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Chapter Text

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, a young Prince lived in a beautiful Castle. Although he was charming and charismatic, something cold and foreboding lay just beneath his flawless surface. He was rich and powerful and handsome, he was everything expected of a Prince and more; the very picture of perfection. But that perfection came at a price. In order to maintain his immaculate veneer, he allowed himself no room for doubt or weakness, instead smothering his emotions; locking away his anger, his fear, his sadness, and even his joy, until only cold logic, cordial manners and luxurious finery remained.

He wore his Princely Role as easily as his own crown; reveling in the rich beauty all around him, though always putting his duty first. In that regard he was ruthless, cunning, and ambitious above all else. Under his rule, his lands flourished and his kingdom thrived. For what were those, if not a reflection of himself?

But though his appetite for success granted him the perfection he so craved, his lofty aspirations left no time for life . . . or for love.

Then, one fateful winter night, an Old Beggar Woman came to the castle seeking shelter from the bitter cold. She was ancient, filthy and haggard, all sharp lines and rusty edges, with eyes as hard as iron and a voice like fallen leaves. Though an unusual request, the Prince welcomed her inside; The Castle was plenty big enough, and a night was only a night after all. The Old Beggar Woman thanked him and shuffled inside, as the Prince hid his unease beneath a mask of charm.

The next morning, the Old Beggar Woman requested an audience with the Prince, and met him privately in his Parlor. She thanked him again for his hospitality and told him she wished to reward him for his kindness.

She explained that she didn’t have much with which to repay him; instead, she would gift unto him one of her three worldly possessions, as a token of her gratitude.

Intrigued, the Prince watched as she pulled three items from her dirty, threadbare robe and placed them all before him.

In front of the Prince now lay:

A filthy copper coin; bent and corroded.

A small gray stone; porous and caked in dirt.

A single red rose; wilted and missing some petals.

As the Prince considered the gifts, the Old Beggar Woman smiled; cautioning him not to be deceived by appearances.

The Prince thanked the Old Beggar Woman for her offering and reached for the rose.

The instant the Prince’s fingers closed around the stem, he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. For as he touched the rose, the hideous visage before him began to melt away, and the Old Beggar Woman transformed into a Beautiful Fey Enchantress.

A golden glow filled the room as her magic spilled forth, enveloping the Prince; cascading through the halls, flooding the kitchen and the ballroom and the library and the courtyard; drowning every single chamber as it transformed all who lived there; surrounding the castle and swallowing it whole.

The Prince could only watch, forlorn, as his perfect world crumbled all around him; his own body twisting and becoming monstrous before his very eyes.

And through it all, the Enchantress just smiled.

The Castle, the Prince and all who dwelt within were cast into a never-ending winter. Day by day the air became colder, the icicles grew longer and the snow piled higher, confining them to the frosty halls and frozen grounds of the once-proud manor. There they were bound, frozen in time and erased from memory, forgotten by the outside world as the spell worked its heavy magic; abandoned to the bleak embrace of ice and snow.

Even the magic rose, left behind by the Enchantress, eventually began to accumulate frost. Though it remained safely concealed inside the warmth of the castle, the red of its petals faded and the green of its thorns grew dull, as it ever-so-slowly froze from the inside out.

Though he tried, the Prince never did learn what he had done to insult the Enchantress; ignorant of how he had incurred her wrath and called her curse down upon himself and all he held dear. Now, there was nothing left but to endure the spell that had taken everything.

Ashamed of his foolish actions and monstrous form, the Beast isolated himself, retreating further from his few remaining comforts and rejecting the last lingering shreds of his humanity; for he could no longer bear to feel the overwhelming anguish of his failure. Ambition turned to apathy, charm turned to bile and promise turned to ruin as the Beast became a mere spectator of his fate; passive and indifferent to his own suffering.

And so, he shut himself away, with nothing but a magic mirror to remind him of the world that still flourished beyond his curse.

For all was not lost. If the Prince could learn to love another, and earn their love in return before the rose turned to solid ice, then the spell would be broken. If not, he would be doomed to remain a beast for all time; trapped in the forever-winter of his own making.

As the years waned, so did all hope.

For who could ever learn to love a beast?

*****

The pink light of dawn coloured the sprawling countryside with a soft blush. The wind whispered through the overgrown grass as the shallow river rumbled along in its murky bed; tumbling slowly downhill, towards a sleepy provincial town.  

Katsuki Yuuri slipped quietly out his front door, feet rapping rhythmically on solid wooden steps, as he departed his small cottage at the edge of the world and made his way into town.

The warm breeze kissed his cheek and swept his dark bangs in front of the blue frames of his glasses as he picked his way along the hard-packed dirt road towards The Village at the bottom of the hill; starting his day the same as every other.

The town was small. Very small. Very, very small; so small, in fact, that Yuuri could see the whole of it from the view at his front door.

The Village was sturdy and well-crafted; all hard lines and thatched roofs and cobblestone roads, built with blood and sweat and community spirit. It was the type of place where you knew your neighbors by name, saw them every day, and stopped to say hello. It was a quaint, safe sort of place, with ONE Butcher, ONE Baker, ONE Barber, ONE Tailor, ONE School, ONE market, ONE Tavern, and NO claim to fame; the same as every other town for miles around, surrounded by fields and farms and forests, and more of the same beyond that.

And beyond that?

Yuuri supposed he would never know.

It was a nice town. A good town. It was Pleasant. Peaceful. Quiet.

Boring.

“Bonjour!”

“Bonjour!”

“Bonjour!”

“Bonjour!”

“Bonjour!”

The bright clip of village pleasantries interrupted Yuuri’s musings as the packed dirt turned to cobblestones beneath his feet, and the sky turned to straw and sticks above his head. He had made it to the marketplace.

A kaleidoscope of colour erupted before him as he entered the crowd; stepping lightly as he slid through. Busy ladies swarmed past in a hurry; their full, bright skirts swishing at their feet and their shiny curls bouncing at their ears. Children ran past in a blur; yelling and laughing, playing and scolding one another and trying to hide from their parents. Men whooped and exchanged bawdy jokes as they laboured under the not-so-watchful eyes for their foremen. Yuuri tried to remain invisible; tugging at the hem of his blue vest with nervous fingers as he slipped between them.

“Bonjour, Yuuri! Where are you off to today?”

Too late.

Yuuri’s head snapped up at the greeting, and he swiveled on his heel, coming face to face with the baker at his stall, who regarded him with an affable smile.

“Ah, bonjour, monsieur!” Yuuri gasped out, unprepared, but not displeased. He adjusted his glasses on his nose, “I’m going to see Minako this morning. She’s teaching me a new dance today. One of the ones she used to do at court and – ”

“That’s nice,” The baker interrupted gruffly, “Nothing more . . . pressing to do then today, I suppose? No . . . gardens need tending? No doodad needs fixing? No clothes need washing or nothing?”

Yuuri bristled at that, but didn't let it show, “Ah, there’s always something, of course,” he said tightly, “But nothing so pressing I can't spare a single measly morning. More to life than work and all . . .” he tried for a friendly smile. It felt forced. “I have plenty of time for chores this afternoon. No reason I can't do both . . .”

For a moment, the baker gave him a puzzled look, then let out a mighty whoop, “Oh, listen to you! Dancin’ in the mornin’, chores in the afternoon . . . then what? Up all night gazin’ at the stars? Would that we ALL had your stamina! Imagine how much more bread I could bake!” He chided.

Yuuri willed the flush away from his cheeks, forcing a chuckle instead, “Well . . . so much to do . . . and only so many hours in a day,” he agreed weakly.

The baker waved him off with a laugh, “Alright, alright, off with you then! Wouldn't want you to miss your . . . dance lesson,” the snort he let loose was unmistakably derisive, but Yuuri pretended not to hear it.

Instead he turned with a prickly smile, calling a quick “Merci!” over his shoulder as he disappeared back into the crowd.

Yuuri gracefully wove through raging mass of the marketplace; footsteps falling as sure as any courtly choreography. However, it was obvious that his practiced footfalls were not in sync with the melody of the market; for it was not a romantic, triumphant aria, as he would have desired, but instead, a stately fugue; a chipper, repetitive thing, with elegant structures and bleeding echoes, and Yuuri could not be content to settle into the refrain.

“Bonjour!”

“Good Day!”

“How is your family?”

“Bonjour!”

“Good Day!”

“How is your wife?”

“I need six eggs!”

“That’s too expensive!”

And as Yuuri wove his way along the cobbled streets, a little voice in the back of his mind whispered once again that there must be more than this provincial life.

Venders roared all around him to be heard above the din as he maneuvered through the noisy press of people. Every so often he was forced to side-step to avoid a cart slogging its way through the masses. 

Yuuri had always been . . . odd. He had always been quieter and gentler and wittier, more creative and more curious; drawn to art and dance and literature, rather than the rougher, more vulgar pastimes of his peers. He was a dreamer; a thinker; restless and ambitious and driven and easily bored.

The Village wasn't a bad place . . . and the villagers weren't bad people per se . . .  but Yuuri didn't fit in. He didn't belong here; and he knew it.  

He passed quickly by a group of older women gossiping beneath an awning, whose eyes followed him as he moved. He stopped abruptly as a scrawny hog charged across his path; chased by a harried looking youth. Yuuri continued onward, lost in thought.

It was lucky for him, he wasn't the only oddball in town.

His tutor, Minako, who he was on his way to see now, had once been a courtier; though she wouldn't say where from, or why she had left, or why she would choose to come live here of all places. But she had instilled in Yuuri her great love of art, and had taught him much. He loved her stories from court; though they were not always the most . . . appropriate.

Minako moved through life with an air of grace, dignity, and superiority; which earned her a fair share of the town scorn. Unlike Yuuri, she didn't let it affect her; their words rolled off her like raindrops; as if they were so beneath her she couldn't even be bothered to acknowledge them. He wished he could emulate her in that regard as well.

He also had Phichit, his brother in all but blood.

A long and seemingly impossible series of events had led each of their families to this particular blot on the map; when Yuuri had no family left of his own, he had become a part of Phichit’s.

Now it was just the two of them.

Phichit was brilliant; a genius; an inventor. He liked to tinker; he liked to build things and take things apart and blow things up . . . not always in that order. Most of the people in town thought he was mad as a hatter, but Yuuri knew better. Phichit . . . his mind was just so far ahead of its time. It was a shame no one else could see it.

In fact, it had been Phichit who had crafted Yuuri’s glasses; he had gotten the idea for the design from a paper he had read about telescopes – telescopes of all things! The way his mind worked was truly remarkable.

Yuuri seamlessly ducked beneath a crate being lifted by two men, skipped over the divot in the road that still had yet to be fixed, and turned sharply to the left as the laundress pitched her soiled water over the side of the well.

He drifted by a group of young men with open vests who whistled at him as he passed; sailed by a gaggle of ladies in pink frocks who giggled behind his back.

He didn't look at any of them; still lost in his daydreaming.

Yuuri often dreamed of the future; a future where he left his small town for the big city. He could be anything in the city; a dancer, a scholar, a gentleman. He could meet new people . . . people more like him. People who liked literature and science and history. People who dreamed of more.  People who liked to dance.

He and Phichit and Minako, they could all move on together; they could rent an apartment in the city near the river . . . like the ones Minako had told them about. Phichit could tinker and attend salons and talk to people who actually understood how brilliant he was; Minako could return to the high-life she adored and missed so dearly; and Yuuri . . .  

“Bonjour!”

“Pardon!”

“Good Day!”

“Mais Oui”

“You call this bacon?”

“What lovely grapes!”

“Some cheese”

 “Ten yards”

“One pound”

“I’ll get the knife”

“This bread – ”

“Those fish – ”

“– it’s stale!”

“– they smell!”

. . . Yuuri would just have to settle for dreaming.

The reality was, none of them had the means or the connections to actually make any of that happen.

Yet.

“Someday” Yuuri would whisper to himself as he fell asleep at night; as he woke up in the morning; as he perused his hand-me-down atlas by the fire.

“Someday”

The melody of the market swelled once more; Yuuri was almost to the other side.

“Bonjour!”

“Bonjour!”

“Bonjour!”

“Bonjour!”

“Bonjour!”

Suddenly, Yuuri collided painfully with something big and red.

Make that someone big and red.

Yuuri groaned, bracing himself for the onslaught to come.

He REALLY needed to start paying attention to where he was going.

“Ah, bonjour, Yuuri,” the words rolled into the air; a sleazy sort of purr, perfectly matching the curl of the sordid smile from whence they came.

Yuuri’s words came out in a sigh, eyes dropping immediately to the cobblestones, “Bonjour . . . Monsieur Leroy”

Jean Jacques Leroy, or ‘J.J.’ as he was better known, was a hometown hero; the pride and joy of The Village. He was strong and rugged and tough. He was boyish and brash and charismatic. He was a man’s man and every inch a hunter; from his cardinal-red tailcoat to the dangerous gleam in his steely eyes. Everyone in town loved Jean Jacques Leroy; everyone that is, except Katsuki Yuuri. 

J.J. was handsome alright; and sure, he was quite a skilled hunter, but he was also rude and arrogant and conceited and obnoxious . . . and downright vile in Yuuri’s opinion. 

At J.J.’s side, as always, was his right-hand officer, Isabella Yang. A huntress herself and formidable in her own right, Isabella and JJ were nigh inseparable. From the hunt to the tavern, they were a team that would let nothing come between them; if Isabella had anything to say about it, that is.

Yuri inclined his head ever so slightly, “Good day to you as well, Mademoiselle Yang,” 

She reciprocated with a glare that spoke volumes.

Yuuri straightened, stepping back tentatively, “My apologies, I’m running rather late and I really must be – ”

He had managed to turn a full one-eighty, when a heavy hand on his shoulder spun him back around.

His stomach sank. He hung his head is resignation.

So close.

“Yuuri! Always so formal!” J.J. cajoled, slinging a heavy arm across Yuuri’s slim shoulders, “How many times have I told you to call me J.J.?”

“I’m sure I can't remember,” Yuuri replied flatly, trying to subtly free himself from the dead weight of J.J.’s now uncomfortably relaxed arm, “But like I said before, I really must be going, so – ”

J.J. ignored him, leaning in further, “You know, Yuuri, I was hoping I would see you today . . .” he began, voice strangely low.

Yuuri fought not to roll his eyes. Not this again.

For some unfathomable reason, J.J. seemed to be fixated on Yuuri. He was utterly OBSESSED with befriending him; badgering him when he was out and about, randomly showing up at his house at all hours of the day and night, plying him with tasteless gifts, inundating him with constant invitations to go hunting, to go drinking, to play cards . . . it was relentless! And the worst part was, through all of the hounding and goading and prodding and wheedling, J.J. seemed completely incapable of keeping his big oafish hands to himself. 

 So, the question was, what did J.J. want with him today?

“Is that so?” Yuuri deadpanned in response.

“Oh absolutely,” J.J. preened, taking Yuuri’s words as encouragement, instead of the scathing condemnation that they were.

Yuuri knew that he himself could be . . . well . . . unobservant at times; but if he was ‘inattentive’, then JJ was downright oblivious.

“You know, Yuuri,” J.J. pressed on, “today is your lucky day . . .”

“ . . . because you’re going to let me go now, so I’m not late meeting Minako?” Yuuri supplied hopefully.

J.J. let out a small, throaty chuckle, “Ah, Yuuri, such a tease . . .”

Yuuri recoiled.

This was new.

This was not right.

J.J. was acting strange; even for J.J.

Yuuri opened his mouth to speak, now suddenly nervous “J.J., please, just tell me what you want so I – ”

“What I WANT?” J.J. interrupted him, low and rough, “Oh, Yuuri . . .” his words trailed off into a moan.

Wait, was he – ?

Surely J.J. couldn't be implying . . .  

Oh no.

No.

No, no, no.

This was NOT happening.

 “Looks like it’s my lucky day too . . .” J.J. said at last, his voice was smooth and teasing like crushed velvet. It made Yuuri sick.

The arm around Yuuri tightened even as he tried to push away, “No! No, that’s not what I – ”

Two strong hands slithered to Yuuri’s biceps, holding his upper arms firmly, so he had nowhere to look but directly into J.J.’s tortured eyes, “Come on, Yuuri, you can't play hard-to-get forever,” he cooed, and the sound made Yuuri want to retch, “The looks, the sighs, the coy excuses; this game of cat and mouse. You can't pretend there’s nothing between us,”

What on EARTH was J.J. talking about? What LOOKS? What SIGHS? Yuuri had never been COY in his LIFE! And SURELY not to J.J. of all people!

Could he perhaps be referring to the litany of glares, groans and flat-out rejections that his constant pestering had undoubtedly produced?

Suddenly, throwing up didn't seem like a strong enough reaction.

“I’m not . . . we aren’t . . . there isn’t . . .” Yuuri’s mouth formed words that never came. Thankfully, his muscles succeeded where his elocution failed, and he managed to shove J.J. bodily away from him; both arms fully extended, palms flat to the cardinal-red tailcoat.

Isabella glowered at him; scandalized. Her eyes dripped with scorn; like he wasn't even worth the air he was breathing. Yuuri didn't care.

This . . . this joke . . . or ploy or game or . . . whatever it was . . . ended now.

He turned on his heel, storming away; all the raw fury of a tempest churning inside his lithe frame.

That must be why his hands were shaking.

Yea. That must be why.

Before he made it even three paces, J.J. had caught up with him.

He rounded on Yuuri; now trapped between J.J. and Isabella; a literal rock and a hard place.

The storm inside began to churn his stomach once again.

Maybe, if he played his cards right, he could be sick all over J.J.

“Yuuri, wait!” J.J. commanded, breathless. Yuuri didn't trust himself to speak.

The roar of the market still sang out around them.

“I know . . . I know this is so . . . big and sudden . . . but you don't have to run from this Yuuri. You don't have to run from me . . . J.J.’s here to protect you now,”

The earth ceased to rotate on its axis; time itself stopped as Yuuri struggled to comprehend the unfathomable impossibility of the statement which J.J. had just so callously uttered into existence.

“J.J. . . . I . . . I don't know how to say this,” Yuuri tried to keep his tone even, serious, pointed, “ but . . . this . . . this idea of ‘us’ . . . together, is . . . without question . . . the most ill-conceived notion I have ever heard. I’m sorry . . . there is absolutely no way – ”

J.J. stopped cold; shoulders tensing.

“I see what’s going on here . . . ” He interrupted, tone cool; his entire demeanor had changed from ‘hunter’ to ‘cornered animal’. 

Yuuri stood up straighter, as tall as he could; there was no way he was backing down.

J.J. inhaled deeply, his thick chest becoming even broader with the movement, steely eyes staring Yuuri down.

“ . . . You’re worried J.J. will lose interest . . . once the hunt is over,”

With a wink and a smirk, the cocky demeanor returned, and Yuuri’s world came crashing down once again.

J.J. stepped closer, this time placing his hands firmly on Yuuri’s waist; Yuuri braced himself, palms flat against J.J.’s chest once more as he tried to keep some semblance of distance between them.

J.J. rambled on, “ . . . but I can assure you Yuuri, it’s time for this man to settle down. Will I be leaving behind a trail of broken hearts? Of course. Will all the other fair maidens and handsome lads fly into a jealous rage when they hear of our affair? Very probably. Will they say that you are unworthy of my affections? I will not lie . . . they might. But they’re wrong . . .” J.J. finally looked down at Yuuri’s flustered face, “Listen . . . we’re a perfect match, you and I. I mean . . . YOU’RE beautiful, and of course, I’M beautiful –”

Suddenly the world shifted back into place; time resumed and the tempest stilled.

Now it all made sense.

It was just a joke.

Just a sick, stupid, joke.

Yuuri started to laugh; a shaky, fluttering thing.

“Ah . . . ha, ha . . . good one, J.J. . . .”

J.J., who had been consumed by his romantic declaration, finally quieted.

“You . . . you really had me going there!” Yuuri sputtered, his anger seeping away out his sides, like stuffing out of loose stitches.

J.J.’s eyebrows knit together slowly, “Yuuri . . . I don't . . . understand”

What a surprise. J.J didn't understand something.  Who could have seen that coming?

“Great prank,” Yuuri congratulated, making his meaning as clear as possible and taking a shaky breath in, “You too, Isabella, you REALLY had me convinced!” He craned his neck to look at Isabella, who had not moved a muscle; not even stopped glaring.

“Really, honestly . . . very funny joke guys. I really believed you . . . right up until the whole . . . ‘you’re beautiful’ . . . bit,” Yuuri proclaimed, weak smile tugging at the corner of his lips as hysteria bubbled up his throat, threatening to choke him. He patted J.J.’s chest with his right hand, a little too frantically, “You . . . you can let me go now . . . seriously, J.J. . . .”

But J.J.’s grip only tightened, tugging Yuuri closer to him.

“You think this is a joke?” He demanded, “You think I’m a clown? You think J.J. is some kind of funny-man?”

And just like that, the world stopped again.

“I . . .”

Yuuri froze along with it.

Then J.J. started laughing too; reckless and bawdy, “Of course I’m funny, Yuuri! It’s just one of my many charming qualities . . . or so I’m told!”

J.J. kept laughing, and Yuuri laughed along, strained like wet crepe paper; now completely at a loss.

The world was no longer even considering a return to its stately rotation, but rather had decided to start jumping wildly up and down, leaping madly from its orbit to take its chances out in the cold, unknown vacuum of space where it could continue to frolic about however it damn well pleased.

“I wasn't joking before, though. Not about this. Not about us,” J.J. said suddenly, voice once again low and gruff, “You’re a very beautiful man, Yuuri Katsuki . . . the most beautiful in town, I’d wager,”

Yuuri swallowed hard, “Oh . . . I’m sure that’s not true . . .”

His mind raced and still came up empty.

J.J. just grinned wider, “You’re right! But I meant ASIDE from me . . .”

“That’s not . . . what I meant . . .” Yuuri was floundering; badly.

J.J. just pressed on, as he always did, “And you know . . . I bet you’d be even more beautiful without this . . . whatever it is . . . hiding your pretty face all the time!”

J.J. reached down and plucked Yuuri’s glasses right off his nose.

Yuuri sprang up on his tip-toes reflexively, trying to reach them.

“Wait! No! J.J.! I  . . . I need those to see!” He protested.

“BUT . . . you LOOK so much better without them! Get it? I’m GREAT at jokes!” J.J. smiled proudly, handing the glasses off to Isabella, who took them from him seamlessly.

Yuuri twisted in J.J.’s grip, trying to get a better view of Isabella, who now stood off to J.J.’s right. “Haha . . .” his trifling laugh continued, “Yes . . . you’re . . . very funny J.J. . . . ” the complement tasted like ashes, “ . . . can I please have my glasses back now? I ACTUALLY can't see without them, and Phichit made them himself and – ”

“Bonjour J.J.!”

“J.J., are you coming?”

“What are you waiting for?”

A group of men was calling J.J. from the market; his hunting party maybe? Yuuri wasn't certain. Even twenty feet away, he couldn't make out their faces without his glasses.

J.J. pouted, “Ah, duty calls,” he sighed wistfully, bringing one hand up to cup Yuuri’s jaw, “But don't miss me too much, Yuuri . . . I’ll see you soon,”

It wasn't an offer . . .  it was a promise.

At long last, Yuuri was released. He dropped back flat on his feet; dumbstruck and swaying slightly. The voices of J.J. and the others began to retreat before he snapped back to his senses.

“J.J.! My glasses!” His cry was just a shade below frantic.

“Oh, right!” J.J.’s voice was far off, “Isabella! Give Yuuri his glass . . . thing . . .”

Isabella came slightly back into focus as she stepped in front of him; she stopped a couple feet short, still far enough away to be a crimson blur in Yuuri’s field of vision.

Yuuri held out his hand, palm up, arm fully extended; stiff and impatient.

He could tell she was shifting, leaning forward, arm extended, something closed in her hand . . .

Then he heard a ‘clink’ and a ‘snap’ and a ‘crunch’.

Then Isabella was walking away.

Yuuri took a deep breath and sank to his knees.

There was nothing to be done for it now. He snaked his hands out in front of him, tracing the dirt and cobblestones with his fingertips, searching for his glasses; knowing he would find nothing but shattered lenses and twisted frames.

At long last his hands closed around the wreckage; pointy bits of metal and tiny shards of glass poking into the pads of his fingers. He held the ruined glasses aloft, only to discover that the lenses had been entirely smashed out. There was nothing left to salvage.

He would have to go home and beg Phichit for new ones.

Not that Phichit would refuse, of course; but Yuuri would feel bad for wasting his time on something so trivial. He knew Phichit had much more interesting and important projects to work on.  

Not to mention he’d have to miss today’s lesson with Minako. Again, she would of course understand, but she was expecting him, and a promise was a promise.

Yuuri collected himself, stood up slowly, and brushed himself off, broken glasses carefully cradled in his palm, and slowly turned back towards the market; heading home to the small cottage on the hill outside of town.

*****

Yuuri knew Phichit’s workshop like the back of his hand.

He knew that the “workshop” was actually just an old barn they had inherited on their families’ property; large and re-purposed, with a floor of hard-packed dirt and a roof of slatted planks; rigged to open and close on a whim to let in the sun; Phichit’s design, of course. He knew that all the old stalls had been knocked down to make space; to make one big, open room. He knew that it stank of wood and smoke and varnish; just like Phichit always stank of wood and smoke and varnish. To Yuuri, it just smelled like home. 

He knew that on the North and South walls respectively were a matching pair of massive double-doors, but that Phichit had blocked off the North set entirely to make the workshop more secure. He knew that along the East wall was a makeshift forge; with an anvil and all the mismatched blacksmithing tools that Phichit had collected over the years. He knew that five large barrels of rainwater stood near the forge in case of emergency; it was the same reason that the entire perimeter of the workshop, for a good ten feet out, was ringed with nothing but shale and gravel; and packed earth for another ten feet past that; always meticulously maintained and monitored. Yuuri knew that in the Southeast corner were a lathe and an axe and a saw, next to a towering pile of assorted wooden planks and boards; beside that, an overflowing heap of scrap metal containing every broken bit of detritus known to man. He knew that the West side of the workshop was lined entirely with tables, covered from one end to the other with tools of all kinds and various bits of metal and cogs and springs and nails and screws and odds and ends; each precisely placed for greatest efficiency. He knew that the barn loft above was heavy with failed and half-finished intentions.

He knew that there were three workbenches, parallel to one another down the center of the room.

He knew the North Workbench was the most dangerous; for it was covered with all manner of paints and glues and stains and polishes and glitters, in every shade and hue and tone . . . and if one laid so much as a single careless finger on it, they would become a walking rainbow for all eternity.

He knew that the Center Workbench was Phichit’s own; the one where it all came together. The numerous bits and pieces of Phichit’s latest project lay scattered about its surface in organized chaos . . . whatever those bits and pieces happened to be at any given time. Yuuri knew better than to touch anything on that workbench, ever, under any circumstance; Firstly because it would incur Phichit’s ire, secondly because he might break or lose something, and thirdly because Phichit sometimes liked to dabble in more . . . volatile fields. Yuuri absolutely did not want to risk one of Phichit’s projects exploding on him, or dissolving, or launching, or igniting, or one of the other infinite and unpredictable reactions he had now come to expect from his brother’s creations.  

Yuuri knew that at present, the Center Workbench was fairly empty, save a few small screws with their matching screwdriver, some pliers, a cigar box of assorted lenses, and the twisted frames of his own broken glasses; the only part that was even remotely redeemable. He also knew that Phichit was currently hunched over the workbench; nimble hands flying in practiced strokes over the pieces in front of him as he swiftly rebuilt the spectacles on which Yuuri so relied.  

And finally, Yuuri knew that the South Workbench, at which he was now sitting, was intended for drawing up blueprints; for contriving, revising, and storing diagrams and charts and notes and research.

Yes, Yuuri knew Phichit’s workshop perfectly, inside and out; from the smallest spring the broadest board . . . but without his glasses, everything just looked brown.  

He traced a sullen finger over a yellowed page as Minako fumed beside him.

A small smile quirked at the edge of Yuuri’s mouth, “You know, Minako, I may not be able to see . . . but I can FEEL you scowling over there,” he teased, hoping to lighten the mood.

Minako turned to him gracefully, long dark hair spilling over her shoulder like a waterfall as she did so, “Ah-ah Yuuri,” she tutted lightly, “Ladies’ don't scowl, they seethe”

“They also destroy one-of-a-kind visual aids for fun, apparently” Phichit added with a snort, not once stilling his hands or looking up from his work.

Yuuri had told them what had happened with J.J. and Isabella; every dark, disgusting detail. Phichit and Minako were family, so of course he had; even if he hadn't been planning to, it would have been a fairly hard story to hide.

Yuuri never missed a lesson with Minako. So when an hour past their meeting time had come and gone and he still hadn't shown up, she had known something was wrong and gone looking for him. She eventually found him wandering around the marketplace all-but-blind, broken glasses in hand, casually trying to suss out whether he was in front of the barber’s or the butcher’s, in an attempt to find his way back home.

He had been doing a fine job of navigating, even while sightless, until a passing cart forced him to side-step suddenly, unwittingly turning him around, and making him lose his bearings completely. But thankfully, Minako had sought him out and brought him home, and soon Phichit would have his glasses fixed and he could put this whole horrible day behind him.

Minako heaved a deep sigh, “You know, it’s times like these when I actually miss court. At court, it’s so much easier to ruin a person,”

Yuuri rolled his eyes, “We are not ‘ruining’ Isabella,” he said firmly, trying to keep a smile out of his voice. He was glad his friends were so . . . protective of him, but Yuuri was not one for conflict. Besides, someone had to be responsible here.

“I’m just saying,” Minako protested, all long, lazy vowels, “that if we did want to ruin her, it would be easier to do at court. There, all one would have to do is slip the wrong monogrammed handkerchief into the wrong bedchamber for the wrong person to find – and voila! Ruin. I mean, how could you even try to ruin someone in a place like this? No one out here has ever even heard of a handkerchief . . .”

“Hunting Accident,” Phichit supplied helpfully, still not looking up.

“Phichit . . . we are not murdering Isabella” Yuuri objected, exasperated.

“Who said anything about murder?” Phichit countered, not missing a beat, or looking away from his work, “There are lots of things that can go wrong on a hunt . . . you could get frostbite and lose a hand . . . or get lost for a few days, go mad and start seeing things . . . or fall off your horse and break your leg . . .”

“Fall off your horse and break your back,” Minako continued.

“Fall off your horse and break your neck,” Phichit added.

“Fall into a river”

“Fall off a cliff”

“Get sick from camp food”

“Accidentally set yourself on fire”

“Accidentally shoot yourself”

“Accidentally shoot yourself, and then get an infection”

“Get stung by a swarm of bees”

“Get bitten by a snake”

“Get attacked by a bear”

“Get attacked by wolves,”

“Get attacked by birds”

“ . . . birds?” Phichit challenged incredulously, eyebrow raised, looking up for the first time.  

Minako flushed, “Yes . . . birds. Big ones. Like a hawk . . . or a falcon . . . birds are scary, Phichit!”

Phichit held his hands up in mock surrender, tiny screwdriver pinched between his finger and thumb, “Alright, attacked by birds,” he conceded.

Yuuri had to laugh, “I can't believe I have to say this . . . we are not . . . sending birds to attack Isabella! Or . . . whatever it is you two are on about!”  

Phichit sighed dramatically, like he had been wounded, “Come on, Yuuri . . . let a man have his dreams!”

Yuuri crossed his arms, “Not when those dreams are going to land you in jail,” he chided.

Phichit pouted and went back to the frames, “Well, they started it,” he muttered petulantly.

“He has a point,” Minako agreed.

Yuuri felt his nerves prickle at the back of his neck, “It’s fine . . . really . . .”

“It’s not fine,” Minako asserted, “People can’t treat you that way, Yuuri. I swear the next time I see that J.J. he’s going to get more than a piece of my mind – ”

“Ah no, Minako, please – ” Yuuri urged, “let’s not make a big deal out of it. It was just a stupid joke, I’m sure they’ll forget all about it by tomorrow,”

The workshop was silent, but for the metallic slide of Phichit’s pliers as he kneaded the warped metal of Yuuri’s frames.   

Yuuri couldn't see, but he knew Minako and Phichit were looking at one another, having a silent conversation with just their eyes. They all knew each other well enough that they could often tell what the others were thinking with a single glance.

Yuuri took a deep breath, knowing that whatever was going on, it must be something bad for his friends to fall this silent, “So, are you going to tell me?” he asked bluntly.

“Sorry, Yuuri,” Phichit apologized quietly. Yuuri was surprised at how sincere and serious he sounded.

“Yuuri . . .” Minako began; her voice was gentle and slow, like it was during their lessons, “had you considered . . . that what happened today with J.J. perhaps wasn't a joke?”

Yuuri rolled his eyes for what felt like the millionth time that day, “Of course it was a joke. Think about it . . . me . . . with J.J.? Like I would EVER even CONSIDER . . .” He swallowed hard, stamping down his disgust “Minako . . . I told you what he said . . . ‘the most beautiful man in town’ . . . that HAD to be a joke. I mean . . . spare me, right?” hurt and hysteria began to bubble in his gut once more.

Again, Yuuri was met with silence.

“Right?” he pressed a second time, a little harsher than before.

Now the answers were simultaneous.

“Well . . .”

“Actually – ”

“Oh no, not you too!” Yuuri wailed, hands flying to cover his face.

“What?” Minako challenged skeptically, “Oh, Yuuri! Don’t tell me you can't see it! I mean, you MUST hear the way people talk”

“People TALK? About ME?”

“Yes. Constantly,” Minako confided bluntly. Yuuri responded with a squeak.

Katsuki Yuuri was odd. He was a kind and decent person, but he was quiet and shy and awkward and anxious; the type of person that nobody ever looked at twice. And truth be told, that was just fine by him. He was perfectly content to go about his business, and leave others to theirs in turn. He was invisible, and he liked it that way. He liked going about his day unencumbered, uninhibited and uninterrupted; doing things in his own way and in his own time. He relished the peace and comfort and freedom that came with being invisible.  

Now, all of a sudden, he was finding out that he was not quite as invisible as he had thought.

