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Anti-gravity's Favorite Apple

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For some stupid reason, Yuuri doesn’t think of Viktor as having parents.

It might be because he’s never mentioned them in interviews, or to Yuuri, or within Yuuri’s earshot. Yakov, yes, all the time. Parents, no, never.

So when he does think about them, in a vague sort of way, he assumes that they’re dead. He doesn’t have any sort of explanation thought out, just that Viktor’s parents probably died and so he doesn’t talk about them.

Which is why, when Yuuri, half-asleep and dressed in Viktor’s Russia jacket and some leggings, opens the door to their apartment in Moscow to see a man and a woman who somehow look totally different from each other and yet both look exactly like Viktor, he screams.

A little.

“You must be Yuuri,” Mrs. Viktor’s Mom exclaims in Russian. It is a phrase Yuuri is very good at understanding in Russian.

It is, in fact, one of his best phrases in Russian.

He’s working on it. Don’t judge him.

Yuuri nods, stepping back slightly in the apartment. It’s not enough for them to enter, but they do anyway, because apparently Viktor didn’t fall far from his own tree.

The entranceway to the apartment is not, in fact, large enough for all three of them, but that isn’t stopping them.

“Yes,” Yuuri says belatedly, in English, because he is bad at life.

Mr. Viktor’s Dad beams at him. “Of course,” he says in lightly-accented English, “we must speak in English. Though you are learning Russian, right? Our Vitechka must be teaching you Russian, or he is being a bad husband.”

“Uh,” Yuuri says. “We’re not married.”

“Oh, of course, of course.” Mrs. Viktor’s Mom pats him on the head. “Russia is no good at that sort of thing. When you are finished competing, perhaps, you will move to America and there you will marry.”

“Uh,” Yuuri says again. “I’m going to go find Viktor. Somewhere else. Not in this room.” He gestures at the couch. “Look, a couch.” And with those parting words, he darts out of the room and into the bedroom, where Viktor is still sleeping.

Viktor once slept through a hailstorm breaking their window. There was hail on him. He was bruised.

Normally, Yuuri would kiss him awake, but he’s afraid that Viktor’s parents are going to burst in and insist on marrying them right now, so instead he just pokes at Viktor’s shoulder.

Viktor’s eyes open, and he blinks at Yuuri once, twice, before smiling. “My darling,” he says in slurred Russian. “You are—” There are more words there, but that is about the extent of Yuuri’s current Russian comprehension, particularly when the words are being spoken into a pillow.

“Your parents,” Yuuri says. “Your parents are here. You have parents.”

Viktor blinks at him again. “Of course I have parents.”

“They are here,” Yuuri repeats. His voice is getting quite shrill. It’s somewhat of a problem. “Your parents are here, they are here in this apartment, they called you my husband.”

One of those ridiculous smiles grows on Viktor’s face, and he sits up in bed, beaming at Yuuri. “Mama and Papa are here? Why didn’t you say so?”

“I did,” Yuuri reminds him, but Viktor is already bounding out of bed and into the other room, clothed in only a sparkly pair of boxers, and Yuuri squeaks and hurries after him.

But Mr. and Mrs. Viktor’s Dad and Mom don’t seem offended by Viktor’s state of undress, instead exchanging enthusiastic hugs and chattering with each other in Russian that is frankly too fast for Yuuri to even begin to follow.

“We must take you out to breakfast,” Mrs. Viktor’s Mom announces suddenly in English, startling Yuuri out of his daydreams of being not here.

Yuuri stares at her. “Viktor isn’t dressed.” More importantly, “I’m not dressed.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Viktor’s Dad dismisses. “You look fine.”

Yuuri looks like he’s doing the Walk of Shame in his own apartment. He turns and walks back into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

He needs to get changed.

Instead, he picks up his phone and calls Yuri.

“Viktor has parents,” he says when Yuri picks up.

Yuri hangs up on him.

Yuuri contemplates drowning himself in the sink to avoid this breakfast, but that seems difficult, and also like it would result in Viktor trying to resuscitate him by giving him mouth-to-mouth while his parents cheer him on in the background.

That is not an image Yuuri has any interest in coming back to life to.

He is contemplating escaping out the window when Viktor bursts into the room, announcing, “Mama and Papa are so excited to meet you. They have been waiting for the one who will give then grandchildren for years.”

“I have a dick,” Yuuri reminds him.

Viktor beams at him. “I know, and it’s wonderful.”

“You also have a dick.”

“One that is also wonderful.”

“Neither of us have uteri,” Yuuri says flatly. “I can’t make grandchildren with you.”

The window is seeming like an increasingly appealing option. Maybe Yakov will take him in. Or Mila. Mila is sane, and would only spend a few days laughing at him.

“Of course not,” Viktor says, pressing a kiss to Yuuri’s lips. “That’s what adoption is for.”

And then he strips naked and starts wandering around looking for clothes to wear, completely unconcerned by the fact that his parents are a room away.

“Why am I the normal one in this relationship?” Yuuri mutters to himself, then starts looking for clothes that won’t make him look like he just rolled out of bed with his Russian Olympic sugardaddy.