Chapter Text
Tatami mats. Two teacups on the low, traditional table. The air smells like old wood; a little fan in the corner circulates the summer humidity uselessly.
Yuuri has a duty and a place. He pours the tea. His hands don’t shake, but his shoulders are tight with the force of holding them still.
“So,” the man says, “Figure skating! That’s very interesting. How old were you when you started?”
They’re sitting across from each other. Despite the setup of the room, Yuuri is in casual clothing, having successfully fought off the blue yukata his handlers had attempted to coax him into.
“I started skating when I was four.” Yuuri says, then lets the silence linger. There’s an ache in his chest and a slight burning sensation in his eyes and, oh, he’d been a fool to think he’d grown numb already.
The man is tall and broad and ten years his senior, wearing a button-up shirt and a red silk tie. His name is Hiroshi. He works in finance.
“It sure would be nice to be on the ice on a hot day like today!” Hiroshi says, trying to keep the conversation going. Yuuri looks at his large hand on the green teacup. There’s a clunky silver watch resting on his wrist.
“Yes,” Yuuri agrees, just to be agreeable, the path of least resistance.
“Do you still skate, Yuuri?” It’s bold of Hiroshi to use his first name, but the familiarity makes sense, considering what they’re discussing.
“No,” Yuuri says, empty. “Not anymore.”
Hiroshi reaches out and puts his hand over Yuuri’s. It’s a little hot from the tea. “If you choose me, we have a rink nearby. I’ll make sure you can skate every day.”
“That’s very kind of you.” Yuuri says. Hiroshi says ‘choice,’ but it isn’t one, not really. A surge of anger wells up within him at the thought, frustration at the world and Japan and himself. Mostly at himself. He sips his tea to hide his face.
Yuuri is a retired figure skater, with an average record; the highlight being that he was formerly coached by Viktor Nikiforov. Twenty-four years old. Black hair, brown eyes, glasses. 173 centimeters tall, blood type A. The only rare thing about Yuuri himself is his secondary gender: male omega. He’d trade that distinction for anything in the world.
“They tell me that we’re very compatible.” Hiroshi’s hand is still over his own, trapping it to the table. Yuuri forces it not to shake.
“Yes,” says Yuuri. The more animal parts of his brain agree, now that he’s no longer on the very intense suppressants he’d been taking since he presented. Hiroshi smells great. Yuuri’s ass and thighs are wet with slick from that alone, even though they’ve just been sitting quietly in a room for no more than ten minutes; Yuuri’s disgusted at his body’s continual betrayal.
Hiroshi is the third Alpha to be matched to Yuuri, having made it through the blood tests and health checks. He’s hardy and compatible and wealthy, very much so, like the other two. There will be a few more candidates and then Yuuri will have to make a choice, as much choice as he’s permitted.
Male omegas are rare, especially in Japan. Rare enough that the Japanese government has stepped in to prop up declining birth rates and ensure they don’t die out. If a male omega is unmated by the age of 24, the bureaucracy kicks into high gear to help them find a suitable partner. Yuuri received special permission to continue past his birthday and through the GPF, but that was it. It’s all legal. Career essentially over, uprooted from his home and into an omega center, it had seemed like adding insult to injury when they took his passport as well.
They talk a little longer together, Yuuri and Hiroshi. It’s difficult to make pointless small talk because of how tight his throat is, but he manages somehow.
Hiroshi leaves. All in all, it was less than an hour together. His briefs are still traitorously wet, cock a little hard. Just like when he met with the other two, he’s easily overwhelmed by scents. It’s different from when he was on his suppressants, senses muted to the point where secondary genders were imperceptible. Now just the slightest sniff of a compatible alpha sends his body into overdrive, with arousal and burning, curling self-hatred.
Technically he’s allowed out of the center, to go to the park or the konbini down the street, but Yuuri opts to stay in his room, close his eyes and pretend this isn’t happening. It doesn’t help that the lack of exercise and omega hormones have packed on the pounds, rounding his cheeks and fattening his thighs; omega traits that he’s fought against forever.
His room at the center is simple and bare of personal effects. There are scent blockers on the door and windows and ample, fluffy sheets and pillows. Yuuri pulls open the closet where the futon is kept, drags it out, then curls into the dark space where it had been. His hands are white-knuckled where he grips his knees and tries to breathe through his tight chest, past his wildly-beating heart.
Later, much later, Yuuri falls asleep and dreams of Viktor; about the first time they took Makkachin to the beach together, about Viktor’s beautiful eyes, about Viktor’s warm smile. It’s the cruelest thing that’s happened all day.
“Yuuuuuuuri,” Phichit says, as soon as the call connects fully. “I know you’re busy at the onsen and all, but that doesn’t mean you can’t call me back.”
“Sorry.” Yuuri imagines he can hear the faint sounds of the rink in the background. “How’s practice?”
