Chapter Text
Victor Nikiforov sighed as he dumped his suitcase—the meager assemblage of his belongings after 57 years of life—into his new two-bedroom apartment. It was on the third floor of a converted Victorian mansion, surrounded by towering elms, just on the outskirts of the historic downtown of the quaint little college town he has chosen to live in. Nearly twenty years earlier he had seen the town in the pages of a magazine, and the eclectic old architecture and large town green had stuck in his mind.
Victor had always been impulsive. While largely quite a forgetful person, bad with names and faces, and prone to forgetting occasionally vital bits of information, his brain would latch onto strange things, memories and facts of little consequence, that would worm their way deep into his brain.
(He supposes it was his powers that kept his out of harm’s way all these years, although what harm could come to someone who was (to the best of his knowledge) immortal?)
And so, when, after forty years on the run, when he was granted a life of complete and utter freedom, he had remembered those glossy pages and thought to himself, oh, wouldn’t that be a lovely town to live in? He had filed for the Special Persons visa, filled out the forms and the forms, done interview upon interview, had his abilities examined, paid all the many fees and ended up in this little apartment, with dormer windows, weirdly slanting walls, and creaky wood floors.
The only bit of furniture he had gotten so far was a mattress, still in its packaging, which he could see lying on the floor in the bedroom through the open door. People normally had a lot of things when they lived, didn’t they? Mattresses, tables, sofas, lamps. Pictures of friends and family, books. Mementos of trips or happy times past, graduations, weddings, birthdays.
All he had was lone suitcase and bad memories.
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Victor had never gone to college. In fact, he’d never had any formal schooling at all. This wasn’t to say he wasn’t educated—he’d had the very best tutors money could buy growing up. He had the best everything money could buy growing up, but as the saying goes, there are some things that money just couldn’t buy. He had gotten his GED and decided to sign up to audit some college classes; two, in fact. GNDST/AMST/HIST 234: Gender and Sexual Identity in America, 1800-1950 and AST 101: To the Stars: An Introduction to Astronomy. He had chosen the first two classes that seemed even remotely interesting and took them. Having no money issues whatsoever (past success in stocks and favors done for some very powerful people), he had a lot of time on his hands, and he may as well take the chance to ease his way into mainstream society. He had bought an iPhone, but he should probably buy a computer, he mused, as well as a couch. And a kitchen table. And some pots and pans.
He was, in fact getting rather excited at the prospect of meeting new people. He hardly looked even 25, let alone 57, so he figured that would help him fit in. And he had an ease of manner that people seemed to like, through in a little flirting, how hard could it be? His classes didn’t start for three weeks. He decided to do some shopping. He had to buy his textbooks, after all. There was a Goodwill in town, maybe he could buy some furniture there.
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It was a blisteringly hot summer day. The cicadas practically screamed in the heat, and the riotously pink petunias erupting from window boxes seemed to sear his eyes. It was hotter than Russia certainly had ever been, but then again, he’d certainly been in hotter places. He could do this. He could drag these heavy bags full of pots and books back to his apartment where he only had a fan and no air conditioning and lived on the top floor with no blinds yet. He could do it—he could—
Nope. No he couldn’t. He was not made for this heat, despite being immortal, he was going to die, his beautiful silver hair was clinging grossly to his forehead, and God only knew what he looked like. He had a horribly embarrassing habit of turning borscht-red when overheated. And it was certainly not beautiful.
He began searching for a store, any kind of store, someplace with some air conditioning that he could at least take a break in before he headed back out into the hell that smoldered outside. He was met by row after row of private residences, until—at last! He was saved! A storefront, overflowing with a tumultuous collection of flowers arranged in dozens of planters, and a sign with gold cursive declaring, CELESTINO FLOWERS.
With a cry of delight, he made a beeline for the store, pushing open the door with a tinkle of the bell, and felt cool air and the smell of flowers rushing to meet him. With a sigh of delight, he pulled off his sunglasses and let his eyes adjust to the darker room.
“Hello, welcome to Celestino Flow—oh! Oh my goodness, are you alright? Can I get you some cold water?”
Blinking as the room came into sight, he searched for the sound of the voice. The store was stocked floor to ceiling with dozens of flowers he couldn’t begin to name, he saw a bespectacled face staring at him with concern from behind a long wooden counter. The face came into focus, the black hair, the clear brown eyes, supple lips, the soft lines of his body. This man was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man he had ever seen. EVER, in his 57 years of life.