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Yuuri has peeked through Viktor's fan mail before.

A publicist complains about the business assigned to Viktor incorrectly handling gift packages and hordes of perfumed, hand-written envelopes.

He's received letters from his own fans, getting embarrassed and humbled by their praise. But this — this is a whole giant box of envelopes, ranging from standard size to the hefty, bulky catalog size. "If there's any food inside, it's best you dispose of it," Viktor informs him, not disguising the graveness of his tone.

The business who handles celebrity fan mail usually would have stopped by to pick up the package. Especially after a call-in request. But the giant, brown box remains stowed in a corner of Viktor's apartment, mostly untouched with the exception of the clear, packaging tape stripped away to reveal its contents. The miniature bags of chocolate candies and sugared, baked goods already tossed out into the garbage.

Yuuri, caving into his intensifying desire to know, asks if Viktor minds — if he can peek through.

The kitchen feels thickened with heat. An odor of smoked salmon and onions permeating the air, hours after their lunch. Viktor's hands slippery from rinsing the plates, come around Yuuri's waist. Viktor presses his body up against him with a lazy smile to Yuuri's neck, Viktor's fingers outlining the hollows of Yuuri's hips.

"You may do as you wish, always," Viktor says, more rumble than murmur.

His nose brushes softly underneath Yuuri's ear, creating half patterns. Yuuri's universe blazes with licking, climbing flames, the instant Viktor's fingers lower, grasping the outline of Yuuri's firming cock. He pumps loosely, and through the heavy barrier of flannel, it's damn near tortuous teasing.

Absolutely not fair.

It's not fair at all how Viktor can draw out that arousal, with no trouble at all; no flat surface or piece of apartment furniture has escaped them having sex. Yuuri prefers the bed. There's no cold surfaces on his naked ass or risk of injury like thrusting into Viktor on the edge of the bathtub.

The contact spurs a whimpering swallow of air, and a frustrated, hard cant of Yuuri's hips, attempting to thrust completely into Viktor's palm. If there's a single thing Yuuri can't get enough of—it's Viktor's attention.

People want it. The letters from Viktor's fans beg for it, for a photo or an autograph, for him to respond. Yuuri unfortunately sets his eyes on the letter asking for Viktor to come to their address as soon as possible and impregnate them with his babies. With a grimacing shudder, Yuuri drops the letter into a pile.

Fans are called fanatics for a reason, he supposes.

Yuuri's name appears in several of the letters, sometimes using his full name. The manner, however, is often not kindly. He's considered a nuisance, or a threat to Viktor's career, or a… pretty distraction…

"I did say I wanted to be hated by the world for taking Viktor away…" Yuuri mumbles, accepting a glass of ruby red wine when Viktor passes it to him. He bypasses any thoughts of sipping and gulps down mouthfuls.

Viktor appears beside him, glowing in the spectral, amber light of the hearth, joining him to sit on the rug. He thoughtlessly shoves asides the opened stack of fan mail, drinking from his own wine glass. "Tomorrow morning, we need to practice your cantilever, Yuuri. It can be done in the new program I've made for you. Your spine keeps arching inward; you need to imagine going flatter while tilting backwards."

He plucks up the typed letter in Yuuri's fingers, ignoring the exasperated noise. It's one of those nights, isn't it? With one of Viktor's lectures and his rude, purposeful crowding. Yuuri loves him — he does.

It's just… he's gonna dump the wine in Viktor's lap. One of these days.

Or maybe just imagine it super vividly.

"They're wrong, of course," Viktor announces after skimming a couple of paragraphs. He dramatically gestures out his entire arm. His face seeming a tad vacant, unimpressed. "You're not a distraction…"

Depending on what he means, Yuuri glances him over, bringing his lips to the rim of his glass and slowly raising an eyebrow. Viktor's pause morphs into a calmer version of glee, letting it show on his mouth. The other man place his wine glass onto the nearby tabletop, sloshing the deep red liquid inside.

