#with overly eager viktor ahahaha

[mysecretfanmoments]

au where viktor is himself but falls in love with regular guy/waiter yuuri over his socks

((HAPPY BIRTHDAY @picklestpickle!!!! I demand that you have the very best year ever!))

“You don’t understand,” Viktor told Yakov, filled with righteous passion. “I must have him.”

Yakov’s voice darkened with familiar resignation. “What do you expect me to do about it?”

Viktor didn’t answer. Instead he watched the cute waiter walk to a different table, and he caught flashes of what had so entranced him: plain brown socks with a poodle face on the front, just above the waiter’s ordinary shoes and just below the hem of the waiter’s cropped trousers. It wasn’t overstating things to say Viktor was in love. Unfortunately, the waiter seemed to be the shyest service industry person Viktor had ever stumbled across, and Viktor’s bright smile earlier---pre sock-noticing, and therefore generic---had reduced the poor guy to choking on air. Viktor might kill the man he loved, now, simply by calling him over.

But then: he might save the man he loved after nearly killing him. It would make a good story to tell their grandchildren.

“Excuse me!” Viktor said in English, hoping he struck the right note of sorry for bothering and we’re destined soulmates so in the end you’ll thank me. The waiter’s shoulders shot up, but he didn’t ignore Viktor like Viktor had secretly feared. Instead he turned and scuttled over, movements strange and unnatural with apparent nervousness. Was he crabwalking?

“Yes?” said the softest voice in the history of mankind, gently accented.

Suddenly, Viktor was struck---not just by the waiter’s socks, but by the nice face behind those square glasses looking down at him. It was flushed with colour, which had the effect of brightening his panic-stricken eyes. Viktor’s future husband was a looker, in that subdued diamond-in-the-rough way that made Viktor want to polish him.

Wow, Viktor thought, grateful for his instincts and cute socks. Amazing.

He was hit by unfamiliar nervousness himself, and smiled through it. “I love your socks,” he said.

The waiter blinked and looked down, holding out a leg like he could have forgotten the masterpieces he wore. “Ah---I---thanks.”

“And you,” Viktor added, hoping his eyes conveyed his sincerity. He started to get out of his chair to kneel. “Will you marry---”

A lot of things happened at once. First, the look on the cute waiter’s face changed from panic to horror to steely distance, and second, Yakov reached across the table to grab Viktor’s hair in his fist and keep him from kneeling. “Too much!” Yakov yelled, dragging him back up.

Viktor fell back into his seat, reeling. The cute waiter’s mouth had hardened into a line. 

“Your food will be out shortly,” the waiter said, all trace of personality gone, and walked away---smoothly.

Viktor stared after him. “Yakov, what---what just happened?” 

“I believe you proposed marriage to a guy whose name you don’t know.”

“Is that bad?”

Yakov covered his face. “You’ll be the death of me.”

“We’re meant to be,” Viktor insisted. “Why not just---”

“What’s gotten into you?” Yakov asked. “Are you really taking the retirement comments seriously? What happened to I don’t have time for relationships?”

Viktor supposed that maybe he’d jumped the gun a little. Just a little. But there were the socks, and the waiter’s overall cuteness, and maybe---just maybe---Viktor was looking for a way out. And it would be all the better if that way out came in the shape of a gorgeous guy who wore socks with poodle faces.

“The socks looked just like Makkachin,” Viktor said, still clinging to his earlier assurance that he’d done nothing wrong---but his heart split right down the middle when the waiter came back out with their food and maintained that distant air, not even looking at Viktor now. Viktor thanked him meekly, horrified that he’d ruined everything so quickly.

“He hates me now,” Viktor said, lip trembling.

“He thinks you were mocking him,” Yakov said, picking up his chopsticks. “Obviously.”

Viktor stared. “Me? Mock him?”