People NOTICED him? And not only did they NOTICE him, but they TALKED ABOUT HIM too?

Minako threw her hands up, “What do you want me to say, Yuuri? You’re acting like this is a bad thing!”   

“That’s because it IS a bad thing” Yuuri hissed, “A very, Very BAD thing!”

“Oh, woe is me!” Phichit teased sarcastically, from behind his workbench, “I’m Katsuki Yuuri, and I’m the most BEAUTIFUL man in town! Everyone talks about how BEAUTIFUL I am all the time and they all want to kiss me on my mouth because I’m just so BEAUTIFUL! Oh, cruel fate!”

Minako suppressed a snicker as Yuuri went deathly pale.

“ . . . do . . . do they all really want to kiss me on my mouth?” Yuuri’s eyes were wide and unblinking, voice little more than a monotone whine.

Seeing Yuuri’s face, Minako’s countenance shifted, suddenly sympathetic, “Of course not, Yuuri. He’s only joking,” She turned to throw a warning glance at Phichit, “Right?”

Phichit nodded solemnly, “Yea, right, of course,” he confirmed, before the mischievous grin snuck back onto his face “. . . and if it makes you feel better, I for one absolutely do not want to kiss you on your mouth,”

“Phichit!” Minako admonished.

Yuuri let out a shaky laugh, “Ha . . . that . . . actually, that does make me feel better . . .”

Minako let out a long suffering sigh, “In that case, Yuuri . . . just know that I also do not want to kiss you on your mouth,”

Yuuri nodded, trying to steady himself; something inside him was moving, buzzing, bouncing up and down, smashing against his ribs and threatening to shake him apart.

People thought he was beautiful . . . and he should be flattered, he knew that. He knew he was being ridiculous, over reacting . . . but all he could think about was J.J.; his words and his hands and the sick, slimy way he made Yuuri feel. The way J.J. had said he was beautiful had made Yuuri want to crawl out of his own skin; “beautiful” . . . like he was about to be consumed. Beauty meant attention; beauty meant Yuuri wasn't invisible anymore; wasn't safe anymore. And people talked about it; talked about him. Had he ever been invisible? Had he ever been safe? All this time . . . how could he have been so stupid; so oblivious?  

He wasn't ready for this; it wasn't something he ever thought he would have to be ready for.

“So . . . J.J. . . . J.J. was serious?” Yuuri mumbled, feeling the bile rise in the back of his throat.

Minako turned an apologetic frown back to him, “We’re sorry, Yuuri . . . we . . . we honestly thought you knew . . .”

“But . . . WHY?” Yuuri wailed.

“Simple,” Phichit answered, “You’re gorgeous, and he’s shallow,”

“Phichit!” Yuuri and Minako both scolded at once.

“What? It’s the truth!” Phichit countered, “And I can either arm you with the truth so you’ll be ready when the battle comes, or I can comfort you with lies and leave you to the wolves”

Yuuri nodded. He wasn't wrong.

“But I’m . . . odd,” Yuuri objected weakly.

“And?” Phichit deadpanned, not understanding Yuuri’s point.

“I just mean . . .” Yuuri flailed, “Listen, I know I’m not . . . hideous, or anything . . . but I never thought I was . . . particularly exceptional either? I just don’t see why J.J. . . . and everyone else . . . is so interested in me. I mean there are lots of beautiful people in town, and even if I am . . . good-looking . . . I’m . . . well, let’s face it . . . I’m odd for a place like this. I’m quiet and shy and awkward . . . and I don't really talk to anyone. I don't fit in. I don’t belong here,” Yuuri’s eyes dropped to the floor.

“Yuuri,” Minako drawled, “Of course you don't belong here. None of us do. That’s a good thing. If you were the type of person who belonged here, you and I would not be friends,”

Yuuri couldn't see it, but he knew Minako was smiling at him; he lifted his head and smiled back.

She continued on, “Now, what you have to understand about these people . . . is that they don't know you. Not like we do. They don’t know you’re shy and awkward. All they see is a pretty face; a pretty face that they know nothing about. So, to the outside eye, ‘shy’ and ‘quiet’ and ‘awkward’ becomes ‘aloof’ and ‘mysterious’ and ‘unattainable’. Then, as people begin to speculate more and more about the ‘beautiful, reclusive young man’ living in their midst, they inevitably fill in the blanks as it suits them, and before you know it rumor transforms the ‘shy, but not-unattractive farm boy’ into the ‘elusive, gorgeous playboy’. And some people . . . people like J.J. . . . they . . . well . . . you can see why they would want that ‘playboy’. They like the . . . the challenge of someone ‘aloof’ and ‘mysterious’ and ‘unattainable’ . . .”

Yuuri was suddenly feeling very ill again; he was going to be sick all over the workshop floor.

“. . . and . . . I mean, you’re not just beautiful,” Phichit said softly, arms tensing as he pushed a stubborn lens into the now-solid framework of Yuuri’s new glasses.

Yuuri and Minako both swiveled their heads towards him in unison.

Phichit blushed, “I just mean . . . and remember, I’m saying this as your brother . . . you know, as a completely objective third party . . . there’s more to you than you think, Yuuri. You . . . you really are . . . beautiful. There’s a certain . . . way you move? Graceful? When you dance? And how you carry yourself?” Phichit shook his head in frustration, “Oh, I don't know how to say it . . . but, trust me, there’s a reason people talk about you, Yuuri,”

Minako smirked like the cat that got the canary, “Yes, apparently you smiled at the baker’s daughter last week. It was all anyone talked about for days,” she teased.

“What?” Yuuri snorted, “How could that possibly be of interest to anyone?”

“Because . . .” Minako answered sagely, “you never smile,”

Oh.

Yuuri groaned into his hands; this whole thing was ridiculous.

Minako and Phichit looked at one another; eyes once again alight with mischief.

“Did you see? Did you SEE? He SMILED at ME!” Phichit declared in a joking falsetto, “he’s so BEAUTIFUL and MYSTERIOUS and he SMILED at ME!”

“Oh you’re so lucky!” Minako wailed back in a similar teasing tone, pretending to fan herself as she did, “Oh, how I wish just once he would smile at ME! He’s just so BEAUTIFUL and ALOOF and UNATTAINABLE!”

Yuuri raised an exasperated eyebrow, “Oh yes . . . ” he agreed sarcastically, “ So beautiful . . . anxiety and poor vision are such attractive qualities. I want to kiss him right on his mouth,”

But Minako and Phichit were having too much fun.

“SO BEAUTIFUL!”

“SO MYSTERIOUS!”

“SUCH A PLAYBOY!”

“IF ONLY HE WOULD SMILE AT MEEE!!!”

Eventually, Yuuri could not keep up the deadpan facade, “Alright! Alright! You’ve made your point!” He exclaimed, a few traitorous chuckles rolling out as he did so.

Yuuri suspected that Phichit and Minako were looking very pleased with themselves.

“So . . . what do I do now?” Yuuri asked, cautiously.

“Umm . . . enjoy being aloof and mysterious and unattainable?” Phichit replied loftily.

“Yes . . . but in case you’ve forgotten, there’s a certain someone who is currently trying to ‘attain’ me,” Yuuri responded tightly, “and this particular ‘someone’ happens to be a temperamental hunter who owns a bow, a rifle, and a blunderbuss as well as multiple pistols, swords and knives, and assumedly knows how to use them all,”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Phichit tutted, “let’s not assume J.J. actually KNOWS how to use ANYTHING unless we have proof. Personally, I’m pretty sure Isabella still laces his boots for him and everything,”

Yuuri smiled, but the hammering in his chest did not abate, “Yea, but it’s not just J.J. . . .”

 The realization struck him like slap to the face.

“Oh no,” Yuuri breathed, “Who else is there?”

“Yuuri? What do you mean?” Minako asked, worry colouring her voice.

“You said . . . Phichit said . . . before . . . he said they ALL want to kiss me on my mouth . . . who else is there?” Yuuri’s words were fast and desperate.

Phichit’s answer was soft, “Hey, hey, Yuuri . . . it’s ok. It was just a joke, remember?”

Yuuri nodded.

Phichit smiled, clearly relieved, “Good,”

He picked up the now-finished, fully-functional glasses from his workbench, strolling over to Yuuri and placing them in his hands.  

Yuuri smiled sheepishly and slid them on, blinking as his eyes adjusted; he could now clearly see Phichit smirking at him, leaning against the workbench next to Minako, who also smiled; though there was still a shadow of concern behind her lovely eyes.

“Besides . . .” Phichit continued nonchalantly, “no one else is going to bother you. Nobody would dare cross J.J.; I mean, EVERYONE knows he wants to marry you,”

“HE WANTS TO WHAT?”

Just like that, Yuuri’s fragile reality shattered once again.

*****

Jean Jacques Leroy was a man of many talents; he was strong and swift and agile, he was powerful and popular and charismatic, he was tenacious and crafty and cunning . . . and ruthless when he had to be. J.J. never lost a fight, never came home empty-handed and was never denied anything he wanted.

And for some reason, he wanted Katsuki Yuuri.

Isabella swore she would never understand it.

J.J. was gorgeous and charming and brave; the perfect man. Anyone in town would sell their soul to be on his arm; men and women alike.

So, why Katsuki Yuuri?

Now, it was painfully obvious to anyone with a pulse, that Katsuki Yuuri was absolutely not worthy of J.J.’s affections in any way, shape or form. Isabella supposed he was attractive enough, in a quiet, bookish sort of way, but there really wasn't much else to him, in her opinion. Honestly, she thought he was really rather dull; too reserved for her liking.

It was also painfully obvious to anyone, living or otherwise, that Katsuki Yuuri was absolutely not interested in J.J. in any way, shape or form; possibly to due some unnameable malady which affected either his eyes, his brain, or his heart; or possibly all three at once, considering how insufferably obtuse he was being when it came to J.J. and said affections.

So, why Katsuki Yuuri?

No matter how Isabella tried, she couldn't figure it out; for all the time she spent tilting at that particular windmill, she always came up empty.  

Was he secretly rich? Was he long-lost royalty? Or was J.J. actually the one with the unnameable malady, and was it time for her to take him out back and put him out of his misery?

Finally, Isabella had enough. That afternoon as she and J.J. headed out on their hunt, she demanded answers; releasing a volley of a thousand questions, each like an arrow aimed to kill.

“ . . . I . . . I just don't understand!” She fumed.

She had expected J.J. to yell; expected him to pout and wail and rage and rail and argue. She had expected him to shut down; to shut her out completely. She had even expected him to scoff and remind her of her place.

Instead, he only laughed that congenial laugh of his and said, “Of course you don't understand . . . you’ve never seen him dance,”

Then he gave his horse a quick spur to the side and galloped further into the forest; leaving Isabella speechless, with no choice but to follow.

Chapter Text

It was a warm, lazy afternoon at the small cottage on the hill outside of town; hazy summer sunlight streamed in through a small window as bluebirds sang outside in the distance.

Yuuri was curled up in his cozy old chair by the small stone hearth, atlas in hand, tracing the coastline and contentedly dreaming of the sea. He may have been meant to be sweeping out said hearth, but that was neither here nor there.   

His peace was not to last, however, as the top half of the wooden door suddenly crashed open with a loud ‘bang’ that rattled the walls.  

Yuuri jumped in his chair, sending the atlas tumbling to the floor.

“Well, I’m off!” Phichit hollered from the front step, all breathless joy and ruddy smile. 

Yuuri leapt up gleefully and went to lean out over the tiny veranda, settling his arms on the bottom half of the door; a wide, eager smile alight on his face, atlas abandoned where it had fallen, “so, what have you made this time?” He asked brightly.

Every year, The Town by the Sea held a huge Summer Festival; and every year Phichit would bring a new invention to show off to the gathered masses. The Town by the Sea was not large by any means, but it was bigger than their own; and people came from all around to enjoy the festivities.

Though many had been amused by Phichit’s inventions, no one had taken a serious interest . . . yet. But someday, that would change.

Someday.

“Behold!” Phichit cried merrily, producing a light, rectangular, lacquered box which sat neatly in the palm of his hand.

Yuuri eyed it warily, “Ahh . . . impressive” he quipped.

Phichit snorted, “Alright, don’t get smart,” he returned jokingly. He then flicked a small latch on the side of the box.  

Suddenly, it unfurled before Yurri’s very eyes; solid sides folded into flexible slats as the box rolled itself out; aided by sliding cogs.

After much whirring and grinding of gears, the box at last ceased its transformation, becoming completely flat, level and rigid. There, tucked in at the corners and pinned to its smooth surface was . . .

“A letter!” Yuuri exclaimed in delight.

“Yup!” Phichit beamed, “This, oh brother of mine, is the envelope of the future! Lightweight, waterproof, and much more secure than mere wax and paper,”

Phichit smirked, and Yuuri beamed with pride. Not only did this invention actually work, it was . . . practical . . . and safe to boot; which was a dolefully rare combination to find in Phichit’s creations.

“Phichit! This is brilliant!” Yuuri cried, springing up to lean on his hands, “People are going to love it!”

Phichit blushed at the praise, “Oh . . . it’s nothing all that ground-breaking . . . I mean, it’s basically a puzzle box . . . just a bit . . . re-purposed, is all . . . ”

“It’s wonderful,” Yuuri asserted.

“Thanks,” Phichit huffed humbly, before plastering on his signature smirk “. . . In any case, it’s much better than last year’s self-digging shovel –”

“– which we will never speak of again,” Yuuri finished tightly. He smiled at Phichit. Phichit smiled back.

“So? What are you waiting for?” Yuuri wheedled with a grin, “Get out of here!”

Phichit smirked, turning quickly to leap from the small porch as he always did; flicking the switch in reverse so the box would fold back in on itself securely.

Beyond Phichit’s jubilant silhouette, Yuuri could see the vast grassy field sprawling out in front of the cottage; the peak of Phichit’s workshop visible in the distance, just where the hill started to dip. The hard-packed dirt road lay as a visible border between them, South to The Village, North to the forest and world beyond. Their bay Shire horse, Vicchan, stood by amiably, tied to a small post just outside the cottage, fully tacked and ready to go.   

Phichit suddenly stopped mid-spin, careening back around. Yuuri’s eyes widened questioningly.

“. . . You’ll remember to feed the mice?”

Yuuri softened, “Of course I will,”

They weren’t pets . . . not exactly; just the field mice who sometimes took refuge in Phichit’s workshop when the weather turned foul. Phichit had taken to leaving out seeds and breadcrumbs and bits of corn for them.

And he had named them.

There was Knut and Bolt and Cog and Spring and Screw and Widget . . . and Poppy.

“ . . . because she likes poppy seeds, obviously!” as Phichit had so emphatically proclaimed.

Yuuri knew Phichit liked the company; late at night as he poured over his latest schematics, the quiet pattering of little paws made him feel less alone as he worked. 

And if Yuuri had caught Phichit talking to them once or twice when he checked up on him in the dead of night? Well . . . no one ever need know.  

“Now get going!” Yuuri encouraged with a laugh, “Go and thrill and stun and amaze with that wonderful new envelope of yours!”    

Phichit cast a quick glance at Vicchan, who stamped an impatient hoof, but still he did not move.  

“Umm . . .” Phichit worried his lower lip between his teeth, “And are you . . . going to be alright?” He asked, trying to sound casual.

“Of course,” Yuuri blinked, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just . . .” Phichit scratched at the back of his head, “You haven’t left home in a couple days and . . . I thought, with everything going on with J.J. . . . I don’t . . . I don’t HAVE to go this year . . .”

Yuuri crossed his arms, “Phichit Chulanont, you are NOT missing that Festival, now go!” his voice was stern, but teasing.

It was true; Yuuri hadn’t been to the market in a couple days . . . but it had absolutely nothing to do with J.J.  

Absolutely nothing.

There was just so much to do around the house; that was all.

Phichit laughed, “Alright, alright!” he took a slow, easy step back, “but just so you know, when I get back I’m digging us a moat to keep the brute away for good!”

Yuuri grinned, “Sounds perfect,” he agreed, “Add some turrets with big cannons while you’re at it . . . and a portcullis with some murder-holes.”  

“Will do,” Phichit promised, “In the meantime, just carry around something shiny you can distract him with . . . or a big pointy stick”

Yuuri laughed. “Phichit, I’ll be fine,” he said firmly, “I can survive without you for three days”  

Phichit hummed in mock concern, “Hmm . . .  I don’t know Yuuri . . . you say that now, but I might return home only to find our crops withered in the field . . . our livestock sickened and dying . . .” he punctuated his dramatic narration with a raised arm.  

Yuuri narrowed his eyes, “I’m sure I can handle a vegetable garden and a half-dozen hens, Phichit,” he drawled sarcastically, “now get out of here already, or it’ll be dark before you get there! I don’t want you traveling after nightfall!”

“Alright! Alright!” Phichit laughed, dropping his arm with a thud. He quickly popped off the veranda, and drifted over to Vicchan. Yuuri smiled, shook his head and turned back inside.

“Hey, Yuuri!” Phichit called. Yuuri leaned out over the half-door once more.

“Want me to bring you back anything?” Phichit offered with a smirk.

Yuuri shook his head, “Nah, don’t worry about me” he returned with a small smile.

Phichit rolled his eyes, “Fine! I’ll surprise you then!” he hollered, as he swung up into the worn leather saddle on Vicchan’s back.  With a gentle tug on the reins he swung the large, doddering steed towards the road, casting one last glance back towards Yuuri and the Cottage they called home.

Yuuri waved as Phichit and Vicchan trotted off into the distance; he didn’t look away until they had disappeared completely into the dense copse of trees that marked the edge of Yuuri’s world.

With a melancholy sigh, Yuuri stepped back inside, closing the upper half of the door and locking the heavy iron latch; silently wishing Phichit a safe journey.

Yuuri always envied Phichit these trips; but someone had to stay behind and look after the house and garden and their small smattering of chickens.

When Yuuri was little, they all used to go to the festival together; his family and Phichit’s. Back then, there was always someone around; one set of parents would stay and look after both farms, and one set would take the kids to The Town by the Sea.

The Chulanonts and the Katsukis were lifelong friends, they owned land next to one another, and might as well have been a single family; sharing everything from tools to barns to harvests.

When Yuuri lost his sister, Mari, to a tragic accident when they were both very young, the Chulanonts had been pained just as deeply as the Katsukis; like one of their very own had been taken.

 And years later, when Yuuri lost both his parents to a sudden spreading sickness, there was no discussion or hesitation; he simply moved into Phichit’s room and the Chulanonts started setting an extra place at their table.

Now it was just Him and Phichit; the rest of the family lost over the years to age and injury and illness.

But at least they still had each other.

And so what if Yuuri couldn't go to the Summer Festival? He still had Phichit, and he still had Minako, and he still had ‘Someday’.

Truthfully, he had considered asking Minako or one of the other villagers to watch their little farm for him so he could go to the Festival with Phichit this year, but with his newly discovered ‘reputation’ he really didn't trust anyone to take care of his personal business without being too nosy; and he knew for a fact Minako would refuse; which to be honest, Yuuri could not hold against her . . . not after the ‘chicken incident’.

The one and ONLY time Minako had watched their place had been a few months prior, when Phichit had sustained a small workshop-related injury. After a short foray to the next town over, to see the only competent doctor for miles, Yuuri and Phichit had returned home to discover that one of the hens had gotten loose and somehow cornered poor Minako atop Yuuri’s favourite chair.

Apparently, all three of them, Minako included, had underestimated just how paralyzing her ‘trifling fear of birds’ truly was.

To this day she refused to say how long the sweet little fowl had her pinned up there. In response she had only huffed, stating, “I am a tutor, NOT a milkmaid!”

And that had been that.  

But she had a point, she was a tutor through and through; and quite an exceptional one at that. It was no secret that she wasn’t the most popular woman in town, but she had brought Davey Miller’s reading comprehension up from a ‘D’ to an ‘A’ . . . and miraculously convinced him to stop biting people.  

Between that and the steady stream of culture, amusement and cheer she brought to their lives, Yuuri could forgive her ineptitude and disdain for farm work. 

Yuuri sighed and looked around the small cottage; it wasn’t much, but it was home.

It was cozy, one level and all made of oak; inside it was weatherproofed and papered and painted white. The front of the cottage faced to the west, with a small porch and solid wood steps leading down to the grassy roll of the plateau on which it was built. A heavy half-door with iron cross-beams on each fraction was mounted in the very center; with unassuming, shuttered windows placed on either side, both of which were adorned with matching ironwork.

The floor plan was as simple as it was snug; an open L-shaped space wrapped around two bedrooms tucked side-by-side in the back left corner, in relation to the door. The open space in front of the bedrooms was a sitting area with a bookshelf and a small bench that doubled as a trunk, atop a small, threadbare pink rug. This stretched into the kitchen; an open area which wrapped around to the right of the bedrooms, with a grey stone hearth and chimney built into the far back wall. Just in front of it stood a plain but sturdy wooden table with two chairs, under another little shuttered window on the south wall.

Yuuri’s favourite old sitting chair, with its curling arms and its broken leg and its worn blue cushion, were tucked back into the far left corner by the hearth, in the warmest, cuddliest spot in the house. One of his favourite things in the world was to peruse the small bookshelf, pick up his atlas or another beloved old friend, and snuggle into that chair for hours on end, completely lost to the outside world.

The bookshelf had been hand-carved by Phichit’s father, a carpenter-turned-farmer, marked with notches where Yuuri and Phichit and Mari had grown over the years, and filled with Yuuri and Phichit’s most treasured books. There were tomes about all subjects, from fiction to physics; books their own mothers and fathers, and grandmothers and grandfathers had collected over the years; some of the only mementos they had left to remember them by.

In the bedrooms, they each had a little straw-filled mattress to sleep on with thick, rough, handmade blankets and soft down pillows. Yuuri had the far bedroom, so he wouldn’t be woken as easily when Phichit would creep in late after a night of tinkering. 

And though Yuuri wished he could be off to The Town by the Sea with Phichit, and though he often dreamt of running away to The City, a part of his heart would always be here; home in the small cottage on the hill outside of town.

Yuuri hummed to himself, narrowing his eyes as he scanned the small space. So much to do . . . the garden needed weeding and the mice needed feeding . . . and someone should really sweep out that hearth.

Yuuri’s eyes settled on the atlas, discarded in a careless heap on the worn plank floor. He heaved a wistful sigh and went to collect it, crossing the short distance to place it carefully on the bookshelf.

His mind settled back on the hearth; no time like the present, he supposed.  

Just then, a raucous knock on the door shook him out of his thoughts.

He laughed to himself. Was Phichit back already? What had he forgotten now? He really was going to be late.

Yuuri slid the vertical iron bolt down, locking the two halves of the door together, before heaving the whole thing open; but it was not Phichit who stood on the other side.

“J.J. . . . what . . . what are you doing here?” Yuuri gaped at the hunter who had materialized on his stoop. 

J.J. stood in the doorway, filling the entirety with his broad shoulders and red jacket, in his hand he clutched a bouquet of wildflowers.

“Yuuri! Oh, good, you’re home! Well, I . . . I hadn't seen your pretty face around the market for days, so I was concerned about you, of course!” J.J. exclaimed, eyebrows knitting together, lip sticking out in a slight pout.

Yuuri took a step back. This was . . . different, for J.J.. It was almost . . . sincere. Almost . . . kind. Almost . . . human.

Almost.

“I’m fine, J.J., Thank you,” Yuuri said flatly.

His heart was starting to hammer; he should have begged Phichit to dig the moat before he left.

“So . . .” J.J. offered forward the flowers, “can I come in?” his grin quirked up at the corners.

“Uh . . .” Yuuri scrambled for an excuse, coming up completely empty.

“NO!” his mind screamed, “NO, NO, NO! DOOR CLOSE! J.J. OUT! DO NOW!”

But somehow, his words and body would not comply.

Despite knowing J.J., despite knowing what type of person he was and knowing exactly what he wanted, Yuuri somehow couldn't justify the ‘NO’ desperately trying to break free.

J.J. was being nice; behaving. That meant Yuuri had to be nice too, right? Be polite and say yes and behave? His insides short-circuited. He didn't know how to play this game. He didn't know the steps to this particular dance; didn't know how or when it would end, wanting nothing more than to gracefully bow out and leave the ballroom entirely.

This would be so much easier if J.J. could just be his usual rude self! If J.J. could be rude, then Yuuri could be rude too; be rude and say no and toss him out and lock the door.

Yuuri frantically searched the knots in the wooden floorboards beneath his feet for answers, when a simple sound caught his attention; a bluebird whistling in the distance, subtle and serene. Yuuri lifted his head. Suddenly something clicked; he knew exactly what to do.

He would be neither rude nor polite; he would be enigmatic instead; like when he tried to emulate Minako, like a lady at court, like the “Playboy” he supposedly was.

Instead of ‘awkward farm boy Katsuki Yuuri’ fumbling for a way to evade J.J. for another day, ‘unattainable Playboy Katsuki Yuuri’ would end this nonsense once and for all; he would prove to  J.J. that there was nothing for him here, show him that this would only end badly for them both, and convince him to turn his attentions elsewhere.   

He just prayed that it would work.

Yuuri straightened, finding his perfect posture; neck long, chin raised, hips tucked, one long line from his head to his toes; graceful and poised, just as Minako had taught him.

“What ever for, J.J.?” Yuuri drawled, letting boredom colour his tone.

Now it was J.J.’s turn to scramble, “Well . . . I thought . . . we could . . . talk . . .”

“Is that so? Truth be told, I’d never marked you as a conversationalist,” Yuuri said airily. There was no condescension or malice in his voice, no flirtatiousness, or teasing. It was as if he was remarking how he’d just noticed the vibrant red of J.J.’s jacket.

“You never marked me as a lot of things . . .” J.J. said lasciviously, and Yuuri had to give him points for trying.

“And what, pray tell, would we talk about?” Yuuri’s gaze became a little sharper; not unfriendly yet, but definitely warning.

“How about us,” J.J. suggested immediately.

Yuuri’s eyes brightened; J.J. had walked right into his trap.

“Yes . . . us . . .” Yuuri said slowly, as if he were actually thinking about it, “us . . . and the multitude of things we have in common?” His words were simple, patient, and gentle; like Minako with a difficult student, trying to lead them towards an answer on their own.   

That actually seemed to give J.J. pause; the hunter’s eye’s narrowed in thought. Yuuri saw his opening and took it.

“Au revoir, J.J.” He said firmly, as he began to shut the door.  

But the door didn't close; instead it rebounded off the toe of a shiny black leather boot.

“Yuuri! Wait!” J.J. protested, as he pushed inside the cottage.

Yuuri turned, running a tense, aggravated hand through his hair in frustration, “Or just come right on in!” he muttered sarcastically, under his breath. J.J. looked like he was about to speak. Yuuri caught himself quickly, assuming the ‘Playboy’ persona once more. He crossed his arms, tossed his head, and turned his back to the hunter, looking out the south window instead. It was late into the afternoon; he could see the shadows getting longer in the distance.

“Yuuri, please, just hear me out!” J.J. cried. Contrary to his choice of verbiage, it was not in fact a plea, but a command.

Yuuri slowly looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. His head was the only part of his body that moved; the rest of him remained perfectly poised; heels together, posture perfect. His ephemeral confidence was still entirely dependent on the smooth lines and sharp angles of his elegant masquerade. In fact, even more so now, since he no longer had the large wooden door to shield him.

J.J. looked like a man obsessed, his arms were outstretched, eyes wide and imploring. Yuuri was slightly taken aback, thinking with a grimace that J.J. might actually sink to his knees at any second.

“Yuuri,” J.J. gasped, “Yuuri, can't you see I’m mad about you?” He gesticulated wildly as he spoke, shaking the wildflowers and sending their petals fluttering to the dusty floor. 

Yuuri languidly turned on his heel to face J.J., the very picture of grace, “Yes, J.J. . . .” Yuuri answered calmly, fueled by his ersatz courage, “believe me, I’m keenly aware of your . . . intentions,” something ugly fluttered in Yuuri’s chest. He smothered it immediately, taking a deep breath before continuing; he couldn’t let himself fall apart now. When at last he spoke, his voice was patient; even and measured “However, the detail which seems to be escaping me is . . . why?”  

J.J. guffawed, “Oh Yuuri, don't be so modest –”

Yuuri held up a finger to indicate silence; for once, he was the one interrupting J.J.

“You misunderstand,” he said firmly; tone brokering no argument, “I’m not asking which of my qualities has you so enamoured of me. I’m asking you to justify . . . this . . . as a sensible match,”

“Who ever said love was sensible?” J.J. replied passionately.

Yuuri’s eyes widened an imperceptible fraction.

Love? LOVE? Since when did J.J. bandy about words like ‘love’?

This was going to be trickier than Yuuri thought.

It would require delicacy; tact.

Yuuri could be tactful.

Well, ‘Playboy Yuuri’ could be tactful.

Hopefully.

Yuuri rested his fingertips demurely on his chin and heaved a deep, dramatic sigh, as if he were actually torn about what he had to say next, “Oh, J.J.” He said gently, “we just have so little in common. We don’t have the same interests, or the same friends, or the same desires for the future. This . . . just won’t work. It can't. We could never make one another happy . . . and I’m sure, somewhere deep down inside, you know that, don't you?”

Yuuri looked at J.J. hopefully.

J.J. looked to the flowers in his hands.

When he looked back up at Yuuri his eyes had narrowed.

“I could make you happy, Yuuri,” he declared; Yuuri’s point soaring right over his head, an arrow taken by the breeze. He stepped closer.

“I’m the greatest marksman this town has ever seen,” J.J. boasted, “I bring in enough meat and furs to keep The Village stocked twice over, with extra to trade. My house is two stories and made of stone, my family owns the largest plot of land for miles around. My own coffers are overflowing, and I have enough sway in this town to get you anything your heart desires . . . anything, Yuuri, just name it and it’s yours,” J.J.’s words were speeding up, tripping over one another and starting to tumble together as he pressed on, “. . . and once we’re married we’ll have so much more time to get to know each other, since you won’t be stuck all the way out here anymore. Every morning you can see me off on my hunt, and then spend the day however you please . . . just one of the perks of having such a wealthy husband, Yuuri . . . and every evening you can welcome me home, and join me and Isabella at the tavern, and we’ll tell you all our best stories and enjoy the finest wines . . . and I’ll give you everything you’ve ever wanted . . . and you can keep dancing . . . I won’t make you stop or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about,” J.J. finished with a casual wave of his hand.

J.J.’s word vomit sluiced out his mouth in a grotesque, chunky stream and gushed across the floor to pool in a fetid, seeping puddle at Yuuri’s feet. Yuuri suppressed a gag; as if he were standing in actual vomit.

“J.J.,” Yuuri began, tone weary, “I really don't think you understand –” he was once again cut off by J.J. who, as usual, made a habit of interrupting.

“I . . . I actually . . . would prefer if you kept dancing, to be honest” J.J. admitted, softer than before. There was something vulnerable in his tone, something sensitive, “Seeing you dance . . . it’s what made me fall for you in the first place . . .”

Yuuri scrutinized J.J. carefully, searching for any trace of a trap; but he couldn't find one, all he could detect was a faint scarlet hue tinting the tips of J.J.’s ears.

Was J.J. . . . blushing?

No. That was impossible.

But there it was, a ruddy little flush peeking out through those spiky dark locks; and for just a moment; one fragile, fleeting moment, Yuuri looked at J.J. not as a rival, or an annoyance, or an antagonistic suitor, but as the shy, brash little boy that he was, and Yuuri felt a tiny pang of sympathy for the poor misguided lout.

However, it didn't change the fact that Yuuri just did not love him back.

Yes, though it seemed that appearances had been deceiving when it came to J.J., one small revelation could not change how Yuuri felt. That’s not how these things worked. 

Yuuri had been very clear about where he stood on the matter. He had already said ‘No’ to J.J. enough times. He couldn't just pretend he had feelings for the man, even if he had wanted to. He couldn't sacrifice his own happiness for the sake of some else’s. He couldn't throw his dreams away to live a lie that would only hurt them both.

This new discovery also didn't remedy J.J.’s other shortcomings; didn't make up for the other injuries and offenses; didn't forgive the fact that the man was incapable of respecting Yuuri’s boundaries, keeping his hands to himself or taking ‘no’ for an answer.

Then a shiver ran up Yuuri’s spine as he came to yet another realization.

Yuuri’s eyes locked on to J.J.’s, sharp and demanding “J.J. . . . When have you ever seen me dance?”

Yuuri never danced in public; not at the tavern, or in the town square, or at any ceremonies or special occasions.

The dancing in and of itself he could handle, and even very much enjoy; the drunken townsfolk and waterfalls of wine and ale which came part and parcel with such things . . . not so much.

Yuuri didn't like the thought of some handsy, hammered villager groping him during a jig . . . not to mention the fact that he himself had a tendency to go off the rails when he drank; a trait he came by honestly, thanks to his father.

Though he would have loved to share his passion for dance with the villagers, a few disastrous misadventures had soured him to the idea, so these days he tended to avoid such things altogether.

Yuuri adored dance, he adored the challenge and the skill and the artistry of it, the way it made him feel like he was flying, like his very body was being transformed by the music as he moved; every single facet of it inspired him, drove him, changed him, broke him in the most beautiful ways and built him back up again better than he was before.

He loved all kinds of dance; especially ballet, theatrical dance, and the more courtly dances he would practice with Minako; Allemandes, Gavottes, Minuets and the like. 

No one really understood that though; no one except Minako anyway. In town, dancing was just something you did while you drank; and that was fine, that was fun even, but that just wasn't for him.

And so, Yuuri never danced in public.

And so, it was strange for J.J. to confess that Yuuri’s dancing was what had stolen his heart.

Very strange indeed.

J.J. grinned from ear to ear.

“There’s a grove of trees just north of here . . . one of my hunting trails runs behind this little clearing there . . .”

Yuuri’s insides turned to ice. He straightened his back stiffly, lifting his chin just a little higher, leaning heavily on his poise to protect him once more.

He knew the clearing of which J.J. spoke. It was just out behind the cottage, a little ways away; a clearing where Yuuri would go to chop wood . . . where he could be alone to practice his dancing.

The hunting trail was new information to him.  