“Great! When I make it to the GPF this year, you better save some time for me. You’re not competing so we can have a few drinks.” Phichit’s voice is warm and familiar.
“Okay,” Yuuri says, trying to force some enthusiasm into his tone. “Of course I’ll be there to cheer you on.”
This is a lie. By December he’ll be mated already; probably pregnant.
“Just don’t forget” Phichit laughs. “I know you only have eyes for Viktor, which is great, by the way, but you’re my best friend. I get at least a few hours of your time.”
“Of course.” Phichit is one of the few people Yuuri still talks to. It’ll hurt, yes, but he’ll find a way to watch Phichit’s performance, even if he has to stream it on his phone.
“How’s Viktor doing, by the way?”
The number of unread text messages from the Russian on Yuuri’s phone is so anxiety-inducing that he keeps it turned off, most of the time.
“Great,” Yuuri says. Viktor’s back on the ice where he belongs, no longer held back by coaching.
Phichit can hear the words he’s not saying, like always. His tone shifts. “You know, Yuuri...”
“Sorry, Phichit, I have to go. Mari needs help with the towels.”
Yuuri ends the call, turns his phone back off, lays down and stares at the ceiling.
“It’s perfectly natural, Yuuri-kun.” Sakurai-san says. Her dark hair is tied back from her face with a citrus-themed bow, yellow and orange. It’s cute on her, a summer fashion trend that accentuates how much younger she is than the other nurses at the center.
“If anything, it’s a good sign!” She continues. “Your hormones are just settling into the normal range.”
Yuuri is mortified, sitting on the exam table with his robe pulled open, swollen nipples in view. They’re sore and heavy and tight; it’s hard to hold still as Sakurai-san manipulates them with a gloved hand. Her movements are steady and professional as she feels around his chest, checking to make sure everything is healthy. Before his eyes, a little bit of clear liquid comes out of his right nipple, coaxed by the pressure.
As the nurse types a few notes into her computer, Yuuri fights to breathe through the thick shame.
“You’re weight’s looking much better, too,” she praises, somehow making things worse. Gaining weight is one thing Yuuri’s always been spectacular at.
Hasetsu is too small for an omega center of their own, especially one with a specialist in males, so Yuuri is in Fukuoka, away from his family. He’s spent most of his adult life away from them, so it’s not too weird.
“I have two brothers and two sisters,” Tanaka explains. It’s an impressive number of siblings for a Japanese family, where birth rates are traditionally low. “And each of them have two children already!”
Yuuri nods and presses his fingernails so hard into his palm that he can feel them break the skin.
“So you see,” Tanaka continues, “I love having a big family. I would be honored to have many children with you, Yuuri.”
Tanaka’s younger than the others, handsome in his own way. Still in training but on the path to be a doctor. Yuuri’s wet again, from his alpha scent; his body says yes but his heart is entirely closed, locked up, hidden from view.
“You’re too kind,” Yuuri says, thinking that these suitors must all think he’s quiet, reserved, shy; not overwhelmingly disgusted by these men who want him for his gender, his lone special trait.
“I have a condo in the business district, with a fenced-in yard. Three bedrooms, plenty of room for kids.” Tanaka smiles, proud. “Although, if you’d like, we could find a place in Hasetsu, to be closer to your family.”
Yuuri tries to picture that future, their potential, shadowy children playing with Yuuko’s triplets.
“I’ve always liked the big city,” he lies.
If it's hard to fight his omega urges normally, it's near impossible during his heat. The first one since his teens, just after he’d arrived at the center, is a blackout blur of pain and longing in his memory.
“It should be better this time, Yuuri-kun,” Sakurai-san says, patting his shoulder. “Your hormones are a lot more stable now. It won't be as nice as if you were with your mate, of course, but this should be your last heat alone. Have you chosen yet?”
She's friendly and kind, but she's a beta and could never understand.
“No, not yet.” Yuuri says. “There’s one more.”
The extra applicant has given him more time than expected. They’ll meet tomorrow, before his heat sets in fully. Then Yuuri will choose who to spend the rest of his life with. The thought has stopped making him sad or angry, now. He feels blank and empty and distant.
It's been 10 months since he last saw Viktor and said, “Let's end this.”
His cheeks are flushed and red, pre-heat symptoms. Yuuri returns to his room and buries himself in the pile of blankets on the floor. Hot, aching, miserable, Yuuri grabs his cock and thinks guiltily of Viktor; his smile, his graceful form on the ice, his warm, strong shoulder. He pushes three fingers inside himself, desperate, and is surprised when the tears start that he has any left.
It's competition season for Viktor right now. Yuuri hasn't turned his phone on in weeks, unable to deal with news, but he knows Viktor will be spectacular—beloved by the world and right where he belongs.