“You’re a giant Russian guy who looks like a model, you walked into Hasetsu Donburi Palace fifteen minutes ago---which does not look like Tokyo’s most popular eating establishment---spoke exclusively Russian to your coach while ogling him so he has no idea what you might be saying, and then---”

“Stop!” Viktor interrupted, mortified. The picture Yakov painted was terrible. He would not tell his grandchildren this, even if the waiter forgave him. 

Oh, shit. The waiter wasn’t going to forgive him, was he? 

No---he had to. Their future happiness depended on it.

Viktor ate his food with singleminded diligence, and when the waiter came back to take their plates Viktor was careful to use his most pleading eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Viktor said to the side of the waiter’s face as he cleared up dishes. “Can we talk? I made the wrong impression. You have to let me make---”

Yakov cleared his throat.

“Please let me make it up to you,” Viktor corrected himself. At last the waiter glanced at him, suspicious, and somehow suspicion looked good on him. It made him seem dark and powerful and mysterious, which in turn made Viktor feel all soft and vulnerable on the inside. 

Perhaps some of Viktor’s vulnerability showed through, because the dark look shifted just a little. The waiter’s mouth pressed together.

“I can take a break in twenty minutes,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll meet you outside.”

Yes. Yes! Viktor grinned up at him. “I’ll wait!”

The waiter looked puzzled, then embarrassed---and at last he nodded before scuttling away again. Yakov and Viktor paid their bill after a short argument about what kind of message the obscene tip Viktor wanted to leave would send. They compromised: a big tip, but not I’m trying to buy your love-big.

Yakov only waved as he abandoned Viktor outside the restaurant, leaving Viktor to shift from foot to foot, hands deep in his pockets, face ducked into his scarf. It was cold enough for his breath to fog up the night air.

Eventually the waiter came out, glancing around. He seemed surprised when he spotted Viktor, and joined him slowly.

“Hello!” Viktor said, trying not to bounce too much on his feet. “May I ask---what is your name? And your---”

“You’re Viktor Nikiforov,” the waiter interrupted. It wasn’t a question.

Viktor’s eyes widened. “You know me?”

“Of course I know you.” A cautious gloved hand came out for Viktor to shake, and Viktor gripped it in both of his. He didn’t shake it---just held it---and the guy glanced away. “I’m Yuuri.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor repeated, enjoying the way the name felt in his mouth. 

Yuuri’s free hand came up, not to push Viktor away but to cover his own face. “I’m dreaming. Definitely. And you’re---why are you still holding my hand?”

Viktor beat back the urge to propose marriage again. Yuuri was cute. So cute. And he knew Viktor already---that was half the work done. Viktor thought of those socks keeping Yuuri’s ankles warm. Didn’t Viktor already know what he needed to know about Yuuri, too?

Yuuri peered at Viktor’s hands holding his. “You’re not going to let go?”

“I’m not,” Viktor said, in a state of bliss.

Yuuri looked up. “You’re a serial killer, aren’t you?” His face looked sad. “I idolised a serial killer.”

Idolised? Did he mean that? Wait, no, that wasn’t the important part to respond to. Yuuri thought Viktor’s forwardness was either mocking or an intent to murder him. How could he convince him otherwise?

“Give me your phone number,” Viktor said, “and let me take you out tomorrow, when it’s day.”

Yuuri stared. “Seriously?”

Viktor thought about it. “I don’t know the area well, so it would be more you taking me around, but I’ll pay for everything, and at the end of the date I’ll---”

“Okay,” Yuuri said, surprising Viktor enough that he let go. His hands felt empty without Yuuri’s hand in them. He’d try to remember that detail, to tell their grandchildren in several decades---

“Why not,” Yuuri added, as if to himself, and pulled out his phone---which had a poodle background. Yakov would mock Viktor, Mila would mock Viktor---but Viktor fell even harder in love, and he knew it would all work out. Of course it would. He’d lost his heart to a beautiful stranger who wore doggy socks.

It was obvious they were meant to be, and now he just had to make it happen.