He had never seen J.J. there before, even with the garish red blazer he always wore; but Yuuri supposed that being a skilled hunter had its advantages.

Advantages like remaining hidden when it suited one’s needs; however unscrupulous those needs may be.

Now, the only question was . . . how long had J.J. been watching him for?

Yuuri blinked slowly, “I see . . .”

J.J. took another step towards Yuuri.

“I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my entire life,” J.J. confessed quietly, now nearly chest to chest with Yuuri.

Yuuri lifted his eyes to meet J.J.’s, unflinching.

One more chance. One more hail-Mary pass.

“J.J. . . . Do you like dance?” He asked evenly.

“. . . I like it when you dance,” J.J. replied, his wolfish smile all the answer Yuuri needed.

“. . . That is . . . as I suspected,” Yuuri replied faintly, once more cloaking himself heavily in his Playboy facade. He stepped back from J.J., smoothly dipping around him, and moving to the bookshelf, pretending to be fascinated with something he found there; hoping that the physical distance would ease the tension, or at least help J.J. take a hint.

J.J. spun to face him, following the trail of his turn, “What do you want from me, Yuuri?” he exclaimed, depositing the flowers harshly on the table, “What more can I do, what have I not already done? Am I not successful enough for you? Rich enough? Handsome enough? I brought you flowers, I’ve told you over and over how beautiful you are, promised to do whatever it takes to make you happy, offered you everything I have . . . so what more do you want?” His tone was getting fevered; measured for the moment, but right on the edge of breaking, “Yuuri . . . I’ll . . . I’ll do anything . . . I love you. Why can't you see that I love you?”

Yuuri turned his head pointedly; J.J.’s face was pained, but there was anger behind his eyes.

“Because you don’t” Yuuri replied sharply; still graceful, but now with a focus; with an edge that could cut the very light and make it glare.  

“Yuuri . . .” J.J. objected, a growl edging into his voice.

“Earlier,” Yuuri returned icily, “in that ‘perfect future’ you were envisioning for us . . . where was Phichit? Where was Minako? Planning out a life for us that excludes my family? That doesn't strike me as a particularly loving thing to do, J.J. . . . and that’s only the beginning; you assumed my affections could be bought with coin and status and fancy gifts. You decided, unilaterally, that you would take me away from here, from my home, which I love, so that I could come live with you in town, where I would spend the entirety of my days alone while you went out and did as you pleased, only to come and collect me whenever it suited you and your needs, essentially reducing me to nothing more than a particularly lively accessory. Furthermore, whether you realize it or not, you implicitly stated that your permission was imperative to my continued pursuit of dance, and I can say with absolute conviction that no suggestion has ever infuriated me more in my life . . . and to top it all off . . . this entire time you’ve treated this . . . us . . . this horrible, horrible future . . .  this marriage . . . like an inevitability . . . like it’s going to happen . . . like it’s already happened . . . when not only have I not agreed to marry you . . . you haven’t even asked me to marry you. You haven’t even courted me properly. You haven’t even befriended me properly,”

J.J. glared furiously at the wall behind Yuuri’s head.

Yuuri pressed on, emboldened by J.J.’s silence, “You don't respect me. You don't listen to me. You don't know anything about me,”

“That’s not true,” J.J. objected through gritted teeth; fists clenched by his sides, trying to remain calm.

Yuuri quirked an eyebrow, “Oh? Is that so?” He asked lightly; folding his arms and leaning sideways against the bookshelf. It felt strange to be like this; Yuuri, cocky and unflappable, J.J. a flustered mess.

“Well then . . .” Yuuri prompted, “What colour are my eyes? What’s my favourite food? Where did I get my atlas?”

J.J. said nothing; just glared at the wall, the bookshelf, the floor.

“Who’s older, me or Phichit? What was the first dance Minako ever taught me?”

Still nothing.

“What’s my sister’s name?”

J.J. finally looked up. Yuuri was still staring him down, eyebrow raised,

“. . . I thought . . . didn't your sister . . . isn’t she . . ?” J.J. fumbled quietly.

“She still has a name,” Yuuri replied flatly.

J.J. didn't answer right away; the small cottage went silent. A small breeze rippled through, tugging at Yuuri’s bangs. He glanced past J.J., out the south window. The heat of the summer sun turned the horizon into wet, rolling waves; blurry and mesmerizing. It was practically evening now.

“ . . . and you don't know what it is,” Yuuri finished somberly, looking back at the defeated hunter in the cardinal-red tailcoat.

J.J. slumped; his mouth twitched over words that didn't come, searching for what to say.

“Now do you understand, J.J.?” Yuuri asked firmly, less ‘Playboy Yuuri’ and more ‘Yuuri Yuuri’, “How can you claim to love someone you know nothing about? The Villagers . . . I know what they say about me. I know how people talk, but . . . I’m not who they think I am . . . I’m not who you think I am. I’m not some ‘playboy’ . . . I’m just a person . . . a person that nobody actually knows . . . because no one has ever really bothered to talk to me . . . or listen to me, for that matter.”

J.J. grit his teeth once again, “But the way I feel is real, I know it – ”  

“It’s not love,” Yuuri countered coldly, impatience cracking his elegant mask, “call it whatever you want, call it infatuation or admiration or desire or obsession . . . but it’s not love. You don't love me, J.J.”

“Then I’ll do it right,” J.J. vowed, determination radiating from him as his eyes gleamed and his fists uncurled.

Suddenly Yuuri felt like he had made a very big mistake.

His eyebrows creased with worry, “do what right?” he demanded.

“This love thing. I’ll do it right,” the predatory smirk was back on J.J.’s face, the swagger back in his step, the devil back in his eyes.

Yuuri’s throat went dry.

J.J. tilted his head, “I’m going to learn everything there is to know about Yuuri Katsuki,” he declared, “and I’m going to come back here and ask you to marry me every day for the rest of our lives . . . until you finally say yes. I’m not giving up on us, Yuuri . . . and one day we’re going to have our happily ever after,”

Yuuri shivered; why did sweet nothings always sound like threats when they fell from J.J.’s lips?

With a wink, J.J. turned and vanished out the door; off to set his grand new scheme to woo Katsuki Yuuri into motion.

The cottage shook as the door slammed shut behind him. Yuuri shuffled over to it numbly; sliding the massive iron latch firmly into place and locking it with trembling hands.

He pressed his back to the heavy oak door and slowly slid down to the floor, burying his head in his hands, as fluttering dry sobs began to wrack his body.

Damn that oblivious bastard Jean Jacques Leroy and his relentless bloody pursuit; and damn that cocky Playboy Yuuri Katsuki and his big stupid mouth.

Maybe he could hide out with Minako until Phichit came home and got to work on those fortifications; though at this point, Yuuri doubted if even an army could stop J.J.

Yuuri let out a wail that echoed through the little oak house; head tipping back and banging against the thick timber supporting his miserable, shaking frame.   

What was he supposed to do now?

*****

“I don't understand, Vicchan . . . we should be there by now . . .” Phichit muttered bitterly, as they plowed roughly through the dense undergrowth of the Northern Forest.

The sun had long since disappeared over the horizon. In its place, the waxing moon hung swollen in the sky; the thick cover of tree branches criss-crossing over it like crooked cobwebs.

Phichit fumbled clumsily in the saddle as he tried to read his map and continue navigating in the darkness.

His only other source of light: a small lantern of his own design.

While similar in all regards to most normal lanterns, Phichit’s had three stark differences. First, it was half the size, which meant half the brightness and half the duration, since he could only accommodate half as much fuel. Second, rather than hanging by an iron loop, his was mounted on a handle, like a candelabrum, or a torch. Third, his lantern did not allow for light to be emitted on all sides, but instead, all except for one of the sides had been blacked out; so the lantern projected only a single, concentrated beam of light.

This new design had worked wonders in and around the workshop; it was perfect for reading, and looking under tables for missing screws and for delicate tasks where even the slightest shadows were a hindrance. It was durable and maneuverable and highly specialized, and Phichit considered it one of his greatest successes.

Unfortunately, while it was an inventor’s best friend, and currently provided adequate illumination for deciphering the map in front of him, the small, super-focused beam did nothing to dispel the pressing blackness of the forest, and Phichit could barely see the path in front of them . . . if there even was a path in front of them anymore, that is.

“Not one word about this to Yuuri, got it, Vicchan?” Phichit warned; jolting as the map stared to slide from his lap.

Vicchan snorted and tossed his head, tugging the reins hard out of Phichit’s inattentive hand.  

“I know, I know . . .” Phichit soothed, taking a deep breath and gathering the reins back up, “but he has enough on his mind, we don't need to start in with the horror stories the second we get home,” with one hand, he slid soft, gentle strokes down Vicchan’s neck as he spoke, “and besides, I don't need to give him another opportunity to say, ‘I told you so’ . . .”

Phichit’s weak, hollow laughter rang out through the dark, abandoned trees.

They continued forward through the eerie stillness, with nothing but the rhythmic ‘swish-thud, swish-thud, swish-thud’, of Vicchan’s bulky, plodding hooves to keep them company.

Phichit tried to focus on the map, but time and again the forest drew his eye back to its inky, nebulous maw; filling his mind with all manner of terrifying and grisly fates, each more gruesome than the last.

Phichit swallowed hard and directed his attention back to the map once more; infinitely remorseful about his callous attitude towards hunting accidents.

Suddenly Vicchan stopped his steady gate. He was agitated; shifting his weight from side to side, stamping his front hoof, and pawing at the ground with it.

“Woah . . . Vicchan . . . Vicchan” Phichit cooed, trying to calm his steed while steadying both his belongings and his nerves, “what is it boy . . . what’s – ”

“AWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO”

The howl pieced the night like shattering glass.

Phichit never saw the wolves; just heard the baleful cry and Vicchan’s replying whinny, before the world fell away beneath him.

His stomach dropped as the massive Shire horse popped back once, then rose jarringly off his front hooves; rearing violently, before bolting into the dense, black abyss.

It was all Phichit could do to wrap his arms around Vicchan’s neck and hold on for dear life; dropping the reins, the map and the lantern as he did so.

Vicchan raced through the foliage at breakneck speeds, Phichit clinging to the bay steed with all his might; hounded by an invisible enemy, perused by nothing but the sounds of claws in dirt and snapping jaws and snarling chops.

As long as the foes remained unseen, they were safe; if they could outrun, outmaneuver, outlast, then they still had a fighting chance . . . but if the sounds became sights and the barks became bites . . . if they lost their stamina or their advantage or their footing . . . if the enemy managed to gain enough that they saw the whites of their eyes and the flash of their fangs . . . then they would be done for. 

Branches whipped at Phichit’s face and arms as Vicchan crashed fiercely through the underbrush; his thighs were starting to ache terribly, and the stallion was showing no signs of slowing.  

They were way off course now, careening blindly through the shadowy thickets and thorns.

Of all the ways Phichit had ever imagined he might die, this was definitely the worst.

A symphony of adrenaline sang through his veins, urging him to hang on just a bit longer.

Then everything shifted abruptly to the right.

Then everything was a blur.

Then everything was upside down.

Then everything hurt.

Then everything was still.

Then everything was cold.

Phichit’s limbs felt like they had all been pulled from their sockets; he felt like a rag-doll, like a marionette with cut strings. Something sharp dug into his back.

It took him a moment more to register that he was no longer on Vicchan’s back; he was on his own back, on the ground, in the forest, in the dirt.

He couldn't move, he could barely breathe.

He could still hear though. He could hear everything; the howling, the whinnying, the snarling, the braying, the gnashing, the stamping, the whimpering, the squealing.

Phichit struggled to roll to his side, seeing the last vestiges of the fight as Vicchan kicked at the closest wolves, raining heavy hooves down over their silky heads and they slithered in between his sturdy legs. The shire bore his teeth, snapping at a daring interloper who tried to go for his flank, before rounding on another scrawny grey nipping at his heels. He finally caught one with a firm back-kick, sending the shadowy canine sprawling on the forest floor a fair distance away.

The ominous pack hesitated for only a moment, but it gave Vicchan the perfect opportunity to flee.

Phichit watched helplessly as the stallion was swallowed by darkness.

The pack resumed the chase immediately, stalking their prey back into the tangle of gloom.

Phichit struggled to sit up slowly; as he rose, bits of lacquer dropped to the forest floor beneath him.

He had fallen on his new invention, his envelope, crushing it in his traveling cloak.

Oh well, at least he was alive.

For now.

He was lost in the middle of the woods, in the middle of the night, with no food, water or supplies, no map, no light, no horse, no money and no idea where he was.

Luckily, he hadn't been too badly injured when he had been thrown from Vicchan. His head hurt and everything was sore, especially his back where he had landed on the envelope box; but nothing felt broken, and he wasn't bleeding . . . so at least there was that.

Phichit gazed into the darkness of the forest, and his heart ached for poor Vicchan; he loved animals, especially his own. Vicchan was family; if anything happened to him . . . Phichit would be inconsolable.

Phichit scrubbed roughly at his eyes, pushing back tears he knew would try to come. He didn't have time for that; Vicchan was a good horse, he was smart and strong and he would find his way home.

Phichit however . . .

A low growl from the bushes interrupted his train of thought.

Phichit slowly turned his head towards the noise.

Apparently not all the wolves were after Vicchan.

One had been left behind.    

A scrawny grey wolf with white v-shaped markings on its forehead bared it’s fangs at Phichit; sloppy strings of saliva dripping from its jowls.

It was the one that had been kicked. It hadn't gotten up in time to join the others; now it was just him and Phichit.

Phichit looked around for something, anything to defend himself . . .

His hand slowly closed around the little shards of lacquer. Not good. Better than nothing.

The wolf lunged; Phichit scrambled to his feet, sliding on the dirt. The wolf yapped gruffly and gnashed its teeth as it closed in; Phichit let loose his fist full of shrapnel.

He struck the wolf in the eyes, and it bayed piteously; Phichit ran for it.  

The wind whipped past his face as he sprinted through the foliage, desperately searching for higher ground; a tall rock, a sturdy branch, anything to put some distance between himself and the carnivore.

As he ran, the breeze blew colder; he shivered, and his fingers started to go numb. His feet slid as the dirt turned to snow under his shoes. He grasped blindly for a solid limb to haul himself up on, but his frozen digits slid on icy, frost-covered branches.

“Frost . . . in summer?” Phichit gasped. His breath became visible as he panted into the air.

All around him, the woods had been inexplicably plunged into winter; the moonlight glinted lazily off dainty icicles, shining like diamonds in the chilly air. Virgin snowdrifts glittered on either side of the slick, vacant path. The world was cast entirely in hues of blue and white and black; everything dark and cold and dazzling.

Suddenly, Phichit heard the dreaded snarling once again and knew the wolf was gaining; he dashed towards a promising maple tree, hoping the lowest limb was within his reach; praying he would find purchase on its frosty trunk.

As he barreled towards his sanctuary, the winter beauty betrayed him.

His feet slid on the icy path beneath and in his moment of vulnerability, the wolf found his opening.

Sharp teeth sank into Phichit’s right calf, an unrelenting vice, splashing crimson onto the canvas of blues.

Phichit’s screams tore the night asunder.

The wolf tugged backwards, dragging Phichit on his belly; snow riding up under his shirt and cloak as it did.

He fought to free himself from the wolf’s grasp, but the pain was searing, hot like a brand, and any resistance only intensified the agony.

“HELP!”

Phichit shrieked and screeched and wailed, his instinctive cries of anguish piercing the night.

“PLEASE! SOMEONE! HELP! FOR MERCY’S SAKE HELP ME!”

Maybe it was the shock . . . maybe it was the exhaustion or the cold; but something was starting to make Phichit go completely numb . . . dulling his senses . . . shutting him down from the outside in.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

. . . and it hurt . . .

. . . hurt so bad . . .

Now there was nothing to do but to let the numbness take him.

Tears filled his eyes, but his chest hurt too much to cry.

“ . . . ‘m sorry . . . Yuuri . . .”

Then:

The world became quiet; the wind calmed and the wolf ceased its antagonistic growling.

The world became motionless; the wolf stopped tugging at Phichit’s leg, though its fangs were still sunk firmly into flesh.

Phichit’s heart fluttered; terrified, but without the strength to hammer a staccato beat against his ribs.

In the silence and the stillness of the bizarre winter woods a faint chime began to sound; a discordant melody danced just at the edge of what Phichit could hear; haunting and ethereal and melancholy.

Without warning the wolf roughly released Phichit’s leg. Phichit let out a pained gasp, weakly looking over his shoulder to see what was happening.

The wolf was whimpering, backing away with its tail between its legs.

Suddenly, a tiny whirlwind formed on top of a nearby snow bank, gathering up a little heap of white fluff into a snowball. Then the gust of wind launched its snowball at the wolf; hitting it right on the nose.

The wolf yelped, turned-tail and skittered away; sliding on the ice as it went.

A barrage of animated snowballs followed it out; hitting it smartly on the rear repeatedly for good measure.

Phichit’s mind whirled; and though he was relieved he was no longer being torn to shreds by a wild animal, he wasn't entirely certain he was in any state to handle . . . whatever this was.

His calf was gouged; there was no way he could walk, he couldn’t even stand if he wanted to.

He couldn't think straight, he was still going to die out here.

Yes, apparently he was going to freeze to death in a “magic forest”.

What a way to go.

A flash of movement caught his eye; he rolled over onto his back painfully to get a better view.

Massive, spear-like icicles were rising up from the ground behind him, blocking the path from which he came; the one down which the wolf had just retreated. The icicles rose up twelve feet into the air, and once they reached their full extension, began to bloom cross-guards, connecting themselves to one another, becoming a thick, impenetrable ice-gate.

To the sides of the gate, through the forest, along the border of the winter world, a wall began to build up ever so delicately, like spreading frost; and as it spread, it became more solid, turning into a thick sheet of solid ice; permanently penning him inside.

Phichit’s eyes became wide and his jaw hung slack.

This was not good.

Phichit remained so entranced by the marvel in front of him; he did not hear the near-silent sound of approaching footsteps.

A voice rang out behind him, low and smooth and richly accented, crisp and clear in the frosty air of the enchanted winter night.

“O bozhe . . . what do we have here?”

*****

“Ah!”

Yuuri hissed and yanked his hand into the air; far away from the stubborn thistle he had been trying to dislodge from his peas in vain. It was all tangled in with the delicate shoots and vines, and both his hands were covered in tiny little nicks and scratches from the previously failed attempts at removal. He’d been at it since dawn.

“Ughhh . . . I can’t believe I’m being thwarted by a flower,” Yuuri grumbled in frustration.

He glared venomously at the smug little prick.

Maybe Phichit had something in his workshop that would help . . . a small trowel, or some pliers or some scissors . . .

Or, you know . . . gloves.

Yuuri rolled his eyes, chastising himself for his own impatient carelessness, when a loud whinny and a raucous thundering of hooves made him snap to attention.

Vicchan burst through the underbrush at the northeastern edge of the field; nowhere near the road into the forest at northern most point of the property.

Yuuri jumped, falling back onto his heels in a daze as he watched Vicchan plow towards the paddock on the west side of the farm near the workshop; careening past the vegetable garden where Yuuri sat, heading straight for the gate that Phichit had lazily left open and not stopping until he reached the rain barrel outside the small stable.

Yuuri’s heart thundered like the horse’s hooves.

Vicchan shouldn’t be back; not HERE, not YET and not ALONE.

Yuuri scrambled to his feet, thistle forgotten, and raced towards the Shire horse. He vaulted the paddock fence in one swift motion, coming to rest beside the heaving steed, taking extra care to approach from the side, so as not to startle him.

Vicchan was guzzling water like his life depended on it; like he had been running all night.  

Yuuri stamped down his panic, reaching out gently to pat Vicchan’s neck; it was flushed and damp with sweat. He looked over the bay horse carefully; Vicchan seemed tired, but there were no injuries or gashes, he wasn't acting aggressively and he hadn't been limping. The saddle was slightly askew and by now the bit would be bothering him, but . . . whatever had happened out there, Vicchan had at least made it back safe and sound.

“Good boy . . . good boy Vicchan . . .” He cooed, his quivering voice betraying how fearful he felt, “. . . where’s Phichit, boy? Where is he? What happened, Vicchan?” tears brimmed in Yuuri’s eyes as his whole body started to shake.

No . . . please . . . please, mercy, no . . . not Phichit . . . he couldn't . . . he couldn't . . .

Vicchan snorted softly, pushing Yuuri gently in the chest with his soaking muzzle.

The slight force unbalanced Yuuri, turning him towards the forest.

“He’s still in there?” Yuuri’s words came out weak and watery.

 Vicchan tossed his head, shaking out his mane, then turned and brushed past Yuuri, walking back in the direction of the woods; nudging him as he went.

The shire made it almost all the way back to the paddock gate, but stopped short when he realized Yuuri wasn't following him. He turned around, snorted and stamped his hoof impatiently. When Yuuri still didn't snap out of his anxious stupor, the stallion doubled back and flicked the poor boy in the face with his tail.

Yuuri sputtered, then reached out for the saddle; his shaking hands were still practiced enough to quickly re-adjust the saddle blanket and re-tighten the girth for safety and comfort.

He was going to owe Vicchan big time.

“Good boy . . . good boy, Vicchan,” the words fell from Yuuri’s lips over and over; repeating them like a prayer that would hold everything together.

Five minutes . . . he needed five minutes.

He sprinted from the paddock, shutting the gate tightly; giving Vicchan time to graze and drink while he grabbed some essentials; food and water of his own, a lantern, a cloak, bandages, anything and everything he could think to bring. He stuffed it all in a sack, whipped it over his shoulder and hurried out the cottage door.

He flung open the paddock gate wide and mounted Vicchan quickly, gathering up the reins and signalling Vicchan to go.

The Shire bolted for the tree-line immediately, but Yuuri tugged him the other way when a flash of inspiration hit.

“One stop first, Vicchan, just trust me!” Yuri pleaded.

Vicchan acquiesced and they turned, racing back towards The Village.

They flew through the marketplace dangerously; speeding past people and carts and dollies and crates and livestock without a care.

At last Yuuri was pulling Vicchan to a halt in front of Minako’s door. He tumbled clumsily from the saddle, hauling Vicchan behind him.

The thunder he brought down upon her door could have put a Storm God to shame.

“MINAKO!” He was certain his screams could be heard clear across town, “MINAKO, MINAKO!”

Finally, the door opened to reveal a very displeased looking tutor, still in her sleeping-gown, long waterfall of dark hair in a messy knot on the top of her head.

“Yuuri, do you have any idea what time – ”

“Something happened to Phichit,” Yuuri interrupted, voice cracking, eyes watering, hands shaking.

Minako was immediately awake; alert and alarmed, “What? Yuuri, what’s going on?”

“I . . . I don't know . . . He left for the Festival yesterday, and Vicchan showed up at home this morning . . . without him,”

Minako understood immediately, “Go Yuuri. I’ll take care of everything. Just go find him,” she ordered.

Yuuri nodded, his mind racing, “If . . . if we’re not back by tomorrow . . . or by tonight? Or should we say tomorrow?”

“Yuuri, I’ll figure it out, just GO!” Minako begged.  

“Right!” Yuuri agreed bracingly. He was back up on Vicchan in seconds, racing away through The Village, towards the farm and the forest and whatever terrors lay beyond.

They breached the border of trees, passing through the iridescent foliage in a blur; quickly gaining ground as they sped down the wide, hard-packed dirt of the well-traveled forest road.

Yuuri galloped over the first league, eyes and ears pealed for any signs of his brother; even as a voice in the back of his mind whispered how unlikely it would be for Phichit to be lost and stranded so close to home.  

He soon slowed to a trot, knowing that Vicchan could not keep up such a rapid pace, and not wanting to miss any signs of what may have happened to Phichit.

He had five leagues in total to cover between The Village and The Town by the Sea; and perhaps more than that, if Phichit had gone off course and not reached his destination at all.

They continued on like that for some time, Vicchan pressing on at a desperate trot, while Yuuri scanned the woods in vain, calling out for Phichit as he went. This repeated for three leagues, until they came to a nearly invisible fork in the road.

Yuuri himself would have missed it, if Vicchan had not continued straight ahead.

“Vicchan!” Yuuri hissed, tugging at the reins, “The Town by the Sea is that . . .”

Realization dawned on him suddenly.

“ . . . way”

Phichit had missed the turn.

He had left too late in the day.

The sun had gone down before he had reached The Town by the Sea.

He must have been fussing with the map, not paying attention.

He hadn’t seen this little fork.

He had kept going straight ahead, off the well-worn road and right on to this forgotten little offshoot.

And who knew where he had ended up?

“Good boy, Vicchan,” Yuuri praised once again, “Hut, hut,”

And the two were off once more at a trot, down the mysterious pathway.

This route was much different than the busy, well-traveled forest road; this trail was winding; overgrown and mossy; green and thick with brambles and bushes and branches. It was wide enough to ride, but looked like it hadn’t been used in a millennia.

“Phichit!” Yuuri cried louder, “Phichit!”

His eyes flicked through the foliage desperately, looking for something, anything . . .

Then, a flittering movement caught his eye.

“Woah, Vicchan!”

Yuuri pulled Vicchan to a gentle stop, dismounting quickly.

Something fluttered in a nearby tree; wedged in a low branch. It was thin, fragile, eggshell in colour. Yuuri reached up and plucked it gently from its resting place, unfolding it reverently.

His heart soared while his stomach plummeted; eyes scanning the beaten up piece of parchment in his hands. 

Phichit’s map.

Yuuri knew it was his brother’s; his writing was on it. Little notes here and there scrawled over the years; a tavern annotated simply with, “best mead”, an inn marked “Mean Innkeeper (ugly moustache) DON’T STAY HERE!!!”

His brother had definitely come this way.

Maybe he was close . . . maybe Yuuri wasn’t too late.

“PHICHIT!”

Yuuri folded the map carefully and tucked it away in his traveling cloak, scanning the area carefully for any more signs of Phichit’s presence.

He rushed a little further down the path, Vicchan plodding along behind him faithfully.

He heard a crunch underfoot.

Phichit’s lantern.

Had Phichit stopped to rest? Had he fallen? Had he been chased?

Had he been robbed?

Yuuri’s breaths were coming fast and shallow.

He knelt down, gingerly gathering up the fractured light as best he could, wrapping the pieces in a handkerchief and stowing them away; his eyes stung, and he willed his tears to wait just a few minutes longer.

Phichit was close; Yuuri could feel it.  

He had to be close.

HE HAD TO BE. 

“Phichit!? PHICHIT!?”

His calls remained unanswered; dangling limply among the green leaves in the warm summer air.

Yuuri stood up briskly, mounting Vicchan and taking off once more.

He remained extra vigilant as they made their way through the woods. Phichit was nearby, that much was certain. He couldn’t afford to miss a single clue; not one sight, not one sound.

But there was something . . . else.

It was still morning, barely noon; it was the middle of summer and the sun was shining, it was hot and green and beautiful and serene . . .

And yet . . .

Something about this place felt . . . odd. There was something wrong here; something eerie.

Yuuri shook his head; nonsense.

He was worried about Phichit; that was all. It was just his anxiety getting the better of him; nothing more.

But Vicchan seemed to feel it too.

The shire subtly slowed from a trot to a walk . . . then eventually stopped altogether, pawing at the ground. Shifting. Stamping.

Yuuri tried to gently coax him forward along the path, and Vicchan tried to obey, but after three steps he backed right up again.

Yuuri dismounted, trying to locate the source of Vicchan’s discomfort. When he could find nothing, he merely calmed the steed with soft words and touches, fed him a carrot from the pack, and wrapped a soft kerchief over his eyes as a blinder.

“Sorry boy . . .  but we have to find Phichit” Yuuri apologized. He took a firm hold of the reins, continuing onward; a now-docile Vicchan followed.

Something on the forest floor caught the light; glinting in the morning sun. Yuuri bent forward to pick it up.

In his hand he held a small sliver of lacquered wood; a piece of Phichit’s envelope.

Yuuri’s fist tightened around it, his resolve steeled, and he pressed on.

As he walked, he noticed something strange; a leaf edged with frost, a rock dusted with snow, a small icicle hanging from a branch.

“What . . ?” Yuuri gasped, as a chill breeze whipped around him. Vicchan snorted behind him, tossing his head.

And still, Yuuri pressed on.

As he did, the snow became thicker, the woods became frostier and the wind became colder; the seasons changed around him and he entered a wondrous winter realm.

“How . . . how is this possible?” Yuuri breathed, words dripping in disbelief as he gaped at the frozen forest.

It was beautiful . . . magical . . . pearly snowdrifts glittered brightly in the sunlight, frosted tree branches laid bare like shining crystal ornaments, the world lit up in dazzling whites and icy blues and sunny yellows and blushing pinks; everything dripping with gold and silver and diamonds; so still and so silent and so serene.

It took Yuuri’s breath away.

Then he saw the footprints; the only mark upon the otherwise unscathed canvas.

Canine paw prints. Big ones.  A wolf.

And shoe prints.

Not his own.

Phichit.

“No,”

Yuuri sped off across the snowy landscape as fast as he could, Vicchan thumping along behind him.

He rounded a corner and suddenly slid to a stop; halted by the sight of a massive gate.

His eyes grew wide.

It was unlike anything he had ever seen before; the gate was enormous and made entirely of ice; thick and blue with deep white gouges; patterned so that the spires and cross-guards formed what looked to be a massive snowflake. However, this was no gentle, delicate child-like thing; its edges were harsh, jagged, pointed and unwelcoming; circular and foreboding, as if this particular snowflake were made from a criss-cross of interlocking halberds.

Stretching out on either side of the gate was a massive wall of ice and snow. It was thick and slick and impossible to scale; topped with jagged and asymmetrical ramparts of ice. At the foot of the wall, running along the entire length, massive, impossibly sharp icicles rose up out of the ground; reminiscent of archer’s stakes.

It was ominous and imposing, but both sets of tracks led right past the gate, to whatever lay beyond; Yuuri had no choice but to approach.

“Hullo!” Yuuri called, with as much confidence as he could muster. His voice warbled gracelessly in the serenity of the winter stillness.

There was no reply.

“Please . . . I . . . I’m looking for my brother. I think he’s been this way!”

Still no reply.

Perhaps the gate was unmanned . . . but how? Surely such a thing would need someone to . . ?

Yuuri took a tentative step forward, reaching out towards the frozen entryway. As his fingers brushed over the icy ridges of the gate, it began to rumble, like a glacier shifting, and slowly slid open of its own accord, swinging over the snowy ground.

Yuuri flinched back instinctively; expecting to be attacked.

But nothing happened.

Perhaps . . . he was being invited in? Both sides of the gate were fully open, firm and welcoming . . . and completely deserted.

Yuuri charged through before he could change his mind. The instant he crossed the threshold, the gateway closed behind him with a boom that echoed through the frozen woods.

There was no turning back now.

Yuuri scanned his surroundings; here the path had opened up a bit more, the trees became sparser and the road dissolved into open fields beyond the tree-line; far to the left, a small, frozen gully wound its way through the snowy undergrowth, and just to his right a massive maple stood as a proud sentry by the edge of the woods.

His eyes were drawn instantly to the forest floor directly before him; both sets of tracks had stopped a mere ten feet away, where the snow had been thoroughly disturbed, as if someone had fallen.

Yuuri dashed over immediately, sliding to his knees; the packed snow was splattered carelessly with crimson and little splinters of lacquered wood.  

And beyond that?

Nothing.

The trail ended there.

There were no more footprints, no more bits of lacquer, no more drops of red.

Impossible!

Yuuri’s mid reeled; relief and panic and agony all fighting for purchase in his mind.

The wolf had caught Phichit . . . that much was certain; but all evidence showed that things hadn't ended there.

So where was Phichit now?

“PHICHIT!” Yuuri hollered helplessly; as though calling his name would magically summon him.

“PHICHIT!”

“PHICHIT!”

Now he could not stop the tears running hotly down his cheeks. His whole body shook, wracking with sobs, aching with failure.

The trail had ended and Phichit hadn’t been found. 

There would have been signs if the wolf had . . . had finished him . . . more blood . . . or a body . . . or more disturbances in the snow where his body might have been dragged away.

But if Phichit had survived . . .

Then where was he? Where were the footprints leading away from the scene of the attack?

Yuuri roughly wiped his eyes; they stung terribly from the cold, the little wet trails from the tears already frozen on his cheeks.

None of it made any sense, but there was only one way left to go.

He stood slowly on shaking legs and tugged gently at Vicchan’s reins; pressing forward once again.

He slogged wetly over the snow and at long last broke through the tree-line.

What he saw before him nearly made him fall to his knees.

Stretched out beyond the edge of the woods was a vision unlike anything he’d ever seen; a lavish arctic courtyard encased entirely in ice and snow. Frosted hedges rose up along the border in intricate patterns, snow-dusted shrubberies edging the property like the lace trim of a frock-coat; through the middle was a massive promenade of slick ice, glaring harshly in the bright noon-day sun. Running in a line down the center, carefully crafted alabaster fountains spouted wave after wave of frozen water; long suspended in permanent sculptures, shining like cut glass as their iridescent droplets shimmered in the frigid air.

Rising up at the far end of the elegant courtyard was a magnificent castle, similarly adorned with frosty embellishments. Though the rich stonework of the manor was still somewhat visible beneath the sheath of sleet, the snow heaped upon its frame like moss and the ice climbed upon its sides like ivy; icicles grew long from the ramparts like creeping stalactites and great icy stalagmites grew up from the foundation to meet them, swallowing the castle in an arctic maw; like a hound with jaws of winter and fangs of frost.

Massive steps wound their way up from the courtyard to meet large, imposing front doors, forebodingly slick and frosted; a warning to any traveler who even so much as dared to look upon the manor. 

With its towering spires and jagged turrets and sharp, overgrown ramparts of ice and snow and sleet, the majestic manor looked much more like a cathedral than a castle; and Yuuri hesitated, fearing whatever God might be worshiped there. 

But, if there were any answers to be found, Yuuri knew they would be inside that bleak and bitter fortress.

So he took a deep breath, inhaling a lungful of air so frigid it burned, and slowly picked his way towards the Castle of Ice. 

Crisp snow crunched underfoot as he crossed the pallid courtyard, the chilly breeze nipping at his ears as he went.