"You're the distraction. The only one who could ever matter," Viktor says. His empty hand cups underneath Yuuri's chin, not urging him in any particular direction. The gold wedding ring flashing in the light. Viktor's forefinger shifts from the angle of his jaw, resting upon Yuuri's lips faintly shining. "Everyone should have their eyes on your performance and admire you to the point of feeling love." Viktor shrugs, adding knowingly, "Why the hell should I be the only one?"

Most of that is a cheesy romantic delivery that Yuuri internally groans at, but he does begin to smile.

Viktor flings the spiteful letter into the hearth's roaring fire, smiling bigger and kissing him enthusiastically. Kissing Yuuri until he's breathless on the floor, laughing and spreading his knees apart to accommodate Viktor's size.

The rest of the fan mail, opened and unopened, ends up in the office shredder, left to recycling.

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Yuuri doesn't think about anyone else's opinions for a long time.

There's a feeling of invincibility, not in winning the gold metal, but in being hopelessly smitten. That's a decent word for it, he thinks. The country of Budapest winds down, for at least for the one of the skating championships.

JJ congratulates him with a hearty slap on the back and a professionally wide smile. He seems genuine enough about it, fingering his own bronze metal. Yurio glances in their direction from across the corridor, narrowing his eyes and turning back to Mila as she pokes the silver around his neck with a fingernail.

"—better be careful, malenkity brat," her voice drifts in, sounding mischievous. "I heard about security losing track of a few spectators earlier when the gates were crashed down."

"Yuuri," Viktor steps in front of him, calling out softly. Yuuri manages to snap his attention back, gazing over his fiance when Viktor's close-lipped smile lengthens, the right corner of his mouth going crooked.

That's what is irresistible about him — Viktor being no more perfect than anyone else. There's little flaws about him: Viktor's aloofness when someone doesn't meet his expectations; his spontaneous nature often comes off as discourteous or insubordinate; his cold, wiggly toes bumping Yuuri's in the middle of the night. He's only human. People tend to forget that about Viktor in the spotlight more often than they should.

The buttery-soft leather of Viktor's gloves palm against Yuuri's cheeks. "The interview," he whispers, the eye color of sea-glass brilliance looking over Yuuri. Viktor's studious expression on him.

"The interview," Yuuri repeats, squinting his eyes thoughtfully. He inhales sharply and nods, embarrassed by his show of forgetfulness under Viktor's nose. "Right… that one. I knew that."

"Mmhm," Viktor hums out, deep in his throat. He continues holding onto Yuuri's face, leaning in and gently kissing Yuuri's mouth, eyelids fluttering shut. "Do not be late. Fifteen minutes in the conference centre."

Yuuri hates pulling away, quietly mourning the loss of warmth.

"Shouldn't interviews be longer than that?" he asks, flashing a quick grin when Viktor finally steps away, chuckling and vanishing down the busy corridor. Numerous flash-bulbs off the cameras go off around them. The reporters follow hurriedly after Viktor.

One or two nudge past him, and that's when a hot, agonizing sensation pierces into Yuuri's side.

He winces at first, teeth clenching before noticing the girl standing beside him, only a foot away. She barely looks twelve. Her little, olive-skinned features bunching up with concentration and terror. A silky, dark ponytail lying on her shoulder.

Her little, pudgy fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of a pocketknife.

There's no visible blade — and Yuuri realizes, too slowly, that it's inside him. Embedded deep into his left side, having penetrated completely through the layers of his skating uniform and insulated, black jacket.

And then it's not. Tugged free with both of her hands clasped and fisting together.

He can't feel it happening.

Yuuri can feel the lifeblood pouring between the cracks of his quivering fingers, when he touches his side. There's so much escaping. Yuuri's wide, bewildered eyes lift from staring down, to the girl's face. Her arms still outstretched in front of her, still holding out the glinting blade covered in Yuuri's dark blood.

