#like he completely did a 180 after he saw people coo at him growing up | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rosyredlipstick · 6 years

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growing pains (1/3)

“Thirty and flirty and thriving.” Victor read off the cover, sighing happily at the bound paper in his hands. The glossy H.M. Magazine cover shined back at him. “I wish I wish was thirty.”

Be careful what you wish for, they say.

December, 2000

This month's issue, almost as if by magic, came in the mail the day before Victor Nikiforov's thirteenth birthday.

It was actually due to a minor postal mishap that several people were in quite big trouble for, but Victor would still not hesitate to label it magic. Because this - the shiny, perfect, spotless December issue of his most beloved magazine was here.

“Thirty and flirty and thriving.” Victor read off the cover, sighing happily at the bound paper in his hands. The glossy H.M. Magazine cover shined back at him. “I want to be older.”

From the couch, Yakov frowned at him laid across the carpet. “Do not hurry to get older, Vitya. It will come. Enjoy being young.”

“Being young sucks,” he whined, hugging the thick paper to his chest. On the cover, Mariah Carey beamed back at him, looking impossibly joyful about her age. Thirty and flirty and thriving, Mariah has it all!

Victor had no idea what ‘all’ Mariah had, but dear Britney Spears did he want it.

Victor huffed, “I wish I was thirty.”

Yakov gave him a rare soft look, ruffling his hair to Victor’s visible dismay. “You’re a teenager now, yes? Teenagers complain all the time. Seems like you are already growing up.”

Victor wrinkled his nose, tossing his hair over his shoulder. “Yakov,” he complained loudly, grabbing up all his magazines, ignoring the amused look the older man was throwing him as he stomped away. Yakov, the traitor, could be heard laughing.

Ugh, he was the worst.

Victor sighed, dropping the magazines across his bed, and turned to his overflowing closet. Checking the clock on his bedside, he flipped his hair - it was almost time.

He surveyed his outfit options, laying them side by side before pulling on a few to examine in the mirror, and didn’t have to wait long before Yakov was yelling up the stairs.

“Katsuki is here,” Yakov was announcing from the kitchen, as if that was any surprise. Yuuri came over everyday after his dance rehearsal, four fifteen on the dot.

“Tell him I’m in my room!” Victor shoved another article of clothing on, frowning at the mirror. A distressed denim vest over his rainbow turtleneck, a favorite combination of his.

“Victor?” Yuuri was already calling out, his tell-tale numerous keychains clashing together as he bounced up the stairs.

Victor wasted no moment, pulling the other boy into his room. “Yuuri!” He gestured to himself only slightly frantic, “How do I look? Is this the one?”

Yuuri paused in the doorway, still in his clothes from practice, and gave Victor a fond look. “Victor,” he told him, a smile in his voice. “You look fine.”

“Yuuri,” he whined, flipping his hair back. “ I can't just look fine today. I have to look perfect. ”

“Well, you look perfect.” There was a small, nearly unnoticeable blush on the apples of his cheeks. But under the low lighting of Victor's bedroom, neither boy paid it much attention.

Victor only sighed, snatching up the glossy magazine that had fallen to the floor. “Don't lie to me.” He gestured to one of the models posing somewhat uncomfortably next to an article column. “I'll never look perfect like them .”

Yuuri frowned down at the blank faced model, his cheeks fading some. “They don't look like they're having much fun. Maybe that’s good.” He scrambled to his feet like a thought was just occurring to him. “I’m going to grab my book bag from the living room. I’ll be right back!”

And he returned after only a few moments, a minute at most. But that didn’t stop Victor from doing a complete 180 on his emotions. Victor, having heard Yuuri coming back onto the room, cried out dramatically.

Yuuri stepped over Victor’s body thrown across the carpet, paying him no real attention as he shuffled through his bag.

Victor squinted his eyes at the other boy as Yuuri took a comfortable place leaning against his bed frame, fully unzipping his backpack at last. Victor let out another dramatic wail, cracking open an eyelid to look at the other boy. No response.

Finally, he just threw himself over Yuuri’s lap, his hand over his forehead, his hair falling with expert ease to waterfall across Yuuri’s knees.

Yuuri sighed, a slight, hidden smile in place, and tipped his head to the side. He looked down to the other boy. “Yes, Victor?”

“Yuuri,” There were real, glistening tears in Victor’s eyes. It was a talent, honest. “Yuuri, my life is horrible.”

“What’s wrong now?” Yuuri, the traitor, held a trace of amusement in his voice as he surveyed Victor’s forlorn figure still half-draped across the floor. “Do I need to make the fish face?”

Victor sobbed, throwing his hands in the air. Before him, H.M. Magazine 's newest edition laid out across the carpet. “Not even the fish face will fix this!”

“Must be serious,” Yuuri tucked his feet under him, jostling Victor slightly. “Want to tell me what’s so horribly wrong?”

At that, Victor’s eyes filled again with unshed tears. Yuuri vaguely wondered if he should be filming this - Victor could use this as an audition tape one day.

Victor only gestured with sorrow towards the shiny pages, more emotion building up in his chest. He sat up, mostly just to prove a point. “I’m never going to be as beautiful as Leonardo diCaprio. I’m never going to be as big and famous.” He sobbed into his hands. “I bet Leo never had braces.”

Yuuri’s cracking grin was soft, light, and just the tiniest bit amused as he rubbed circles into Victor’s back. “You’re gonna have the best teeth in the world,” Yuuri reassured him. He paused in his movement, his cheeks filling with color. “And...you know, if it came to it...I’d pick you over Leo any day.”

Victor looked up from where he had shoved his face into his knees, turning a bit to the other boy in amazement. “Wait, honest?”

The color went darker, “Of course, Victor.”

Victor seemed to be processing the compliment. “You saw Titanic , right?”

“My mom fast forwarded some parts, but yeah.” His smile turned a shade of coy. “I like you better.”

Victor blinked a few times. “Wow,” he breathed out before beaming. “I like you more than Leo diCaprio too!”

He and Yuuri shared matching, slightly shy smiles. They seemed to be sharing more and more of those these days. Yuuri, after a moment, broke the moment with a giggle, his hand coming up to his mouth. He was always calmer around Victor, especially when the other boy was in one of his dramatic moods. Yuuri, the worst best friend in the entire world, seemed to find them funny.

Something seemed to occur to Yuuri then as he leaned back from the moment, blinking a few times. He turned to the book bag at his side, “Oh! What I went for my bag for -” he dug around for a second, pulling out a few books before making a noise of triumph as he revealed a small tissue paper wrapped bundle.

“Happy birthday, Vitya.” Yuuri’s smile was small and coy, a flickering thing. He pushed the small, tightly wrapped package into Victor’s hands, his cheeks coloring.

Victor perked up, the last of all his previous dramatic emotion fading nearly instantly. “You got me something for my birthday!”

Yuuri rolled his eyes, fond and soft. “Of course I did. Now open it!”

Victor, nearly bouncing in place, tore open the light blue paper with reckless abandon. After a moment, he gasped.

His hands fluttered around the tissue paper in excitement, “Yuuri!” He beamed, “It’s a glitter choker! I’ve been wanting one of these!”

“I couldn’t get the one from dELiA’s you wanted,” Yuuri’s voice was apologetic, “but I found this one from the flea market!” He smiled sweetly, “The lady said it was magic.”

Victor’s light laugh was like a ringing bell, “It looks magical. I love it.” He beamed, “Can you help me put it on?”

The same slight color from earlier was back, “Right now?”

Victor shoved the necklace at him, turning and picking up his hair so Yuuri would link it. “Of course, if there’s any occasion to wear my new magic choker, it’s on my thirteenth birthday, Yuuri!”

“It is,” Yuuri gave him a small, shy smile. “So what do you want to do?” Yuuri leaned into his side, enjoying the warmth coming off the other other boy. “Mom said I could stay out till eight tonight to celebrate.”

Victor gasped, “That’s almost two hours later than usual!”

Yuuri shared in his excitement, “I know! We can do almost anything!”

“Oh!” A thought occurred to him then, and he grabbed onto the other boy’s hand, grinning brightly. “Let’s get to the rink before it gets too crowded! We can take turns practicing our jumps!”

“I want to come!”

Victor groaned nearly instantly at the high voice interrupting their conversation. Of course.

“Get out of my room, Yura.” Victor complained, returning to sprawling out, now across his bed. Yura had taken to sitting outside Victor’s bedroom while Yuuri visited and listening in on their conversations for opportunities to blackmail Victor for candy. More often than not, it worked out in Yura’s favor. “It’s my birthday and Yakov said I didn’t have to babysit.”

Yuuri tsked , “Be nice, Vitya.” He gave Yura a soft, welcoming smile. “You can come if you want, Yura, we’re leaving soon.”

The smaller boy beamed in all his four year old glory, “I’ll get my skates!” He smiled, his smile all window gaps from lost teeth. “I put tiger stickers on them!”

Yura ran and fetched them obediently, and puffed out his chest in pride as Yuuri cooed and admonished the tiger stickers in all the right spots. Victor dropped his crossed arms and sighed, smiling slightly. He didn’t really mind taking him along - he probably would have brought him anyways. Yura was cute when he was trying to impress Yuuri’s easily provoked amazement.

“If you’re going to come -” Yura beamed at him, “- you might as well be able to see.” Victor gestured to the space in front of his knees, “If you hurry up, I’ll braid it out of your face.”

He was nearly vibrating in excitement, tripping over his feet in his haste to grab his skate bag. He plopped the bag in front of Yuuri, giving him a shy smile, and pulled his knees to his chest. He tipped his head back onto Victor’s knees, chubby cheeks spread out into a wide smile. “The pretty braid?”

Victor was already separating his fine silk hair. “I suppose.”

Yuuri gave them both a fond look, moving to collect the ripped wrapping paper from the carpet.

Victor continued the simple braid, much less complicated than Yura thought, and tied it off with the band on his wrist. Smoothing the stubborn fly-aways back from Yura’s face, he stood.

“Go make sure Yakov’s ready,” Victor told Yura, patting his head as the younger boy scrambled to his feet and raced out the door. He’d probably want to examine the braid to make sure it was perfect.

“Look who I found!” Yuuri heaved himself through the doorway, a dog much too big to be cradled in Yuuri’s arms doing exactly that. Victor brightened.

Yuuri let the dog to the ground, “Say bye to Makkachin!” Yuuri smiled sweetly, leaning forward to press his face into the dog’s fur.

Victor nearly melted, bending over to better see her. “Makkachin, ” he sang out, grinning widely. She jumped up, leaning her front paws on his hip, and panted happily up at him. “Makka, Makka, Makka ~” Victor lifted her up, hugging her to his chest despite her large size, and pushed his face into her fur.

She was the best dog.

“She’s the best dog,” Yuuri sighed, scratching her behind her ears in the way she loved. He was still trying to convince his parents to get one and must have been somewhat successful - he heard Mr. Katsuki asking after where Yakov had gotten Makkachin.

God. Two poodles. What a future.

Yura was already goraning out in frustration at the foot of the stairs, stomping his foot. “Vitya! Hurry up, Yakov is almost ready!”

Victor sighed, pushing one more kiss onto Makkachin’s nose, before grabbing Yuuri’s hand and pulling him down the stairs.

Yakov, only groaning a bit about his old bones, drove them to the rink, and left them with admission money and a promise to be back in a few hours.

He and Yuuri rushed to the rink, barely any people there but a few teens louding in the corner of the rink, and moved to shove their shaktes on, excitement clear in both of their grins. They dropped Yura, pouting, off at the smaller rink, a few younger kids lingering on the ice, and took off towards the ice.

Being on the ice with Yuuri was the best. Showing off fake routines, talking about their practices, ignoring Yakov’s advice - it was some of Victor’s favorite things to do.

“Minako wants me to double up on my dance practice but that would mean less skating,” Yuuri shrugged, smiling softly. He was skating backwards to face Victor, ease in every motion of his body. “And I like skating.”

“It’s like, our only hang out time for just the two of us,” Victor pointed out, playing with his footwork a bit.

“And Yura,” There was laughter in his voice, “don’t forget Yura.”