It was like walking through a world of mirrors; everything clear and sharp and much too bright. The fountains towered over him like crystal gargoyles, and a shiver that had nothing to do with the frigid temperatures made his shoulders tremble as he passed.

At long last he stood before the massive stairway; the castle loomed over him ominously, but he had come this far and he would not be deterred.  

Yuuri tied Vicchan’s lead securely to a notch in the stone stair; sheltering him from the wind on the inside curve of the steps. He gave the brave steed a gentle pat on the muzzle and slid the kerchief blinder off, in case they needed to make a quick getaway.

“I’ll be right back, Vicchan,” He promised quietly, and before he could change his mind, he began to ascend the great icy stairs.

He clung to the once-marble railing for support, as his feet found no grip on the frost-slick steps beneath him, and slowly dragged himself up the wide, flat staircase until he came face to face with the towering double doors he had seen from the edge of the woods.

A small iron torch flickered to the left; the flame feeble and dying under the harsh strain of the cold.

The doors were a deep, heavy walnut; almost black beneath the layers of frost.

Yuuri didn't hesitate; he knocked harshly on the door; his knuckles blistering at the chill; fingers numb from the cold of the rail.

The doors opened soundlessly, beckoning him in; just as he had assumed they would.

Yuuri stepped inside.

It was grand, yet dim and he was surprised to discover that not even the lush interior had been spared from the icy grip of the otherworldly winter.

The floors were a polished white marble with gold veins running through the striations; the ceilings were vaulted, the windows stately, and every single fixture seemed to be made of gold; just as they all seemed painted with frost, fogged with condensation, blanketed with biting dampness; clouded over with that same ethereal chill.

It was like stepping into a dusty attic, though the dust was not particulate dirt, but rather little flakes of snow and ice . . . like the inside of a snow globe.

Despite the frost, it was strangely warm inside the rich, luxurious Castle, as if there were nothing bewitched about the place at all; Yuuri’s numb fingers tingled sharply as they warmed and sensation returned. The snow on his breeches melted, soaking him from the knees down.

He was standing in a massive entryway; in front of him a grand staircase with golden railings; to the left, a corridor which went on further than he could see; the same lay to the right. Soft white rays of light fought their way in through a large window above; covered over with layers of snow and frost.

Yuuri marshaled his courage, “Hullo!” He called out as loud as he dared.

“Please . . . I don't mean to intrude . . . I’m looking for my brother . . .”

The only reply that came was his own voice, echoed back at him from the empty chambers.

Yuuri paced nervously, waiting a moment or two more.

When still nobody came, he resolved to venture further in.  

He turned to the right, and slowly crept onward.

As he went further, the frost began to recede; like it hadn't reached quite this far inward yet. Yuuri gazed at the castle around him, soaking it all in. He had never been in a castle before, though he had read about them, and had heard all about the one in which Minako used to live. He had always dreamed he might see one someday; but he had never pictured it happening quite like this.

The castle was richly decorated with beautiful portraits, sculptures and various artworks of all kinds, and Yuuri couldn’t help but admire them as he passed through the gilded hallway.

It was . . . stunning . . . magnificent; and without the chill of the wind and the frost numbing his fingers, his fear began to ebb, ever so slightly.

“Hullo!” Yuuri called again, as he paced the hallway, “Is anyone here? Please, I’m looking for my brother . . . I think he may have come this way!”

The first room he came upon was a small sitting room; mahogany floor with a rich burgundy carpet, dark papered walls, plush sitting chairs in front of a smothered fireplace, a little tea-stand between them.

He walked gingerly over to the tea stand; there sat a little china tea set, white with a golden floral inlay. There was a shapely teapot with a matching tray serving up half-eaten biscuits, and two little teacups; one empty, one half full. The tea was cold.

Yuuri picked up the half-empty teacup, examining it pensively.

Someone was here. Someone one was here recently.

His heart fluttered hopefully.

Phichit?

“Hullo?” Yuuri called once more, replacing the teacup carefully on the stand.

This time, he received an answer.

“Ahh . . . I thought I heard someone wandering about down here . . .”

The voice was rich and luxurious, like the castle itself; deep and seductive and sonorous.

Yuuri jumped, after all this time, he hadn’t really expected a reply.

Swallowing his embarrassment, he turned to face the voice’s owner, an apology on the tip of his tongue -

But when he saw to whom the voice belonged, the words died in his throat.

Standing in the doorway was what Yuuri could only describe as some sort of . . . Beast.

He was enormous, at least eight feet tall, and massively broad, taking up almost the entire frame of the door. His shoulders were bulky and hunched, long, thick arms reaching nearly to his knees; his hands were huge, more like paws, and at the end of each digit was a long, perilously-sharp onyx claw. The feet on which he stood were mammoth and digitigrade in nature, and also adorned with the same black talons.

The clothing he wore was scant; a pair of too-small black velvet breeches that reached just past his knee, and a heavy claret-coloured brocade cloak which swept to the floor; clasped about his shoulders. The rest of him was covered, from head to toe, in silky, silver fur; a bushy tail flicked lazily beneath the dark brocade of the cape.

A mane of the same sleek, silver hair grew out lush and long from the crown of his head, cascading down across his back and shoulders in shaggy, platinum tresses. Two large, jagged, jet-black horns curled back on either side of his forehead, starting at his temples and tapering into sharp, shiny points; not unlike a ram’s.

His face was all lupine; ghastly and monstrous. Fuzzy, angular ears protruded from the pewter scruff adjacent to his horns, and he greeted the world with a canine muzzle. The wolfish under-bite did nothing to conceal the row of large serrated fangs gleaming from his jaws; they rose up harshly from his lower lip, almost tusk-like in their length and severity.

But by far, The Beast’s most unsettling features were his eyes.

They were a bright, stunning arctic blue; alert and full of life, as if sustained by the very soul of winter itself. The hue was vibrant and brilliant; a shade that an artist might call Cerulean or Robin’s Egg or Azure. If this winter realm turned ice to diamonds and snow to lace and sleet to pearls, then those eyes were the finest aquamarine gemstones in all the world; the only splash of colour in an otherwise pale and barren wasteland.

But more than their liveliness and beauty, those dazzling eyes glittered with something else . . . something greater; a certain poise and tact and intelligence . . . and Yuuri didn't know if that should make him feel less afraid . . . or more.

Yuuri tried to take a step back, but he was halted by one of the plush sitting chairs; he reached a hand back to steady himself; heart racing like a jack-rabbit.

The Beast merely observed him, patiently waiting for Yuuri to reply. When he did not, the Beast spoke again, prompting him with a gentle, “. . . and, who might you be, Monsieur?”

“My name is Katsuki Yuuri,” Yuuri blurted gracelessly, mouth working faster than his mind, “Please . . . I’m so sorry to intrude . . . I’m looking for my brother. He went missing in the woods nearby . . . and I . . . I followed the trail here . . . I . . . I’m just so worried! I fear that something terrible has happened to him. Please, you haven’t . . .  I mean . . . I don’t suppose you have, have you? Seen him, that is?”  

Yuuri’s chest was quaking uncontrollably; he should be fleeing; running for his life. Instead he was rooted firmly in place, suing for compassion from some sort of . . . creature?

But Phichit meant more to him than the world, and he would do anything to bring his brother home safe; and anyway, The Beast was blocking the only exit, and Yuuri was certain The Beast could outrun him, especially on his home turf.

No; better to throw himself on the mercy of The Beast and hope for the best.

There was something about this place; something about the art on the walls and the half-empty teacup and the way The Beast held himself; the way that he spoke and the look in his eyes that made Yuuri feel that this was the right choice to make.

The Beast narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

“You are speaking of Master Chulanont,” he said at last; it was a statement, not a question.

“You . . . you know Phichit!” Yuuri cried, certain he would collapse under the sudden barrage of emotions, “He’s . . . you . . . thank you! Is he . . . is he alright? Is he here?” Yuuri babbled electrically as his hand raked through his hair, too overcome to think straight; his host’s claws and fangs and eyes reduced to a trifling detail, the enchanted winter woods nothing more than a passing fancy in light of the recent development.

The Beast regarded Yuuri with fascination before answering evenly, “I assure you, Master Chulanont is quite well. He had a rather nasty encounter with some wolves, but is recovering nicely in the Eastern Suite. I can show you to him, if you like,”

Relief crashed over Yuuri, replacing dread with euphoria; tears stung the edges of his eyes and he finally felt like he could breathe again.

“Yes . . . please . . . I . . . thank you. Thank you so much,” Yuuri answered emphatically, stepping towards The Beast with a bow, “I . . . I can't tell you how much this means to me,”

The Beast was silent a moment, “Your kindness is . . . appreciated, but I have done nothing so praiseworthy, I assure you,” his icy gaze flickered briefly over Yuuri, before he taciturnly cleared his throat, “Follow me, please. This way,”

The Beast turned with a swish of his claret cape, leaving Yuuri to trail behind him through the desolate, frozen Castle.

Chapter Text

“What? There’s another one?”

Yuri Plisetsky glowered down from the marble banister, watching the Master of the Castle guide yet another human boy towards the Eastern Suite.

Beside him, Otabek Altin raised his eyes ever so slightly, leaning forward to get a better view. “So it would appear,” he noted evenly.

“Pfft, some ‘Enchanted Castle’,” Yuri scoffed, “I thought it was supposed to be ‘lost to time’ and ‘hidden from the outside word’ and all that other bull . . . but it can’t even keep away a single lousy tourist” the teen made an unflattering face. 

Otabek turned an austere gaze on his grouchy companion, “So?” he challenged, “Isn’t that a good thing?”

Yuri huffed, “Of course it’s a good thing, Beka!” he snapped, “It’s just . . . weird, isn’t it? Years and years of nothing, all of a sudden these humans just start showing up? Why now? What took them so long?”

Otabek thought a moment, “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. His eyes flicked to Yuri, and he softened, seeing the agitation writ so openly across his friend’s features, “They’re here now. Does it really matter why, Yura?”

Yuri did not meet Otabek’s eyes, “I guess not,” he pouted petulantly; stomping down on the marble banister with a cute little “clink”.

Otabek closed his eyes and steeled his expression.

Beside him, Yuri growled.

“Beka . . . don’t you dare laugh or I swear . . .”

Otabek turned away slowly so Yuri wouldn’t catch the smirk attempting to break through his carefully composed demeanor.

He cleared his throat, “Of course . . . I would never.”

Once he had collected himself, Otabek turned back to face his closest companion; a precocious, ill-tempered, fifteen-year-old kitchen-boy-turned-teacup.

Yuri was sulking at him; something between a pout and a glare. It did nothing to guilt Otabek, who by now could read Yuri’s moods like a star chart; and knew without question that this particular outburst was nothing but bluster.

Otabek didn't mean to make light of Yuri’s foul mood, but he couldn’t help it; it was just so hard to take his best friend seriously when the raging tempest of teenage angst stemmed from such a sweet porcelain face of floral pastels and golden filigree.

Yuri really was a work of art.

That mouth of his on the other hand . . .

But for better or worse, he was Otabek’s best friend; his closest companion, his colleague, confidant and accomplice; the greatest joy in his life and the biggest pain in his ass.

Otabek wasn't certain exactly how Yuri managed to be both at the same time . . . all he knew was that he wouldn’t trade the moody little china mug for all the riches in the world.

“It’s not my fault I got turned into a stupid teacup, ok?” Yuri grumbled defensively, “Not all of us got as lucky as you when we transformed” 

Otabek’s eyes narrowed quizzically, “. . . lucky?”

Yuri’s gaped at his friend in disbelief, “Yes, obviously, Beka!” he scoffed, “I’m stuck as some dumb little teacup, while you get to be an awesome dagger! How is that fair?”

Confusion coloured Otabek’s expression; he stood before the surly teacup on a rounded silver blade; 5 inches long, and the width of a lady’s finger. His human facial features were morphed into the handle; heavy pewter moulded in the shape of a large, but simple, fleur de lis. A red gem of cut glass glinted on his hilt; like a twisted imitation of a gentleman’s cravat.

Otabek blinked slowly, realization dawning on him; once again he held a smirk back behind a blank expression.

“Yura . . . I’m a letter opener”

Yuri’s eyes went wide.

He stared at Otabek.

Otabek stared back.

Yuri broke first.

“Pffft . . . I know that, Beka” he sputtered, “But what I meant was . . . between the two of us . . . you look more like . . . I was just trying to make a point, ok?”

“Certainly. Anything you say,” Otabek agreed triumphantly. He didn’t buy it for a second.

“Ugh, forget it,” Yuri mumbled, turning away and bouncing off the rail; Otabek could have sworn he saw a blush cross that cream-coloured porcelain. He smirked victoriously.

“Come on, Beka!” Yuri called from the carpeted floor, “We should go let the others know about that new human . . . I want to see the look on Mila’s big dumb face when I get to tell everyone about him before she does!”

“Coming,” Otabek returned, before descending after his charge. Yuuri was already halfway down the hall; disappearing around the corner.

A fond smile crept onto Otabek’s face as he followed.

“Yuri Plisetsky . . . what am I going to do with you?”

*****

Yuuri followed The Beast in silence as they made their way through the monumental halls; the former too entranced by the splendour of his surroundings to form a sentence, the latter too reserved to extend an invitation to converse.

They made no noise, save the faint scuffling of Yuuri’s soft leather shoes as they traversed the glittering castle; The Beast’s massive paws made nary a sound as he trod over the shining marble.

Soon, Yuuri’s nervous nature began to get the best of him, and he worried his bottom lip between his teeth. Usually he didn't mind silence, but this was a bit . . . awkward; unnerving. 

He should probably say something . . .

“I’m sorry . . .” he began contritely, voice echoing through the silence of the frosty halls, “I . . . I’ve just realized that I haven’t even asked who you are. My apologies . . . that’s . . . that’s terribly rude of me,”

The Beast stopped in his tracks; almost as if he had forgotten Yuuri was there. He looked back over his shoulder.

“I am the master of this castle,” He answered; formally, but graciously.

He looked ahead once more and continued walking.

Yuuri nodded and trotted after him; apparently The Beast wasn't one for words.

“If I may . . .” Yuuri pressed delicately, “what . . . is this place? Sorry! That’s not . . . what I mean to say, is . . . I . . . I don't exactly know where I am, at the moment, so I was wondering . . . I was wondering which castle this is?” He couldn't help the intrigue and excitement edging their way into to his interrogation; he had practically memorized his atlas at home, if he just knew the castle by name . . . 

“It’s not any of consequence” The Beast replied quietly. This time he did not look back; he spoke like he was talking to himself, rather than Yuuri, “Merely an old, forgotten place . . .  nothing more,”

The answer was cryptic; Yuuri wasn't certain what to make of it.  

He swallowed hard, throat dry, “Oh . . . I see . . .” he responded uncertainly.

The duo ascended the grand staircase by the entryway; silent and awkward once again.

They turned right, towards the east wing, where the corridors became slightly narrower and the rooms more numerous; though the ceilings were just as high. The floor was laid with an intricate pattern of interlocking diamond-shaped tiles in sky blue and creamy white and shimmering gold. The walls were white plaster with gold trim; the ceilings arched and vaulted. Their way was lit with shimmering glass candle fixtures and golden sconces, and every so often they would pass by a set of double-doors along the wall. Each looked the same; white and gold like the walls, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, with looping gold knockers. None stood open.  

Yuuri’s eyes were once more drawn back to his host; the swishing of the claret cape was mesmerizing as the massive Beast lead him through the opulent manor.

As if he could feel Yuuri’s eyes on him, The Beast’s gaze flickered back to his ward, “My apologies . . . it . . . has been some time since I have had guests . . . I’m certain my conversation leaves something to be desired,” he admitted ruefully. 

“It’s alright,” Yuuri responded automatically; he recognized that self-deprecating tone of voice instantly, having used it many times himself. “It’s . . . been a long, strange day for all of us, I think . . .” he offered gently, “. . . I hope my brother and I haven’t caused you too much trouble,”

The Beast slowed, falling into step beside him.

“No . . . no trouble at all,” The Beast assured him softly, with a gentle shake of his large, shaggy head.

Yuuri nodded; a small, tired smile cropping up as he did so.

They continued on like that in amiable silence.

Yuuri gazed around him in awe as they passed by all the gilded treasures of the castle; magnificent paintings in golden frames, crystal chandeliers, bejeweled vases, decorative suites of armour polished and gleaming. It was like something out of one of his most brilliant daydreams; like the backdrop to one of Minako’s most scandalous stories. It was all so . . . elegant and luxurious and . . . extravagant.

Yuuri chanced a quick glance back up at his behemoth host.

He was still enormous, brutish and scruffy, with horns and claws and fangs and those haunting blue eyes . . . but for the life of him, Yuuri couldn’t seem to remember what had frightened him so when they had first met.

Voices at the end of the hall brought Yuuri out of his perfumed stupor.

They spoke softly to one another; both voices were male, but one was deep and harsh, while the other was a bright, round tenor. The language they spoke was unfamiliar to Yuuri; he couldn't catch any of what they were saying.

Yuuri squinted to look ahead; trying to catch a glimpse of who the voices might belong to.

Surely no one else lived here in the castle . . . not with . . . not with him?

Or . . . were there more like him?

Hadn't The Beast himself said he didn't keep any company?

This place just kept getting stranger.   

It wasn't that dark in the corridor, but Yuuri couldn't see anyone else there with them; they had nearly covered all of it, and yet the voices continued.

At last, they reached the end of the hall; a frosted window capped the length of it, and a stately set of white double-doors greeted them on the left; white, with gold trim and knockers, an entire story tall, and closed; the same as the others.

To the right stood a mahogany serving table with a turquoise runner, beneath a framed picture of a Grecian Banquet; satyrs, nymphs and dryads all carousing carelessly.

Yuuri then discovered the source of the voices.

On the serving table stood an intricately moulded, two-foot-tall, three-pronged, golden candelabrum with half-melted white beeswax candles, next to a finely crafted, one-and-a-half-foot-tall, redwood mantle clock with a glass door and golden pendulum.

Both were beautiful, obviously well-made and expensive objects; and they were currently engaged in an intensely secretive conversation, completely unaware of Yuuri’s arrival; as well as the Beasts’.

Yuuri felt he must surely be going mad. Talking candles? Talking clocks? His eyebrows knit together in confusion momentarily.

No. No, this must be some sort of silly parlour trick or new-fangled invention; a hidden instrument or noise-maker, surely. He had lived with Phichit long enough to know that with a little ingenuity, simple technology could work wonders.  

Yuuri’s host cast an apologetic glance in his direction, before clearing his throat authoritatively.

Then, right before Yuuri’s eyes, both the clock and the candelabrum resignedly turned their attention to The Beast; speaking simultaneously.

“Yes? how can I serve you, Master?”

“What? Is there something you needed – ”

And as they did, any last lingering expectations of normalcy vanished from Yuuri’s mind; fleeing like rats from a sinking ship.  

For not only did these particular items have voices; they had faces as well. They moved. They spoke. They emoted. They were completely anthropomorphized.

Enchanted.

Animated objects.

Yuuri could do nothing but stand there, stunned.

Just when he had thought he had seen everything.

The clock and the candelabrum seemed to settle on Yuuri the same time as Yuuri settled on them; and with the same levels of complete and utter disbelief.

The humanoid trinkets froze, looking between themselves quickly; seeming to come to a silent consensus to save face and defer to The Beast.

“We have another guest,” The Beast announced cordially, “may I present Katsuki Yuuri, Master Chulanont's brother. He will be with us while Master Chulanont recovers,” The Beast then regarded Yuuri, “Master Katsuki, please, allow me to introduce you to my staff. This is Yakov Feltsman,” here, he gestured to the mantle clock, who gave a curt nod in reply, “my Major-Domo, the Head of my Household, and this . . .” he gestured to the candelabrum, who bowed deeply, “is Christophe Giacometti, my Maître D’. Both are good men and a credit to their names. Should you require anything at all, you have only but to ask either one of them, and they will assist you however they are able,”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Katsuki” the candelabrum, Christophe, greeted; voice oozing with sensual hospitality. The words rolled out in a smooth, round purr.

“Th-thank you,” Yuuri stammered back, “It’s a . . . a pleasure to meet you both as well,”

Yuuri was shocked; beyond shocked to be perfectly honest. When he had first rode into the woods that morning, he had thought he might find Phichit pinned down in a ditch with a broken leg, or wandering around lost in the brush with hypothermia, or kidnapped by bandits, or any number of other unspeakably terrible, yet reassuringly plausible scenarios; he had never once imagined finding himself here, in some sort of Enchanted Castle, in the company of well-mannered Beasts and Talking Trinkets . . . and to be completely honest, he wasn't entirely certain what to do.

But his parents had always taught him to be a gracious house guest, and a castle was just a certain sort of house, he supposed, and he had been treated with nothing but kindness thus far . . . so, if a candle was going to make polite introductions and welcome him in and shake his hand, Yuuri supposed he would just continue to do the same, until something . . . anything started to make some semblance of sense again.   

Christophe opened his mouth to speak once more, but was interrupted by Yakov.

“You are most welcome. Let us know if there is anything you require,” The words were blunt, but not unfriendly; tumbling to the ground like a barrage of tiny pebbles.

“Yes. Thank you. I will. Thank you . . . oh, sorry, I . . . I already said that . . .” Yuuri was rambling, face flushing pink.

Great, his first time in an Enchanted Castle and he was embarrassing himself; typical Yuuri.

“Come now, Yakov, don't be so brassy . . . you’ll scare the poor boy right off!” Christophe teased, winking at Yuuri.

Yakov gave Christophe a scrutinizing once-over, “Yes, I suppose you would be the expert on brass . . . considering that lackluster polish-job”  

Christophe’s mouth dropped dramatically, “Yakov! You wound me! I don’t know how I’ll ever recover!” His golden candelabrum-arms crossed over the column of his chest theatrically.

Yakov rolled his eyes at Christophe’s antics; The Beast remained stoic, if somewhat abashed, though Yuuri thought he saw a glimmer of amusement flicker behind those cerulean eyes.

Bizarre as it was, Yuuri decided he rather liked the animated objects, and even thought them quite good-humored; it almost reminded him of the witty repartee he shared with Minako and Phichit.

Phichit!

“Oh . . . speaking of . . . recoveries . . .” Yuuri interjected inelegantly, eyes flickering to the white double-doors beside them.

The Beast nodded, “Ah, of course,” he gestured to the door, “Please,”

Yuuri turned, when another thought struck him.

“Oh! My horse . . . I . . . I’ve left him tied just outside. I should go –”

“Non! Ne sois pas ridicule!” Christophe objected graciously “Please, monsieur, go see to your brother. I’m certain Yakov and I can attend your horse . . .” Christophe descended from the serving table in an elegant glide, landing on the polished tiles below, “. . . that is, if Yakov can tolerate to be near me and my lackluster polish . . .”

He tossed his candle-topped head and began to strut away down the corridor.

Yakov turned to Yuuri with a small, gruff bow, before dropping off the table as well and following Christophe with a world-weary sigh. 

Yuuri wasn't entirely certain how a clock and a candelabrum were going to get a shire horse fed and untacked and settled into an Enchanted Castle, but he had seen stranger things in the last twenty-four hours . . . at this point, he was willing to just go with it.

Beside him, The Beast could not meet his gaze.

“I . . . realize Christophe and Yakov may seem a bit . . . unconventional . . .” The Beast began, “but I assure you . . .”

“They seem . . . delightful,” Yuuri smiled reassuringly.

The Beast relaxed just a fraction in response, before reaching out an enormous paw to rap on the door with the large golden knocker.

“Master Chulanont” The Beast called politely, “there’s someone here to see you . . .”

The large white doors swung inward, revealing the grandest, most gorgeous bedchamber Yuuri had ever seen.

The floor was dark hardwood, inlaid with an intricate, looping border done in a lighter wood; most likely ash. The walls were finished with elegant wainscot paneling; the bottom half modeled in the same white and gold motif as in the halls, while the decorated paper on top sprawled languidly over the walls. The lavish design was simultaneously subtle, yet eye-catching; sky blues and creamy whites cast a magnificent backdrop for golden filigree vines to wind around one another, tracing patterns over every inch of painted paper; their luminous leaves bloomed forth, sprawling out and blossoming all over the room; each golden grouping like a bouquet of ladies’ fans, glittering in the afternoon light.

White, gossamer curtains blew in from a stone balcony opposite the door where they stood; a slightly smaller set of interior doors opened to the right of it.  Further down that same wall was a white marble fireplace; at the moment unlit.  

Large, stately furniture to match the room lined the walls; a striking vanity with golden accents, a plush mahogany chair with blue cushions and a golden throw pillow by the fireplace, a white bookcase with golden vines painted all up the side, a huge wardrobe draped with shimmering silks, and a king-sized canopy bed; dark wood frame, azure curtains, golden tassels.

And there, struggling to sit up in to the plush embrace of those satin sheets –

“Phichit!”

Yuuri raced into the room without another thought.

At the sound of his brother’s voice, Phichit’s head snapped to attention; eyes alight.  

“Yuuri!” Phichit’s expression was soft, full of wonder and relief.

By now Yuuri had clambered up onto the bed; he was kneeling beside Phichit, arms wrapped around his brother’s shoulders, pressing gentle kisses to the top of his head, his cheeks, anywhere he could reach.

Phichit was here.

He was really here.

He was really here and he was really safe and alive and everything was going to be OK after all.

Yuuri’s arms became a vice, and he pressed his head into the crook of Phichit’s neck; a silent promise never to let go again.

“Yuuri . . .” Phichit breathed, clinging back just as tightly.

Yuuri absently hoped that he wasn't hurting Phichit, but another, more selfish and less charitable part of him whispered not to care; not to let go just yet, even though the angle was awkward and his glasses were askew; urging him to hold on just a little while longer. 

Eventually he did relinquish the other boy, realizing with some embarrassment that tears had once again sprung to his eyes; but there were tears in Phichit’s eyes too, so Yuuri elected not to be shy.

Phichit grabbed both of Yuuri’s arms, bewildered, looking at him with wide eyes; like Yuuri were a mirage that might vanish any moment, “But . . . what are you doing here? How did you find me?” delight dripped from every syllable.

Yuuri sniffed, quickly rubbing a traitorous tear off his cheek, “Vicchan . . . he . . . he came home without you . . . and I just . . . followed the trail . . .”

Phichit’s eyes lit up, “Vicchan’s OK?”

Yuuri nodded vigorously, tears once again springing forth, “Vicchan’s OK!”

Phichit wrapped Yuuri in a grateful hug and Yuuri sank into it willingly; the tears of joy continuing.

After a few more deep breaths, they once again released one another to get their bearings.

The soft clearing of a throat drew Yuuri’s attention back to the door.

The Beast.

Yuuri and Phichit looked back to their host in unison.

“Apologies for my interruption,” The Beast said softly, “I’ll leave you to get settled. Just so you are aware, I’ve asked that one of my staff be posted outside the door at all times, should you require anything”.

Yuuri nodded, The Beast’s words flowing over him absently, their meaning barely registering, “Yes . . . yes thank you. Thank you, again . . . so much,” he replied in earnest.

“Not at all,” The Beast returned automatically, “shall I have them call you when dinner is ready?”

Yuuri glanced at Phichit, whose eyes widened in rapture.

“Umm, yes . . . yes please,” Yuuri answered, “We would like that very much,”

The Beast nodded, stoically, “Very well,” he agreed, “until then”. He turned, closing the towering, floor-to-ceiling doors behind him as he went; leaving Yuuri and Phichit alone in the gilded bedchamber.

Yuuri turned back to Phichit, eyes glazed with wonder and disbelief. Phichit returned the look; equally uncertain.

Yuuri couldn't help it; his curiosity was now exploding out of him, “Phichit, what is going on here? WHAT are . . . WHO is . . ?”

Phichit just shook his head, now looking entirely strung out, “Believe me Yuuri . . . I wish I knew . . .” he sighed. His eyes darted quickly to the wardrobe across the room at the foot of the bed, “. . . and, you may want to keep your voice down . . . the wardrobe is . . .”

“Alive?” Yuuri finished bluntly.

“ . . . Exactly” Phichit confirmed, “But he sleeps a lot . . . so we’re probably alright,”

Yuuri nodded warily, “Is . . . everything here . . ?”

Phichit hummed pensively, “Hmm . . . not everything, but . . . most things . . .”

Yuuri nodded wearily, then flopped down on the other side of his brother; careful not to jostle him, “. . . and what’s this I hear about you being attacked by wolves?” he demanded, eyes brimming with worry.

Phichit’s back stiffened; he opened his mouth to object, and then closed it again. Now was not the time for a fight.

 He shook his head miserably instead, “You were right, Yuuri,” he sighed, “I left too late . . . the sun went down, and I . . . I’m sorry,”

Yuuri’s jaw dropped, “No!” he gasped, “no, no, no, no, not like that! I just . . . I’m just glad you’re safe . . . I was worried sick about you, Phichit! How badly are you hurt?”

Phichit scratched the back of his head, not out of necessity, but nerves, “It’s not so bad anymore . . . just my leg is a little dinged up. Not broken, just a little swollen, hurts a bit to walk on. I’ll be fine . . . I’m just . . .” He swallowed hard, “I feel so stupid . . . getting lost, and putting Vicchan in danger . . . and making you come all the way out here to get me . . . I really made a mess of things this time”

“Don’t say that,” Yuuri reprimanded quietly, “I will always come get you Phichit . . . no matter what,” He embraced his brother once more; a physical reminder that he was there now . . . that he would always be there.

Phichit smiled, a little melancholy tilt of his lips, and rested his head on Yuuri’s shoulder, “Always?”

“Always” Yuuri confirmed.

Phichit relaxed, snuggling in closer to Yuuri and dragging them both down to lie on the massive, downy bed.

“But . . .  you have to admit,” Phichit smirked, “this is a pretty spectacular blunder . . . you know, with the whole . . . Enchanted-Castle-ruled-by-a-Talking-Beast-and-staffed-by-Living-Objects . . . thing . . . ”  

Yuuri chuckled, “well, when you put it that way, I guess I can see your point,” he teased, “nevertheless, we survived the unstoppable self-digging shovel . . . I’m sure we’ll survive this . . .”

Phichit nodded, head dipping sleepily into the pillows.

“They seem . . . nice . . .” Yuuri murmured after a moment.

“. . . Yea,” Phichit huffed, rolling his eyes, “. . . at least we have that going for us,”

“Yea,” Yuuri agreed, laughing at the absolute absurdity of it, “Phichit Chulanont . . . only you could manage something like this,” he said, in mock sternness.

Phichit laughed, covering his face with his hands “Ugh . . . believe me, I know!”

“So . . . how did you, exactly?” Yuuri asked, curiosity worming its way back to the forefront of his mind, “Manage to find yourself in an Enchanted Castle, I mean?”

Phichit sighed, “ . . . it’s a long story . . .”

*****

“O bozhe . . . what do we have here?”

Phichit’s heart fluttered, his head spun; a voice . . . someone was here . . . finally some help.

Lost in the woods, chased by wolves, thrown from his horse, leg wounded, and now this creepy “ice magic” . . . the snowballs and the massive gate appearing out of nowhere . . .

Phichit painfully turned towards the source of the voice; finally a friendly face . . .

His hopes were immediately dashed.

Towering above him in the snow was a Beast; thick claret cape gliding about broad hairy shoulders in the icy wind.

Phichit gaped up at the inhuman form above him; massive and monstrous, with long silver fur and sharp shiny claws, lupine jaw with jagged fangs and brutal obsidian horns crowned above frigid cerulean eyes.

Instinct took over and Phichit scrambled back feebly on the cold, shifting snow until his back was pressed helplessly against the frozen gate; clutching his traveling cloak tighter around himself in a vain attempt to keep both the terror and the cold at bay. His leg throbbed painfully, but he could not bring himself to care.

“Please . . . it’s alright. You’re safe now,” The Beast soothed; his voice was deep and low and strangely calming. He slowly offered up a single, sharply-clawed hand and kneeled on the ground, coming no closer, “I know I look vicious . . . but I promise I will not hurt you,”

Phichit felt instantly ashamed; a blush consumed his freezing face. Still, he could not speak, lip quivering with shock and confusion and helplessness.

“Come, let me take you inside,” The Beast offered, speaking slowly and clearly, “I give you my word: no harm will come to you so long as you are my guest,”

“O . . . okay . . .” the word warbled weakly past Phichit’s shaking lips.

He knew it could be a trap; but he was already dead, wasn’t he? What did it matter now?

The Beast nodded, not breaking eye contact, still moving slowly so as not to startle his unwitting ward. He picked himself up off the ground, moving across the icy path seamlessly; leisurely and unhurried, never once slipping. The Beast ghosted along the snowy ground on mammoth paws, perfectly poised on the sheets of sleet, as if he were born to do it.

In fact, he probably had been, Phichit thought bitterly.

The Beast came to rest lightly at his side; crouching on his haunches and scanning him with those icy blue eyes.

“You’re hurt,” The Beast said simply.

“Yea,” Phichit replied numbly, unnerved by the closeness, but forcing himself not to let it show.

The Beast thought a moment.

“Can you breathe alright?” 

“Yes”

“And speak without hindrance?”

Phichit swallowed hard, “Yes”

“Good. Tell me where it is most painful,” The Beast requested.

“My leg. I was bitten,” Phichit ground out. A glance downward revealed that he was not bleeding out, but the gashes were nasty, his leg was swelling badly. “My back . . . my head. My horse threw me. I . . . landed on something sharp,” he cast his eyes downward.

“We should get you inside. Quickly,” The Beast replied briskly, “may I carry you? It will be faster”.

Phichit agreed with a nod of his head. 

“I will be as vigilant as I can,” The Beast vowed, shifting his enormous hands into position, “but moving about with injuries like these . . . it may hurt. Tell me if anything is too painful,”

Then, with more tenderness than Phichit had imagined possible, The Beast carefully slid his gigantic, padded hands beneath Phichit’s knees, and around his back, then gently eased him, bit by bit, into his massive silver arms.

The Beast rose slowly, cradling Phichit in a bridal carry securely above the snowy forest floor; Phichit sucked in a sharp breath as his muscles settled into the new position, unconsciously turning his face into the crook of a pewter shoulder and gripping the seams of a claret cape.