A high-pitched shriek erupts in the corridor, startling him out of the numbing fuzz.

Christophe rushes behind the little girl, just as her pocketknife tumbles onto the carpeted floor. The entire world rocks over its own axis, taking a lightheaded Yuuri down with it. Before his skull lands to hard ground, Yurio catches the other man's upper torso, groaning and being dragged down onto his knees.

"Don't just stand there, call someone—!" Mila shouts at the people in the corridor. She kneels with Yurio, frisking off her puffy coat. "Towels! We need towels!"

A nauseated-looking JJ croaks out a swear, fumbling for his mobile. Otabek hovers nearby, having sprinted out of another interconnecting room, passing off fresh towels to her.

Yurio glances over the copious amount of blood puddling onto the carpet-floor. His outright disbelief forming into blinding, accusatory rage.

"What did you DO—!?" he screams up at the little, expressionless girl, with her unbuttoned overcoat exposing her baggy, white tee-shirt underneath. A tee-shirt plastered with Viktor's enthusiastic, lovable smile. Her lips flattening down together to a paled color.

Christophe's bare hands grip onto her flinching shoulders, keeping the girl in place and from running.

Yuuri strangles out a pained moan, open-mouthed, when the towels pack and staunch the wound. He's lying flat on his back, with the exception of Yurio's hand cradling the back of Yuuri's head. "Don't even think about moving, you moron," Yurio scolds him, eyes firmly meeting Yuuri's. Not on the blood. "Stop being a big damn baby. You're fine. You're gonna be fine, alright?"

Somehow, it feels like Yurio is more scared than him. Yuuri's own mouth twitches upwards.

"Yuri…"

Yurio shakes his head wildly, his face scrunching up. Green eyes faintly glistening. "It's Yurio," he corrects him loudly, practically demanding it. "It's Yurio, okay… you're not gonna die. I'm not gonna let you do that—"

"Where'ss…"

"Where the HELL is Viktor?!" Yurio turns his head, screaming full-bodied in the direction of JJ and the other confused, horrified bystanders. He looks back down to a white-faced Yuuri, roughly cradling his head closer.

Mila gasps out, her hands stained and crusting with red. "I—I can't stop the bleeding," she says frantically. "You need to keep him still so I can do this." Another shout. "Dammit—I need more towels!"

They don't know how it happens, but Viktor's there, quickly falling on his hands and knees next to Yuuri's body. There's a devastation so heavy on his features, that it seems to render him shocked speechless.

Yuuri breathes out, lips already parted.

"Vik…"

"He's been stabbed," Mila explains, gulping. The oncoming sirens directs mostly everyone's attention. "Oh—christ, thank you!" she cries out with her head thrown back, relief thickening in Mila's weakened voice.

Viktor takes over Yurio's place as their companion gets onto his feet, slipping a hand to cushion the back of Yuuri's skull from the ground. Viktor's fingers digging into soft strands of Yuuri's black, slicked-up hair.

It's nothing but Yuuri's shallow breathes and the rustles, whispers of others, until…

"M'late."

A good portion of Yuuri's energy goes into forming that sentence. But it's worth seeing Viktor's face smooth into a look of pure incredibility, and then fondness, even if the edges of concern are present there.

"You're forgiven, Yuuri," Viktor murmurs down to him. His sudden grin dimpling his cheeks. "I love you." Yuuri wishes Viktor hadn't spoken it with the shivery hint of finality, with Yuuri's universe greying and bleeding out. But when would it ever have been the perfect time to say it, for both of them?

A lump clogs in Yuuri's throat. He blinks out the moisture building in his eyes, tilting his chin to signal a nod.

"Looff hyu…"

The numbness grows, threatening to swallow Yuuri alive, accompanied by strange, buzzing noises. Viktor's lips press dryly, harshly against his forehead. He can't smell the dusky heat of Viktor's cologne.