Victor puffed out a sigh, not actually annoyed but never willing to admit it. Little brothers were supposed to be annoying.

Yuuri smiled, grabbing onto his hand, and pulled him along the ice. They were good like that - hand in hand, gliding across like they were meant to. Victor peeked a look over at the other boy, suddenly shy with what he had to say.

“Yakov is talking about having me try out for a local competition,” There was a slight rare blush filling Victor’s cheeks, “I’m gonna have to make a routine and everything.”

“Victor!” Yuuri grabbed onto his arm in excitement, “Victor, that would be so cool. ”

Victor beamed, “I thought so! He wants me to start practicing next week.” He lit up after a moment, “Yuuri! Yuuri, you should try out too!” He gestured towards Yuuri’s smooth skating, “You’re as good as me, we could totally do it together! We’re already here all the time, we can practice together!”

A nervous expression passed over Yuuri’s face, “I don’t know…��

Victor grabbed onto the other boy’s hand, a serious look coming over his face. Rare, on his usually grinning face. “Yuuri,” he said, “you’re like, my favorite skater ever. I’ll be there with you. You already like making routines out of your dance programs, we can totally do this!”

Yuuri’s cheeks were flushed - from the cold air of the rink, probably. Slowly, he dipped his chin, and gave Victor a hesitant nod. “I’ll talk to Minako about it.”

Victor’s rare expression broke with a grin, beaming, and pulling the other boy into a quick hug. “This is the best birthday ever!”

“Oh!” At that, Yuuri pulled away, his head turning back towards the edge of the rink. “We should get some pictures, let me go get my camera!” Yuuri grinned, excited. After slipping on his skate guards, he hobbled off to the lockers. Victor watched him go with a smile, warming up on his own to go around once more.

But before he could, one of the teens lingering in the corner of the rink slid up, her hands on her hips.

“Hey, kid.” The teen jammed her thumb over her shoulder, frowning down at him. “Get off the ice, your time is up.”

Victor frowned, glancing over to the sign handing on the wall. He cocked his head to the side, unsure. “It’s….still open for another hour.”

The older teen gave him a dull look, “Only teens get to stay in the big rink after regular hours.” She gestured towards the smaller practice one in the distance. Victor could just barely see Yura racing across the surface. “Shouldn’t you be in the kid section?”

“It’s my birthday. I’m thirteen.” Victor angled up his chin like he’d seen Lillia do. “And you should be nice to me, I’m going to be famous one day.”

“Really?” There was laughter in her voice. “Sweetheart, you’ve got braces, baby fat, and just enough acne to be in a Proactiv commercial. You might wanna stick to something else, hun.”

Victor blinked at her. There was no cruelty in her tone, just bumping laughter, This - he - was just a joke to her. She was being starkly honest.

That...made it worst. A lot worse.

He was skating off the rink before he had another thought about it, swallowing against the tightening in his throat. The girl’s laughter trailed after him, a horrible soundtrack to his retreat.

“I got the camera -” Yuuri cut himself off, his smile dropping at Victor’s red, watery eyes. “I - Victor - what -”

Victor rushed straight past him, sliding on his skate guards, and rushing off the rink. In one hand, his bag swung widely as he wobbled away.

He threw himself into the nearest doorway - a closet, one he and Yuuri once hid out in when Yakov came looking for them - and locked the door behind himself, already sobbing.

She was right. This nameless teen, so cool and suave at only a few years older than he was - she was right. She had taken a single look at him and known everything Victor had sealed away under layers of dramatics and silly faces.

He slid down the door, shaking, tears soaking themselves into his shirt collar. She was so right. He was just a stupid thirteen year old, with a generic daydream of being famous, just like every other thirteen year old out there.

Where his bag had fallen, the contents spilled out open onto the concrete. Mariah Carey grinned at him like a secret, confident and cool and poised. The magazine cover almost shined under the dim light of the closet, just enough for Victor to read clearly the words splashed across.

Thirty and flirty, and thriving.

“I hate being thirteen. I just want to be be thirty,” he sobbed, burying his head into his knees. “ I just want to be be thirty. Thirty, flirty, and thriving. ”

He continued to hit his head against the back of the supplies closet door, sobbing, and his mantra only grew more desperate. Outside the door, Yuuri was banging on the door in panic and worry, his voice calling out pleas to open the door and Victor’s name in equal.

And the glitter choker, tight around the pale column of his throat, sparkled even under the dim, dim lighting of the room.

He must have pinned his hair back last night.

It was a rare morning in which he didn’t wake up with his silver locks tangled around his neck, frizzy around his cheeks. He was honestly a bit proud of himself to remember to tie it back - it was a habit he was trying to train himself into.

He squinted around the dark room in confusion. His room usually never got this dark in the mornings due to his window facing the sun. Must be bad weather today.

Sharp ringing - what must have woken him up, he barely registered it until now - started up again. It was off in the distance, in another room, but loud enough to clearly hear from his own room. One of Yakov’s alarms, probably.

He stretched out in his bed, his bones popping. Makkachin wasn’t in bed with him - she had probably curled up in Yura’s bed for the night. Traitor.

Well, he might as well start the day. Start breakfast, at the very least.

He stumbled out of bed, his mind still in the process of booting up, and nearly tripped over his dark sheets. Had he been fully awake, maybe he would have noticed the out of place furniture, or how silky his usually scratchy sheets were, or - at the very least - the silken pajamas that hung from his frame, as he usually slept in Yakov’s old shirts. But, as he blinked against a wave of fatigue, he didn’t notice any of this at first.

He almost called out to Yakov, instead mumbling around a yawn. He pushed open the bedroom door, squinting against the hallway light, and froze.

He...he wasn’t at home.

He jumped back into the dark room, suddenly wide awake. He wasn’t anywhere he knew, not the Katsuki inn, or Lilia’s apartment, or any of his uncle’s houses. Nowhere he remembered.

The last thing he remembered was at the rink. Running into the closet, crying, Yuuri banging at the door. He must have fallen asleep there, and maybe Yuuri called someone. That would...make sense. Maybe.

He patted around the wall, sighing in relief when he managed to flip up the light switch. Okay. Okay, progress.

He was alone, it seemed, in a wide expansive room, all gray steel and white sheets. A bed, a small couch, and an empty bookshelf. Nearly bare. From here, he could see a the darkened tile of a bathroom and light carpet of a closet. More to investigate later, after he found Yakov.

He sighed, turning back to the doorway, and came face-to-face with the mirror hanging on the fall.

He stared into the mirror. A older man - with his features, with his wide blue eyes, with his mouth parted open - stared back at him.

Victor screamed.

The man screamed back.

Was that…? It had to be, that was him but, how? How was this even possible?

Oh god. Victor’s face in the mirror gasped. His hair.

He ran a shaking hand through the short - oh god, it was so short - cropped hair. It barely reached his ears.

His hand smacked over his mouth - his braces were gone. He peered at his reflection a bit closer - no braces, just perfect straight teeth that were definitely not his own.

“Oh my god,” he gasped out, right before choking. His voice - god, it was so deep. His eyes were crazed as he met them through his own reflection, “Oh my god.”

He had to find Yakov. He would - he would know what to do, the older man always did and this was surely something better handled by an adult.

A real adult, that is.

He wrenched the door open, calling out for Yakov and Yuri to no response, half expecting Makkachin to come bursting through the door as he cracked it open. There was no one else there but Victor.

And that annoying constant ringing.

He followed the sound, frowning and looking more than a little crazed and desperate, before stumbling into the living room. More unfamiliar surroundings - this time a coffee table paired with a pale couch, a dark coat thrown over the arm. He beelined for that first.

The ringing was coming from a sleek black block in the coat pocket. Christophe, it read. He inspected the loud device, the ring continuing. Maybe it was a music player, of some sort?

After a few moments, the ringing stopped. Victor let out a small sigh of relief, putting the block to the side. Along with the block in his pocket, a dark leather wallet. Something familiar, at least.

Victor flipped it open, his own tiny image staring back at him. He had a license, apparently. A few sleek cards - with his name on them, unbelievable considering that Yakov didn’t even let him run into the store with the older man’s card. His gaze flickered to the coffee table in front of the couch, stark white envelopes thrown about. He examined them, breathing low. Bills - bills with his full name and impossible dates on them, both such unlikely occurrences he stumbled back. He fell onto the couch, a breath rushing out of him.

Okay. He needed to think.

He picked up another one of the envelopes only to drop it back immediately. His eyes went wide.

That was...him.

Under the small pile of bills and papers, was his face. On...a magazine. Oh god. And not just any magazine. He picked it up slowly, his hands gentle and careful as if holding holy text, and stared at the bound paper.

His face was on the cover of H.M. Magazine . His face - unblemished with smooth, perfect skin - was on the cover, with text on either side bracketing his face in. No braces, no acne, no baby fat.

That was...good.

“Okay,” he said out loud, staring at the cover. The picture stared him down, looking impassive and bored. Victor didn’t even know he could look like that. “This is good.” He set down the magazine, falling back on the couch. “This could never happen in real life. So that means I’m dreaming. I can...I can deal with that.” He took a breath, “I’m dreaming.”

The ringing started back up. Apparently, even in dreams everyday annoyances were still commonplace.

He ignored it, instead looking around the apartment his dream had come up with. A bit plain, if anything, with too much gray and white. Where was all the color? His bedroom back home was a mess of neon color and peeling teen celebrity posters. Where was his Romeo + Juliet poster? It was limited edition and cost all of his allowance for two months. The least his unconscious could do was treasure it in his weird hallucination.

Rough pounding on the door pulled him out of his desperate, frantic thoughts, and Victor jumped up and looked to the door in only slight fear. Someone...was here.

Maybe if he ignored it…

Victor waited a few more moment but the knocking only persisted. The loud ringing started up again. Hesitantly, he took a step forward. Still no stopping.

“Victor,” a voice, slightly annoyed, was calling through the door. “Victor, we’re behind schedule.”

Victor leaned forward, narrowing his eye towards the small glass circle in the wood. Behind the door, someone huffed in annoyance.

“Um,” Victor attempted to place any familiarity to the person he stared through at the peephole. “Who is it?”

Victor watched the man roll his eyes before calling out, “Christophe.” The man, even through the peephole, was obviously in a hurry, “Open the door, Victor. We need to go.”

Victor took a breath. Okay. Yakov had drilled into he and Yura at very young ages the dangers of strangers. You don’t let strangers in, and you certainly don’t go with them.

But he knew Victor’s name, and Christophe - was that the name from the ringing block?

This was all a dream anyways. Everything would be fine.

Victor opened the door, his eyes crazed, his hair still sticking up in all directions.

Christophe barely spared him a glance past the initial. “Silk pajama pants?” Christophe’s voice was carefully neutral. “Attempting to start a new fashion trend, Mr. Nikiforov?”

“Uh,” Victor blinked, tightening his arms around himself. “Yeah. Um. That’s what I do.”

Christophe didn’t offer any other words, only holding out a cardboard cup. Victor took it numbly, without much thought.

“I’ve been calling you for an hour and a half.” Christophe’s voice held no emotion as he whipped out his own sleek black block - nearly identical to Victor’s own - and began tapping on it. Curiously, he peeked at the other man’s screen, a bit mystified.

Christophe didn’t seem to find anything out of the usual with this, “I’ve pushed back the meeting with JJ’s people - he’s still very insistent on being the first cover model to show off his tattoo - and the committee meeting is still set for this afternoon.” Christophe, without paying him much attention, began passing over Victor the heavy coat and scarf, gesturing towards the shoes haphazard in the doorway. Victor fumbled to lace them up, tying them up neatly, before Christophe disappeared around a corner.

If it was a dream then Victor should...go along with it?

He grabbed his few things, slammed the door behind him, and rushed after Christophe, impatiently holding the elevator.

In the elevator, Christophe had already turned his attention back to his hands, cradling his own black block. Victor bit his lip and began to put on his - he supposed it was his, after Christophe had shoved it towards him - coat. It was heavy and dark, nothing like the fluorescent puffer jacket at home. Victor took a deep breath.

“What’s…” Christophe glanced up at his voice, “What’s the date today?”