The smooth, silky glide of The Beast across the frozen earth was like nothing Phichit had ever experienced; incomparable to the rumble of a wagon or the gallop of a steed or even the impossibly precise steps of his brother as he danced.

Phichit felt a pang of Sadness.

Yuuri.

Would he ever see his brother again?

A Cathedral of Ice and Snow spiked in the distance; growing bigger as they drew closer, looming over them and eventually swallowing them whole, as The Beast passed through its dark and heavy doors.

A cacophony of voices rang out around him; he closed his eyes tighter against the dissonant assault as his head spun and his leg throbbed.

“A . . . a boy! A human boy!” Deep and gravely.

“C'est magnifique!” Bright and tenor.

“And so handsome!” Light and fluttering.  

“How did he get here?” Youthful and harsh.  

“I don't believe it!” Feminine and bubbly.

“Is it true?” Soprano and round.

 “This way! Over here!” Slow and rumbling.

“Grrrrr! Arf, arf, arf, arf, arf!” A dog.

“He’s hurt” Stoic and flat.

Silence.

Then directions began to fall softly from The Beast.

“Bandages, hot water, and some tea if you please . . . tidy the Eastern Suite and prepare it for our guest . . . Yakov, Christophe, with us please. Come, Makka,”

A litany of quiet “Yes, Masters” followed. Then more silence.   

The Beast let out a soft whistle to the dog.

A soft clicking followed and Phichit was gently jostled to the next room; eyes still screwed shut.

“The poor thing” the bright tenor voice from earlier cooed, “what happened?”

“Wolves” The Beast replied briskly. Phichit felt himself lowered into a plush chair, and opened his eyes as he adjusted.

The scene which greeted him was not one which he had expected.

“Makka, here girl,” The Beast called quietly, and upon his word a footstool bounded over on dark mahogany legs, jumping up on The Beast just like a normal dog would have.

Phichit’s eyes went wide; he must have lost more blood than he thought.

“Good girl, Makkachin!” The Beast praised, “I need you to behave and help our friend a minute, alright, smart girl?”

The footstool let out a happy yip and went back onto all fours.

“Good girl . . .” The Beast praised, “Makka . . . stay”

And suddenly, the footstool went rigid, stiff as a board . . . like a regular, normal footstool.

Phichit watched, dumbfounded, as The Beast gently slid his injured leg up onto the once-animated footstool. Dog-stool?

“What . . .?” Phichit’s question came out weak.

“Best to elevate the injured limb,” The Beast explained softly, as he sat in the second plush chair next to Phichit’s.

Phichit just nodded. That wasn't exactly what he was asking, but . . .

“Don't you worry, monsieur, we’ll have you fixed up in no-time!” the bright tenor voice interjected once more.

Phichit turned towards the source and came face to face with a living candelabrum.

“You . . . you’re a candle!” He cried in surprise

The candelabrum just chuckled good-naturedly, “Candelabrum . . . but, oui,” he conceded, “and you are a human . . .  and he is a clock,”  

Phichit followed the line of where the candelabrum’s arm was pointing, eyes landing on a stout mantle clock, who gave him a curt nod.

“Welcome”

Phichit closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the plush chair.

There was no way this was happening.

He was actually back out in the forest right now, dying of hypothermia, and this was all just some sort of mad fever-dream.

It had to be.

Suddenly a rickety tea cart came rumbling in, stacked with hot water and bandages and biscuits and of course, tea.

It rolled to a stop between Phichit and The Beast.

Phichit watched with foggy eyes as a teacup popped up on top of the bandages, looking decidedly unimpressed.

“Grandpa says you should have everything you need . . . bandages, hot water, tea . . . he even sent out biscuits. So . . . if that’s all, I’m going to bed. Finally.” He huffed and started to hop down from the tray.

“But . . .” Phichit began dazedly . . . “don't we need . . . teacups? For the tea?”

The teacup let out a growl, “there are other teacups on the tray . . .  ones that aren’t alive. Obviously. You’re not drinking out of me. Gross,”

The teacup shuddered and continued to hop down to the ground, storming out of the room.

Phichit looked sleepily from the clock to the candelabrum to The Beast to the footstool.

“I’m sorry . . .” he said miserably, “I don’t know the rules . . . I’ve never been in a . . . I’ve never been here before . . .” his head pounded and his vision swam.

“Pay no attention to Yuri,” The clock advised, “He’s always in a mood. Ugh, Teenagers. ”

“Just relax, have some tea, mon chou” The candelabra coaxed, “nothing to be frightened of, just your ordinary, everyday, run-of-the-mill Enchanted Castle . . .”

“Yakov, hand me a cloth” The Beast instructed quietly.

While The Beast and the clock saw to Phichit’s injured leg, the candelabrum distracted him with sweet tea and sweeter conversation.

“What’s your name, mon poulet?” The Candelabrum asked, pressing a warm cup of tea into Phichit’s chilly hands.

“P-Phichit . . .” he stammered, fingers tingling on the toasty china. “Phichit Chulanont”

“You are most welcome here Monsieur Chulanont” the candelabrum replied earnestly, “I am Christophe Giacometti, and this is Yakov Feltsman . . .”

The candelabrum prattled on, his bright rolling voice as comforting as the hot, sugary tea in Phichit’s hands.

Once Phichit had been mended and tended, The Beast carried him up to the most incredible room he had ever seen, with promises that his every need would be met; assured that Christophe and Yakov would remain just outside the door should he require absolutely anything at all.

Phichit had thanked them for their kindness and fallen gratefully into sleep; thoughts of home and his brother still dancing uneasily at the edges of his mind; not knowing if or when he would ever see either one again.  

*****

“ANOTHER ONE?”

A chorus of scandalized voices rang through the kitchen.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Yuri snapped defensively, stamping down on the long wooden prep table with a ‘clink’, “why don't you people ever believe me?”

“We’re just surprised. We never said we didn't believe you, Yurochka” A large, stately teapot with a deep, rumbling voice answered. He was patterned the same as the angry little teacup, with gold filigree and floral pastel patterns, but he had a few tea stains near his spout, the paint on his handle was faded from wear, and a small superficial crack ran up one of his sides.

Yuri pouted, “Yes, Grandpa” he replied contritely.

“For the record, I didn't believe him!” A perfumed handkerchief teased mischievously, her pleasing alto voice bubbled with delight. She was made of fine linen the colour of pink carnations, trimmed with soft raspberry lace. Her face was beautifully embroidered in the center of the fabric, her features stitched in the same deep shade as the edging. The remainder of the material swept down like a skirt, swaying about ethereally.

“Me either!” A decorated hand fan agreed; joining in on the handkerchief’s game. She was painted with a beautiful scene of two ladies in purple gowns sitting in a sprawling garden. The guards and slats which held her paper were made of the finest hand-carved ebony, embossed with a golden grapevine design. Her voice, an enchanting soprano purr.    

“It’s true,” Otabek confirmed flatly, coming to Yuri’s defense, “I saw him too”

The handkerchief shrugged amiably “OK, I believe it”.

“Me too,” agreed the fan.

“What? You hags believe Beka but not me?” Yuri raged, stomping down with another ‘clink’.

“Mila, Sara, Yuri, ENOUGH” Yakov bellowed imposingly.

Christophe chuckled under his breath; poor Yakov. He was lucky to be a clock, really. It meant he couldn't possibly lose any more hair . . .  

A gentle feather tickled Christophe’s side, making him jump ever so slightly.

“Was ist so lustig, Chris?” a sweet voice whispered next to him.

Christophe turned a wry grin to the feather duster leaning in to him; how Masumi still managed to look so sharp and well put-together, even spouting such fluffy brown feathers, Chris would never know.    

He turned in closer to his paramour, whispering back his clever quip about Yakov and clocks and hair.

Masumi laughed into the crook of Chris’ neck; or, where the crook of Chris’ neck would have been if he were still . . .

“And what are you two giggling about over there?”

Chris rolled his eyes, Masumi straightened up; busted.

“Make your kissy-faces some other time,” Yakov admonished, “this is important!”

“Yakov, relax! Another boy in the castle! This is good news!” Chris sighed, before wrapping his arms around Masumi dramatically, “Don't worry my pet,” he cooed to the feather duster, not quite softly enough to escape the attention of the others, “He’s just jealous because Lilia isn’t here . . .”

A soft chorus of “Ooo’s” chimed around them; even Yuri looked impressed . . . and a little afraid.

Yakov’s glare was red-hot; like it could melt steel.

And at the moment, Christophe was 30% wax.

However, instead of erupting, the redwood clock closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. When he spoke, his voice was flat and even, “Alright, Giacometti,” he began, “since you know everything, I’m sure you would be delighted to remind us all of the plan we had for the Chulanont boy . . . what with Viktor and the spell and the breaking thereof,”

Chris wasn’t entirely certain he cared for Yakov’s tone, but he would not be cowed; so he stood tall, releasing Masumi gently, before answering as flippantly as he could, “Of course, Yakov . . . it would be my pleasure. We all know the rose has nearly frozen solid . . . only three petals remain untouched, the rest have all lost their colour and turned to ice. So have the stem . . . and the thorns,”

At his words, the energy of the room changed entirely; where before his colleagues had been bright and teasing, they were now worried and reserved, like all the joy had been sucked from world.

“However!” Chris chirped jubilantly, “to our good fortune, a human boy found his way to us through the woods and Master Viktor saved him from a terrible fate . . . so now all the Master has to do is nurse him back to heath, the two will fall in love, and poof, we’ll all be human again before you know it!” Christophe beamed, and the others seemed cheered as well.

Except for Yakov.

“Yes . . . that was the plan” the clock grumbled, “but you’re forgetting something Giacometti,”

Chris waved a dismissive candle, “Look, I know what you’re going to say, Yakov . . . ‘oh, it’ll be so much harder to break the spell now that monsieur Chulanont’s brother is in the way,’ . . . but you need to look at the possibilities, Yakov . . . see, now there are two . . .”

“No,” Yakov interrupted sternly, his tone brokering no argument; “none of you seem to realize what this actually means for us . . . this is a disaster,” his eyes were stern, searching, daring anyone to question him.

“Then tell us,” Otabek requested, his tone just as challenging.

Yakov took another deep breath, “It means, that it will be impossible to break the spell . . . since Master Chulanont’s brother has come to take him home,”

The realization struck each of the gathered objects in turn; shattering their hopes one by one.

“Vitya won’t even have a chance to break the spell before that Katsuki boy whisks Master Chulanont away,” Yakov continued, once everyone caught on, “it’s not like they’re both just going to stay here for the fun of it! Any hope we had of becoming human again vanished the instant Katsuki Yuuri walked through those doors,”

He bowed his head, crestfallen; as if his words disappointed even himself.

The kitchen was silent; the devastation palpable.

“Wait, Yakov! That’s it!” Chris beamed brightly, excitement bubbling, flames flickering to life on his head and hands, “the fun of it!”

“What . . . exactly do you mean, schäri?” Masumi asked warily, very much accustomed to his lover’s frequent flights of fancy; those both delightful . . . and disastrous.

“It’s simple! We’ll just convince them to stay!” Chris exclaimed, “This is an Enchanted Castle! Surely there must be something here that could hold their interest . . .”

“The library!” Mila suggested

“Or the drawing room!” Sara added

“ . . . The armoury!” Yuri cried

“The ballroom!”

“The music room!”

“The dungeon?”

“The gardens!”

 “The gallery!”

“The money?”

The old teapot shuffled forward through the cacophony and raised his weathered eyes.

“A feast!”

The rest went silent.

Yakov smiled for the first time that night, “Nikolai Plisetsky, you’re a genius!”

Yuri beamed at his grandpa.

“It’s perfect!” Christophe agreed, “Tonight, we’ll set the most amazing banquet for Messieurs Chulanont and Katsuki, and they’ll have no choice but to stay!”

The others cheered in agreement.

“And then . . .” Chris continued, “. . . we can only hope . . . that one of them will break the spell,”

Chris and Yakov grinned at one another; for once united, instead of enemies. Yuri smirked at Otabek, who gave a determined nod in response, as Mila and Sara squealed in delight.

“Alright! Now, everyone out of my kitchen! I have a feast to prepare!” Nikolai called out joyfully; more alive than he had been in years.

“He’s right! Move aside! Let the teapot work!” Chris cried triumphantly.

They began to dissipate; hopping off the prep table to give the Head of the Kitchen space, as he rallied the other kitchenware.

“The rest of you; be on your best behaviour!” Yakov ordered, “No more fighting, no more smooching, no more unseemliness, understood?”

 A smattering of sighs drawled out around the kitchen, “Yes, Yakov”.

“Find out everything you can about these boys, what they like, what they hate . . .  anything that could help us!” Yakov continued barking orders as the assembly dispersed.

“Let’s just hope Viktor doesn't screw this up, eh Beka?” Yuri laughed, about to exit the kitchen too.

“Oh no, not you, Yurochka,” Nikolai admonished, stopping the teacup in his tracks, “I need you here to help prepare for the feast!” 

Yuri turned back to face his grandpa, his expression horror-stricken the way only a teenager’s could be.

Nikolai just smiled wickedly down at his grandson, “Tonight . . . you mince!”

*****

Soft candlelight flickered all around, illuminating the ornate and elegant dining room.

Yuuri’s mouth hung open mutely, both in shock and anticipation; dinner was not at all what he had been expecting. 

Yakov had come to fetch him and Phichit just minutes prior, and now the two stood in the doorway of the large, magnificently appointed banquet hall.

The Beast had already arrived. He looked much the same as usual, though now he had substituted a large, billowing white shirt for the heavy claret cape he usually wore.

He rose in greeting when the boys entered, but was sat at the head of the nearly endless mahogany table, with a single empty chair to either side of him; one on the left, and one on the right.

One for Yuuri, one for Phichit.

And laid out before him on the table, was the most food that Yuuri had ever seen in his life.

It was a feast; a literal feast!

Yuuri had definitely not anticipated all this.

When The Beast had offered dinner, Yuuri had expected at most a simple soup, with buttered bread and a glass of water . . . maybe mead or ale if their host decided to be extra gracious.

But this . . .

THIS

The intricate mahogany dining table stretched lavishly from one end of the dining room to the other, and it was laid to overflowing with all manner of piping hot delicacies.

There were several light starters; small meats and cheeses, crisp, fluffy pastries with a rainbow of rich and sweet sauces in which to dip them, small fruits and nuts and dates and olives with flavoured oils to make them pleasing to the palette; each dish so beautifully plated it seemed a shame to disturb the arrangements and ruin the artistry. 

On top of those were the dozens of steaming vegetable dishes; so numerous that Yuuri couldn’t possibly name them all if he’d tried; carrots and potatoes and sweet greens cut and steamed with herbs, seasoned and grilled, drizzled with reductions, tossed with dressings, minced and candied, smothered with cheese and baked.

Then, as if that were not enough, several main courses of meat had been provided for their pleasure as well; a prime rib roast, a rack of lamb, a cut of fine seasoned chicken, stews and ragus and pates. All served on the finest dishes of porcelain and gold.

Embellished flagons and canteens and carafes stood interspersed among the delicacies, promising honeyed wines and fine meads and sparkling ciders and tart juices and much, much more to slake their thirst.

The warm mix of sweet and savory aromas nearly made Yuuri tremble as he took his seat to the left of The Beast; acutely aware of how positively famished he was.

Phichit sat down across from him; leaning on the table as he went to take the weight off his injured leg. The brazen look he gave Yuuri revealed how equally enraptured he was by the mouth-watering spread.

Yuuri’s fingers twitched eagerly in his lap, unsure whether it was appropriate for him to start serving himself quite yet. His eyes flickered sheepishly to The Beast, who sat poised, almost regally, beside him.

Fortunately, he did not have long to wait; at a gesture from The Beast, Animated Utensils of all kinds began to appear, parading the courses before them, offering the drinks and dishes forward in turn and serving them up to a chorus of shy ‘Yes Please’s and ‘No Thank-You’s from the overwhelmed boys; Yuuri carefully avoiding any beverages which may have hinted at alcohol, not trusting himself to imbibe such things under the circumstances. 

Once their plates and chalices were filled beyond satisfaction, The Beast lifted his own glass in a silent toast, nodding to his guests.

“Please,” he beckoned graciously, inviting them to begin.

Phichit and Yuuri returned the toast, thanking The Beast in earnest, gushing gratefully in anticipation of the meal offered to them, before eagerly tucking in.

The first part of the evening passed largely in amiable silence, interspersed with good humored pleasantries from Yuuri and Phichit; the three caught up in the comfort and camaraderie that only a good meal can provide; lulled into a companionable peace by the tang of the spices and the warmth of the spread.  

The minutes ticked by and the sand ran down; the ornate candles which sat upon the table melted languidly, pudding in mesmerizing patterns; though these, thankfully, were simple objects, and not of the living variety, like Christophe.

As first helpings became seconds and seconds became thirds, the servings slowed and the conversation swelled; The Beast remaining largely placid, preferring to ask Phichit and Yuuri questions rather than offer any of his own anecdotes. They were simple inquiries by and large; how was the food? Were they enjoying the room? Had the staff been bothering them? Simple, safe questions, easily answered.

It was only when Yuuri had thanked The Beast once again for his hospitality, when a more personal question slid forward, catching them off guard.

“Of course, I assure you it’s no trouble. It is my pleasure to be your host” The Beast replied, “However, if I am not being to forward . . . what brought to you these woods in the first place, Master Chulanont? There are not many who venture this far out”

And so, as the dishes cleared themselves to be replaced by their dessert course counterparts, Phichit was forced to bashfully regale The Beast with the tale of how he had gotten himself lost in the woods on his way to The Town by the Sea. Yuuri filled in the particulars; namely, the existence of the near-invisible fork in the road and exactly how many leagues Phichit had gone off track.

The Beast listened to it all with rapt fascination; the first spark of any real feeling Yuuri had yet seen from him.

“An Inventor!” The Beast chirped when the tale was completed; still demure and cool, yet with an edge of excitement Yuuri had never heard in his voice before, “How intriguing! Please, do go on . . . what areas of study do you pursue? What sort of devices have you built?”

Phichit perked up, like a dog who’s heard it’s name called, “You . . . those types of things interest you?” he asked, pleasantly surprised.

“Of course,” The Beast replied, “My personal focus is more theoretical concept than practical application, and I will admit to only having a rudimentary knowledge of most subjects, but . . . I do find it all very fascinating! Unfortunately my own studies have stagnated as of late. I’m afraid the library hasn’t seen any new additions recently . . . I imagine whatever texts I’m familiar with must be woefully out of date,”

Phichit brightened immediately, launching into a soliloquy about the Envelope Box he had meant to show off at the Summer Festival, and subsequently ruined during the wolf attack. Yuuri beamed, supplying little details here and there; how the cogs moved so silently, how it slid together so beautifully, how magnificent it was. They went on like that for some time, describing more of Phichit’s creations; the lantern and Yuuri’s glasses and other things both dazzling and dreadful. Phichit glared daggers at Yuuri when he became bold enough to tease Phichit about that damn self-digging shovel again; but the story had the two brothers in stitches by the end of it, and Yuuri thought The Beast looked quite amused himself.

He couldn’t be certain of course . . . what with the chilly demeanor and the fangs and all; but he was fairly confident The Beast was quite enjoying their company.

Then they were talking all about Phichit’s Workshop and the farm and The Village and home, the hours ticking slowly by as they devoured a thousand sweet desserts, sipping at piping hot tea with honey and lemon.

“And you, Master Katsuki? What is it that you do?”

Yuuri snapped to attention; eyes flicking up from the china cup in his hands.

The Beast was focused solely on him now; Yuuri felt heavy under that piercing arctic gaze.

“Oh . . . uh . . .” Yuuri fumbled for something clever to say.

I feed the chickens and weed the garden?

I read my atlas by the hearth and daydream?

I hide in the cottage all day so I don’t have to go outside and talk to anyone? 

He took a sip of his cooling strawberry tea, and then looked back up with a grin.

“I . . . rebuild the paddock fence when certain shoveling inventions uproot everything on the farm”

Phichit tried to look angry, but he just snorted instead, “He’s not wrong” his brother conceded with a laugh, “I suppose ‘Damage Control’ would be an apt title.”

“Is that all?” The Beast asked genuinely, “Forgive me, but . . . would it not be incorrect for me to suggest there’s more to you than that?”

For some reason, those words made Yuuri blush.

“Oh, well . . . I just meant . . .” Yuuri floundered, “Ah . . . I take care of the farm, mostly. Feed the chickens. Weed the garden. Chop the wood. Chores and errands . . .” He took another sip of his tea with a grimace; in his euphoria he had made the drink far too sweet, “The . . . the usual things . . . nothing all that special” He turned a tight, saccharine smile back to his host.

The Beast hummed in response; either unsatisfied or unconvinced, but willing to let the matter rest.

Phichit, however, was a different story.

“Yuuri, don’t be so modest!” Phichit chimed; he turned to The Beast with a wicked grin, “don’t let my brother fool you,” he warned, “Yuuri may seem like an innocent farm boy, but beneath that coy exterior beats the heart of a true artist”

“P-Phichit!” Yuuri stuttered, almost knocking over his teacup.

“What?” Phichit demanded languidly, “we’ve been talking about me all night . . . now it’s your turn”

The look he shot Yuuri then said everything; Phichit was about to get his revenge for the whole “self-digging shovel” bit.

Oh boy.

Yuuri flushed an even deeper pink; there was nothing to do now but tie himself down, let the waves crash over and wait for the tide to low.

“An Artist, you say?” The Beast asked politely, turning to Phichit. That same measured excitement was back in his voice; now trimmed with something akin to mischief.

Yuuri was certain he was going to burn to cinders right there in the mahogany dining chair.

“Mmm hmm . . .” Phichit purred diabolically, “. . . such a sweet, poetic soul, my brother is . . .”

Yuuri groaned internally. Phichit was going to pay for this . . . assuming Yuuri didn’t die of embarrassment right then and there, of course.

“What medium?” The Beast asked, in the same way he had asked about Phichit’s own areas of interest.

“Oh, he’s familiar with most . . . everything from drawing to theatre” Phichit answered sincerely, “with more than a passing knowledge of composition, theory, and performance . . . he’s very well-rounded. He studies under the tutelage of a courtesan . . .”

Technically not a lie.

“. . . And it’s not just the Fine Arts that draw his eye. Literature, history, geography, astronomy . . . he’s both brilliant and insatiable. I’m surprised I can keep up with him half the time,”

Yuuri could concede the first part as accurate, but Phichit was really laying it on thick.

“. . . he’s read every book we own at least a hundred times . . .”

Again, not untrue, but as they owned less than a dozen books between them, it didn't seem like a feat worth the mention.

“. . . and his dancing! It’s like nothing I’ve ever . . . I don't even have words to describe it . . .”

 And now Phichit sounded legitimately awed, and The Beast’s arctic gaze fell upon Yuuri once more.

“ . . . you dance?”

Yuuri averted his eyes nervously; there was something strange in The Beast’s tone. Not bad, exactly but . . . big; big and unnameable.

“On occasion . . . it’s just a silly pastime really . . .” Yuuri mumbled sheepishly.

“Oh please!” Phichit scoffed, “If your dancing is a ‘silly pastime’; then my inventing is a ‘fleeting whim’,” He turned back to The Beast, “You’ll have to forgive my brother, he’s plagued by a terrible case of humility.”Phichit shot Yuuri a glare indicating exactly how ridiculous he thought his brother was being.

Yuuri just shrugged; strategically non-committal.

Apparently Phichit was not satisfied with Yuuri’s neutrality.

Phichit flicked his bangs out of his eyes and smiled innocently back at The Beast.

A little too innocently.

“He’s actually the talk of the town, you know . . .” Phichit turned and grinned wickedly at Yuuri. He was now holding the conversation hostage; giving Yuuri one last chance to interject; to surrender his stubbornness and accept Phichit’s praise.

Yuuri’s jaw dropped; Phichit was unbelievable!

He was a dead man.

Or Yuuri was.

Or they both were.

Either Phichit would talk and Yuuri would die of embarrassment, or Yuuri would talk and end up humiliating himself to death, or Phichit would talk and Yuuri would somehow survive the ordeal only for Phichit to concoct another, more shamefully elaborate social death for him somewhere down the line, or Yuuri would survive the teasing and revenge himself by pelting Phichit to death with sweet, flaky pastries, or Yuuri would end it all, lose the standoff and laugh himself to death; because he was ridiculous, Phichit was ridiculous, this whole entire situation was ridiculous, and at this point he really had nothing left to lose.

Yuuri didn't look away nervously or bite his lip or stutter out an objection; he just snorted and rolled his eyes.

Phichit’s eyebrows shot up in delight.

There would be no surrender then; so be it!

To the death!

Phichit gleefully took his cue to continue.

“. . . he can't do anything without people taking notice,” Phichit drawled mischievously, dramatic and thick, “There’s nobody else in town quite like him. He has a certain . . . allure, my brother does. I’m sure you’ve noticed. I mean, people can’t help but fall madly in love with him wherever he goes . . . what with his pretty face and his big brown eyes and his sensitive artistic spirit and all. Just between us, he has a line of suitors a mile long back home . . . people think he’s some kind of . . . I don’t know . . . ‘Playboy’ . . . with all the men and women who constantly throw themselves at him . . . but really, he’s just a sweet, shy dancer . . . a humble artist trying to make his way in this crazy, mixed up world . . . Oh yes, it’s a charmed life, to be sure . . . but kind of sad all at the same time, don't you think?” Phichit trailed off wistfully.

Yuuri blinked slowly, expression blank; his mind either unable or unwilling to process Phichit’s ravings.

All he knew for certain was that if the whole ‘Inventing Thing’ didn't pan out, Phichit could make a fair go of being an actor; he certainly was dramatic enough.

The Beast didn't seem to know what to say to that, and Yuuri didn't blame him; he didn't know what to say either.

“. . . I think . . .” The Beast began after a moment, “That I was correct in my earlier assessment. There is clearly much more to you than meets the eye, monsieur Katsuki” his tone was measured and even once again; mischief and excitement gone, replaced by something more . . . melancholy?

Strange.

Yuuri let out a small, awkward laugh, “Ah . . . what can I say . . . I suppose I’m just too mysterious and aloof for my own good . . .” he drawled sarcastically.

His joke caught Phichit off guard, who violently guffawed in response, causing him to choke on his tea; sending him into a minutes-long coughing fit.

Yuuri smirked; to the death, indeed.

Thankfully, after that, the conversation turned back towards safer topics once again; and before long the trio were deciding to retire.  

“Thank you again,” Yuuri praised shyly, “everything was . . . incredible,”

The Beast dipped his head ever so slightly, “Of course. Tell me your favourite dishes and I can have the kitchen prepare them for tomorrow night’s dinner, if you like,”

Phichit and Yuuri whipped towards one another simultaneously.

Dinner? Tomorrow night?

Were they staying that long?

 “That . . . that’s kind of you to offer . . .” Phichit began uncertainly, searching Yuuri’s eyes as he spoke, “But we had thought . . . I had thought . . . we . . . there’s no one to watch the farm, so . . . we need to be on our way home tomorrow morning,” he finished quietly.

A candle flickered in the silence that followed.

“. . . Of course,” The Beast replied graciously, “I should not have assumed. Please let me know if there’s anything you require for your journey,”

“Thank you . . . you’re too kind,” Phichit replied somberly.

“Not at all,” The Beast returned evenly, “However . . .”

He paused, seeming uncertain. Yuuri bit his lip nervously.

“I realize you both have responsibilities to attend to back home . . .” The Beast continued finally, “and I would not dream of keeping you longer than you desire . . . but at the same time, I would like to assure you that you are both invited to stay for as long as you wish. Please, feel no need to hurry your departure on our account,”

“Thank you,” Yuuri replied automatically.

“Thank you,” Phichit echoed, “. . . truly . . . it’s . . . it’s just the farm. It really can't be left unattended,”

The Beast nodded graciously, “I understand,” he acquiesced.  

Then The Beast rose, Yuuri and Phichit following his lead, and the three moved to exit the dining room, bidding one another good night.

Phichit slowly made his way out, leaning on the walls for support under The Beast’s careful supervision. Yuuri trailed only slightly behind, when the flickering candles caught his attention.

He turned back abruptly, darting back to the table to blow each one out, before quickly catching up to his brother and The Beast.

*****

Yuuri and Phichit retired uneasily back in the gilded bedchamber.  

The Beast had helped Phichit up the stairs, and offered Yuuri a suite of his own for the night, but the brothers had refused, insisting there was plenty of space in the Eastern Suite for the both of them; the room was larger than their entire cottage, the bed massive in its own right.

 And it went without saying that both preferred not to be separated in the imposingly large, unfamiliar, and not to mention bewitched, manor.

Phichit reclined on the bed, his right leg elevated on a plush throw pillow, as Yuuri paced by the still unlit fireplace.

“ . . . it doesn't seem right” Yuuri mumbled

“It doesn’t,” Phichit agreed, “But what can we do?”

“Stay” Yuuri suggested bluntly

“You know we can't” Phichit insisted for the thousandth time.

“I told you, Minako is at the farm . . .”

“Which is worse than having no one there at all,” Phichit sighed, “Plus she’s waiting for us to return . . . and if we don’t? That’s not fair to her, Yuuri. She deserves to know we’re safe,”

Yuuri grit his teeth. Phichit had a point.

The room was still.  

“ . . . What about the mice?” Phichit pleaded quietly.

Yuuri’s heart felt torn in two.

“Yuuri . . .” Phichit pushed himself up straighter, “I know . . . believe me, I know . . .  it’s my life he saved . . . and I wish things were different, but . . . we have to go home,”

 He was right. Yuuri knew he was right. He still couldn't bring himself to say it.

There was something . . . off. Something Yuuri was missing; something telling him he needed to stay.

Or maybe he just wanted to stay; maybe he just wanted to stay here in the beautiful castle surrounded by good company and exquisite art and fine food and breathtaking magic. Maybe he just didn't want to go back to the farm and the hens and the garden and his poor provincial life and . . . everything else waiting back there for him.  

Maybe he was just being selfish.  

“. . . to be honest, Yuuri . . . I . . . I want to go home . . .”

Phichit sounded so guilty; it made Yuuri feel a million times worse.

“You . . . don't like it here?” Yuuri asked gently, coming closer to lean on the bed, voice pitched low. It wasn’t an accusation, just an honest question.

“I just . . .” Phichit began tentatively, “I miss home. I miss the farm. I miss my workshop. The castle is nice and all, and dinner was great but . . . everything is just so strange . . . I mean . . . you have to admit, it’s actually . . . really creepy here, isn’t it?”

Yuuri’s head tilted questioningly.  

“Don't get me wrong!” Phichit backpedaled immediately, “It’s . . . big and pretty and everyone’s been really good to us but . . . isn’t it all just a bit . . . spooky? It’s so quiet . . .”

Yuuri thought about it for a moment; he didn't find the castle all that eerie. Not anymore, anyway . . . but he did have to admit, he could see how Phichit might find it . . . imposing.

“. . . I’m sure that’s just the magic . . .” Yuuri objected weakly, “I mean . . . we know there’s nothing to be afraid of here . . .”

The argument sounded weak, even to himself.

“I mean . . . The Beast is really . . . he’s been so kind,” Yuuri finished.

“True,” Phichit conceded, “He’s . . . very gracious and well-spoken . . . and I’ll be forever grateful to him for saving my life . . . but . . . don't you find him just a little . . ?”

Phichit couldn't seem to find the right words, and instead gestured to make his point; holding both arms stiffly in front of him like a zombie, his face going blank.

Yuuri raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Phichit flushed; frustrated and shame-faced, “I mean, like at dinner . . . I was obviously joking about whole “playboy” thing but . . . just . . . nothing. He’s so stiff. He doesn't laugh, he doesn't smile . . . he’s polite and courteous and inviting and all but there’s something strange there too. He’s so . . . I don’t know . . . cold . . .”  

Yuuri shrugged, “he doesn't entertain much,” he pouted defensively, “and he was interested in your inventions . . .”

Yuuri had always been the type for whom actions spoke louder than words, and in his opinion, The Beasts’ actions rang out loud and clear.

Phichit sighed, “I know. I like The Beast, I really do; I think he’s a good man . . . creature . . . supernatural-whatever-he-is. I’m not trying to be mean, Yuuri . . . I’m just . . . telling you how I feel,”

Yuuri softened, “I understand,”

Phichit visibly relaxed, sinking back down onto the bed.

“I know we have to go home, Phichit,” Yuuri admitted, “I just . . . wish there was something we could do to thank them,”

“Maybe there is,” Phichit replied sleepily, eyes drifting shut.

“Like what?” Yuuri practically whispered.

“Mmm . . . dunno. They have any trinkets that need fixing?” Phichit joked, eyes still shut.

Yuuri snorted, “Well, considering all the ‘trinkets’ here are alive . . . I think they may need a healer rather than an inventor in that case . . . or would they need a sorcerer? You know, since it’s magic and all?”

Phichit released a fluttering laugh, covering his eyes with his hands, “fine . . . then why don't you offer to go shovel the snow instead?” he teased.

Yuuri let out a rolling laugh, “Ugh, I hate you” he moaned dramatically.

“No you don't” Phichit wheedled

“Yes, I do” Yuuri insisted playfully, “next time I’m leaving you in the woods”

“Rude,” Phichit quipped, reaching out a lazy hand to pat Yuuri gently on the side of his head, “Well, I’m out of ideas . . . better just go ask, then,”

Yuuri hummed thoughtfully.

Once again, Phichit had a point.

Yuuri rose, promising to return shortly. Phichit hadn’t been serious of course, but once Yuuri got an idea in his head, not much could be done to dissuade him from it; a trait which had proven to be both a blessing and a curse.

Yuuri emerged into the narrow, lamp-lit hall; immediately spying Christophe on the serving table opposite.

The candelabrum was speaking with a feather duster in hushed tones, but immediately jumped to attention when the door opened.

“Master Katsuki!” Christophe all but yelped, “What can I do for you this fine evening, Monsieur?”