A multitude of distorted, hazy faces and lights swoop over him.

Greyness darkens, tugging Yuuri beneath it.

.

.

They're calling her an assailant. One of Viktor's stalkers.

He doesn't want to think about the charges against her, or any prison sentence for this little girl's future. Yuuri's had enough of all of this. After getting released from the emergency room and his surgeries, he ignores the majority of phone calls and texts endlessly coming in. It's too much, way too soon. Viktor picks up on it without Yuuri needing to tell him, answering the messages and telling everyone to be patient.

The doctors recommend many names. Names of persons well-equipped for Yuuri's psychological trauma.

Yuuri needs to rest. That's it.

That's all he wants to concentrate on right now.

Viktor books the tickets home, back to Japan. He watches over Yuuri like a mothering hawk, crowding and shielding him when other people — even Yuuri's own family — gets too close.

"Stop it, just… stop it, Viktor," Yuuri mumbles, exhaustion creeping over him. The pain levels are the sole thing being managed well. At least when Yuuri's not moving. He rubs his face one-handed, Yuuri's left hand touching on his bandages. "You don't need to be doing this for me…"

The scent of cool, ocean air blows in Yuuri's open bedroom window. He misses the balmy warmth of spring during the night, with open skies and clear, glimmering stars.

Now the world feels overcast, ashen and dulled out with his medication.

Viktor pulls the fingers away from covering Yuuri's eyelid, rubbing Yuuri's finger covered with the gold, polished ring. "I'm sorry," he whispers, and it's so honest that Yuuri jerks right out of his grasp.

His healing wound screeches, in a burning agony when Yuuri misjudges where to turn. He nearly crumples, kept upright with Viktor's steadying, strong hands on him. Yuuri obeys Viktor calmly telling him breathe, Yuuri, focus on me, gasping for air and venting out a frustrated, howling noise.

"I can't win like this," he says, tears dripping underneath Yuuri's glasses. "Why are you even still here?"

That's a low blow, and they both know it. Yuuri's self confidence has grown, but he still doubts himself at his most vulnerable moments. Viktor has been remained at his side for this whole ordeal, and he can't…

"… Do you believe that's why I'm with you?" Viktor asks, furrowing his eyebrows. His dubiousness unmistakable. "After everything we've been through together? Do you believe it only matters that you win?"

Silence passes, brimming with resentment and heartache.

Viktor clucks his tongue, sighing and smiling dolefully. He presses his lips to the side of Yuuri's face, over and over, kissing away a silent, lone tear. Yuuri's fingers bury shakily into the front of Viktor's yukata.

"Yuuri, nothing else but you matters to me… especially when it concerns your life and your health. You need time to heal. In here," Viktor points out softly, touching the outsides of Yuuri's shoulders.

"And in here."

Viktor's hand flattens against the left side of Yuuri's chest, planting to the space of his heart.

"If I allowed you feel any differently…" Viktor's smile fades a little, as he regards the other man earnestly. "Then it is only my fault, lyubov moya."

Yuuri cries a little harder, now smiling widely and grabbing over Viktor's hand against his heart.

That can be enough.

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Yuri on Ice is not mine. AAAAAAAAH. SEASON ONE IS OVER. I'M ALREADY IN MOURNING FOR MY WEDNESDAYS PLS SEND HELP. BUT I LOVE THIS FANDOM and there is so much fanfic to write and read still! This fandom isn't going anywhere and we will keep thriving. C: It hurt my insides real bad to write this BUT I AM ALSO A SUCKER FOR ANGST AND IT FEELS GOOD. SO. Another prompt fill for the Yuri On Ice Kink Meme and I've had my eye on "Viktor/Yuuri + any rating, any characters present, blood, injuries, physical hurt/comfort" tbh. I could have just piled on the angst but they deserve fluff and comfort for the ending. I'D LOVE TO HEAR YOUR REACTIONS. Any comments/thoughts are very much appreciated!