The other man gave him an unimpressed look, “March 14th.”

“And, uh.” Victor tried to keep his voice was wobbling. “What year?”

Christophe gave him a severe side-eye. “2017. Do I need to call someone? Your doctor?”

“No, no,” Victor shook his head furiously, “Just checking.”

Okay. Weird dream, where it wasn’t his birthday but three months, seventeen years later. That was...fine.

Christophe lead him to a parked limo at the curb, nearly dragging his elbow the entire way. Victor only clenched at his coffeecup, only hesitating briefly before following the other man into the car.

“Um,” Victor very gently the door behind him. There was a driver in the front, who peeled away the curb almost immediately. “Where are we going?”

Christophe’s voice was a sigh even if he didn’t do so. “How late were you out last night?”

“I -” Victor thought. The last memory he had was in the closet of the skating rink. It would have been well past his usual eight o’clock curfew at that point. “Late.”

Christophe sighed, “I can tell. I’ll try and see what appointments I can move around.”

Victor didn’t respond despite Christophe clearly waiting for him to. He shot a look at the other man, swallowing. Everything suddenly felt very real.

“Am I…” He was almost scared to ask, “Am I not dreaming?”

Christophe gave him a slightly dull look, going back to tapping away at his phone. “If you’re dreaming, then we’re both living out this nightmare.”

There was a beat of silence. Victor bit his lip to shreds, “So, no?”

“No, Victor. You’re not dreaming. I don’t know what you did last night -” he gestured to the entirety of Victor, “But we have a lot on the agenda for today. Try your drink.”

Slowly, he sipped at the steaming drink and almost immediately had to resist the urge to spit it across the leather cushions.

Christophe gave him a weary look, “Something wrong, Mr. Nikiforov?”

Somehow, Victor forced down the sip. He winced, pulling the cup in cup holder, and made no plans to ever touch it again. “Is that coffee?”

“Yes, sir.” Christophe answered promptly. “The same order you drink every morning. Would you like me to get something else more to your liking?”

“No, no I just -” What was Victor suppose to say, I’m not allowed to drink coffee and that might be good because that’s disgusting? “Not thirsty.”

Christophe didn’t comment any further, only staring down at his glowing block. Maybe...a small TV? Was that possible in the future?

“We’re here,” Christophe shoved the black block into his pocket, sliding out. Victor, with not much other choice, followed.

And in front of them was the H.M. Magazine headquarters.

That was obvious even without the classy cursive font and logo - slightly different than the one Victor remembered - adorning the building. It was the same building that appeared in a rare edition of the magazine, usually to advertise some contest for a fan to win a visit. Victor had been loyally entering for years.

Christophe took no moment to stare as Victor did, instead sweeping into the building without a second glance. Victor stumbled across the sidewalk to follow.

The other man already had a badge at the ready, flashing it towards the towering security guards, barely breaking stride as he dipped through a metal detector. Victor, casting a worried look towards the tall, uniformed woman closest to him, slowly followed.

“I’m with him,” Victor pointed unnecessarily at Christophe to the security guard, a spike of worry hitting him.

The guard only nodded politely, making no move for a card like Christophe had provided. “Of course, Mr. Nikiforov.”

Oh. They knew his name. That was... really cool.

Christophe gave them a tight smile, grabbing onto Victor’s arm and pulling him away. The elevator was already there, waiting, the few people inside vacating almost instantly the moment Victor and Christophe were in sight. Christophe - with his perfect suit, neutral voice, careful language - he must be a big deal here.

The elevator went up to nearly the top floor - remarkable for such a towering skyscraper - and Christophe was out of the door before the doors even opened fully.

Christophe went directly to the side desk in front of a large doorway, beginning to set up his things, pressing a few buttons on a large screen. Victor stayed in place, glancing around the office with wide eyes.

Christophe noticed his lingering, giving him a pleasant look. “Is there something you still require, sir?”

“Oh, um.” Victor blinked at the sir. “Uh, where can I sit?”

The other man stared at him for a long moment, “...your office, I presume?”

“My...office.” Victor stated slowly, “I have an office here? In H.M. Magazine headquarters?”

“Yes,” Christophe was now visibly impatient, gesturing towards the nearby doorway with his free hand. “It’s right there, sir.”

Again with the sir.

Victor reached up, only catching himself at the last second as he went to wind a long piece of hair around his finger. Instead, he only rested his hand on his neck. “Um, what do I do? What do you do?”

“I’m your assistant,” he stated slowly. There was a low bitter tone in his voice that Victor didn’t quite fully catch, “and you’re Editor-in-Chief of History Maker Magazine.”

Victor’s mind went white noise.

“I...what?” Victor choked, his hands coming up to his face. “I...am?”

“Yes,” he agreed simply, sighing, before reaching into Victor’s own pocket to pull out the sleek block that had been making noise all morning. Victor carefully packaged his ‘oh my god future me is the editor in chief for H.M. Magazine, oh my god’ freak out away for another time. Later, when he was alone and far from anyone who could hear him scream in pure excitement. “Have you answered any of your texts this morning?”

Victor perked up at that - he had a phone, here? He had glanced around a bit when in the apartment for his blocky Nokia but hadn’t had any success.

Although...if this was the future - the present, kinda? - he did suppose he would have probably gotten a new phone along the way.

Like the sleek black block.

“Let me see that,” he frowned down at the box. “This is my...phone?” he pushed on the sides, holding it up to his eyes. “How does the keyboard come out?”

Christophe only sighed, “What did you end up taking last night?” he tsked , taking the phone out of his hands. “It can’t have been that good if it’s still messing you up.”

“Taking?” Victor gave him a blank look, cocking his head.

Christophe’s annoyed look was turning slightly concerned. “You took something while you were at the club last night, right?

“What are you talking about?” Victor blinked a few times, trying to catch up with the conversation. Taking something, like stealing? Victor would never steal, Yakov would surely and swiftly have his skin for even considering the thought. But at a club? Victor had only read a few articles about clubs in magazines, that wrote of drinks and dancing, hundreds of people pressed together for music. But Victor had been studying H. M. magazine since Yakov started letting him buy them with his allowance, and there was the rare cautionary article on clubs, about bad drinks, worse men, and even some on...

Victor’s look of confusion was instantly overtaken by a look of horror, “Are you talking about drugs?” He hissed, his hand coming up to his chest. “Christophe, I pledged DARE in middle school. I would never take drugs. They’re illegal. ” That didn’t seem to satisfy the other man at all, despite the rare note of ernest emotion in Victor’s voice.

Christophe shoved the screen back into his hands, a frown still on his face. “You’re gonna be out of it all day. The committee can’t see you like this - you can hide in your office all day if you want but they won’t like it.” Christophe blew some air up into his bangs, “Not again.”

An opportunity to sit down and evaluate what the heck was going on. “Okay!” Victor beamed, a heart-shaped smile gracing his delicate features. Christophe nearly started in surprise. “Could you…”

Victor glanced around the office, smiling at the few eyes he caught. Those employees immediately snapped their gazes back to their desks, shaking slightly, but Victor paid them no attention. “Could you show me...um...I mean, my office?”

Christophe stared at him for another long moment before walking ahead through the open doorway. Victor, with not much other choice, followed him, and had to stifle down his gasp almost immediately.

His office was beautiful, a glossy picture of sophistication, like something straight out of a Frasier episode. He almost expected Niles to be lounging around the corner.

“Oh my god, my office is amazing.” Victor beamed, his hands coming up to his face even as Christophe shut the door tightly behind them both.

Frosted glass wrapped around the walls facing the office, the beautiful skyline of the city on view out the parallel glass. A dark colored desk, neat and spotless, with crystal and glass paperweights lining up the front, that complimented the dark couch that ran across the wall. Not many pictures, aside from a large black and white painting was a bit boring for Victor’s taste, and the few framed editions of the magazine that lined up on the walls.

Victor let out a breath, his hands fluttering at his sides. “I can’t believe this is mine.”

“This is worse than the Fashion Week acid trip of 2014,” Christophe muttered, setting a bottle of water on the table, guiding Victor to his seat. “If you weren’t paying me a truly absurd amount of money I’d quit right now.” He straightened up, giving Victor a dull look. “I think I’ll give myself a raise after this.”

Victor only nodded happily, “You probably deserve it.” He was still in awe of the wide expanse room, the sophisticated feel that even the air held. He felt too underdressed to be breathing it. “Hey Christophe, we’re...friends, right?” Victor’s eyes were wide and blue, an openness that hadn’t been there in years.

Christophe gave him a strange look, his hands on his hips. There was a dismissiveness in his voice even as he said, “Sure, Victor.”

Victor didn’t notice the tone, only beaming. That was good!

Christophe gave him a few more instructions - not to step out his office unless absolutely necessary, not to answer any emails or texts if he could help it, a few other orders that Victor mostly drowned out - before finally closing the door behind him, leaving Victor alone.

He settled down in his plush office chair, spinning a few times for effect. He giggled uncontrollably, kicking his feet out. He had managed it after all. Unless this was all a very vivid lucid dream - and than if so, props to Victor himself for his own creativity - then he’d actually reached his dreams. Yuuri was right.

Yuuri.

He gasped, his hands going to tap blindly at his phone, the screen flashing different colors with every touch. Victor had absolutely no idea what any of them meant.

In his avid tapping, he accidently hit the small button at the bottom of the screen, and the screen went dark.

Oh god, he broke it.

After a second, the screen spelled out a few words.

How can I help you?

A small microphone icon was at the bottom. Hesitantly, Victor pressed it. He leaned in closer to the phone, first trying a simple, “...hello?”

There was a slight vibration from the phone. “Hello there,” A neutral feminine voice floated from the speakers, making Victor’s jaw fall open in surprise. He gasped, holding the phone away from him.

Oh god, they had done it. They had made robots. Victor owned a tiny robot.

This was the best day of his life.

The screen was black, a multi-colored line at the bottom bumping up at every slight sound. It seemed to be waiting.

Victor fumbled the sleek phone in surprise, pressing the button once again. “Um, what’s your name?”

There was no hesitation or lag. The future was amazing. “My name is Siri,” the voice answered,

“How can I help you?”

“Oh, uh, hi! I’m Victor. But you know that. Um. What...are you?” There was a moment of silence. Even robots thought, it seemed.

The robot ignored the question. “Hi there,” it only responded. Victor bit his lip. Many too many questions?

“Are you...a person?” Was Victor talking to a real person, like a phone call? If so, who? Was this Siri another one of his friends or coworkers?

“I’m not sure that matters,” the voice answered simply, the words spelling out on the screen.

Well. Victor supposed it didn’t. Maybe not a person, then. He liked his robot theory.

He shook his head. He had more important things to focus on. “Siri,” he started, watching the words spell out on the screen. This was so cool. “Can you make a phone call for me?” Victor was nearly certain there would be no way he could figure it out on his own, and Siri seemed to want to help.

“Sure,” the voice answered, relief hitting Victor like a wave. “Who do you want me to call?”

“Call Yuuri,” his voice nearly fell into a beg, his fingers turning to clench at the metal. Yuuri would know what to do - he always did. Yuuri, other then Yakov, was the smartest person he knew. Yuuri - Yuuri could help him, fix whatever was going on here.

There was a pause, as Siri must have thought over the request. Finally, after only a few seconds, the device lit back up with words and voice. “Sorry, you don’t have anyone named ‘Yuuri’ in your contacts.”

Victor bit his lip. Maybe he had the boy saved in as some other contact. He tapped his way over to the number pad, a bad feeling bubbling in his chest.

He had long since memorized Yuuri’s cell phone number but was careful as he typed it in, mouthing the numbers as he did so. He waited a few seconds, staring at the still screen, and tapped the green phone icon. A good start, it would seem, as the screen changed and a dial tone started up.

He pressed the screen to his face, his knees coming up to his chest, and clenched his hands when almost immediately, the call went straight to a prerecorded message declared the number out of service.

Okay. Okay, this was fine. Everything was fine - Yuuri probably got a new phone too, and maybe Victor hadn’t managed to program it in yet.

“Siri,” his throat bobbed, “Call Yakov.”