“Sorry, I . . . I didn't mean to interrupt,” Yuuri said contritely, looking between the two.

“Not at all!” Christophe waved a dismissive candle as the feather duster bowed graciously, “Masumi and I were just . . . talking . . .” his eyes darted quickly from Yuuri to the feather duster and back again, “How can I be of assistance?”

“I was hoping . . . or wondering . . . if your Master might still be up?” Yuuri asked shyly, “I uh . . . wanted to ask him something . . . if it’s not a bother,”

Christophe’s eyes lit up, “Of course! Absolument! No bother at all! I believe he’s just in his parlour now . . . he can be found there more often than not, always whiling away the hours on some passing fancy or other. Come, monsieur, I shall show you to him,”

Christophe turned to the feather duster, Masumi, “You can tend Master Chulanont in my absence, Müsli?” he asked sweetly.

“Of course,” Masumi replied just as softly. He gave Yuuri another courteous bow.

“Thank you,” Yuuri replied, with a small bow of his own.

“This way, Monsieur!” Christophe chirped, leading Yuuri back through the winding passageways of the dimming castle.

*****

Ex-Prince Viktor Nikiforov slumped in his favourite plush sitting chair, staring into the flames of the roaring fireplace in his elaborate personal parlour, his wolfish muzzle resting melancholically upon his curled fist, as he leaned on the embroidered armrest; contemplating his situation.

It was a difficult task, not so much for its complexity, but for the sheer fact that it was hard to go about pondering such things without his pesky feelings getting in the way; clouding his judgement and making him careless.

Indeed, ‘careless’ was one thing he absolutely could not afford to be at the moment.

He straightened, rubbing at his eyes, blinking in the heat of the flames.

He gazed distractedly about the parlour; it was his most favourite room in the entire castle. Large but cozy, big enough to entertain but small enough to study in private comfortably; windows that faced the sunset, original portraits of the most inspirational nature, all of the furniture crafted by hand for comfort and beauty. Everything was painted and upholstered in his favourite colours; the room a sweet embrace of magentas and fuchsias and clarets with accents of deep plum and raspberry and rose and gold.

The room was perfect, down to every last detail.

That must be why Viktor still spent so much time in here . . . considering this was where it had happened.

Or perhaps he was just a masochist; as Christophe so often teased him. 

Viktor sighed; alright, to business.

How to get the boys to stay?

Obviously, he couldn't impose upon their free will. That would never do. He might be a Beast, but he certainly wasn't a Monster.

The Feast was supposed to have swept them off their feet . . . delight them enough to make them want to remain in the castle . . . that’s what Chris had said.

What else could he offer them? What else?

And with so little time?

And when the boys had responsibilities back home?

He needed something fast . . . something wondrous enough to keep them here.

What might they like enough to make them stay?

What might Yuuri like . . ?

Viktor pondered, coming up with many things that might appeal to Katsuki Yuuri  . . . but not quite certain which would be the most well-received.

For Katsuki Yuuri was turning out to be a never ending wealth of surprises.

When they had first met this morning in the sitting room, Yuuri had been afraid; Viktor could tell. He didn't begrudge the farm boy that; Viktor had no allusions about his appearance after all.

But then . . . Yuuri had changed, almost instantaneously.

One word, one simple sentence from Viktor’s hideous muzzle and suddenly . . .

None of it mattered anymore?

This boy, this Katsuki Yuuri cared so much for his brother that he could look a Beast in the eye with no fear? Could speak to Viktor like the human he truly was beneath the fur and fangs? Had the courtesy to make polite conversation, ask after Viktor’s own welfare, apologize for his intrusion . . . and even have the presence of mind to insist that he found the enchanted staff ‘delightful’? Delightful?

Katsuki Yuuri . . . would wonders never cease?

And not only was Yuuri gracious . . . he was kind and humble and funny and interesting and obviously intelligent . . .

. . . and pretty; Very pretty, if Viktor were being entirely honest. Phichit hadn't been exaggerating about that. Viktor had no doubt that Yuuri would be highly sought after back home.

. . . and he was an artist.

. . . and he was a dancer.

. . . and he was leaving tomorrow morning unless Viktor could stop him.

Maybe if he just fell to his knees and begged the beautiful dancer to stay, Yuuri would surprise him once again and take pity on the poor cursed prince.

Viktor let out a frustrated growl; his feelings were getting the better of him again.

Distracting him.

He ran a frustrated paw through his hair; claws snagging on the tangles.

Maybe he should find a way to make Phichit want to stay instead? If Phichit wanted to stay, surely Yuuri would too? For his brother’s sake? Or was this getting too complicated now?

A knock at the door roused his attention.

“Enter” He called automatically.

Chris poked his head around the door smugly, “Monsieur Katsuki is here . . . he wishes to speak with you, Master . . .” The candelabrum winked; his tone unmistakable.

Viktor’s heart stopped; mercy, this boy would be the death of him.

“Of course,” he replied evenly, despite the sudden heart attack, “show him in,”

“Yes, Master” Chris returned lasciviously, disappearing from view.

Ugh, ‘Master’ . . . every time Christophe said it Viktor cringed; to the candelabrum’s unending delight.

Viktor counted Christophe as one of his closest friends; and so, Chris addressing him the way that he did . . . like that . . . it had started as a joke, but over time it had taken on a life of its own, embarrassing Viktor to no end and never failing to amuse the Maître D’.

Viktor was just thankful that Masumi wasn't the jealous type.

He rose from his chair to greet Yuuri, as Christophe beckoned the boy in; closing the door behind him to give the two some privacy.

“Monsieur Katsuki,” Viktor addressed him with a stoic nod, as if he had not been daydreaming about the boy only two minutes prior, “What can I do for you?”

Yuuri glanced away shyly, and Viktor thought his heart might stop once again.

Maybe if Yuuri just went ahead and killed him with those big beautiful brown eyes Viktor wouldn't have to worry about breaking the damn spell at all.

“I . . . I’m sorry to bother you,” The boy began, looking back to Viktor now, “I just . . . since we’re leaving tomorrow, I wanted to thank you again . . . for your hospitality,”

Viktor paused . . . something familiar buzzing in the back of his brain.

“Not at all,” He answered at last, “It is my pleasure to host you and your brother, I assure you,”

Yuuri nodded, then took a small step towards him. “Even so,” he pressed, “we’re very grateful for all you’ve done. We . . . we were actually wondering if there was anything we could do? To . . . um . . . to reward you, for your kindness?”

The buzzing became thunderous as warning bells blared.

Viktor went rigid; swallowing hard.

Isn’t that what she had said? “Reward you for your kindness . . .”?

And then she had . . .

Was this some sort of trap?

Another trick of hers now that time was so short?

No . . . this wasn't . . . it couldn’t be . . .

But Yuuri did seem too good to be true . . .

And their arrival had been awfully convenient . . .

Yuuri looked at him searchingly, biting his lip. Viktor hadn't even realized he had not answered, when Yuuri spoke again, “I know we don't have much . . . Phichit and I . . . but . . . but you’ve done so much for us, and . . . and if there’s any way that we can repay you . . .”

Viktor took a step back.

No. Impossible.

Not again.

The same room. The same words.

This time he would not be fooled.

Yuuri took another tentative step forward, “. . . is there?” he asked quietly, “anything we can do? Anything we can give? Even just a token of our gratitude?”

“I want nothing from you”

The words came out fast and harsh; abrasive. Much colder than Viktor had intended.

And then Yuuri took a step back, alarm flickering quickly over his lovely features.

Shock.

Hurt.

 “Sorry . . . I . . . didn’t mean to offend you . . .” Yuuri apologized numbly, “I’ll leave you be then . . .”

It . . . wasn't a trap, then; just a horrible coincidence.

Viktor was consumed instantly with regret. Why was he always such a fool?

An aching chill filled his chest.

No . . .

“The apology is mine” he bit out quickly.

Yuuri was turning back towards him now; slowly . . . cautiously.

It was no use . . . Viktor knew it was too late.

Yuuri’s once warm eyes were now guarded; his shoulders tense, his posture stiff.

In a single breath, Viktor had ruined everything.

“I only meant . . . you have no reason to fret . . .” he scrambled, “I . . . I did not shelter you both in return for a reward. You . . . you don't owe me anything. It was no trouble . . . I did nothing. Really,” his words were gentle, but insistent, praying Yuuri would forgive his earlier outburst.

Instead, Yuuri’s eyes narrowed.

“Nothing? You saved my brother’s life . . . you tended his wounds, gave us a place to stay, served up a feast . . . is that nothing to you?” he pressed softly.

Viktor was breathless, how had the conversation spiraled so far out of control?

“. . . The enchantments on the castle saved your brother . . . the staff prepared the room and the feast . . . I . . . did nothing,” he explained flatly.

Yuuri nodded, taking a deep breath, “Well . . . thank you all the same,” he replied softly; barely a whisper.

Viktor nodded once, looking away.

How was it that this one simple boy could shake Viktor to his very core? Make such an impression though they barely knew one another? 

“Shall I see you off tomorrow?” Viktor offered, changing the subject. There was no point in pretending like there was even a chance Yuuri would stay now; best just to be gracious about it.

Yuuri nodded, smiling a little, “Please? If . . . if that wouldn't be too much trouble,” he answered sweetly, “I’m sure Phichit would like to . . . say goodbye”.

“Then I will see you tomorrow morning, Master Katsuki” Viktor promised.

Yuuri hesitated, “goodnight then,” he relented at last, turning to exit the parlor.

Viktor rounded back to face the fireplace, the threads of his composure wearing thin.

 He waited to hear the creak and slam of the door. Instead he heard a soft voice.

“Please . . . it’s just . . .”

Viktor couldn't face Yuuri now; he would be done for.

Yuuri continued on anyway.

“. . . It’s just . . . Phichit . . . he’s the only family I have left. He’s my whole world. If anything had happened to him . . .” Yuuri’s voice wavered only a moment, “I don’t . . . I don’t know what I would have done. And . . . I know I can never really repay you. I just . . . I need you to know how much Phichit means to me. How much everything you’ve done means to me. You keep saying it was ‘nothing’ . . . but to me . . . it was everything. So . . . ah . . . thank you. Just . . . thank you . . .”

Viktor stared into the leaping flames, willing himself to remain strong in the face of another Katsuki Yuuri surprise.

“You’re welcome” he replied evenly, still to weak to look back at the beautiful boy in his doorway.

Then, at long last, he heard the signature creak and slam of the parlor door, and sank down, warm and exhausted, into his favourite armchair once more.

If this is how it felt to be in Katsuki Yuuri’s presence, then Viktor dreaded living in his absence.

*****

Yuuri stumbled back out into the hallway on shaky legs; only to be greeted once again by Christophe’s smiling face.

“So . . . how did it go?” the candelabrum purred teasingly.

Yuuri’s mind was still reeling a little and he looked dazedly down at the Maître D’, who had already begun to lead him back to his suite.

A shaky, “umm . . .” was all Yuuri could manage at the moment.

Christophe looked back at Yuuri, his eyes widening in concern, “Oh . . . that doesn't look like a happy face . . .” he prompted.

“I . . . think I may have offended him . . .” Yuuri offered uncertainly.

Was it strange to have a heart to heart with your host’s employee?

Would it be more or less acceptable, when you were all but stranded in an Enchanted Castle, with a Beast for a host . . . and the employee in question happened to be a candelabrum?

Yuuri didn't rightly know, but anyone who could shed some light on his situation was a welcome ear, at this point.

That whole conversation had just been . . . bizarre.

Not that the castle, or anyone in it for that matter, had reeked of normalcy to begin with.

“Offended him?” Christophe inquired gently.

The halls were now very dark; outside the sun had set and no more light came in through the windows. Only the glow of the sconces lit their way; and Christophe’s ethereal flames, of course.

“I just wanted to thank him . . . I asked if I could do anything . . . you know . . . to repay him for his kindness . . .” Yuuri mumbled.

“Ahh . . .” Christophe drawled, tone awash in understanding, “I . . . I apologize on my Master’s behalf Monsieur Katsuki,” he replied earnestly, “The Master . . . he . . . well . . . we don't entertain much . . . it does not surprise me that he would be wary of strangers offering gifts,”

“. . . but why?” Yuuri blurted gracelessly. He felt a bit abashed, but he was so, so curious.

Christophe sighed, and then looked about conspiratorially, dousing his flames; he motioned for Yuuri to pick him up.

Yuuri did, tentatively, and Christophe gestured for them to keep going; still directing their way down the hall with demure points of his candle.

Once they were settled, Christophe finally spoke.

“. . . because of the spell,” he revealed, pitching his voice low; leaning to whisper in Yuuri’s ear.

“The what?” Yuuri gasped, nearly dropping his charge.

“Sorry,” he apologized quickly, resettling Christophe in a firmer grip.

“The spell,” Christophe repeated, voice still pitched down, “really now, Monsieur Katsuki, how did you think we all came to be this way?”

A spell.

So THAT was the big secret.

That’s why everything felt so wrong, so strange, so eerie.

That’s where the magic came from.

That’s why everyone was acting so . . .

That’s why the Beast never had company . . .

Now it all made sense.

“I . . .” Yuuri faltered, a bit embarrassed, “To be honest . . . I thought . . . I thought it was like a fairy story . . . ogres and giants and pixies . . . I thought you all just . . . always were as you are,” he was glad the darkness hid his blush.

“Ahh . . .” Christophe drawled in comprehension, “Unfortunately, it is not so, mon chou,” he explained, voice hushed and even, “The others . . . they would not approve of me telling you these things . . . they would not want to worry you. The Master, especially . . . I could get into very big trouble for this . . . but . . .”

Christophe cast him a pained, conflicted look.

“Please,” Yuuri begged, “I have to know”

“. . . alright . . .” Christophe agreed resignedly, “ . . . we were human once . . . just like you. Myself, Yakov . . . all of us; even the Master. Then . . . one day . . . an Enchantress came to the castle in disguise, and offered the Master a simple gift, in return for his hospitality. To repay him for his kindness. Only . . . the gift was cursed. It was a trick. She cast a spell on him, buried the castle in snow, transformed the staff into trinkets and baubles and . . . turned the Master into . . .”

“. . . a Beast” Yuuri finished, sympathetically.

His heart was starting to race; He had never heard anything to terrible.

“Oui monsieur,” Christophe confirmed sadly, “and not just that . . . she erased all memory of us from the outside world . . . everyone beyond these walls has completely forgotten that we exist,”

“What?” Yuuri cried, “That’s . . . that’s awful! Why . . . why would she do such a thing?” he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

“Shhh . . .” Chris reprimanded gently, and Yuuri clamped his free hand over his mouth contritely; the shadows shifting around them eerily.

Christophe looked up at him with a small, melancholy smile, “Believe me, Master Katsuki, we have been asking ourselves the same thing for a very long time now . . .” he answered at last.

“Yuuri,” Yuuri offered gently, removing his hand and he spoke.

“Yuuri,” Christophe repeated kindly, “and you may call me Chris, should it please you”

Yuuri nodded, continuing down the corridors in silence. They were almost back at his room now.

“There must be some way to break the spell” Yuuri insisted at length, his voice a whisper; the cogs and gears in his head whirring frantically as he tried to piece everything together.

“Of course there is” Christophe confirmed bluntly.

“Then I’ll help you!” Yuuri declared, still hushed, “Please, there must be something –”

Christophe smiled up at him once again, “ah, you are sweet to offer, mon chou, but unfortunately that’s up to the Master,”

“What . . . what do you mean?”  Yuuri asked suspiciously.

They had reached his suite now.

Yuuri placed Christophe down gently on the serving table; Masumi was nowhere in sight, probably checking in on Phichit or running a quick errand for him.

“What I mean is . . . it isn’t simply a matter of saying some magic words . . . or brewing a potion or solving a riddle or retrieving a treasure to break the spell . . .” Chris looked up at Yuuri with deep, desperate eyes.    

“Then how?” Yuuri pressed, “How do we break it?”

“We don't” Chris insisted, “He does”

“The Master?” Yuuri clarified, “how?”

That gave Chris pause, “. . . That . . . is something he must discover for himself” he explained, forlornly.

Yuuri sighed, straightening up and running a hand through his hair in frustration; marshaling his thoughts.

He leaned back down to face Chris, “And if he figures it out? If he finds a way to break the spell?”

Chris brightened, “then we all become human again. The castle thaws . . . the world will remember us once more. We go back to the way things were before. But if not . . .”

Yuuri’s brows knit together in concern, “If not?”

“The Master is . . .” Christophe paused, choosing his words carefully, “. . . how should I put this . . . working on borrowed time? He only has so long to break the spell . . . before it becomes permanent,”

Yuuri gasped, “Permanent?”

Christophe nodded, “Oui. Permanent. Once our time runs out, the other staff and I will lose what little humanity we have left, transforming completely into the objects we appear as now. I, for example, will become nothing more than an ordinary, though exquisitely beautiful, candelabrum. No more talking, no more moving, no more seeing, thinking, feeling. Nothing. We’ll be no more than scrap metal. Rubbish. Trash . . . The castle will fall to ruin . . . and the Master . . .”

“The Master?” Yuuri prompted, voice quivering, devastated by the tragic fates of his newfound friends. 

“The Master will remain a Beast for all time. Forgotten and alone,”

“No,” Yuuri bit out, “I can't . . . I won’t let that happen,”

Christophe smirked, “I applaud your passion, ma petite étincelle, but as I said before . . . it’s in the Master’s hands now”

Yuuri sighed, the wind knocked out of him with a single sentence.

He shook his head miserably, “It’s just . . . you’ve all been so kind . . . there’s . . . there’s really nothing I can do? Nothing at all?”

Christophe hummed sympathetically, “I’m afraid not, Yuuri,” he cooed, “but . . . please know . . . it has been an absolute joy for the Master, having you and your brother here. I must admit, it’s been a very long time since we’ve had guests . . . and though he may not exactly show it . . . I’m certain your company has been a great comfort to him in these troubled times,”

Yuuri blinked back a few tingling tears; wiping quickly at his eyes.

“Ah . . . I’m sorry, pet. I didn't mean to distress you,” Christophe apologized sincerely.

“No . . . no. It’s  fine. I’m fine,” Yuuri assured him quickly, “I just . . . I’ll miss you,” he gave the candelabra a weak, watery smile.

“And I you, Yuuri. I you,” Christophe smiled back, “Now . . . to bed, oui? You have a long way to go tomorrow, if rumor is to be believed”

Yuuri nodded. “Thank you, Chris,” he whispered, before retreating to the gilded bedchamber once more.

The doors closed with a soft thud, and a ‘click’; Christophe stared fondly after the kind, brave boy behind them.

The window curtain at the end of the hall rustled ever so slightly, and within moments, Masumi was on the serving table by his side.

 “Hmm . . . I certainly hope you know what you’re doing, mein herzli,” the feather duster cautioned gently.

 “You sound worried, müsli” Chris pouted teasingly, “. . . I think that went rather well, if I do say so myself. I didn't tell him anything that wasn't true . . . and I didn't put any naughty ideas in his head” he turned, pressing the cold metal of his once-lips to the side of Masumi’s wooden handle.

It wasn't the same.

“Besides,” Christophe continued softly, “he’s a sweet boy . . . just the type of person Viktor needs. Yuuri will be good for him.”

“Yes,” Masumi agreed flatly, “but he’s not the one I’m worried about . . .”

Christophe sighed; his paramour had a point.

“Well then . . . isn’t it lucky that Viktor has us to set such a good example for him, my love,” He wheedled, pulling Masumi close and tenderly wrapping his arms around the feather duster.

Masumi snorted playfully, “Christophe Giacometti,” he chastised, “your plating may be gold . . . but that tongue of yours is all silver,”

“Mmm,” Chris hummed into Masumi’s shaggy hair, “you’re absolutely right, schnüggerli . . . and once we’re human again, I’ll happily remind you just what else this tongue of mine can do . . .”

*****

The next morning came far too quickly.

Yuuri had fallen asleep with a heavy heart; now knowing the truth of the castle, that there was nothing he could do to help his new friends, and that even had there been, he would still have to leave come sunrise.

He had told Phichit everything of course; his brother’s logical mind turning instantly to possible solutions, but to no avail.

No matter how they tried, it always came back to The Beast and the boys and how they had no choice but to return home.

Yuuri hated it.

They stood in the frosty entrance way now, with The Beast and Christophe and Yakov to see them off; Vicchan had been miraculously tacked and saddled and was waiting just outside on the snowy promenade for them.

They bade their new companions a fond farewell, before the huge, dark doors swung open, drenching the entryway in bright white light and icy, biting wind.

Yuuri and Phichit shuffled reluctantly out into the bracing cold, the latter leaning on his brother for support.

They only made it as far as the stairs before The Beast came to offer his assistance; getting Phichit safely down the slick steps and gently onto the waiting steed without so much as a single hitch.

Yuuri stumbled down after them, taking the reins to lead Vicchan on foot.

The wind whipped wildly around them, pulling at the boys’ traveling cloaks and The Beast’s claret cape violently.

“You are all set then?” The Beast asked quietly, his voice almost imperceptible above the roar of the gale.  

The boys both just nodded silently.

Yuuri’s insides twisted over on themselves.

This was wrong; just so wrong.

But what else could he do?

The Beast gave a curt nod, “I wish you both a safe journey,” he said solemnly, taking a sure-footed step back on the sleet.

“Thank You,” Yuuri murmured, his voice lost to the wailing of the wind.

The Beast turned back to the castle, stopping himself short.

“If . . . if either of you should find yourselves this way again . . . you are always more than welcome in my castle,”

And with that, The Beast swept quickly away, back up the slick, icy steps and into the waiting arms of the cursed manor.

The heavy, dark doors slammed shut; a booming crescendo echoing in their wake.

Yuuri and Phichit cast each other a rueful look, before Yuuri gave a quick tug to Vicchan’s lead; making their way back across the blinding arctic courtyard.

*****

The heavy, dark doors slammed shut; a booming crescendo echoing in their wake.

Viktor straightened his posture and closed his eyes against the impending onslaught.

But none came.

He opened his eyes slowly, casting them down to Christophe and Yakov at his feet.

They just stared past him; as if the doors were glass rather than walnut, as if they could both still see the boy’s retreating figures.

At last, they looked to him, but where he had expected anger, he saw only disappointment; and somehow that was worse.

“What do you want me to do?” He challenged bitterly.

“Go after them?” Christophe scoffed petulantly.

“And do what?” Viktor demanded.

“Anything you have to!” Yakov ordered.

Viktor growled. What had his life come to, when his staff were now ordering him around? But he supposed he had lost all right to rule when he had gone and ruined their lives.

“I told you, it’s too late . . . last night –” Viktor began contritely.

 “To hell with last night, Vitya!” Yakov erupted, “That’s a damn excuse and a lousy one at that!”

“I think you’re scared,” Christophe pouted.

“Stop,” Viktor quietly begged.

They were right. He knew it. What they were saying . . .  it was all true.

He was a failure; he had been a fool and damned them all, and didn't even have the courage to make it right again.

Maybe he deserved to be a Beast.

Maybe he deserved to be alone.

The silence that followed was tense; fragile like a Faberge Egg. One wrong word would send everything crashing down.

Christophe closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and collecting himself before he said something he would regret.

“Viktor . . .” he began gently, “we’ve been over this a thousand times. What happened that day . . . with the Enchantress . . . it wasn't your fault. It was a cruel, sadistic, trick . . . it could have happened to anyone. Nobody blames you . . . but you’re the only one who can fix this. It’s not right and it’s not fair, and I know . . . it’s a lot to ask of you. Perhaps too much to ask of you . . .” he trailed off helplessly, looking to Yakov for some type of assistance; but as usual, the clock wasn't feeling particularly loquacious.

“But . . . but that’s just the way it is? So . . .” Christophe finished weakly.

Viktor just stood there; blank and brooding.

Christophe knew that face well; knew that nothing he said could possibly get through to Viktor now.

“I’m sorry . . .” The Beast whispered, “There’s nothing I can do”

And with that, he swept past them with a swish of his beloved wine coloured cape; dashing their hopes and damning his own.

Christophe and Yakov looked to one another miserably.

“Well,” Christophe sighed, “I just hope the castle has some ideas now . . . because for once . . . I’m all out,”

The two grudgingly dragged themselves away from the vast double doors to go break the news to the others.  

*****

Yuuri and Phichit were silent, lost in thought as Vicchan plodded along through the deep snow.

‘Swish-thud’, ‘swish-thud’, ‘swish-thud’.

“Don't go, don't go, don't go,” Yuuri’s thoughts chimed along with the steed’s ambling steps.

The wind had settled; now everything was just bitingly cold. Yuuri could feel his lips numbing. He scrunched his fingers together so he wouldn't lose feeling in them.

But he wasn’t worried; soon the woods would turn to summer again, they would be safe and warm at home and everything would go back to normal.

Though Yuuri wasn't sure how he was supposed to just ‘go back to normal’ . . . how he was supposed to forget his friends and the castle and The Beast, suffering in silence; alone and forgotten a mere four leagues away.

Soon, the massive Ice Gate loomed into view; swinging open of its own accord as they approached.

Magic.

‘Swish-thud’, ‘swish-thud’, ‘swish-thud’.

“. . . Yuuri?”

Phichit’s voice was distant; Yuuri looked up.

He had stopped walking; hadn't even realized it. He had stopped short just before the gate, the reins slipping out of his hands, feet planted firmly in the inches-deep snow. Vicchan and Phichit had kept going.

Phichit grappled for the reins, swinging Vicchan back around, coming to rest at Yuuri’s side. He looked down at his brother, eyes filled with sympathy.

Yuuri looked back up at him, forlorn.

“I . . . can't” was all he could manage.

Phichit nodded, biting his lip in thought. He let out a deep sigh.

Phichit was frustrated; Yuuri could tell.

He didn't blame him; Yuuri would be frustrated with himself too.

He was being foolish. He needed to get Phichit home. There was nothing he could do for The Beast and the others, and Phichit needed him more.   

Then, after a moment, Phichit spoke.

“. . . maybe you don't have to,”

Yuuri gaped up at his brother, “What? But . . . the farm . . .”

Phichit shrugged, “I go. You stay,”

Yuuri flinched; the words came so easily . . . so factually . . .

Could it really be that simple?

“But . . . I can’t! I can't leave you Phichit! You’re . . . hurt!” Yuuri protested.

“I’ll be fine!” Phichit objected with a smirk; Yuuri knew it was forced. He gave his brother a scrutinizing glare.

“Look,” Phichit conceded sincerely, “I have Vicchan, it’s bright and early . . . and I know where I’m going this time . . . I’ll even mark the fork on the map when I find it. I’ll go home and tell Minako what happened. Tell her you’re safe . . . I’ll watch the farm. I’ll take care of things, Yuuri,”

“But . . . who will take care of you?” Yuuri asked with a weak, watery laugh. He wiped his eyes. It was far too cold to cry now.

“Pfft,” Phichit scoffed, “I’ve survived this long . . . and I am a ‘brilliant inventor’ after all . . . I’m sure I’ll figure it out,” he promised. His tone was light and teasing, but there was something mournful just beneath the surface he was trying to hide.

“Besides . . .” Phichit continued, “it’s . . . it’s not like this is forever, yea? Just . . . until we break the spell,”

Yuuri’s heart pounded hard against his ribs; Phichit always came through.

“You sound like you have a plan,” Yuuri quipped.

Phichit screwed up his face, and he shrugged, lifting his palms in supplication, “Ehhhh . . . it’s more of an ‘idea’ . . . and not a very good one to be honest . . .” he confessed.

“Tell me!” Yuuri brightened.

“Well . . . we may not be able to break the spell . . . but we may be able to help The Beast do whatever it is he needs to do to break the spell . . . and thus, repay our debt to him. So . . . you stay here, and learn everything you can, get the inside perspective . . . and I’ll . . . I don't know . . . see if I can find anything on the outside,” he explained.

“Like what?” Yuuri asked, genuinely curious.

“You said that this . . . enchantress . . . erased all memory of the castle from the outside world? Well . . . does that include maps? Birth records? Family trees? I don’t know much about . . . magic . . . but hopefully the enchantress got sloppy somewhere. If I can figure out what castle this is, maybe I can find out who The Beast actually is . . . and then maybe, just maybe, I can find a loophole or a formality or an escape clause that will . . . I don’t know . . . invalidate the spell? I mean . . . in fairy stories, isn’t there always some sort of . . . technical quibble that saves the day?”

“Phichit . . . that’s brilliant!” Yuuri cried.

Phichit hummed uncertainly, “Don't get too excited Yuuri,” he cautioned, “It’s just an idea. I don’t know if it’ll work. Maybe this enchantress was really thorough . . . and who knows how long the castle has been under this spell? Ten years?  Fifty? A hundred? There’s a very good chance that I won’t find anything at all . . .”

Yuuri nodded rapidly, mind swimming with possibilities.

“Ask Minako too,” he suggested, “She might know where to find royal records . . . or she may have heard strange rumors back when she lived at court. I mean, the spell would have made her forget the castle, obviously . . . but you never know what she might have heard,”

Phichit smiled, “I will,” he agreed.

Yuuri smiled back.

They gazed at one another for a moment more; and though they now had a plan and a purpose, neither wanted to part.

The brothers had never been separated for longer than a few of days at a time before; usually for the Summer Festival. Yuuri hesitated, suddenly uncertain in the face of a future without Phichit.

He thought this was what he had wanted. It was what he wanted.

And yet that didn't make it any easier to say goodbye.

He couldn't hug Phichit, so he reached up a chilly hand; Phichit clasped it with one of his own.

“Ki o tsuke te ne” Yuuri bade with a small, soft smile, “Minako ni yoroshiku ne”

“I will,” Phichit promised with a melancholy grin of his own.

Yuuri sniffed, steeling his resolve; this wasn't forever . . . it was only for now.

He slowly released Phichit’s hand and took a small step back on the gleaming snow.

Phichit took one last deep breath, lips quirking up into a smirk, “C̄hạn s̄ạỵỵā ẁā c̄hạn ca dị̂ phb khuṇ xīk nı rĕw «nī̂,” he pledged, before guiding Vicchan back around, and quitting the enchanted winter woods.

Yuuri watched as his brother rounded the bend; disappearing into the snowy trees.

He stood frozen only a moment more, before making his way back to the castle.

This time, he approached with confidence; bolstered by his new plan and his brother’s faith.  

He crossed the arctic courtyard fearlessly, ascended the slippery marble steps with grace, and crossed the frosty threshold without hesitation.

Though there was no one there to greet him, he was not dissuaded; he knew where he had to go.

He turned to the left, following the path plotted out by Chris the night before, tracing his way back to The Beast’s private parlour.

He approached the massive white doors; rapping the knocker without pause.

He was met with silence.

Was The Beast not there?

Then, a quiet sigh and a small, defeated “. . . enter”

Yuuri took a deep breath and pushed open the doors.

The Beast was slumped in a plush magenta armchair, facing the fireplace; his back to the door.

He looked . . . devastated.

Yuuri was suddenly shy . . . maybe he should . . . The Beast didn't know it was him, after all.

“ . . . hi . . .” He said quietly; his voice ghosting tentatively over the luxurious carpet and the embellished walls and the gilded decorations.

He had meant to say something more . . . appropriate . . . but that’s all that had come out.

The Beast bolted upright; slowly turning to face him. Not one inch the composed Master that Yuuri had come to know.

“. . . Yuuri?” His name fell from The Beast’s lips in a whisper. Yuuri wasn't even certain he had heard it.

Suddenly, The Beast remembered himself and stood, nearly knocking over the chair.

“M-master Katsuki . . . please, come in . . . I . . . was unaware you had returned. Is everything alright? Is there something you need?” As he spoke, the frenetic energy faded, replaced by the more familiar calm demeanor.

“Ah . . . no. No, everything is fine. Sorry . . . sorry, I didn't mean to surprise you like this . . .” Yuuri apologised sheepishly, “Phichit . . . decided to go home. But I thought . . . I mean, if it’s alright with you . . . I thought I might . . . stay a while longer,”

“. . . Of course . . . of course, as long as you like,” The Beast replied, and there was that tone in his voice again; that big, unnameable thing that made Yuuri want to shy away and bask in it all at one.

Was it . . . fondness? Reverence?

Whatever it was, it hung between them heavily in the silence which followed.

“I . . . should inform the staff that we will continue to host you,” The Beast said at length, cool and collected once again, “If I may . . . how long were you intending to stay, monsieur?”

Yuuri flushed, “I . . . hadn't really thought that far ahead,” he admitted timidly, “Umm . . . for as long as you’ll have me, I suppose,”

That seemed  to give The Beast pause; Yuuri hoped it was a good pause.

“I’ll tell them at once,” The Beast said finally, his voice soft and almost sweet.

“Ok . . .” Yuuri nodded, uncertain what to do next, “I should, um . . . leave you to it . . . I suppose . . .” he turned to exit the pink and purple parlour.

“. . . Master Katsuki –” The Beast called after him hesitantly.

Yuuri turned back to The Beast, who looked incredibly conflicted.

“Yuuri,” he offered with a warm smile, “Just ‘Yuuri’ is fine,”

The Beast softened ever so slightly, still seemingly torn.

Eventually, he opted to drop the pretense and pursue his inquiry.

“ . . . Why did you come back?” The question was sanded down and vulnerable; all soft edges and sweet filling.

 Yuuri turned a pensive gaze out the window at the shimmering winter world around them.

Because I owe you.

Because you saved my brother’s life.

Because I want to help you.

Because I want to break the spell.

Because I’m the only one who can; because now I have a plan.

Because I care about you; because I care about my new friends.

Because I don't want to go home.

Because it’s beautiful here and everyone is so kind.

Because it’s magical and exciting.

Because I don’t want to spend my days feeding the chickens and weeding the garden.

Because I don't want to live that poor provincial life.

Because I don’t want to face J.J. again.

Because this is where I belong.

“. . . because . . .” Yuuri replied finally, “ . . . it would be terribly rude of me to turn down your gracious invitation . . . don’t you think?”

He looked back to his host.

The Beast hesitated; searching Yuuri for any trace of doubt, before conceding to his wishes.  

