter on the floor. Yuuri watched it, horrified, and felt like his tentative rapport with Victor had shattered along with it.

He'd done it now. Look at him, destroying Victor's things. After he was nice enough to invite Yuuri in for a fuck, this is how Yuuri repaid him?

"Oh, god," he said, eyes darting everywhere in the room except at Victor. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, I'll clean it up and buy you a new one I swear."

"Yuuri."

He spotted the roll of paper towels, and ripped several of them off, only to feel Victor's hand on his shoulder. It felt like it burned through the fabric. He jerked away from the touch. Stupid stupid Yuuri, his brain chanted, Stupid anxious Yuuri. You think you could act normal? Victor knew how weak you were the whole time.

He was on the floor, babbling incoherent apologies and trying to mop up the mess, and saw Victor step away out of the corner of his eye. Of course. Victor was probably sick of Yuuri's crap. He was probably gathering up Yuuri's clothes to throw at him and kick him out any minute now.

Victor whistled. A furry blur skittered into the room. Makkachin ran up to Victor, who pointed at Yuuri. Makkachin followed the gesture and got in Yuuri's face. He tried to reach around her to get at the spill, but she licked at him and blocked his vision whichever way he turned.

"I'll get it," said Victor, grabbing more towels and soaking up the remainder. "You hug Makkachin and relax, okay?"

Yuuri gulped, wrapped a shaking arm around the poodle, and watched Victor collect the fragments into a pile. Great. Now he was just sitting there, being useless.

"I broke your cup," he said in a small voice.

"It's just a mug," Victor said, throwing the towels and pieces away. "I don't care about that. I care about you."

The words sent a warm and nervous flutter down Yuuri's spine. His eyes widened, and he hugged Makkachin more closely. This was probably just a one night stand—one that Victor was likely regretting now—but damn if Yuuri wasn't a sucker for it.

Victor knelt down again so that his eyes were level with Yuuri's.

"I can tell you're in a rough patch right now. It's okay. I'm not mad at you. We can have a quiet night in, or go to the ice rink, if you like."

Yuuri gulped. More time with Victor meant more time until Yuuri could shower, and more opportunities for Yuuri to embarrass himself in front of his idol. Yuuri was also exhausted from his competition in Sapporo. On the other hand, if he passed up the chance to skate with Victor Nikiforov, he'd be kicking himself for the rest of his life.

So Yuuri nodded, gathered his courage, and said, "Ice rink."

Note: The salsa duck Pokemon is called Ludicolo. Yuuri's skater bio on the Japanese Skating Federation webpage (episode 1) says in Japanese that he likes gaming, so I had a little fun at his expense.