Another few seconds, another dead end. A voicemail this time, instead excusing his absence on a vacation in St. Petersburg with - and Victor let out a low sigh of relief - Yura, saying they would be back in a week, and demanding the caller not to clog up the machine with a message. Same old Yakov, it seemed.

Victor would be lying if he said he didn’t process that with a bit of relief. But also -

“I can’t believe they went to Russia without me,” His voice was scandalized in the silence of the room. After another moment - mentally preparing his dramatic monologue he was sure to go off on once he was with them again - he returned to his phone.

He had a truly absurd number of contacts but in comparison a nearly vacant amount of text conversations. One with Christophe - which seemed to be mostly tasks sent from Victor’s own phone, a few more professional sounding conversations that nearly had Victor bored to tears, a single other conversation from what sounded like a lost food delivery driver. Where were all Victor’s friends?

He bit his lip, holding his phone to his chest.

Yakov, Yura, and Yuuri weren’t even listed there.

Maybe he just preferred to talk to them in a different way, emailing or IM-ing online. That would make sense - that was how he and Yuuri would talk at night when their parents were taking up the landline.

Yeah. That made sense.

He spent the majority of the morning talking to Siri - she wasn’t much for conversation but seemed alright with answering any of the questions he could come up with - about celebrities and pop culture, mostly.

Dawson’s Creek had ended, apparently. Yuuri was going to be heartbroken. That was their show.

Well, he would have been. Past tense.

He shook the thoughts out of his head. He’d probably just forgotten everything for a bit, perhaps he hit his head or something, but give it a few days and he’d remember where he kept Yuuri’s phone number, and Yakov and Yura would be home from Russia, and they’d all laugh about it. Victor was sure.

But he couldn’t sit around and think about that all day.

Outside his office door, there was a flurry of movement obvious though the shadow and reflection that played across the frosted glass. Victor couldn’t see a single thing outside into the room - that must be horrible. How did people know he was in here so to come talk to him?

But that did inspire something - mostly the thought of his empty stomach.

“Christophe?” Victor gave him a heart shaped grin as he peeked around the doorway to his desk, “Wanna get lunch?”

Christophe gave him a nod, as if expecting this, and typed for a few more moments before standing. “What do you want?”

Victor shrugged happily, reaching for his own coat from where Christophe had hung it that morning. “Whatever you want! I’m not picky.”

Christophe paused where he was gathering his things. “You’re...coming?”

Victor cocked his head, still unfamiliar with the lack of hair tracing over his shoulders. “Uh, yeah? We’re gonna go get food, right?”

“I usually bring it to your office for you,” he explained slowly, “you’re...really out of it, aren’t you?”

Victor gave him a bright, if slightly strained, smile. “Nope!” He popped the word, “I’m feeling great, actually! Just want some air. What are you feeling?”

“Uh,” for the first time all morning, the other man looked thrown. “What do I want?”

Victor nodded, smiling. His short hair flopped around his ears, falling over one of his eyes. It wasn’t a bad hairstyle, now that he was considering it.

Christophe looked unsure, “We could go by that bistro on Fifth Avenue, the one with the prawn-and-avocado roulade dish you like.”

“Okay!” Victor had no idea what that dish was, “Sounds good!”

Christophe lead them the same way they came - confident and quick-stepped - and Victor lagged behind him. He waved at the other workers hidden behind cubicles and desk walls, faltering when none of them returned his grin. Most of them ducked out of sight, wincing, after catching his eye.

He frowned, looking much more like this regular self, or so several of the workers thought, and followed Christophe out of the building. The other man, thankfully, knew exactly where he was going.

The same driver from before was in the front seat - did Victor have his own driver? - and barely blinked as Christophe relayed an address. After a moment, Christophe closed the small window between them and leaned back.

“Do I have my own driver?” Victor blinked at the closed privacy divider, gaping.

“Yes,” Christophe’s voice was just beginning to hit the edge of his patience. “Raoul.“

“Raoul,” Victor smiled, “I really do have everything - wow!”

Christophe’s low huff of annoyance was not audible enough through the noise pollution of the New York traffic around them. “Yes, sir.”

The car ride was short - too short, as Victor gazed around the skyscrapers and city in unabashed amazement.

Victor let Christophe lead the short way down the street, confident and cool as he maneuvered his way through the New York crowd, Victor following breathlessly.

New York City. Wow.

The other man made a sharp turn into a small darkened doorway, Victor scrambling to follow.

“Mr. Nikiforov, Mr. Giacometti,” The front of house nodded to them as they entered. Victor had to stifle an excited giggle. “Pleased to have your acquaintance.”

Christophe held up two fingers, barely sparing a look towards the other man. “Two tables, please.”

Victor shot him a wounded look. “You don’t want to sit with me?”

“You...want us to share a table?” Christophe gave him a quizzical look, “You usually insist on eating alone.”

Victor’s mouth smoothed out in a line, “Well, today I want company. Let’s sit?”

Christophe, after shooting a weird look to Victor’s back, followed after a moment of hesitation.

Victor threw himself into the booth, bouncing lightly on the plush leather cushion. Christophe slid gracefully across from him, still eyeing the other man.

The waiter, a nervous looking young man, came up to them, nearly trembling. Victor gave him a reassuring smile. Must be his first day on the job, so exciting!

The smile only seemed to trip him up more. “What - what can I get for you, Mr. Nikiforov?”

Victor lit up - he knew his name, that was so cool! Victor must come here a lot. Victor always wanted one of those kind of places, where he could stroll in and suavely order the regular

The waiter was waiting for an answer. Victor glanced at the table top for a second - there were no menus. “What do you have to drink?”

“Well, uh -” The waiter’s voice cracked, “we have the Chateau Margaux 2009 you got last time you were here, as well as your choice of -”

Victor bit his lip. Sure, he was excited to try everything his new thirty style life had to offer but after everything that had happened today, he was craving something more familiar.

“Do you have orange soda?” Victor gave him a reassuring smile. “In the can?”

The waiter gave him a wide-eyed look. “Orange… soda? Like, Fanta?”

“Sure,” Victor agreed happily, turning back to Christophe. His jaw was slack in surprise. “Christophe, anything to drink?”

The other man took a breath, seemingly coming back to himself, and ordered his own drink - something French and utterly impossible for Victor to repeat.

The waiter was stiff and tense now, his arms folded behind his back. “Anything...else?”

“Oh,” Victor dragged out the word in excitement. “Can we get some mozzarella sticks? Yakov never lets me get them!” He paused, “Um, when I was little, I mean.”

Christophe gave him a weird look as the waiter took down the order.

“Mozzarella sticks?” He considered aloud. “Munchies, maybe?”

“I always have the munchies for mozzarella sticks!” Victor agreed happily. “Have you ever had them here?”

“They definitely don’t serve mozzarella sticks here,” Christophe thumbed a bit of the condensation off his water glass off, flicking it onto the pale tablecloth.

“Oh,” Victor cocked his head to the side, “why did they let me order them?” He gave the other man a small pout, “I was really craving them.”

Christophe gave him a doubtful look, “Don’t worry. You’re Victor Nikiforov. They’ll make them.”

He brightened at that. This was all so cool.

“So, why are you my assistant?” Victor leaned forward, his head rested on his folded hands. “You don’t want to do this forever, right?”

Christophe blinked a few times, staring at him strangely. “You’ve...never asked me that before.”

Victor paused at that. It seemed he and Chris were together nearly constantly, and Victor hadn’t asked? That was...strange. “I’m asking now,” he smiled, the answer a bit lame.

“I…” Christophe trailed off, “I want to be an on staff photographer for National Geographic. But they said I needed more experience and a stellar recommendation letter and…” Christophe’s smile grew slightly strained. “Who better than Victor Nikiforov to write it?”

Victor nearly squealed in delight, his hands clapping together. “Oh, Chris! That’s so exciting! How much longer do you have with the magazine?”

“I was thinking six more months,” Chris’s voice was very soft, “That’ll have been four years of experience. I’ve been in contact with one of their hiring people and - and they think I have a pretty good chance.”

Victor grinned at him. Sure - working at H.M. Magazine was his dream job, but Christophe wanted more than an assistant job forever, so it was perfectly understandable. “That’s great, Chris! What kind of photos do you take?” Hopefully the formatting of photography hadn't changed too much. Photos were kind of forever, right?

Christophe instead completely ignored his question, counter with his own statement after a moment.

“You’re not upset,” Christophe observed leaning back in his chair. “When Sara quit for TIME you refused to even let her use you as a reference.”

“I did?” Victor blinked a few times in surprise, “But...why? Did we leave on bad terms?”

“She was one of your favorite editors, actually. And she did everything to the letter - even let you know a month and a half in advance.” Christophe sighed, sympathy in his voice. “You were livid.”

Victor’s voice was a breath, “What did I do?”

Chris gave him a hard look, his voice serious. “You made her pack up her desk the day she told you. She was in tears.”

“That’s awful,” Victor looked down at his clenched hands.

There was a beat of silence. “Yeah,” Chris agreed, taking a sip of his drink. “It was.”

Victor swallowed against the tense feeling in the air, his eyes flickering away from Christophe's questioning, intense gaze. With the action, his eye caught on a flash of gold. He gasped.

“You’re married?” Victor beamed, pulling the other man’s hand closer to inspect the gold band. “Chris, that’s so exciting!”

“Engaged,” Christophe corrected him, shaking his head and pushing his hand through his hair. It was like he was winding up for something. “Yeah. I am. I’ve told you this.”

“Oh,” Victor bit his lip, “well, I’m really happy for you, Chris. You’re a really nice person.”

Christophe clenched his jaw at that, glancing away. There was a fire in his eyes. It suddenly felt much too tense.

“Are you...okay?” Victor tried, fiddling with the paper napkin, ripping it into bits.

Christophe took a breath, “Actually, I’m not sure.” He swept his hand through the air, “Because I have no idea what’s going on and it’s freaking me out.”

Victor’s eyes were wide. Was he actually so bad at being himself that he couldn’t last a few hours? “What...what do you mean?”

“You just keep -” Christophe gestured vaguely to the air, “pretending we’re like, best friends or something. Before today you’ve never called me Chris, or gotten lunch with me, or any of this. And, like, I don’t think you’ve ever even laughed in my presence and especially never asked me questions about my life? And this just doesn’t seem like a bad hangover or spoiled leftovers from last night.” Christophe was rambling, “So I’m not sure if this a new article idea - befriending your help or something - but I don’t want any part in it, Victor. I’m your assistant, not your trend guinea pig. I’m relieved you agreed to write my recommendation letter but - but I’m not sacrificing my dignity for some cover quote.”

“I’m not -” Victor held up his hands in plea, his eyes wide. “I’m don’t - I’m not -” Victor took a breath, swallowing. “This isn’t for the magazine. Or anything.”

“Then why?” Christophe’s voice was a near demand that even he still startled with after a moment.

“I don’t -” Victor took a steadying breath, his hand still clenched around Christophe’s sleeve. “You said we were friends earlier,” Victor glanced away, “it’s okay if you were lying. But I would like to be.”

Christopher seemed to be suspicious of the entire situation. “And why is that?”

Victor let his shoulders drop. “Christophe,” he started, rubbing at his collarbone. He thought to his nearly empty phone log, the text conversations that only related to work, the blank and neutral tone Christophe carried with him. “It seems I don’t have many friends here. But…” he trailed off, tracing invisible patterns on the table. “I’d like to change that.”

Christophe still held a suspicious look in his gaze. Victor tried again, wishing he still had his long silver hair to flip over a shoulder before leaning in.

“So…” Victor flashed him a blinding grin, “Friends?”

Christophe, still in a state of surprise and completely unsure what to say, only nodded very slowly, very unsure. A wave of relief hit him. He nearly wilted in relief against the expensive leather booth, grinning widely. Only half a day in and he was already improving his life - he was great at this!

Christophe, though, was still quiet, his gaze narrowed. Victor needed to engage him somehow.

How had he managed to pull Yuuri into such an amazing friendship? If Christophe and him were going to be great friends, he needed to pull out the big guns.