“Very well then,” The Beast acquiesced gently, “If you would be so kind as to accompany me, we can begin to make the necessary arrangements for your stay . . . Yuuri”  

“I would like that,” Yuuri agreed warmly, “Thank you,”

“You are most welcome,” The Beast returned; melting ever so slightly.

The two exited the parlour, walking side-by-side down the gilded halls of Yuuri’s enchanted new home. 

Chapter Text

Jean Jacques Leroy pouted into his pint, before thumping it back down on the wooden table with a grimace.

Around him The Tavern roared with laughter, while across from him, Isabella raised a skeptical eyebrow.

He lifted his eyes to her, looking wounded.

She took a deep breath, exhaling with a roll of her own, “What ever could be the matter, J.J.?” she asked sarcastically; they both knew exactly what had put the hunter in such a snit.

Katsuki Yuuri had rejected him twice now.

Twice.

The first time, J.J. was willing to write off as a fluke; a miscommunication. He had conceded that perhaps he had come on too strong and scared Yuuri off.

But twice?

Twice was no mistake; especially not with how rudely the dancer had dismissed him. And while Isabella had told J.J., over and over and over again, to just let it go, to move on and find someone better and more worthy of his time and affections, the hunter would not be dissuaded.

No, because now, this was a matter of honor; a matter of pride. Now it was a challenge, which meant that Isabella would never hear the damn end of it.

J.J. huffed, “Real nice, Isabella,” he pouted, “here I am, heartbroken, and my best friend doesn’t even care”

Isabella softened a little bit at that, “Of course I care, J.J.,” she countered, “I just . . . I don’t know what else to tell you. I know how much you like Yuuri . . . I know you would do anything for him but . . . honestly, I don’t know what you see in him. He’s not good enough for you. He isn’t worth it. You’re driving yourself to madness over him and . . . I just hate seeing you this way,” The confession tumbled out almost shyly.

“Well, I don’t like being this way either, but what am I supposed to do?” J.J. lamented, “Just . . . give up?”

Isabella shrugged, “Would that really be so terrible? I mean . . . how can you live like this? Pining after Yuuri day in and day out . . . it’s not like, you, J.J. . . . I mean, there are lots of other eligible matches in the village . . . people who are just as pretty as him. People who would love to be with you . . .”

J.J. picked up his tankard, contemplating the dregs of his ale.

“Yea, but . . . but what if I stop now and then he changes his mind or something? What if I give up on us and end up with the wrong person instead? What if he’s . . . you know . . . my one true love? Shouldn’t I fight for my one true love? Isn’t that what heroes do?” he sighed in irritation, running a hand through his hair.  

Isabella glared at J.J., “You think Katsuki Yuuri is your one true love?” she demanded.

“Why couldn't he be?” J.J. shot back, affronted.

Isabella just continued to glare.

J.J. heaved a deep, sorrowful sigh, “I don't . . . I don't know how to describe it, Isabella . . . all I know is that I’ve never felt this way before. And . . . I don’t know what to do about it. I mean, he says we don't have anything in common . . . and maybe we don't . . . but how am I supposed to just stop loving someone? How do you just turn that off? Believe me, I’ve tried,” he insisted desperately, “I know it doesn’t make any sense, but . . . I . . . I see him dancing and it’s so beautiful, I just . . . I feel like I know him, you know? And then I start thinking about the future we could have together and how happy we could be . . . and . . . don’t I deserve to be happy, Isabella?” 

Isabella paused, her eyebrows furrowing; J.J. spoke like a man haunted. It was . . . wistful and sappy and . . . gross.

She had never seen him this way before.

“ . . . you . . . you’re not happy now?” She asked haltingly, “But . . .  you’re an incredible marksman, the whole town loves you, you have a great house, lots of money . . .”

J.J. straightened a little as he spoke, “Well . . . I mean, sure I have those things but . . . it’s still a lot of work. I mean, I didn’t get where I am by just sitting around . . . I worked really hard to become a great hunter; I practiced my marksmanship daily for years on end to be this good. And sure, maybe people like me, but I spend a lot of time helping out around town . . . I was at the Miller’s farm for five hours yesterday loading flour cause Davey’s come down with the flu. I mean . . . I’m not unhappy with my lot . . . but . . . it’s not as perfect as everyone thinks it is either. And the money and the house and everything . . . I mean, that stuff is nice, sure, but gold can't really keep you company . . . and that big ‘ol house . . .  well, to be honest Isabella . . . it gets pretty lonely up there some days . . .”

Isabella nodded; something akin to shame settling in her bones.

Jean Jacques Leroy was a strong man; the strongest she had ever known, apart from maybe her own father, and to hear him talk this way . . .

Isabella was no stranger to hard work herself . . . hard work was simply the way of the world; but the way J.J. always seemed to do the impossible, and moreover, seemed to do the impossible with a smile on his face . . . well, it inspired her. It made her feel like maybe there really were such things a miracles.

It was the reason she loved him so.

“. . . You don’t think . . . you don’t think it’s possible for someone else to make you happy like that? The way you think Yuuri could?” She asked, her voice even and flat.

J.J. sighed, “If there is . . . I haven’t met them yet.”

Isabella took a deep pull of her own ale; slamming her pint down on the wooden table.

“Well . . .” She said at last, “If you’re certain it’s what you want . . . I guess Yuuri’s worth another shot then, isn’t he?”

J.J. slumped forward now, elbows resting on the table, “If I only I could see him again . . .” he growled, “I know I could do better. I messed up . . . I messed up bad. I know I did. I admit it. But . . . I do love him. I just need a way to prove it . . . ”

He had told Isabella all about last evening’s disastrous encounter at the cottage; and this afternoon’ even more disastrous encounter with Minako. 

J.J. had gone up to the cottage see Yuuri once again, but had been greeted by the tutor instead, who had simply slammed the door in his face, without uttering so much as a word.

Isabella rolled her eyes. They were just so rude; the lot of them.

“J.J.,” she sighed, eyes wandering sadly over her forlorn friend, “have you considered that perhaps just begging Yuuri to marry you over and over and over might not work?”

J.J. cocked an eyebrow, “what do you mean?” he blurted

Isabella scrunched her eyes together; she couldn’t believe she was about to do this.

But J.J. was in love, and she loved J.J., and she just wanted him to be happy . . .

She couldn’t stand seeing him so sad, and she couldn’t stand watching him pine, and even though it would hurt watching him be with someone else . . . it couldn’t possibly hurt half as much as watching him wallow in his own misery, right?

And if Katsuki Yuuri could make J.J. smile again, wouldn't that be worth it?

“What I mean,” Isabella huffed, “is that you don’t hunt a fox the same way you hunt a falcon. You have to change up your tactics, try a different strategy . . .”

J.J.’s eyes widened slightly in comprehension.

“What was it he said to you again?” Isabella asked, her mind whirring as the ideas fell in to place, “about his family?”

“He said . . . I didn’t include his family in our future . . . and I didn’t know anything about him . . . and that I didn’t court him properly,” J.J. muttered glumly.

“Well, isn’t it obvious, then?” Isabella opined, “Give him some space, let things settle down, and then . . . court him properly, just like he wanted. Starting with his family. Get to know them. Get them to like you, then do the proper thing and ask for their blessing before you propose again. Think about it . . . who knows Yuuri better than that weird inventor and that snobby teacher? It’s perfect. His family will adore you and put in a good word with him, and you’ll learn everything you need to win his heart in the process. Two birds. One stone.” Isabella smirked, very self-satisfied. 

Though truthfully, she would have been more satisfied if she weren’t helping the man she loved try to seduce another.

But this was what J.J. wanted . . . to marry into that family of oddballs and spend the rest of his life shackled to a boring bookworm . . .  and if it would make him happy . . . then so be it.

And if Katsuki Yuuri ever hurt so much as a single hair in J.J’s precious head . . . then he would have to answer to her.

J.J. was nodding along, the thoughts still processing.

“I know he’s mad right now . . .” Isabella continued, “but . . . maybe you can show him that you’ve changed. That things between you can be different. And when he sees everything you’ve done just to be with him, maybe he’ll finally understand how much you . . . love him . . . and he’ll stop being such a damn fool and the two of you can just . . . get married already . . . ” 

J.J. perked up a bit at that, “You think so?”

Isabella smiled softly, “Of course . . . anyone would be lucky to be with you, J.J.”

The grin she received in return made it all worth it.

Almost.

“Thanks Isabella!” J.J. smirked, “What would I do without you?” he lifted his flagon in a toast, “To good friends . . .”

Isabella returned the toast triumphantly.  

“. . . and to my future husband, Yuuri Katsuki!” J.J. beamed and downed the rest of his ale in a single gulp; then rose for another round, calling the musicians to strike up a jig as he did.

Isabella watched him saunter jovially around the tavern, glad to see J.J. back to his old self once again.

Later that night when Isabella had returned home, she pulled a small music box from her trunk of childhood toys. She turned the key twice, letting the tinny music fill her bedroom. She gazed at the pastel ballerinas painted all along the sides; up en pointe in pink tutus with their arms stretched gracefully over their heads. She looked at herself in the mirror; bright red hunting jacket and shiny black boots; heavy like stones and splattered with mud.  

She popped onto her toes; she reached her arms up . . .

. . . and slid off balance with a thud.

The music stopped mid-note, and Isabella let out a small sigh.

She closed the lid, replaced the music box, and got ready for bed in silence.

Who even liked dancing, anyway?

*****

Yuuri awoke to soft white light and a luxurious silky embrace.

He sat up slowly and looked around the gilded bedroom foggily; he still couldn’t believe it. Still couldn’t believe that he was actually here, living in the beautiful enchanted castle with his wonderful new friends.

He had spent the rest of the day yesterday with The Beast, deciding how best to settle him in, and touring the magnificent manor; it was even more massive than Yuuri had supposed, three opulent stories sprawling out over the grounds endlessly. After nearly an entire day, there were still parts of the castle he hadn’t seen.

Yuuri slid out of his large sky blue bed to dress for the day.

They had decided it would be easiest for him to stay in the Eastern Suite, as it was the chamber most familiar to him; though Christophe had stated repeatedly that it would be no trouble to move him to a Western Suite, closer to the Master’s own, should Yuuri get too lonely. But this room had already been cleaned out and prepared, and The Beast had said it was the nicest and largest after his own, so Yuuri insisted that he not make any more work for them all by moving him. Besides, it was a beautiful chamber; located at what Yuuri now knew was the very end of the second floor. It had a little private sitting room through the interior doors, with an adjacent privy, and a large balcony that looked out over the extensive gardens behind the castle.

During their tour, Yuuri had been surprised how many other rooms had fallen out of use; parlors and bedchambers with furniture covered in white sheets to protect them from aging, covered in dust and threatened by frost. That’s why so many doors had stood closed; his heart had ached a bit to look at those unused rooms, once filled with liveliness and laughter, now silent and haunted by memories past. 

He imagined his own room must have been like that once; the thought striking a melancholy chord.

But he was going to change all that; once he helped The Beast break the spell.

He quickly pulled on his breeches, shirt and blue waistcoat, and was in the middle of lacing his soft shoes, when he heard a knock at the door.

“Ah . . . come in!” He called gracelessly, balancing on one foot as he leaned against the bedpost, tying the knot.

Ecstatic giggles preceded a harsh groan, as the towering doors clattered open violently.

Yuuri nearly fell over in surprise; he had been expecting The Beast or Yakov or Chris, but instead, a large mahogany footstool burst into the room, bounding around and barking merrily like a dog, as a fan and a handkerchief rode upon its wildly bucking surface. Behind them, a little tea cart rolled in slowly, stacked with tea and milk and eggs and toast, supervised by the angriest looking teacup Yuuri had ever seen.

Though, to be fair, Yuuri had never seen a teacup look angry before, so he didn’t have much basis for comparison. 

Realization dawned on him suddenly; this must be the teacup Phichit had told him about . . . and the dog-stool . . .

The fan and the handkerchief, however, were new.

Suddenly the dog-stool in question was jumping up on Yuuri, planting its front feet on his chest and barking happily in his face; pinning him to the bedpost.

“Well . . . hi there . . . cutie . . .” Yuuri said uncertainly, gently patting the dog-stool where he guessed its head to be.

Yuuri did love dogs, poodles especially, and he had decided the moment he had become a permanent resident of the Castle that regardless of whatever strange apparitions the magic might throw at him, the best plan always had been, and always would be, to just be polite and nod and smile and ‘go with it’.

The petting earned a happy ‘yip’ from the dog-stool, so Yuuri assumed he had made the right call once again.

“Makkachin, down!” A scandalized voice purred in a sweet soprano.

“Bad girl!” Another voice reprimanded gently in a bubbling alto, “We do NOT jump up on the Master’s guests!”

With a whine, the dog-stool relented, unpinning Yuuri and going back down onto all fours.

“Good girl!” The soprano cooed, “Good girl, Makkachin!” Yuuri could now see that this voice came from the fan.

“I am so sorry . . .” The alto handkerchief apologized contritely; her embroidered face contorting with worry.

Yuuri just smiled, “No, no!” he chirped with a wave, “Don’t worry, it’s fine! I love dogs, so . . .”

“So are you going to going to eat your breakfast before it gets cold, or did Grandpa make it for nothing?”

Yuuri, the fan, the handkerchief and the dog-stool all looked to the teacup; Yuuri sheepishly, the handkerchief and the fan with shock.

“Yuri!” the handkerchief snapped, “Don't be so rude to our guest!”

Yuuri was stunned a moment, before realizing she had been talking to the teacup and not to him. He smiled a little to himself; their names were so similar . . . this was going to be interesting.

“Thank you, but it’s . . . he’s right,” Yuuri apologized quickly, heading for the tea-cart “I hope you didn't go to too much trouble,”

He smiled at the teacup, who glowered in return, “Pfft, don't thank me . . . Grandpa made it . . . just don't want you wasting it . . . ” he rounded on the handkerchief now, “And you’re one to talk, Mila! You and Sara shouldn’t even be here! At least I’m working . . . you two are just being nuisances!”

Mila the handkerchief and Sara the fan both looked hurt, and Yuuri felt a pang of sympathy for the high-spirited accessories.

“It’s no bother at all! Really!” He interjected quickly, “It’s . . . nice! I like the company!”

Both ladies perked up instantly, Yuri rolled his eyes.

“Oh, I’m so glad to hear that! Chris was right, you really are sweet!” Mila crooned brightly, “But still, I’m sorry we barged in unannounced . . . Makkachin just gets so excited . . .”

The dog-stool barked at the sound of her name, making Yuuri laugh.

“I’m sorry too,” Sara added sweetly, “We just really, really, really wanted to meet you! It’s been so long since we’ve had guests!”

Yuuri blushed at the attention, “Oh . . . well, it’s very nice to meet you . . . Mila and Sara, was it?”

Sara smiled proudly, “Si, signore! Both of us ladies in waiting to our Master’s court”, she answered with a little nod.

Mila grinned wickedly, “The teacup is Yuri . . . On milyy malen'kiy paren', ne tak li?”

Yuri threw a dirty look at the handkerchief, “YA ub'yu tebya, Mila!

“Špana,” She shot back gleefully.

“Staraya ved'ma,” He huffed is response.  

Mila then smiled sweetly back at Yuuri, “You’ll have to forgive his manners, he’s a little bit grumpy today”

The teacup growled again, “. . . I’ll show you ‘grumpy’ you hag . . .” he muttered venomously.

Sara giggled, “Yuri, you really shouldn’t use such ugly words around Master Katsuki,” she chided teasingly.

Yuri silently fumed in response.

“Oh, please, just . . . just Yuuri is fine,” Yuuri interjected graciously.

Sara and Mila lit up, their eyes going wide.

“Wow!”

“Really?”

“Arf, Arf, Arf!”

“Ugh!” Yuri was rolling his eyes again.

 Then another voice entered the fray.

“Hmm? What? What is it? What’s going on?” The voice was thick with sleep, deep and male with a rumbling accent.

Mila and Sara turned to one another, crying out in gleeful unison, “GEORGI’S AWAKE!”

Yuuri spun towards the new voice, watching the wardrobe as it shifted into wakefulness with a creak and a groan; his deep turquoise doors fanning open as he awoke.

“. . . Mmm? Did I miss som–”

The wardrobe’s blue eyes came to rest on Yuuri, who waved awkwardly in greeting.

“Umm . . . hello . . .” Yuuri said shyly.

“A boy!” The wardrobe, Georgi, exclaimed, “A HUMAN BOY!”

The way Georgi said it, with such feeling in his voice, Yuuri was almost worried the poor guy might faint . . . had he not been a 7-foot-tall solid oak wardrobe, of course.

“Georgi, this is Katsuki Yuuri,” Mila introduced politely; “he’s going to be living here from now on!” Her voice tingled with excitement as Sara grinned wide beside her.

“Living here? With us? From now on?” Georgi gasped dramatically, “Oh what wonderful news! So very pleased to meet you, moy Gospodin!”

“Ugh,” Yuri huffed from the tea-cart, adding a subtle, “get a hold of yourself Georgi,” under his breath.

Yuuri’s mind reeled; a bit overwhelmed. He exchanged pleasantries a few minutes more, saying once again how nice it was to meet everyone, and insisting for what felt like the hundredth time that they should all just call him Yuuri. He quite liked all the new friends he was making, but truth be told, the sudden scrutiny was wrecking havoc on his nerves. Honestly, what Yuuri wanted more than anything in that moment was that tea and those eggs. They smelled amazing . . .

But he didn't want to be rude, and the others were still talking.

He was starting to see what Phichit meant with his warning about not waking the wardrobe; Yuuri smiled thinking of his brother, wishing Phichit were there with him now, and hoping he had made it home safely.

 “Ahh, so handsome!” Georgi fawned, “So lithe! Such lovely eyes! He’ll do very nicely, I think!”

That got Yuuri’s attention once more, “ . . . do nicely?” he asked suspiciously, “do nicely for what?”

For the first time since he had awoken that morning, the room was quiet.

“ . . . for . . . dressing . . . of course!” Mila smiled after a long minute. She looked at Sara and the two started giggling.

“Yes! Dressing! That’s what he meant! Obviously!” Sara agreed instantly, “Georgi is the palace clothier . . . so . . . he’s just excited to have someone to dress . . . again . . . right Georgi?”

Both women gave the wardrobe a pointed look.

A pause, a gasp, and then, “Yes! Of course . . . my poor, beautiful creations haven’t seen the light of day in . . . years!” Georgi clarified, “What with my elegant masterpieces being meant for the human frame . . . and no humans about the castle . . . and my dear, sweet Anya so far from my reach . . .”

“Oh mercy” Yuri snapped, “If you’re going to start talking about Anya, then I’m out of here! Katsuki, just leave the cart in the hall when you’re done!”

Yuri hopped off the cart, and the rest turned to watch him leave . . . when they all noticed a very stoic figure looming in the doorway; The Beast.

How he managed to be so enormous, yet so silent, Yuuri would never know.

The Beast looked slowly around the chaos of the room; from the surly teacup and abandoned cart to the boisterous wardrobe to the wandering dog-stool and her chatty charges, to a very frazzled Katsuki Yuuri.

He raised one bushy silver eyebrow, “Pardon my intrusion. The door was open . . . and I couldn’t help but wonder where all my staff had disappeared to” he admonished.

The trinkets all cast their eyes downward, shamefaced; even Yuri looked a little bit chastised, though he rolled his eyes and tried not to show it. A small chorus of “Apologies, Master” fell from their collective lips. Even Makkachin let out a repentant whine.

“Ah. Wait . . . please don’t be mad at them. It’s actually my fault,” Yuuri interjected quickly, “I . . . asked them to stay. I just wanted to meet them . . . I didn't mean to disrupt things”

The Beast paused a moment, scrutinizing Yuuri; glancing between his cold breakfast and  his half-tied shoes and his flustered face, knowing instantly that what Yuuri said could only possibly be half-true at best.

The Beast softened immediately, his heart quickening; thinking how his overbearing staff would surely be the death of this poor, sweet boy, “In that case, please excuse my interruption,” he said graciously, “. . . though I would recommend enjoying your breakfast before it gets much colder, Yuuri,” he added knowingly.

Yuuri smiled back at him, understanding; relief written across his features.

“Perhaps,” The Beast continued, “You would like to take breakfast in your sitting room; it has a lovely view of the gardens,”

“Thank you,” Yuuri answered gratefully, “I would like that,”

“And I’m certain your new fellows would be delighted to see you again later this afternoon” he said pointedly, but not unkindly, as he looked back to the scattered staff, who sheepishly nodded their agreement.

After a round of polite goodbyes from Sara and Mila, a huff from Yuri and a pat on the head to Makkachin, Yuuri was finally retiring to eat his breakfast in the sitting room; overlooking the wintry gardens through the magnificent picture window.

“It’s beautiful” he breathed. The Beast, who was gazing out across the gardens just as fondly nodded in reply.

“It’s . . . rather warm today, considering,” The Beast said at last, “A most rare opportunity. Would you . . . care to take a walk this afternoon?”

“Absolutely” Yuuri agreed brightly, smiling up at The Beast.

“Very well,” The Beast said, smiling back, “Then, I shall leave you to your breakfast, and you may call on me whenever you please,”

Yuuri nodded and The Beast departed; leaving him to enjoy the view, and his eggs, in glorious peace and quiet.

*****

“Ohh . . . a walk in the gardens, how romantic! And here I thought I was going to have to woo Yuuri for you!” Chris cooed victoriously.

Viktor was reclined in his favourite magenta chair, safe in the confines of his private parlour; though ‘safe’ was a relative term, with Christophe and Masumi lounging on the mantle above him and mocking his love life.

Though perhaps, considering the circumstances, they had earned the right.

But all the same, Christophe’s lascivious comments didn't help the racing of his beastly heart as he desperately tried to remain patient; awaiting Yuuri’s arrival for their early afternoon stroll.

“Mmm . . . you just might yet, mein herzli,” Masumi cautioned teasingly, “The Master does look rather nervous,”

“Nervous? Don't be ridiculous . . .” Viktor pouted, no venom in is words, “If I fail to make Yuuri fall in love with me I’ve only doomed this castle and everyone in it, so why should I be nervous?”

Christophe turned back to Masumi, “I believe you’re right, Müsli . . . I’m afraid Viktor is much to sour to do any proper wooing today,” he said pointedly.  

Viktor shifted so he was now facing away from the snickering couple, instead choosing to distract himself with the view out the window.

“I don't think he’s sour, schäri,” Masumi countered thoughtfully, “I would say . . . liebeskrank?”

Christophe smirked in delight, “What? Already?”

“Mmm Hmm . . .” Masumi purred, “Ich glaube, da ist jemand ein bisschen in Yuuri verknallt,”

Chris let out a scandalized gasp, “ich wusste es!"

Viktor huffed, drumming his claws impatiently on the armrest and waiting for the couple to finish; he had learned very early on that when the pair was in a teasing mood, there really was no stopping them.

One of their favourite ploys was to speak to one another in their native dialect, knowing that Viktor could not understand a word. It was endlessly entertaining to them, and they would carry on entire conversations in front of him shamelessly; discussing innocent things like the weather in salacious tones in order to trick Viktor into thinking they were gossiping about him.

He suspected the whole thing had started as a way for the two to exchange sweet nothings while on duty; because although Christophe had never been shy about expressing his affections, Masumi had once been a model employee. When the two had started their flirtations years ago, Masumi had been extremely concerned about remaining professional in the eyes of their employer.

But Christophe, as usual, had been a terrible influence . . . and now Viktor had a Maître D’ who called him ‘Master’ in embarrassingly carnal tones, and a Head Butler who teased him in a language he didn’t understand, while making eyes at said Maître D’.

Still . . . he supposed it was all kind of . . . sweet.

Usually Viktor didn't let their needling get to him; he had learned to simply tune it out over the years . . . but now he couldn't help but eavesdrop.

He knew they were actually talking about him this time; he was certain Masumi had said ‘Yuuri’ . . . 

“Yes, Master?” Chris drawled tauntingly, “Is there something about our conversation you find interesting?”

“What? Of course not,” Viktor lied dismissively, still staring straight ahead out the window.

“Really?” Christophe pressed, as Masumi suppressed a snort, “because . . . your eyes might be pointed that way, but your ears . . . are pointed this way”  

Viktor froze, completely mortified, as he realized that his wolf-like ears had, in fact, unconsciously swiveled almost 90 degrees towards the couple on the mantle, so as to better hear their conversation.

Viktor said nothing, just grit his teeth and slowly, purposefully turned both his large fuzzy ears forward once again with as much dignity as he could muster.

The candelabrum and the feather duster burst out into uproarious laughter.

Viktor let out a defeated sigh as the couple’s booming guffaws rang through the room; his chest grew tight both with embarrassment and longing. Occasions for laughter in the castle were few and far between these days, and he could not begrudge the pair this simple pleasure.

He thought back to this morning, to mere hours ago when he had stumbled across the chaos of Yuuri’s room; how he had panicked, thinking that the staff were pestering Yuuri, that Yuuri might grow annoyed, might change his mind and leave . . .

But he hadn’t. He had stayed and smiled; welcoming the company along with the complete and utter chaos they brought with them.

Viktor was not one for chaos. He had always sought perfection in every word and deed; commanding and precise and respected. He had crafted his world by hand, built it to his exact specifications and run it like clockwork . . .

And now there was nothing; nothing but hardship and ruin and turmoil.

But . . . Yuuri somehow managed to find a way to smile through the chaos . . . so could Viktor not learn to do the same?

“Mmm . . . see, you are being ignored, mein herzli,” Masumi pouted jokingly, “Perhaps we should be nicer to our poor Master,”

Viktor snapped out of his stupor, looking back to the pair on the mantle, “Apologies,” he mumbled sincerely, “I was . . . distracted,”

 Christophe smirked, “Mmm . . . thinking about Yuuri?” he teased boldly.

Viktor opened his muzzle to object, but stopped, looking between the candelabrum and the feather duster; two good men, two good friends who didn't deserve to be a candelabrum and a feather duster; two lovers still together amidst the chaos, still hopeful in the face of adversity, still laughing in the wake of tragedy.

And still willing to help a poor, foolish Prince . . . if only he would let them.

“. . . Yes,” Viktor admitted quietly, awaiting the barrage sure to follow.

Both Chris and Masumi just gaped at him in shock for a moment, before Chris started in on the dramatics.

“Meine Güte!” He gasped, “Prince Viktor Nikiforov has feelings! And he’s actually admitting they exist! It’s a miracle! Hold me, Müsli . . .”

Viktor rolled his eyes, while Masumi chuckled.

“I would, mein herzli, but I don’t have arms,” the feather duster quipped through his laughter.

“Fine! Then I’ll hold you!” Chris countered salaciously, weaving his gold-plated sconces tightly around Masumi’s dark wooden handle, causing him to squeak out a scandalized “Chris! Behave!” in response.

The sweet ache in Viktor’s chest bloomed once more, and he averted his eyes politely.

“So . . .” Christophe wheedled, “what’s the plan, Viktor?”

Viktor looked up blankly “ . . . plan?”

Chris heaved an exasperated sigh, “for the romantic walk in the garden, of course!” he gave Viktor a sly grin, “How are you going to sweep Yuuri off his feet?”

Viktor’s eyes went wide; while he had certainly had many ideas for sweeping Yuuri off his feet, most of those fantasies had involved moonlight and rose petals and sweet nothings whispered between them under the stars . . . and the two of them were definitely not intimate enough for that sort of thing yet. 

Wait . . . were they?

No; absolutely not. He was getting ahead of himself.

But . . . how did one even get to that point with one’s . . . intended?

Assuming Yuuri would want to be his . . . intended . . . in the first place; what with the fangs and the claws and the . . . fuzzy ears.

Ugh. This was already a disaster.

When Viktor had been human, he hadn’t given courting a second thought; ruling his kingdom had been everything to him. He had always assumed that, should he ever enter into a marriage, it would be one of convenience. Sure, he wouldn't have wed just anyone . . . he would have wanted someone compatible and logical and respectable; a good sensible match who would have made his kingdom stronger; but 'love' had never entered into the equation.

And truth be told, he could have been satisfied with a worthy partner; even one he didn't love. Or he could have lived out his years alone happily enough if it came right down to it.

But then that wretched enchantress had come along and ruined everything with this horrid spell, and now nothing made sense anymore, and nothing was satisfying anymore and things could never go back to the way they once were, because now Viktor had met Katsuki Yuuri.

Katsuki Yuuri, who made him feel things he never had before.

Katsuki Yuuri, who could smile even through the chaos. 

Katsuki Yuuri, who never ceased to surprise him.

Viktor whined, sounding very much like Makkachin, and buried his face in his paws.

“Now, now,” Masumi soothed, “surely you had some idea what you were going to talk about?” he prompted gently.

“No . . .” Viktor moaned pathetically, “I just . . . I don’t know . . . we were looking out the window at the garden and he said it looked beautiful so I offered to show it to him . . . and he said yes . . . so . . . I? Ugh! What was I thinking? He’ll be here any minute! This was a terrible idea!”

“No! No, Viktor . . . ” Masumi cooed sympathetically, “It’s a wonderful idea!”

“The gardens are stunning!” Chris added sincerely, “you don’t have to say anything! Just . . . let the flowers do the talking!”

 “Exactly!” Masumi confirmed, “Yuuri is already excited to see them, so just . . . play off of that!”

“And might I suggest, that if the moment feels right . . .” Chris purred, “then perhaps a little bit of charm couldn't hurt . . . compliment him . . . maybe offer him your arm . . . hold his hand . . .”

Viktor held up both paws in response, obsidian claws glinting; a deadpan expression on his face.

“Ah,” Chris conceded, “Point taken. What I mean is . . . you could stand to be a bit more . . . relaxed?”

“Personable” Masumi interjected.

“Less . . . ominous? Rigid? Stoic?” Christophe teased.

Viktor was about to snap back, but Masumi diffused him before he spoke, “Remember, you’re wooing a potential lover . . . not entering a trade negotiation. You don’t have to be so . . . ”

“Frigid?” Chris supplied with a smirk.

“Formal” Masumi corrected pointedly, with a warning glance to Chris.

“Just . . . be Viktor” Chris suggested finally. His words were soft and sincere, “I mean . . . Masumi and I like you for who you are . . . mostly. Why shouldn’t Yuuri?”

There was a teasing grin etched into his plating, but the words were warm and genuine.

Viktor nodded.

He could do this.

There was a gentle rap on the parlor door.

Viktor jumped.

He couldn't do this.

He looked back to Chris and Masumi with pleading eyes.

“Ah-ah,” Chris tutted, still smirking, “Yuuri is waiting for you . . . better get going, mon petit bichon!”

Viktor growled playfully as he stood; then took a deep breath, nodded to his friends, and went to answer the door.

“Aww, bon toutou!” Chris praised, and Masumi burst out laughing once again.

Viktor snorted, in spite of himself.

He gripped the golden door handle tightly, steeling his resolve and finally turning it.

He could do this; it was just an afternoon in the gardens.

An afternoon in the gardens with the most beautiful boy to ever walk the earth; a boy who made Viktor want to be a better man. A boy who unwittingly held Viktor’s life, and the lives of all his staff in the palm of his gentle hands.

Viktor took a deep breath; He could do this.

He hoped.

*****

The castle gardens glittered gloriously in the noon day sun as Yuuri and The Beast stepped onto the winding walkway.    

Yuuri shivered slightly, pushing his hands further into the soft white muff at his waist.

When Georgi had overheard that he planned to spend the afternoon walking about outside, he had insisted that Yuuri wear something much warmer than his travelling cloak, and had proceeded to dress Yuuri in a heavy winter justacorps the colour of rouge, trimmed in white fur, matched with white woolen hose and shiny black shoes.

The clothes were very fine; handsome and well made, and they kept out the cold nicely, though the shoes were not particularly well suited to walking on the ice, and Yuuri often found himself sliding off balance; not that his own worn leather shoes would have fared much better.

Beside him, The Beast trod seamlessly across the glacial path, clad only in black breeches and his defining claret cape once again.

Yuuri couldn't help but watch as The Beast strode along the path beside him. His movements were so smooth, so elegant; He passed over the shifting snow without a trace. Not one brittle ‘crunch’ of distressed ice cracking beneath his paws, not one soft footprint left behind to mark where he had passed.  

“Yuuri? Is something the matter?”

Yuuri raised his head, suddenly aware he had lapsed into a daze again; mesmerized by the motions of his companion. He had lagged behind, falling into step behind The Beast, scrutinizing the ground instead of enjoying of the gardens.

“Hm?” Yuuri blinked a few times in the bright afternoon light, “Ah . . . sorry,” he apologized sheepishly, “just . . . lost in thought”

The Beast tilted his head, reminiscent of a confused puppy.

“. . . May I inquire as to what has captivated your attention so? Anything I can assist with?”

“Umm . . .”

Would it be rude to ask?

“I was wondering something . . . about you, actually . . .”

The words were shy; timid and reticent and soft.

The Beast blinked a few times, caught off-guard by the confession.

“Ah . . . of course, you may ask me anything you like,” The Beast replied quickly; regaining his composure.

Yuuri opened his mouth to speak, eyes wavering between The Beast and the snowy ground beneath their feet.

“You . . . don't leave footprints,” He said finally, “How . . . how is that possible? How are you doing that?”

The Beast’s eyebrows caved together in a confused “v”; he tilted his head downwards, investigating the snowy ground behind them.

He looked up once again; confusion still writ across his features.

“Huh . . . so I don’t” he conceded taciturnly.

“You . . . never noticed before?” Yuuri asked gently, if a bit skeptical.

“To be honest, I haven’t had much reason to leave the castle as of late,” The Beast explained, “I was . . . unaware of this phenomenon”

“But . . . you always walk like that,” Yuuri insisted.

The Beast raised a single eyebrow.

“I just mean,” Yuuri quickly backpedaled, “you always move so . . . swiftly? You never make any noise . . . you never leave any footprints . . . you never slip on the ice . . .”

The Beast glanced down at his clawed feet on the frosty path, “Well . . . I suppose it’s just a part of this . . .” he gestured to himself with a sad sweeping motion, “. . . what I am . . .”

Yuuri’s heart stopped; that’s not what he had meant!

“I think it’s amazing!” he blurted.

The Beast’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, “ . . . you do?”