He thought of the first time Victor had met Yuuri. Both boys had been wearing matching Spice Girls shirts, and Victor had proclaimed that a sign from the gods before attaching himself to the other boy for the next several years.

Vaguely, Victor wondered if older Yuuri remembered that, but returned his focus to the man in front of him. He bit his lip.

Victor was wearing silk pajama pants; Christophe was dressed in sleek dark lines. Not that, then.

But...

“Celebrity crush,” Victor grinned, leaning across the dark wood table, his hands fanned out. “Which of the ‘N Sync guys would you date?”

Christophe wrinkled his nose, finally more relaxed. “Oh god, ‘N Sync? I haven’t listened to them in years.” He thought for a moment, his head resting on his cupped hand. “I love Justin, but probably Lance. Being the only gay member, you know, actually puts him on the playing field and everything.”

There was a moment of silence.

Victor gasped.

“Lance Bass is gay,” Victor’s voice was of complete awe and astonishment, “I - oh my god. This changes everything.”

Christophe gave him a curious look. “Yes. You know that - I’ve watched you spend the entirely of a red carpet exclusive flirting with him. It’s on Youtube.”

“I -” Victor forced himself back under control. “I just, uh, forgot. You know how it is.”

It was a lame excuse, so thin Victor could practically snap the lie in half, but Christophe didn’t question him on it past a curious look.

They finished up their lunch - the mozzarella sticks brought out were wonderful even if the main dish did make him wrinkle his nose a bit - and Chris even made some conversation with him, once he stopped looking so strained.

They made their way back to the office, Christophe still frowning slightly as Victor babbled on most of the drive back, but was at least nowhere near the strain of tense he had shown at lunch.

Chris gestured towards his desk, “I’ve got to get some work done but I had one of the interns grab your laptop from your apartment, it should be on your desk.”

“Oh,” What in Britney’s name is a laptop , Victor thought frantically, keeping his smile in place. “I’ll get to that, then!”

Christipe waved him off, watching the other man with a narrowed, still slightly suspicious eye, as Victor disappeared into his office. Here, at least, Victor could collect himself.

He sat at his desk, bouncing on the plush leather seat, before facing the desk itself. There wasn't much there, not even a rouge Post-It note for Victor to look over, only neat stacked papers, none of them interesting at first glance, a single locked drawer, and, what Chris must have been talking about, a clean sleek piece of tech awaiting him.

He stared at it for a long moment. The logo, a small white apple, looked strangely familiar. After a few moments, it clicked.

An iBook! Victor had seen a few of his classmates with them, but Yakov had always claimed them to be too expensive. Did Victor manage to get one, a much fancier looking one admittedly, in the future?

He really did have everything. Victor was almost in awe.

He poked at the iBook - laptop , he reminded himself - opening it up, frowning slightly.

...Maybe this was best figured out later.

He surveyed the rest of his office, taking a closer eye to it then before. Not any photos, unlike Victor’s old locker back at the middle school which was nearly bursting with color and printouts of Makkachin in various outfits. No color, not really, other than from the lineup of past issues. Bored, a seemingly not going to figure out his laptop anytime soon, he ran his fingers up and down the issue spines, pulling one out at random. It would do him good to catch up with that was fashion now, after all.

After only a few pages in, he frowned. Was the magazine like this when he was young? Blank faced models staring out, the only occasional splash of color being across a woman’s lips, the accent in an advertisement. This was hardly any fun to read.

It was a few more hours of this - flipping through the magazines, poking at his phone mostly - before Christophe was back, lingering in the doorway. Victor gave him a friendly smile.

“Are you going to be in by nine tomorrow?” Christophe asked, “Or should I come by your apartment again?”

“I’ll be ready,” Victor promised. Christophe nodded.

“Your car is here for whenever you’re done,” Christophe paused in the doorway. “Should I let Raoul know you’ll be down?”

Victor jumped up, his office chair going spinning behind him. “Yes!”

He could finally get back to his apartment, maybe find out what exactly was going on. Find out more about himself, at the very least. He grabbed his things, humming under his breath, and swept out of the doorway.

He paused, his coat in his arms, and lingering in front of Christophe’s desk. The other man glanced up, expectant. Maybe…?

Victor hesitated before finally speaking. “Do I have a Yuuri in my contacts?”

Christophe raised an unimpressed eyebrow, “Yuri, your little brother? Yes, Victor, you have -”

“No,” Victor cut him off with an apologetic look, “Um. Yuuri Katsuki? Do I have his number?”

Christophe gave him a curious look, turning to tap away at his tablet. “Not that I have listed,” He answered after a moment, “but if you have his information, I can look him up.”

“Oh, um.” Victor blinked a few times. “We actually grew up as next door neighbors. I know his parents used to own the spa and hotel in town but, um, the number I had was disconnected.”

Christophe wrote down the limited info Victor had - info that was probably years outdated for all that Victor knew - and promised results. Victor gave him a wobbly smile that Christophe, after a moment, returned himself.

Good. Progress.

He made his way down the elevator and lobby to the street where, surprisingly, the familiar long stretched limousine was already waiting.

Victor...could get used to this lifestyle. Once after he got in contact with his friends and family, obviously.

He slid into the backseat, beaming as he bounced on the expensive leather, and grinned at his driver through the mirror. Raoul, however, gave him no response. Victor tried a bit harder, unclicking his seatbelt to lean forward.

“How long have you been driving me?” Victor asked curiously, edging closer to the privacy divider.

“Eleven years, Mr. Nikiforov.” He answered.

Victor hummed, “That’s cool!”

“Yes, sir.” He only agreed, going quiet. Older Victor didn’t seem to have a lot of conversation with the people he saw everyday. That was...weird. Yakov usually had to yell at him for making conversation with the grocery ladies and neighbor dog walkers. Maybe it finally stuck when he got older.

Raoul said nothing for the rest trip, not even announcing when they pulled up, simply flipping off the radio and waiting for Victor to leave.

“Thank you,” Victor have him a wide smile, hoping it didn’t come off too awkward. “Have a nice day!”

He carefully shut the door behind him, Yakov hated when he was careless, especially in regards to Yakov’s ancient box car, and approached the skyscraping building. He vaguely remembered the location of his apartment from that morning, and hoped to all that was Britney Spears he wasn’t wrong.

“Oh,” he blinked as a tall, thin boy ran forward to open the door for him. Dark, rich red uniform, nicely pressed, an elegant logo on his breast. He was nearly out of breath as he jerked the door open, propping it open with his foot.

“Mr. Nikiforov,” the teenage bellhop looked close to bowing as he kept the heavy door open, his voice high. “Did you have a nice day?”

Victor could only dramatically sigh, dropping his shoulders, as he swept through the doorway. “It’s been such a long day -” he narrowed his eyes as he read off the nametag, “Drew. How was yours?”

The question only seemed to push the boy off balanced, confused as Victor’s grinned in thanks. “It was wonderful!” His voice cracked, his face matching the dark rogue of his uniform. “Absolutely perfect!”

Victor matched his tone, beaming. “That’s great!”

“Yes, sir!” The boy’s voice only rose another nervous pitch. Dogs nearby beware.

They faced off with matching ecstatic beams, Victor honestly, truly joyful he had found someone so willing to smile, Drew nearly fearing for his life. Or worse, his job.

“Well, have a nice night!” Victor’s smile, impossibly, grew wider as he waved and went off. In the background, unnoticed to Victor, the teen slumped over the nearly surface and let out a breath.

He made it up to his apartment - thank you Britney! - and only took a bit of shuffling with his keyring before he was back inside. Somewhat disheveled from this morning, but nothing he couldn’t deal with.

He checked out the rooms properly this time, slightly bored with the decor but eh, he could work with it. He paused, his eye catching on the pile of shoes he had left in the doorway, and bit at his lip, unsure.

Yakov must have Makkachin, wherever she was. Current Victor seemed so busy, it was probably best for her, having all of Yakov’s and Yura’s attention. Victor was probably working such long hours and never home and...it was probably best for her.

Still. He’d do anything right now for a quick hug and kiss from his favorite pup.

He let out a breath, more a little choked up over the thought of his dog, and returned back into the living room. It was such a large space to have all to himself. It was the kind of place that looked better with people in it, he could already tell. When Yakov and Yura were back in town, he’d have to have them over immediately. Maybe they’d know what was going on.

He turned back to the task at hand. He had to get more familiar with what was going on, Christophe wouldn’t let him blame this all on bad leftovers or whatever forever.

Well, if he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. And that meant knowing all there was to know about current fashion.

“Siri,” Victor threw himself on the couch, his feet in the air. “What are the Kardashians?”

If there was one thing Victor was the absolutely the most disappointed with in his future-present it was his closet.

How foolish and naive Victor had been that morning, bouncing in place as he ran to flip on the lights and get ready for the day. He had been ecstatic, saving the exciting task for the morning. He had gotten up two hours early, Victor wasn’t sure he had ever gotten up two hours early for anything.

He was the Editor-in-Chief at one of the biggest fashion magazines in the world.

But Spears, it didn’t show.

He had gapped in horror that morning as he surveyed his limited options. He didn’t think he had ever seen such a collection of dark colors outside of a funeral.

And they were all in his closet.

He needed a fainting couch solely for this ordeal. He’d have to ask Christophe how to get one, if this was the reality he was living in.

He worked with what he had, although it seemed like a shopping trip was in desperate need.

He, somehow, made his way back to the office without much assistance - other than asking a nervous looking receptionist quick directions - and soon he was back on the top floor, in front of Christophe’s desk. The other man was already there, scratching away at some paperwork, but stood once Victor approached, almost on instinct.

“Christophe,” Victor’s voice was a near lament, cutting Christophe off before he could begin his morning announcements. “Do you see what I’m wearing?”

The other man glanced up, giving Victor a questioning look before answering.

“Something...better than silk pajamas?” Christophe tried after a moment of hesitation, a bit unsure with the teasing, as he let his tablet fall to his side. But Victor only groaned.

“I own way too many boring colors,” Victor frowned down at his outfit, a nearly all black ensemble. “This was one of the only instances of color I had that wasn’t white, black, gray, or tan!”

“You usually stick to base and neutral colors,” Christopher affirmed, eyeing his top. It was cropped, which Victor secretly delighted in. Yakov hated the cropped tops worn by the models in Victor’s magazines. “I think that was a gift from Lacerda after we did that feature on them.”

“Yeah, well, everything else in my closet is super boring. What was I even thinking?” Christophe shrugged, not really willing to answer that question, and turned back to his tablet, his fingertip sliding across the surface. A few notifications blinked back at him. Victor nearly fainted from boredom.

See? Fainting couch. So incredibly useful.

Victor’s eyes lit up in idea, “Hey, can I take a day off? Go shopping?”

Christophe had his schedule up in a second, “You don’t have anything important today, just minor stuff I can push back.” He bit his lip, “JJ’s people are still unhappy about your cancellation yesterday but they should be fine as long as you make the meeting tomorrow.”

“So…” Victor trailed off with the word, leaning forward onto Christophe’s desk eagerly.

“You haven’t taken a real vacation in -” Christophe flipped through a stack of papers. “Six years. One day off shouldn’t hurt.”

Victor nearly fist bumped. Hell yeah, day’s off were the best.

He paused, thinking it over. A thought occurred to him. “If I’m off, what do you do?”

Christophe paused, considering. “I...don’t really know. You’ve never taken a day off before.”

Victor grinned suddenly, slapping his hands on Christophe’s desk in excitement. “Let’s go shopping! I need more color and you can help me!”

“ Me helping you with your fashion choices?” Christophe gave him a doubtful look. Victor’s hands were clasped together, wide eyes persistent.

Finally, Christophe relented. “Alright,” he was already calling up Raoul, updating him.

Victor beamed, “We’re gonna get the coolest clothes ever!”

“Are those...platform sneakers?”

Victor held them to his chest in excitement, nearly vibrating with the emotion. “The only pair left!”

Christophe gave him a doubtful look, “From 2001, maybe.” He gave him a curious look, “Are you trying to bring the 90s vintage look back or something?”

“Or something,” he smiled, kicking off his plain loafers without thought. From his side, Christophe made a wounded noise at the expensive leather scuffing together.

“They’re perfect,” he sighed, angling his foot to be a better look at them.

Christophe gave him a raised eyebrow but said nothing.

Victor stood, taking a few steps and already stumbling into the nearest shelf. Giggling, he pushed his hair back and struggled to regain his balance.

“This is the weirdest thing ever,” Christophe mused, “shopping with Victor Nikiforov as he stumbles around in old 90s trends.”

“I'm totally getting these,” Victor grinned, shoving them back into the box and hugging it to his chest. He froze after a moment, staring over at the register. “Wait…”

Christophe was already on top of it, his hand extended towards the other man.

“Here,” Christophe held out his wallet. He must have grabbed it for Victor off his desk. “Your credit card.”

“I…” Victor held up the sleek black card close to his face. “I have a credit card?”

“Yes,” Christophe answered absentmindedly, scrolling away on his phone. “You left it at the office.”

“Is there a limit on here?” Victor examined the thin piece of plastic, in awe.

Christophe thought for a moment, “I actually don’t know. But you once spent almost 30k at Herm é s after a bad sales week, so probably not.”

“Thirty...thousand?” Victor was breathless.

Christophe nodded, pulling up his call screen. “I can call and ask if you want to know -”

“No,” Victor breathed out, cradling the plastic. “No, that’s…fine.”

This changed….everything.

“Christophe…” His voice was a low tone that immediately made the other man’s shoulders go tense. That was Victor’s editorial meeting voice, when nothing was right and veering left. But instead of his traditional cold, hard eyes - he was nearly shaking in awe. “Christophe, this changes everything.”

“...Turtlenecks? Really?”

“I can totally pull them off now,” Victor gushed, waving the fabric around. From the side, the sales associate nearly threw herself forward to keep the pale cashmere from hitting the floor. “Oh, they even have them striped!”

Christophe shared a look of bewilderment with the associate, both slightly desperate. Neither of them had any idea what to do.

“And Mr. Nikiforov, you would like…”

“All of these,” Victor smiled sweetly, “seven pairs of overalls.” He thought for a moment. “Do they come in any other colors?”

Christophe had taken a call outside the store, still shooting Victor confused looks. Victor perked up after a moment, “Do they come in pink?”

The sales manager almost bowed over the clothing in protectiveness. What was he going to do with them? Burn them?

Everyone knew about Nikiforov’s hatred for denim.

Everyone.

“Or yellow?”

The sales manager lifted up her chin slowly, only barely trembling. “We...have some in the back.”

Victor clasped his hands together, obvious to the worker’s distress. “Great!”

“Oh, wasn’t that so much fun, Christophe?”

The other man looked shell-shocked, as if shocked from the amount of shopping Victor had managed to accomplish. He swallowed, “It was...an experience.”

“I got the cutest pair of strappy sandals,” Victor sighed, hugging the bags to his chest. “We should totally do -”

Christophe cut him off, grabbing his sleeve and pulling roughly before Victor could turn onto the next street. Startled, he looked to the other man, a surprising dark look on his face.

“Paparazzi,” Christophe muttered darkly, hooking his hand around Victor’s elbow to pull him away. In his other hand, he tapped away quickly at his phone screen before cursing. “Someone caught a picture of you shopping, they’re probably lined up from here to the office.”

Victor could barely hide his look of surprise, “Me?”

Christophe was texting with one hand, dragging Victor with other. He ignored Victor’s question. “Raoul is waiting on the next street over, by the Starbucks.” He let go of Victor’s arm, passing over the few bags he had been carrying in his elbow. “He can get you back to your apartment without much hassle.”

“Oh,” Victor paused, giving the other man a stranger look. “Aren’t you coming?”

Christophe waved him off, “I’m heading back to throw them off.” He checked his phone one last time, “You’ll be in the office tomorrow?”

“Wouldn’t miss it!” He said, beaming. The other man turned to walk away but, at last second, turned to give his boss a hesitant grin of his own.

Christophe, at least, was getting a bit more used to the smiling.

“Morning Christophe!” Victor threw his heavy coat over the coat rack, turning to accept his the cardboard cup Christophe held out automatically each morning. After his first two days of quietly dumping his usual order down the bathroom sink, he finally asked the other man to switch his order to hot chocolate. Much better, in Victor’s opinion.

But Christophe wasn’t already holding out the cup as usual, instead staring down at Victor’s legs with raised eyebrows.

“You’re wearing jeans,” Christophe frowned. “Very...colorful jeans.”

Victor kicked out his legs in excitement, “I saw them in the window and I just had to have them.”

Christophe was still struggling with processing what he was seeing. His eyes were wide, even as Victor playfully posed for the other man.

“You banned jeans in the office over seven years ago,” Christophe gave him a confused look, “is that rule just, off for today? Is this a new style?”

“I banned jeans?” Victor could barely control his gasp. “But I love denim!”

Christophe only gave him a shrug, still staring down at Victor’s legs in question. He seemed almost perplexed by them.

It was Victor’s turn to frown. “Do you not like them?”

“They’re...not bad. Despite my initial thought,” Christophe examined the jeans for a few more seconds. “It’s very grunge. You’re still on your 90s kick, then?” Victor nodded happily, Christophe continued. “People will be expecting a feature, then. I’ll let the other editors know.” He paused, narrowing his eyes at Victor’s face. “What’s on your face?”

Victor nearly squealed in excitement at the question. He had checked three different stores before finding them last night.

“I got them from Claire’s,” Victor explained, pulling out the clear sheet of plastic, already grinning. “Want some? The green ones would look great on you.”

Christophe took the sheet, frowning in confusion. “...Claire’s? I haven’t heard of it.”

Victor gave him a wide eyed look, “Claire’s is the best. I got my ears pierced there when I was eleven!” Victor had been annoyed when he saw current him had long since let them close up. Victor had bled for those.

“Wait,” Christophe was lowering the sheet, realising. “That Claire’s? The violently pink, cheap junk store aims at, like, seven to thirteen year olds?”

Victor pouted, crossing his arms. “Well, I like Claire’s.” He had gotten a new case and handful of charms for this phone while he was in there. He loved it in there.

“You stepped inside of a Claire’s?” Christophe seemed to be struggling with this. “Did anyone recognize you?”

The checkout girl had choked on her smoothie when he swept through the doors.

“Nope!” Victor popped out, smiling. He took the sheet from Christophe's lax hands, examining. The green ones matched the other man’s eyes nearly perfectly.

Victor leaned in, pressing the small gem to the corner of Christophe’s eye. “There!” He beamed, “We match!”

Christophe’s hand came up to brush his own face, the action numb as he stared at the few freckles of color adorning Victor’s skin. Victor hadn’t been able to choose for himself, instead picking an array of pink, blue, and purple.

“New trend?” He tried, his voice weak.

“New trend.” Victor agreed happily, his hands clapping together.

Christophe blinked, pulling away. “I’ll...have Mila write up an article on them, then.”

Victor beamed, “Good idea!”

Later that day, it was Victor’s first major meeting inside his older body, and he was determined to do it right. Or...at least not get himself fired. Right.

Christophe seemed used to debriefing him on his meetings, at least. He read off his tablet with easy grace, repeating names and jobs and important reminders and pointers such as JJ loves to talk about himself, it’ll help loosen him up and loves his family, his sister just got accepted into University, a good talking point and many more, scrawled down in Christophe’s notebook. The other man, thankfully, would be by his side to take notes the entire time, which helped Victor’s nerves in the least.

They arrived last to the meeting, held in their building, a point that Christophe had insisted on, despite them simply waiting in his office space until they all arrived. But Chris seemed to know what he was talking about, so Victor only smiled and went along with it.

They swept in five minutes past the time written on Victor’s calendar, both their faces smooth and neutral - as Christophe reminded him to do in an odd voice - and everyone waiting stood as they entered. Victor still wasn’t used to it.

The women nearest to them, young with chopped dark hair, stepped forward first to greet them, her hands clasped before her.

“Mr. Nikiforov,” The woman smiled politely, Isabella , Christophe had reminded lowly just as they entered, JJ’s manager and rumored girlfriend . Her eyes flickered quick over him, almost a spark of surprise there. “You’re looking good, I see. I love the jeans.”

Victor shot a smug look over to Chris, who didn’t even bother hiding his quick, amused eye roll. “Thank you, Isabella.” He liked her, she seemed genuine. A man, tall with dark hair cut similar to Chris’s - was that the style now? - stood up behind her, confidence radiating off him.

The man flashed double J’s as he stood, grinning widely. “JJ is very excited to grace H.M.’s cover with his image.” The man shot a large grin towards his manager, “Has the H.M. Man of the Year been announced yet?”

“It’s only March,” she was somehow smiling fondly at the other man. “We’ll have to wait until November, at least.”

He only waved her words off, a quick smile in her direction, before turning towards Victor with a cocky look on his face. He must be a big fan of his client then. Victor, already, was not nearly as fond of him.

“Well...okay.” Victor gave him a natural smile. “Sorry, what’s your name again? I’m Victor.”

Christophe had insisted that he didn’t need to introduce himself so much but honestly, that just felt rude. Lillia would kill him if he started slacking off on his manners.

But the man, his hands falling from the double J’s, only froze, staring at him a bit blankly. The room had frozen and Christophe, at his side, had a death grip on his sleeve.

“That’s JJ ,” Christophe hissed into his ear, “the man we’re here to see.”

“How was I supposed to know?” Victor matched his low tone, “He keeps referring to himself in third person!”

“That’s his thing.”

“I’m sure it just slipped Mr. Nikiforov’s mind,” his manager- Isabella, Christophe had mentioned - was stepping forward, her hand on the superstar’s arm. She gave Victor a smile almost as neutral as his own, “He’s a very busy man after all.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Victor tried again.

“We’ve met before,” JJ finally spoke up from his frozen position, crossing his arms, “ several times.”

“Oh,” Victor tried to grin, and the meeting only went downhill from there.

Christophe’s grip was tight on his elbow as he pulled him to the side, a brief recess. JJ kept looking over at them with a terse frown, ignoring his team completely.

“Was that some kind of power move?” Christophe hissed, somehow keeping his face neutral. “Which, I mean, fine, okay just warn me next time.”

“Power move?” Victor’s eyes were wide, “I...did I?”

Christophe stared at him.

“Did you…” He trailed off in disbelief, “Did you...forget the face one of the most major superstars in Hollywood right now?”

There was a guilty beat of silence.

Victor shrugged. Christophe looked stricken.

“I’ll do better,” Victor swore, trying mostly to reassure, crossing his heart. “It just totally slipped my mind.” Which wasn’t really a lie? Good, Victor, keep on that. “Now…” his eyes flickered back to the group behind the glass, “Should we get back? I think they’re waiting for us.”

“Another moment,” Christophe pulled out his phone, fully aware of the attention on them. “It’s better to make them wait, it’ll make them uneasy.”

Victor blinked. He hadn’t thought about it that way.

Christophe, at least, knew what he was talking about.

The next morning, Christophe rushed up to Victor’s office doorway like a hell storm.

He locked eyes with Victor’s lounged around figure, the other man straightening up instantly. In his hand, his phone shined multi-color.

He swept into the room, striding over to Victor’s couch, and was nearly burning with disbelief and frustration. Chris had been on the phone nearly all morning, speaking to press and being hounded by paparazzi. He had fielded no less than three phone calls from the committee.

And when the committee calls, you answer.

Christophe had been failing that particular, very incredibly important, rule all morning.

Victor sat up in alarm, staring at the other man with wide eyes. The other man was heaving for breath. In a quick movement, Christophe rushed towards the other man.

“What the hell are you doing to your Instagram,” Christophe snatched Victor’s phone away from him in a second, glaring at both the thin piece of technology and the other man in equal. “No less than eleven news sites are reporting on it, four of them actual major ones. There’s a twitter hashtag.”

“...Hashtag?” At Victor’s blank look, Christophe only groaned out in frustration.

Christophe couldn’t pull out his own hair over this. It was pretty and expensive and Fabeo would never forgive him if Christophe ruined his careful work. He took a very needed, a very careful breath.

“Your Instagram, Victor.” Christophe prompted, his voice holding the severity of death-row. “What are you doing to your Instagram.”

“Instagram…” Victor thought for a moment, his shoulders dropping from where they had risen in alarm. “Oh! The photo app. Yeah, I like that one!”

Christophe gave him a frustrated look, tapping away at Victor phone. “So? What are you doing?”

Victor...didn’t really have an answer for that. What was the big deal? He was just doing what everyone else was doing.

“I saw people posting photos they liked,” He shrugged, “So I posted some I liked. They’re nice, right?”

“This is a photo of a pigeon,” Christophe stated slowly, holding out the photo screen as evidence. “A pigeon attacking half a doughnut.”

Victor beamed, “But look at how happy it looks!”

Christophe slowly began shaking his head, “People are going crazy, Victor. Everyone thinks your weird photos like, mean some secret message or something. Everyone’s decoding them like crazy.”

“They are?” Victor looked down at his phone in question. “They’re just photos I like. They don’t mean anything.”

“You’re the face of a multi-million dollar company and head of one of the largest fashion magazines in the world,” Christophe was pinching his nose, “You can’t just post photos of street pretzels and blurry shots of the trashy street.”

“It was a mouse!” Victor gushed, “It was eating a hot dog on the ground!”

“You do understand that’s worse, right? Like, that’s something you understand?”

“It was a cute mouse,” Victor frowned. “If I can’t post photos I like, what am I even supposed to do?”

“Just,” Christophe gestured to the air, “go back to posting the annual city skyline or outfit of the day. I don’t know, your usual stuff.”

“But that’s so boring,” there was an obvious whine in his voice that Christophe, Victor’s assistant of four years, coach and bystander through hundreds of hangovers, morning afters, and bad trips, had never heard. “Can’t you do it? You like photos.”

Christophe paused, turning slightly to examine Victor’s bored expression, almost as if seeing if the other man was being serious. If Victor was closer to the other man, Chris was almost sure he’d hear his heart pounding in his chest.

“Fine,” Christophe finally agreed despite his stomach flipping at the thought of having his photos on Victor Nikiforov’s instagram. His photos, on display for millions of people to see.

The likes alone.

Victor still seemed sadden by the loss of his Instagram, frowning and biting at his lip.

Christophe observed Victor’s downtrodden face for another moment before sighing. “I’ll set you up a spam account and you can post all the ugly New York and bird photos you want.”

Victor perked up, “Really?”

Christophe sighed despite the corner of his lips twitching up. “Sure. I can set it up tonight and have it ready by tomorrow.”

Victor wrinkled his nose. Tomorrow was so far away. A thought occurred to him.

“Christophe,” Victor gasped, grabbing the other man’s hand. “We should have a sleepover.”

There was an intense shot of joy in the question, the thrill of having a sleepover without prior warning - without having to beg Yakov for several days for the rare opportunity. He could have people over whenever he wanted.

But a look of uncertainty flashed over Chris’s face. He pulled his hand away from Victor’s like it was burning. “Victor, no I - I can’t. I won’t .” He threw his shoulders back like he was going off to war, putting some space between them. “I love Matthieu, I’m not going to -”

Victor flinched back, his mouth falling open. “I wasn’t -” his voice was soft, low. “That’s not what I meant. I meant like -” he gestured uselessly to the air, “face masks. And painting our nails. You can show me how you want my Instagram.”

Was… was future him really so bad that Christophe would be quick to assume that?

“Just a normal sleepover,” he clarified once more. “Just regular fun. Movies and bad food.”

Christophe, at least, lost that nervous look on his face. He relaxed just the tiniest of bits, his shoulders dropping. “Just a regular sleepover?” He bit his lip, thinking, a stranger look coming over his face. After a long moment, he let out a small chuckle. “I don’t think I’ve to one of those since high school, at least.”

“It’ll be fun!” Victor’s excitement was back, relief at the other boy’s dropped emotion. “I totally promise!”

Christophe watched him for another moment - his eye catching on the worn knees of Victor’s jeans, his heart shaped smile, his fluttering, excited hands - and after another moment of consideration, slowly nodded.

Victor squealed, jumping up. “Oh, this is so exciting!”

“I’ll be over around eight?” Christophe paused in question, clearly still slightly hesitant.

Victor nodded excitedly, “Yeah! Okay, I’ll be ready!”

Victor was not ready.

He had left the office only an hour after Christophe had agreed to the sleepover, suddenly remembering the entirely incredibly important fact that he had nothing at all for a sleepover.

He surveyed the usual supplies lined up on his counter - chocolate bars, popcorn in bowls, soda in nearly every color, a few other sleepover staples - and bit his lip. Were sleepovers different in the future? Maybe this wasn’t how they went at all.

He almost wanted to return back to the corner store he had made a desperate run into. What if Christophe didn’t like anything he bought? Everything he gotten was more of his and Yuuri’s taste after all.

It didn’t matter - it seemed, from the light knock on his door, a quick peek through the glass hole, that he was out of time. A flush of energy hit him.

“You’re here!” Victor was nearly jumping in excitement as he threw the door open, beaming at the other man.

Christophe held up a paper bag, a duffel draped over his shoulders. “I am,” he tilted the paper bag towards Victor to take. “And I brought wine.”

“Oooo,” Victor really did jump in place, “wine!”

Victor had never had wine past the few gross sips at church or the single glass at family events.

Victor pulled the bottle from the bag, squealing. “It’s pink!”

Christophe let himself in, toeing off his shoes and hanging his coat. “It’s a nice rosé, one of my favorites. Where do you keep your glasses?”

“Oh, um…” Victor trailed off, glancing towards his kitchen. He had mostly managed to avoid the intimating room so far. Yakov had never let him cook at home, and this was one of the only rules Victor was content to keep as an adult. “I’ll get them. You can throw your stuff in my room.”

Christophe was already nodding in agreement, pausing for a moment to survey the apartment, before going off in the direction of the hallway. He seemed...unfamiliar with the space.

Victor turned back to the silver chrome expanse of space, biting his lip. He had mostly gotten away with lunches with Christophe and ordering in since he had, well, shown up. He had attempted to fry a few eggs one morning, a brave but foolish thought, and had broken two plates and mug before he had even gotten the frying pan on the stovetop. He was in no rush to repeat that experience, especially with company.

“All the cups are dirty,” Victor only happily claimed, setting down two plastic cups he had found in the back of a cabinet. These, at least, wouldn’t be a casualty of shattering across the hardwood.

Christophe didn’t seem to mind, only taking the cups so he could pour out a small amount into each. Victor had put on a playlist as he got everything ready - mostly popcorn into bowls, candy and pop lined up on the counters as he and Yuuri always liked to do - and sang along under his breath as a sugar pop song played. Britney, of course. He wasn’t one for blasphemy.

“Have you heard the latest office gossip?” Christophe pressed the plastic cup into his hand, leaning back against the bed frame. Christophe had an impossible gift of always looking incredibly at ease with his surroundings, even as leaned across Victor’s bed with a cheap cup of expensive wine.

Victor perked up, falling forward in the bed to kick up his feet, keeping his cup from spilling over. “Gossip?” He gasped, “with who?”

Christophe set off into a story that made Victor blush and gasp in equal points, causing him to lean forward in excitement and groan out in embarrassment.

Poor, poor Georgi.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Victor jumped up from his seat, rushing off into the other room before returning with a wide, silver bowl. He beamed, setting it in the middle of the bed, and grabbed more supplies out of the bathroom.

Victor pinned hair bangs out of his hair, a truly unnecessary amount of glittery butterfly clips standing out in stark color against his silver locks. “I read that oatmeal makes your skin softer,” he explained, gesturing to the metal bowl in front of them.

Christophe let out a small laugh, “That’s so outdated.” Nonetheless, he leaned forward to inspect the bowl. After a moment, his nose wrinkled. “Is there...fruit in this?”

Victor shrugged, already leaning forward to the mirror to begin smearing the goop on his face. “It’s what I had in my cabinet.”

Christophe let out a real laugh this time, “It’s supposed to be plain oats, Victor.”

Victor paused, mid-rub of the oatmeal onto his cheeks, “Oh.” After a moment, he shrugged. “Well, at least we’ll smell like strawberries.”

Christophe observed him for a moment, “I thought you were like, deadly serious about what you put on your skin?” He gave him a dull look, “Don’t you remember the time I bought the wrong face cream? I thought you were going to fire me.”

He tried to hide his gasp of surprise. “Over lotion?”

“I mean,” Christophe gave him a shrug, “There’s a reason the media calls you ‘The Ice King’ of fashion.”

“Because I love snow?” Victor guessed half-heartedly. “Wait, is that why people always comment snowflakes on my Instagram?”

Chris gave him a sympathetic nod.

Victor sighed, his hands dropping. “I thought they were just wishing me a happy winter.”

“It’s March.”

He shrugged, “It’s still cold.”

He sighed again, staring down at his hands. They were so much older than he remembered. He didn’t even know hands got older.

The silence was getting slightly uncomfortable, with Christophe pursing his lips. Victor forced a smile.

“You can wash your face before you put the mask on!” Victor gestured towards the cracked open bathroom door. “There’s soap on the counter.”

Chris nodded, standing and stretching, before padding off to the bathroom. Victor leaned in closer to the mirror to rub more oats onto his forehead - and what in the world had happened in the past seventeen years to his forehead, oh god - but after only a few moments, Christophe was stepping back into the bedroom.

“Victor…” Christophe trailed off, holding up the small box to show the other man. Victor perked up, a real smile already forming. He had specially ordered it online - which you could do! Press a button and it showed up a day later! The future was truly magical.

Oh. Christophe had asked a question.

Victor blinked, “Excuse me, what?”

Christophe huffed, shaking the box for attention. “I asked, what is this?”

“Oh, I was going to try and give myself frosted tips,” He sighed, bubbles in his voice. “Yakov never let me get them growing up.” There was a stretch of silence. Victor glanced over his shoulder.

Christophe was staring at him in no short manner of horror. He grabbed onto Victor hand, clenching at it for dear life. “Victor,” his voice was as grave as death itself, “Victor, I know you’re going through something weird and it consists of a phase with 90s trends which, okay, a few of them aren’t that bad. But - but Victor , frosted tips?” Christophe shook his head slowly, blinking, “You can’t. As your friend, I can't - I won’t - let you do that to your beautiful hair. For gods sake, your hair is insured. You can’t.”

Victor paused mid-protest, staring at Christophe’s wide, begging eyes, and slowly started to beam. His hands clapped together, held close to his chest.

Christophe seemed entirely confused by the emotion. “What - why are you so happy?”

Victor grinned, slightly watery. “You called me your friend.”

The other man stared at him for another long moment, now in disbelief. “You’re ridiculous,” he seemed to be realizing. “Like, an actually ridiculous man. When did this even happen?”

He shrugged happily, “Just different, I guess.” He risked a quick look towards the other man. “Is it a...good different?”

The other man was quiet for a long moment before leaning in next to the other man, going to apply the oatmeal goo to his own face. “Yeah. It is.”

Even as the oatmeal hardened and pulled on his skin, Victor could only beam.

The next Monday, after a long Friday night of gossip and old rom-coms that Victor had to pretend he’s seen and definitely wasn’t crying over for the first time, he was back at the office.

Christophe was going through his usual morning check-list of meetings and tasks, most of which Victor would have to find some way to bluff through.

Silence, he had learned, truly worked wonders. In a meeting, when committee members were staring him down, editors waiting for his approval, and Victor had absolutely no idea what was going on, he could go quiet and neutral and passive, and after a few minutes, the silence would be answer enough. Someone would eventually speak up, or nervously suggest something, and Victor could only usually get away with a nod or hum and that would be that. This must have not been too out of character for him, as not yet no one had questioned him on it, not even Chris, who was becoming increasingly comfortable in his presence.

Oh, Christophe was still talking. Not listening wasn’t...the best when it came to Chris’s checklists. It usually led to the other man pinching his nose and speaking in a low, tense voice which, like, wasn’t the best. He forced himself back to the conversation.

Victor nodded like he knew exactly what Christophe had been talking about. “And the editorial meeting?” He asked, glancing towards the post-it note in the corner of his screen. Those, at least, weren’t nearly as stressful as the committee ones.

“Tomorrow, at noon.” Christophe’s eyes were glued to his tablet as he looked over the schedule one last time. Victor nodded, making a note of it as the other man read over some text.

“Oh also, Yakov and Yuri are back in town,” Christophe flipped his tablet to show Victor the screen. “Yuri won gold for his competition - should I send the usual bouquet and note?”

Victor jumped up, “They’re back?!” He was already shoving his arms though his jacket, “And gold? For what?”

“It says here the World Championships? Sounds prestigious.” Christophe flipped the tablet back and started tapping at it again. “How about a vase and ribbon upgrade?”

“For the -” Victor cut himself off, the thought hitting him. “Yuri ice skates.” He snatched Christophe’s tablet back, going back to the last window to stare in awe at Yuri - oh god, Yuri , so tall and grown - mid-jump across the ice. “He’s so good! ”

He shoved the tablet back, grabbing his phone and wallet. “Cancel my afternoon!” He called over his shoulder, “And send Yakov’s address to Raoul!”

“Victor - “ Christophe was cut off by the slam of his office door as he ran off.

In his dash off, he bumped into a young woman, her folders falling from her arms. At the sight of him, she froze.

“Debbie!” He fell to the ground, gathering up all the papers, his voice apologetic. “Sorry about that! Oh, I love your flats!” He beamed, handing the folders back into her still arms. “Have a nice day!”

He was shaking in his seat nearly the entire ride there - longer than Victor had expected but short enough that he was still grinning in excitement as they pulled up. Somewhat longer then an hour he estimated, they were pulling up to a small, modest house, the grass overgrown, the wood paneling peeling. Not Victor’s home, then.

His heart skipped a beat at the unfamiliar house. That was fine. As long as Yakov and Yura were there, that was enough for him. Enough familiarity for him.

And Yuuri - they would know. They had to.

He pulled out his sparse silver key ring, the metal pieces clinking together with the action. He only had three keys - one for his apartment, his office, and a bronze one he hadn’t figured out yet. He tried the bronze key, biting his lip, and frowned. Nope.

Instead, he settled for knocking against the wood roughly, his excited grin returning. Behind the door, he could very faintly see a shadow warped through the textured glass. Dark fabric, a scowl, gray hair.

The door cracked open, just a bit, and Victor pushed through it, grinning.

“Yakov!” He beamed, throwing his arms around the larger, much more stiff man. He was taller than Yakov. Oh, wow. This was amazing.

Oh god . He stifled down a wild giggle, what happened

“Victor,” Yakov was frowning, “what...what are you doing here? What are you wearing?”

Victor glanced down to his outfit, “It’s fashion , Yakov.” He laughed, hugging the other man again. It was just like he was actually thirteen again, hugging and teasing Yakov. Victor had missed it so much.

But Yakov was pushing him away, a confused look on his face. He took a few steps back in which Victor immediately followed - they were in the kitchen, it seemed.

Yakov seemed pained about something. Had he been taking his medicine? Victor worried his lip between his teeth as the other man began speaking once again. “Your assistants came and picked up all your things, Victor. We gave them all your boxes.”

“What?” Victor shook off his comments, “No, Yakov, I’m here to see you guys! Christophe said you were finally back in town!”

“Victor -” And why was Yakov calling him that? He hadn’t heard the other man call him his formal name in years, always some fond substitution in place. “I do not know why you’re here. We have made no attempt to use your name or connection in Yura’s skating -”

“Yakov…” Victor struggled for words, interrupting. What was he talking about, no connection to Victor? Had Victor… forbid that? “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I mean, I -”

“I must go lay down, it was a long flight.” Yakov’s gaze was trained on the window outside the kitchen, “Please see yourself out once you’ve collected what you’ve come for.”

Yakov shook his head, giving him an oddly wounded look before stalking away into the other room. Where, Victor had no idea. He didn’t have much idea about any of this house.

“Victor?” An oddly aggressive voice barked out, the word whipping out and hitting him with nearly physical force. Victor turned, already knowing - he would always know when it came to his little brother - and paused at the sight.

“Yura?” His voice was soft, fleeting.

“It’s just Yuri,” the younger man scowled, letting his hair fall over his face. He was in the same warm up jacket from the photo Christophe had shown him. He was much taller than Victor would have guessed, all his rosy baby fat gone. Victor was nearly breathless with the sight - his baby brother was gone, now a grown man of, what, twenty two?

Victor let out a breath, a grin already warming up, but was interrupted by his brother’s scowling words. “You know that, old man. What the hell are you doing here?”

Victor blinked at his rough tone, “I just wanted to congratulate you -”

“Consider me congratulated,” Yuri sneered at him, tough and ugly. His angry gaze flickering over him. “Feel free to leave now.”

“What?” A wounded look crossed his face. He blinked in face of the hard emotion, “I - Yuri? What’s wrong?”

“What, no ugly flowers and single sentence card?” Yuri instead questioned, still scowling, “Yakov and I are so disappointed.”

Victor opened his mouth to respond, most likely another question of confusion, but in the distance, there was barking. A few moments later, a furry head peeked around the doorway. Almost instantly, Victor broke out into a watery beam.

“Oh, Makkachin!” Victor nearly sobbed in relief, falling to his knees and opening his arms. He didn’t want to assume the worst when he woke up in this odd time, but it had been a long time. Victor had almost been afraid to question Makkachin’s whereabouts, and Chris had no idea who Victor was asking about. Relief was incredibly evident in every aspect of his body. “My sweetheart!”

But instead of the instant tackle Victor had been expecting - the one he used to come home from school to nearly everyday - Makkachin stayed in place, even scooting a bit behind Yuri’s slouching figure.

Victor’s face fell, a picture of confusion. He dropped his arms, “What’s - what’s wrong with her? Why won’t she come?”

Yura rolled his eyes, “You trained her not to jump all over you, you idiot. Said the slobber and dog hair was ruining your outfits.” He spat the words out, screwing up his face in distaste.

Victor blinked a few times, his hands screwing up into fists, as he processed that. He clenched at the fabric of his jacket.

His voice was soft, his eyes glued to the dog as she slowly walked out of the room, her tail barely wagging. She was a lot more gray than he remembered. “She doesn’t live with me?”

Yuri sighed, throwing his hands in the air. “What, is your mind going with your old age?” He ignored the hurt look on Victor’s face, “You had Yakov take her when you got your Manhattan townhouse, you said you didn’t want to worry about her messing up your furniture.”

“That doesn’t sound like me,” his voice was soft, more of a thought to himself. Yuri scoffed anyways, rolling his eyes. They had nearly a permanent role doing so.

“Yeah, well.” Yuri shrugged, tipping his head so more of his messy hair fell into his face. God, Victor had hated that growing up.

He cast a miserable look at the doorway Makkachin had disappeared through, swallowing. His heart hurt so much he resisted the urge to check for a physical injury.

Instead, he shook off the emotion, shaking his head at the other boy.

“Your hair is all in your face,” Victor’s voice was the picture of exasperation, “here, take a seat, let me braid it out -”

Yuri flinched away, anger wrinkling up his fine adult features. “What the hell are you doing? Why - why are you even here?”

Victor took a breath, his hands dropping. There was so much here, so much that Victor didn’t even know how to start to deal with, but this - this he could do.

Yuri narrowed his eyes at Victor, so tense he was nearly shaking. “You want something, don’t you.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I -” I don’t want anything, almost slipped out. But that wasn’t true.

“I was looking for Yuuri,” Victor explained, his gaze catching on everything so familiar and unfamiliar about the kitchen. The same chipped mug Yakov took his coffee in every morning, the same old metal pots and pans, the same fine painted china tucked away in the cabinet. Nearly everything else was different. “I haven’t been able to get into contact with him.”

“Yuuri?” A look of confusion somewhat replaced the anger on Yuri’s face. “Yuuri....Katsuki?”

Victor gave him a weak laugh, a bad feeling coming over him. “Do I know any other Yuri’s then you two?”

His scowl only deepened, “I have no idea who you know,” he spat, crossing his arms. “Victor, what’s going the fuck on? Yakov and I haven’t seen you in seven months and suddenly you’re showing up, making the old man’s blood pressure rise, asking stupid questions, and now you’re looking for Katsuki? What the hell is going on?”

“I -” Victor cut himself off. There was no way he would be able to explain this to Yuri, especially with his current glaring daggers and clenched jaw. Victor could only give him a helpless shrug.

They stared at each other for long moment. Victor shifted his weight, uncertain, and ran a hand through his hair. Yuri seemed to be tracking each of these movements. Finally, he huffed.

“You know what? Fine. Fuck it.” Yuri stomped over to the kitchen, opening and slamming drawers without much thought. “Despite your assholeness, the Katsuki’s kept up with Yakov and I after we moved. Here.” He shoved a blue flyer over, scowling. “They gave us a flyer for their new restaurant. Now will you get the fuck out of my house?”

Victor took the paper automatically, holding it to his chest, and cast the other boy a wounded look. “Yura -”

“It’s Yuri, ” he snapped, shoving him towards the door. Victor was stumbling off the doorstep when he turned, catching his little brother glaring at him through the doorway. “And next time, when you need something, don’t bother coming here.” Yuri slammed the door after, cutting off all words, leaving Victor staring at the pale wood of the door.

That was his little brother.

Little Yura, with chubby red cheeks - always sticky - and sparkling green eyes and silk hair, always following him and Yuuri around like a little duckling. Always demanding attention and affection in turn, plopping down in Victor’s lap more than not.

That angry young man - cursing and tense and tightly wound - that was him.

God, what did Victor do.

He held the crumpled flyer to his chest, blinking back wetness in his eyes.

A flyer for the Katsuki restaurant. But...after seventeen years, there was no guarantee that Yuuri still lived with his parents. Was he really willing to show up at their family place, especially after whatever horrible things Victor did? He took a deep breath, the breath frosting in front of him. Ice King indeed.

The flyer laid out on the wood wrinkled and ripped from his grip.

His eyes kept going back to it, his hands folded and still in his lap. He had gotten Raoul to drop him off at the nearest busy coffee shop, where he could hide his silver hair under a hat, go unnoticed, gather his thoughts and nearly broken heart.

He had sent Christophe a photo of it a few minutes ago, wondering if there was any way Chris could check if Yuuri was still there. The other man seemed strangely adept at gathering information. He wondered if his future self - present self? - older self had realized that. He wondered if he knew how fortunate, and unfortunate, he was.

Turns out there wasn’t a different way he spoke to Yakov and Yura. He just...didn’t.

He checked his phone, mostly interested in the time, and paused.

A notification from Chris - an address. The coffee cup in his hand - his old usual order, from what Chris had told him - went completely untouched other than his immediate squeeze of surprise at the text.

Got into contact with Katsuki’s family. A few white lies later, here’s his current address. Let me know if I’m cancelling your tomorrow.

It...was local.

Victor immediately forwarded the text to Raoul, and threw his cup to the bin.

thank you so much to tumblr users @cunning-and-cool & @ginriku for looking this through at its first draft, as well as @rinarraven for being the best beta ever and watching 13 going on 30 with me at 5 am because i was burning out on inspiration. thanks y'all! &

before the change, christophe's life was the real life version of the devil wears prada except he was by himself and "there was no fabulous emily blunt in the corner providing snarky commentary or guidance"

also i primarily based this idea off the two versions of vitya i often see in this fandom? the ditzy, giggly selfish kid vs the cold, mean dismissive man. im hoping to write both of them well, as well as later showing what I see as the 'real' victor? also i love chick flicks so.

im aware that victor's birthday is on dec 25th and the ice rink would probably be closed, and they would be celebrating christmas. i know. but at the time same time, i wanted to write this fic and it takes place on vityas birthday. so.

pls give me validation i need it to live

#yuuri katsuki #yuri on ice #victor nikiforov #fanfiction #viktuuri #victuuri #13 going 30 au #timetravel au #fluff #angst #christophe giacometti #makkachin #rosy writes

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