“Yea . . .” Yuuri confirmed softly, “it’s incredible . . . honestly, I wish I was half as graceful as you are,” he let out a nervous little chuckle.

The Beast smirked, “Yes, very graceful . . . considering the claws and the horns and the fangs?” he drawled sarcastically.

Yuuri was about to launch into another apology, when he noticed the sparkle in The Beast’s eye; the slight curl of his lip.

He was teasing him; teasing him!

The very idea!

Well, two could play at that game.

Yuuri looked innocently up at The Beast, “Oh, are those fangs? I hadn't noticed,” he replied with mock naiveté.

He quirked his lips into a matching smirk as he turned back down the path, leaving The Beast speechless in his wake.

Yuuri turned to look over his shoulder, grinning wickedly at his stunned host.

“. . . The horns are kind of hard to miss though!” he called brightly.

And then The Beast laughed.

It was a deep, rumbling thing, spontaneous and brief; dripping with honey and sunshine and liquid gold.

Yuuri chuckled quietly too; suddenly shy one more.

They continued on, side by side, through the frosty gardens; Yuuri enraptured by the stunning winter-kissed grounds all around him.

The two exchanged easy gibes as they made their way down snaking pathways lined with all manner of snowy shrubberies and glacial greenery; trees and vines and bushes and flowers arranged beautifully along the lane. And though each and every offshoot of each and every plant was encased in frost, none were dead. None were rotted or withered or brittle; they were still blooming, still flourishing, as if they were not stung by the frigid breath of winter, but merely glazed with diaphanous white glass. Every branch, every petal, every leaf, shimmered in the sunlight, their colours muted and incandescent, casting rainbows over the garden’s forever-more canvas of arctic ivory.

It was magnificent.

At length they passed by a glittering frozen stream and traversed over a slick stone bridge where Yuuri’s previously sure footing at last betrayed him. He jerked rapidly forward on the down slope, catching himself instinctively on a claret cape.

“Ah! Sorry!” He squeaked, as The Beast turned to see what had so suddenly rattled his side. Yuuri dropped the cape like a hot coal and slid forward again.

“So . . . now you’re putting my canine reflexes to the test?” The Beast quipped, reaching out a massive paw to steady the wobbling boy.

“Just  . . . ah . . . keeping you on your toes” Yuuri returned, trying not to blush as he scrambled for purchase on the steep, icy incline; hand flailing for the chilly railing.  

The Beast turned to him, expression deadpanned, “. . . I’m always on my toes”

They both looked down to The Beast’s digitigrade feet; pads and claws planted firmly on the slippery slope.

Yuuri snorted, “. . . that was a terrible joke!” he chastised jovially.

In response, The Beast merely smiled and extended his arm to Yuuri, who took it unsteadily; face flushing redder than his justacorps. 

Yuuri practically slid the rest of the way down the bridge, leaning most of his weight on The Beast for support.

Damn these fancy shoes . . .

“. . . Thank you,” Yuuri mumbled shyly, embarrassment creeping up his neck.

“My pleasure,” The Beast returned amiably.

Once they were safely off the arching bridge, they came to rest at a little pavilion which thankfully stood nearby.

It was small and simple compared to the rest of the castle, made of white painted wood with gold painted trim, frost-covered ivy crawling up the four corner posts. Though Yuuri supposed that perhaps the pavilion was not the main attraction here; for it stood just a few feet away from the entrance to a massive hedge maze.

The shrubberies towered a good ten feet high, all white and heaped with snow; the length of the maze running as far as he could see in either direction; a small, arched opening stood in the middle, just in front of the gazebo. Back to the south, Yuuri could see the castle in the distance through the trees of the garden through which they had just come. 

With a gesture, The Beast offered Yuuri a seat in the shade of the pavilion; a comfortable, cushioned hassock. It was covered in frost, like everything else, though the justacorps would be long enough to keep the chill off.

Yuuri released The Beast’s arm bashfully and sat.

Had he been holding it this whole time?

The Beast sat opposite him on another of the hassocks.

“Sorry again . . . for falling on you . . .” Yuuri mumbled quietly.

The Beast turned a fond eye on him, “Please, Yuuri . . . you have nothing to apologize for. It’s no trouble”

Yuuri could have sworn that he saw The Beast smile.

“Well, thank you again –”

Yuuri stopped short.

He didn’t know how to finish that sentence.

He had been about to say “Well, thank you again, Beast,” to his intense mortification.

Thank mercy he had stopped himself.

Then Yuuri became even more humiliated as he realized that he still didn’t know The Beasts’ name.

He had asked for it once before . . . sort of . . . but The Beast hadn’t offered his name, just that sad, cryptic response about being the Master of a forgotten castle.

Yuuri and Phichit had called him “The Beast” between themselves in private, and Yuuri had referred to him as “The Master” when talking to Christophe, but . . . really now, how long could that go on? Now that he was living here? And especially now that he knew The Beast had once been human?

Guilt ricocheted between his ribs; he was a horrible guest . . . and an even worse friend.

Yuuri’s eyes went wide and pained. 

“Yuuri?” The Beast’s voice rang out next to him, gentle and concerned, “Yuuri, are you alright? Is it too cold . . ?”

“No, no!” Yuuri stammered, “it’s fine! I’m fine! It’s . . . it’s beautiful out here! I just . . .” he tried to quell his racing thoughts, put them in order long enough to figure out a way to come at this tactfully.

He paused, exhaling a visible breath, slipping his hands into the muff once more, “It’s just that . . . I’ve only now realized that I don’t know what to call you”.

He deflated under the admission; but the truth seemed the best, if only, option.

The Beast perked up a bit, his lupine ears flicking absently, “Oh, is that all?” he asked lightly, “You may address me however you please, Yuuri. Given the circumstances . . .”

“Ah . . . thank you . . .” Yuuri replied delicately, “but, what I mean is . . . I’m afraid I don't know your name . . .”

The Beast’s eyes widened in realization, “Oh . . .”

“I’m so sorry!” Yuuri apologized immediately, “I should have asked sooner!”

“No! The faux pas rests firmly at my feet!” The Beast objected, “I should have offered it upon you arrival! I should not have assumed – ”

“Or, just let me know how you would prefer to be addressed, that’s fine too! You don't have to tell me your name if you don't want to!” Yuuri babbled, “Ah, ‘Monsieur’ . . . or maybe, ‘My Lord’? Or . . . what was it Georgi said? Gospodin?”

 He was rambling now, The Beast gaping at him, expression unreadable; Yuuri flushed, he knew he was making a fool of himself.

“Ah . . . or, or I know Chris usually just calls you Master, so . . . I could as well, if you like. I don't mind . . .”

“NO!” The Beast yelped quickly. He looked slightly like he was having a heart attack; like he was about to choke on his own tongue.

Yuuri bit his lip repentantly; he wasn't entirely sure what he had said wrong now, but judging from The Beast’s expression, he was certain he had really put his foot in his mouth this time.

But it was just so hard to know what would upset his companion; offering to repay a kindness and using proper titles didn't offend most people.

After a moment, The Beast seemed to come back to himself, “I mean . . . no, thank you, that won’t be necessary, Yuuri,” he took a deep breath before continuing, “Christophe is a dear friend, but also my employee, whereas you are a guest. Please, I could not ask you to use such a title for myself. That goes for ‘My Lord’, ‘Moy Gospodin’ and other such honorifics as well, if you would be so kind,” he faced Yuuri again with a relaxed smile.

Yuuri’s anxiety ebbed, now that The Beast had calmed, “Of course,” he smiled back, “. . . what should I call you then?” he inquired shyly.

The Beast replied with a smile: tender and full of warmth, “My name is Viktor”

“Viktor,” Yuuri repeated, smiling in return. After a moment, he nodded, “It suits you,”

“Oh?” Viktor challenged, “Is Viktor a good name for a Beast?”

He laughed once more at Yuuri’s scandalized face.

Once he realized he was only being teased again, Yuuri laughed too, “I meant it’s regal and distinguished,” he objected through his snickers, “in fact, I think it’s quite a handsome name! This is what I get for trying to be nice . . . ”

Their laughter echoed over the icy landscape, ringing out boisterously through the frosty foliage of the winter garden.

Yuuri wasn't certain if it was the winter sun or the heavy justacorps or the way that Viktor laughed; but in that moment, the world felt just a little bit warmer.

*****

Phichit hobbled down the cobbled village streets, leaning heavily on his crutches; determination etched onto his face.

He wasn't sure exactly how he was going to pull this off, but Yuuri was counting on him . . . he would just have to find a way.

He passed through a little iron gate, standing open in the town square; before him laid the Town Hall, and just off to the side was the gaol, his true target.

For today he would face his greatest adversary; Guard Captain Nishigori.

Alright, so maybe that was a little dramatic; the Captain was a good man, fair and competent and actually very amiable . . . he just maybe hadn’t quite forgiven Phichit for an incident a couple years back involving a rope snare and two buckets of red paint.

But . . . the past was the past, right? How long could the man really hold a grudge?

On unsteady legs, Phichit shuffled across the small courtyard and up the stone steps of the large, official building.

He pushed the heavy, swinging doors open with a small, “oof”; stumbling past them into the gaol’s antechamber.

It was an austere stone room with a simple wooden desk at the far end; behind it, large double doors made of heavy oak led to the cells, which Phichit had thankfully never seen. Barred windows on the north and south walls let in the lazy afternoon light, and simple wooden benches lined the room; some with shackles attached to them, some without.

There was a barracks on the second floor, which remained mostly unused; and an armory in the basement, in much the same state. The Village was a peaceful place, and so the gaol didn't see much use; just the rare passing thief or rowdy brawler or unruly drunkard.

And there, sitting at the wooden desk, as usual, was Guard Captain Nishigori; a great big bear of a man with short hair and a stern expression. He was a laid-back, good-natured man who liked to joke around and offered his friendship freely . . . until one gave him a reason not to.

“Takeshi!” Phichit greeted with a bright smile. He could do this. He could do this.

Captain Nishigori looked up with a smile; it vanished the instant he recognized Phichit.

“Captain!” Phichit corrected instantly, “Captain Nishigori. Guard Captain Nishigori Takeshi . . . “

Nishigori sighed, “Yes . . . what I can help you with, Phichit?” he asked politely.

“Oh!” Phichit brightened, hobbling closer to the desk, “Not me . . . I’m doing something for the Lord Maire, actually . . .”

That technically wasn't true . . . but Nishigori didn't need to know that.

It was all part of the brilliant scheme that he and Minako had concocted to bring Yuuri home.

Phichit had returned yesterday afternoon no worse for wear; missing Yuuri terribly, worried sick and wanting to see him again more than anything in the world.

He had spent the whole journey back thinking of ways he might help his brother and The Beast. It was a long trip, considering how slowly he had to go due to his injuries, but at least it had given him a lot of time to think.

When he had first recounted the incredible tale to Minako, she had refused to believe him; had even offered to take him to a doctor to have his head examined. He didn't blame her; beasts and castles and magic? It still sounded like nonsense, even to him, and he had seen it all with his own two eyes.

Luckily for him, the wolf bite was real enough, and like everything else in the castle, his bandages had been ridiculously extravagant. The cloth was clean, simple cotton, but it had been fastened with a golden pin, embellished with a little pearl clasp.

That one expensive little bauble had been enough to convince Minako that he was telling the truth, and then suddenly she . . . changed. Her whole countenance shifted from incredulity to wonder as question after question tumbled from her lips; how long had the castle been cursed? Who was the master there, what was his name? How did the spell work, how could it make people just . . . forget?

Phichit had just shrugged sadly, telling her that those were exactly the things he and Yuuri were trying to figure out.

Minako had immediately pledged to help them, being the good friend that she was. Although, Phichit expected she also may have just been excited about the prospect of being invited to the castle one day; he knew how much she missed court, and the idea of visiting any castle, even an enchanted one, seemed to delight her to no end. 

And so began their scheming to uncover the true identity of the castle and The Beast who ruled there.

Phichit had showed her the map; he had marked the fork as promised, and from there, used his cartography tools to plot out where exactly the castle lay. Then he had built himself some crutches. Step one complete.

Step two had been Minako’s suggestion; tax records.

Anyone who lived in a castle surely would have been collecting taxes, especially from a village so close, and there were always records of such things; multiple records going back decades.

At present, their own taxes went to The Capitol far to the North East. If they could find where else the taxes had gone before that . . .

The only problem was that the tax records were in the Town Hall, under lock and key.

And the one person they knew who had those keys just so happened to be . . .

“You see, Captain Nishigori,” Phichit rambled, “I received this letter from Lord Maire Marchand. The Village centennial is coming up at the end of next year, and he asked that Minako, Yuuri and I put together a sort of . . . tribute . . . to present during the celebrations . . . local histories, family trees, that sort of thing . . . he asked that we start now, so that we can be sure to do a very thorough job . . . ”

He could do this . . . he could do this . . .

“So, I was hoping . . . that I could borrow your keys? Just for a moment, to get into the records room?”

Lies, lies and more lies; but hopefully all believable ones.

The Lord Maire of their little town, Philippe Marchand, was a doddering, 90-year-old bourgeoisie with an ailing memory and worse health, who had been appointed to the position in his youth, and now preferred to live in The City and oversee The Village through letters to Nishigori, the Chaplain, and other families of note, including and unfortunately not limited to people like J.J. and Isabella.  

However, word of Phichit’s inventing talent had reached the Lord Maire’s ears, and so Phichit had often been hired to fix things about town; he had repaired the broken water wheel and the squeaky Town Hall doors and replaced the rusty bucket in the communal well; all for a very generous fee, of course. Jobs from the Lord Maire often kept himself and Yuuri afloat on their small farm.

They also provided Phichit with copies of the Lord Maire’s handwriting . . . which Minako had emulated in order to forge the letter which he handed to Nishigori now.

And yes, technically this was illegal, but it’s not like they were using the records for fraud or thievery. It was research. They just needed some information; just one name, and then they would put everything back. No harm, no foul.

Besides, The Beast lived in a castle; surely he was of high enough rank that he could pardon them of any wrongdoing once the spell was broken, right?

Or they could just not get caught.

Captain Nishigori took the letter and studied it closely.

“Well . . . you know I would, Phichit,” he said apologetically, “But I’m afraid this letter doesn't have the Lord Maire’s seal on it . . . I can't in good conscience –”

Rats.

Phichit thought Nishigori might notice that; He and Minako had been able to replicate the writing and the signature, but not the wax seal on all of the Lord Maire’s official communications. Minako had said it wouldn't be a big deal; had told Phichit to take the chance anyway. Looks like that idea was a bust.

“Well, you know how the Lord Maire is . . .” Phichit chuckled nervously, “He’s . . . well he’s getting up there. I’m sure he just . . . forgot . . .”

“Sorry, Phichit . . . I’m sure you’re telling the truth, but I can't go against protocol,” Nishigori said firmly, “Look, why don't I write back to Lord Maire Marchand, tell him the situation, and get back to you? You can wait a few days, right? After all, you three have more than a year to –”

“NO!” Phichit yelped, his crutch clattering to the ground in his surprise.

Nishigori eyed Phichit warily.

“What happened to your leg?” the Captain asked suspiciously.

“Nothing. Gophers,” Phichit lied awkwardly, “. . . burrowing all over the farm, they are. It’s a mess. Stepped in a hole. Twisted my ankle. Don't worry about it! I’m fine!”

Nishigori sighed once again, “Here, let me get that for you . . .” he stood slowly, rounded the desk, and plucked Phichit’s crutch from the ground with a stiff groan.

Phichit opened his mouth to thank the captain, when a cacophonous racket drew both their attentions to the door.

“YOU BROKE IT!”

“NO, YOU BROKE IT!”

“I DIDN’T!”

“YOU BOTH DID!”

“QUIET! You all broke it and I don’t want to hear another word about it!”

“. . . yes mom”

In the doorway stood Nishigori’s wife, Yuuko, and their triplet daughters, Axel, Lutz, and Loop. In the triplet’s hands they each held one fraction of a wooden doll; Axel had the head, Lutz the arms and torso, and Loop the two wayward legs.

Yuuko smiled brightly, her demeanour changing entirely when she spied Phichit and her husband, “Oh, hi Phichit! What a surprise! It’s so nice to see you!” She bustled over and gave him a great big hug.

Phichit didn't get along with many of the villagers, but he had to admit that he liked Yuuko; truth be told, everyone liked Yuuko . . . even Minako liked Yuuko . . . it was impossible not to. She was an absolute sweetheart, a beautiful person both inside and out

“Please, don't mind us,” Yuuko continued, still smiling “We just had to stop by because someone forgot his lunch,” she held aloft a little basket covered in a checkered cloth for her husband.

Nishigori took it gratefully, with a sweet thank-you to his wife and a quick peck on her cheek.  

Meanwhile, the triplets were silently shoving one another; being quiet like their mother had told them, but still fighting and making faces among themselves.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Nishigori reprimanded when he caught how his children were behaving, “what did you mother just tell you?”

“Sorry dad,” the triplets sighed in unison.

“Yes, your daughters have gone and broken their new doll,” Yuuko confessed, looking disapprovingly between her children.

“Already?” Nishigori exclaimed in disbelief, “but their birthday was only a week ago!”

“I know!” Yuuko sighed, exasperated. She turned to whisper silently to her husband, “I just don’t know what to do . . .”

Phichit looked from the stressed couple whispering between themselves, to the three little girls, who were now crying out and hitting one another with the pieces of their broken doll; his heart fluttering with sympathy.

“I can fix it!” Phichit hollered above the din.

The parents stopped whispering, the children stopped screaming.

“YOU CAN?” The girls all squealed in unison.

“Oh . . . Phichit . . .” Yuuko said gently, “That’s so nice of you to offer, but I’m afraid . . . I’m afraid we can't afford to pay you,”

“The doll was pretty expensive,” Nishigori explained bluntly, “Lord Maire Marchand sent it to us from the city. The arms and legs move and everything . . . that’s why we only got one for the three of them,”

Phichit waved a dismissive hand, “Don't worry about it! I wouldn't dream of charging you to fix your girls’ birthday present” he insisted, “besides . . . I love tinkering with these kinds of things . . . is it alright if I just take a look?”

“Thank you Phichit! Thank you, so, so much!” Yuuko gasped, “Girls, give the doll to Monsieur Chulanont,”

Axel, Lutz and Loop handed over the broken bits of their doll. Phichit leaned against the desk, turning the pieces over in his hand.

The doll was finely crafted, made of light, polished wood, and painted with lacquer. He looked to the sockets and the ends of each of the limbs . . .

Ha! Ball joints. He knew it; child’s play.

He swiftly and carefully popped all the parts back into place, giving each a quick swivel to make sure they still rotated as they were supposed to. Luckily the girls had only pulled the pieces out of place, and not actually damaged anything. That would have taken some actual fixing. But this? This was nothing.

“There, all done!” he smiled triumphantly, handing the doll back to the girls.

They gazed at him with wide eyes, “Thank you Monsieur Chulanont!” they gasped in synchronous delight.

“Hey, my pleasure!” Phichit chirped, still smiling, “Just remember, she’s a little bit delicate . . . you don’t want to pull too hard on those limbs again, okay?”

“Yes, sir!” The triplets promised, before turning back to play with their newly repaired toy.

Yuuko hugged him tightly again, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she beamed, “we really appreciate this Phichit,”

Phichit felt himself starting to blush, “Oh . . . it was nothing, really. The limbs just popped out of place . . . if it happens again, all you have to do is snap them back in. Or you can just bring it to me. I don’t mind”

Yuuko released him at last, thanking him once again. Then she and the girls were off, leaving him alone once more with the Guard Captain.

Nishigori looked Phichit over with a scrutinizing eye; then he smiled.

“So . . . about those records . . . I suppose it would be alright if I gave you the keys . . . but just this once.”  

Phichit thanked Nishigori profusely, took the keys, collected the records he needed and was back out on the cobbled streets in no time.

Things were finally looking up!

Or so he thought.

“Well, well, well . . . if it isn’t Phichit Chulanont!” J.J.’s voice rang out unmistakably behind him.

Damn. So close.

“Well, well, well . . . if it isn’t Monsieur Connard” Phichit shot back, hobbling away as fast as he could, records still in hand.

J.J. laughed, “No, no, Phichit! It’s me, J.J.! J.J. Leroy!” he guffawed, easily catching up to the limping inventor.

“Ahh, yes . . . how could I forget the man who’s been stalking my brother?” Phichit bit out sarcastically.

 J.J. deflated ever so slightly, “Look, I know we haven’t gotten off to a good start, you and I . . . but I’d like to change that, if you’d let me”

“Why? Are you dying?” Phichit asked hopefully, “Making amends before you shuffle off this mortal coil?”

“Okay, okay . . .” J.J. conceded with a tight laugh, “I guess I deserve that . . . but really, Phichit, I’ve changed. I just want to show you what a good guy I am now! Is your leg hurt? Can I carry those papers for you?”

Phichit stopped walking as understanding struck him.

He nearly laughed out loud.

Oh mercy. How stupid did J.J. think he was?

Phichit smirked, “Oh . . . now I see what you’re trying to do” he purred, “It won’t work, J.J.”

“What? I’m . . . I’m not doing anything!” J.J. objected with a nervous laugh.

“Yes you are,” Phichit countered victoriously, “You’re trying to get me to like you . . . so that I’ll help convince Yuuri to marry you,” He looked J.J. dead in the eye, “I bet you were even going to ask for my blessing before you tried proposing to him again, right? Classic!”

Phichit snorted, shook his head, and kept wobbling down the cobbled streets, leaving J.J. dumbfounded behind him.

He felt like maybe he should have been nicer, but he figured that after the way J.J. had been treating Yuuri, the brute deserved it.

Besides, Yuuri was gone . . .

And wasn't it better to be upfront about J.J.’s chances with him? This marriage was never going to happen . . . and maybe if they all said that often enough and loudly enough and clearly enough, J.J. would finally get it through his thick skull.

Besides, Phichit and Minako couldn't afford to have J.J. snooping around; it was too dangerous. Sure Minako had understood the situation . . . eventually; but how would the rest of the villagers feel about living less than four leagues from a terrifying looking beast?

Phichit assumed the reaction would fall somewhere between ‘not very pleased’ and ‘outright murderous’; and he was not keen to find out.

No, they had to keep this quiet; which shouldn’t be that hard, to be honest. He wasn't exactly ‘popular’ . . . Yuuri was really the only one he had, besides Minako. And even she had only become his friend through Yuuri in the first place.

Phichit knew what everyone else in town said about him; his brother wasn't the only one with a reputation . . . though sadly, Phichit’s own wasn't quite as flattering.  

But he had to admit, “The Mad Tinker” did have a nice ring to it; sure, it was no “Mysterious Playboy” . . . but there were worse things one could be called.

And so, Phichit hobbled out of town, one arm wrapped over his crutch, the other around a thick set of records; his face set in grim determination.

The Mad Tinker had work to do.

*****

“And . . . what did you say this was called again?” Nikolai watched, fascinated, as Yuuri’s hands flew over the prep table.

Yuuri smiled wide, “Katsudon!”

Nikolai hummed in response, turning his attention back to the ingredients Yuuri had set out before them; rice, pork cutlets, eggs, breadcrumbs, and assorted veggies, spices and sauces.

Something sharp nudged Viktor’s side; Christophe winked up at him from a countertop.

“And he cooks too!” The candelabrum cooed salaciously.

Viktor rolled his eyes.

As he and Yuuri had made their way back in from the gardens that afternoon, Viktor had once again offered to have Yuuri’s favourite meal served for dinner; and when Viktor had been forced to admit that he had never even heard of katsudon, let alone tried it, Yuuri had simply offered to make it himself. Assuming it was alright with the kitchen staff, of course.

Nikolai was more than happy to let Yuuri take change of the kitchen, in exchange for the recipe; and though Viktor was excited to learn more about Yuuri and share his favourite meal with him, he had to admit that he was just a little dismayed that Yuuri was going to end up making his own romantic dinner . . .

Viktor sighed. Why couldn't things ever go right?

He had almost blown it again this afternoon in the garden.

How could he have been so foolish? He hadn't even considered the possibility that Yuuri might not know his name.

Viktor had been a Prince after all, before the spell, that is; and part of being a Prince was being recognized. Introductions were merely a formality; a courtesy, because everyone already knew who he was. Even people he had never met before in his life knew him by name . . . that’s just how it always had been.  

But things were different now; he was no longer a Prince, no longer human, even.

He couldn't even say for certain how much time had passed in the world beyond his castle. Perhaps it had been centuries; the name “Viktor Nikiforov” forever lost to the sands of time.

He had been arrogant. He had been conceited.

And he had almost passed out entirely when Yuuri had turned to him with those big, innocent brown eyes and offered to call him ‘Master’ . . .

Oh mercy . . . even just thinking about it was wreaking havoc on his conscience.

 “Yuuri! You cook? That’s incredible!” Sara chirped from the prep table

“I can't cook at all!” Mila laughed, “I tried to make toast once and burned it black,”

“Yea, we remember, the kitchen reeked for weeks,” Yuri huffed.

“The whole castle reeked for weeks,” Otabek corrected.  

“Arf, arf, arf!”

“Makkachin, down!” Masumi hollered from the counter beside Chris, “You may not be a slobbery pooch anymore, but that doesn't change the rule about jumping up on the counters!”

And on top of making his own dinner, Yuuri’s smiling presence had once again drawn a crowd of castle staff to his side, like wayward ships to a shining lighthouse; reducing the kitchen to sweet, wonderful, chaos.

“So where did you learn this recipe?” Nikolai inquired intently.

“Ah, my mom used to make it,” Yuuri answered brightly, “It’s my favourite, so she would usually make it for my birthday, or when I had done well in school . . .”

Mila and Sara let out simultaneous sighs of adoration. 

Yuri scoffed, “Well, I don’t know what this katsudon is, but there’s no way it’s better than Grandpa’s pirozhki!” he asserted, stomping down with a ‘clink’.

Over at the prep table the rowdy assembly continued to coo and holler and laugh.

They all looked so . . . happy.

They all were so happy.

Viktor smiled.

A tug to his cape brought his attention downward.

Yakov.

“Vitya, there’s something you need to see,” his words were blunt and heavy.

Viktor’s chest constricted with worry; he looked to the others joking around at the prep table.

He wouldn't be missed for five minutes; he would be back for dinner.

He nodded to Yakov and they exited the kitchen, Viktor motioning to Chris to follow.

Yakov led then up to Viktor’s chambers.

Ah. So this was about The Rose, then.

Viktor’s Royale Suite was much like the Eastern Suite, though larger, coloured entirely in white and gold and with a few extra personal decorations; portraits of family, monogrammed sheets and towels . . .

. . . and a single red rose on a small iron side table, standing near the wide balcony.

It rested under a crystal case, which was usually draped with a heavy cover to keep out the fog and the chill; though it was mainly for Viktor’s own peace of mind, due to the fact that in this particular instance, the fog and the chill came from inside the case.

Now, however, the case and the cover had both been removed; the rose standing naked before them, hovering magically an inch or so above the table.

When last Viktor had checked, only three of the petals still had colour left; the rest had turned to ice. It was his own personal timer; his hourglass; his doomsday countdown.

And not a very accurate one at that; to his intense dissatisfaction.

Though he had tried to measure how long it took each petal and thorn to freeze, none seemed to go at the same rate. They all turned to ice in their own time; just as it pleased them to. Sometimes he would check the rose, only to discover that two or three or four petals had frozen all at once; maddeningly inconsistent.

He had a spell to break, no idea how to fulfill the terms, and no way to gauge his progress.

It was infuriating.

He closed his eyes and braced himself; how many more petals had he lost now? How much more time had slipped away?

“Vitya . . . look,” Yakov insisted breathlessly.

He sounded . . . awestruck?

Viktor opened his eyes and forced himself to examine the rose.

Where before there had only been three red petals among a field of icy husks . . . now there were four.

Four red petals.

Four. Red. Petals.

“How did this happen?” Viktor asked breathlessly.

“It must be because Yuuri is here,” Chris reasoned.

Yakov waved him off, “We can't say for certain . . . but . . . Vitya . . . I think . . . I think The Rose is thawing,”

The three looked to one another wordlessly, then back to the rose and its four coloured petals.

“Does this mean I have more time?” Viktor asked cautiously; his mind reeling.

“What did the Enchantress say?” Yakov asked brusquely.

Viktor swallowed hard, “If you can learn to love another, and earn their love in return before the rose turns to solid ice, then the spell will be broken . . . if not . . . you will be doomed to remain a beast for all time,” he recited.

Those words had haunted him for so long he had memorized them. He had written them down, researched them, poured over every possible meaning trying to figure a way out of his hopeless curse.

He never found one.

“. . . then . . . you must have more time,” Chris suggested slowly, “. . . as long as The Rose isn’t solid ice . . . you still have time . . . so the more it thaws . . . the more time you have?”

Viktor nodded; that made sense, he supposed.

“Don't get careless, Vitya,” Yakov cautioned, “We’ve seen petals freeze two or three at a time . . . you may still be in danger yet,”

Viktor nodded numbly once again; that also made sense.

“But . . . this is good news,” Yakov conceded after a moment, “Now we know that it can thaw . . . that the possibility exists. Things aren’t as hopeless as we thought, Vitya,”

Viktor had never heard the clock’s voice so soft before.

“What do you think would happen if . . . if it unfroze entirely?” Chris asked quietly, “Do you think the spell would be broken?”

Viktor didn't answer; he didn't know.

He had always wondered what the Enchantresses had meant by ‘learn to love another, and earn their love in return’; how was he supposed to do that? And once he had, how was he supposed to prove it to her? With a kiss? With a confession of love? With a marriage?

Perhaps Chris was on to something . . .

“Who can say?’ Yakov replied solemnly, “All we know for certain, is that now that Katsuki Yuuri is here, The Rose has begun to defrost . . . maybe that will break the spell, maybe it will just give Vitya more time . . . either way . . . I think we can assume that things are about to change around here . . . hopefully for the better,”

Viktor nodded, replacing the case and the cover, before the three turned and exited his chambers; agreeing to keep what they had seen a secret until they could be certain what it meant.  

They slipped back into the chaotic kitchen without a word.

It was just as they had left it; noisy, turbulent, and completely out of control.

Perfect.

Yuuri was toweling himself off; he was covered in breadcrumbs, something sticky-looking spilled all down his front. Sara was sitting up on one of his shoulders, Mila on the other, as Yuri yelled something at them from the prep table. Otabek watched the stove with Nikolai as Masumi scolded Makkachin, who was jumping up on Yuuri’s side; almost knocking him off balance.

Yuuri turned his head to see if he had reached all the mess; his face lighting up in a bright smile when he saw Viktor.

“There you are!” He chirped happily, “it’s almost ready!”

Viktor’s heart fluttered against his chest; it was pointless to deny it . . . he could already feel himself falling in love with Katsuki Yuuri.  

“I can't wait”.

Chapter Text

In a small, but cozy, bedchamber below the kitchens, Masumi prepared to face another unpredictable day.  

Dawn hadn't yet broken, and Chris was still asleep, of course. Even when they had been human his lover had never been one for mornings; something about the harsh light of day, “so cruelly tearing them apart”.

He smiled to himself; dramatic as Chris could be, he did love that man so.

Masumi left the chamber quietly and made his way down the deserted servant’s corridor; all gray porous stone with small, high windows, half underground. He swept over the protruding ledges with laser-like focus; there was much to do, and no time to waste.

With Yuuri here now, things did seem to be looking up, of that there was no doubt.

Katsuki Yuuri was kind and thoughtful and friendly; a very welcome presence to be sure.

And Viktor was very obviously falling for the sweet boy, another good sign.

Still though . . .

It would take two to break the spell . . . and Yuuri still remained ignorant of the part they all hoped he would play in this pitiful mess.

There was no telling if Yuuri ever would, or even could, fall in love with Viktor . . . or if Viktor’s infatuation was strong enough to evolve into the true, unconditional love necessary to break the spell.

Masumi frowned; there was hope now, yes . . . but still no guarantees.

He cherished Viktor dearly; as a friend, as a colleague, even as his Prince and Monarch . . . but at the same time, Masumi had no illusions about his Master’s sub-par courting abilities.

The last few days had, frankly, been a disaster.  

Life in the castle, though now hopeful and bright, had devolved into a strange, chaotic sort of tango, as the staff had attempted to aid their Master in the wooing of Katsuki Yuuri.

What had started as a seemingly simple, straightforward objective had quickly deteriorated into a calamitous clashing of ideas; a perpetually painful push and pull, which more often than not left Viktor embarrassed, Yuuri confused, and the staff stretched and strung out; exhausted from making excuses and running interference as the clumsy dance plowed ever onward.

For Masumi, it was not just a matter of saving Viktor from himself, oh no; it was also a matter of saving face in front of Yuuri when the good intentions of other staff members had gone horribly awry.

Masumi could not be too chaffed about it, however; they all wanted the spell broken, and their hearts were in the right places . . . it’s just that they all had such different approaches . . . each more disastrous than the last.

And so, when he was not coaching Viktor, or consoling Viktor, or listening to Viktor pine, or pretending to be Yuuri so Viktor could practice flirting, or explaining to Viktor why it might not be the best idea to fill Yuuri’s bedchamber with ten thousand roses as some great, romantic gesture, Masumi was running after Mila and Sara and making sure they didn't “spice up” any more of Viktor’s love notes, or he was throwing himself on the live grenade that was Yuri Plisetsky, who had decided that ordering Viktor and Yuuri to “just get married already” was the best way to go about things, or he was yanking his own beau back into line before Chris had the chance to initiate any more of his ill-conceived and extremely risqué seduction techniques.

For his part, Masumi was content to be patient and let things happen in their own time. It would be frustrating, agonizing even, but . . . what other choice did they have?

The others were afraid; he knew it. He was afraid too. They were running out of time, and if this romance didn't succeed . . .

But, they way Masumi saw it . . . this love was guaranteed to fail, if they kept trying to force it the way they were now.

This wasn't an arranged marriage between nations; not a negotiation or a truce or a treaty. This was something far greater and much more powerful. The Enchantress would not be satisfied by anything less than true love. It would not be enough for Viktor to just declare his feelings and have Yuuri parrot the sentiment back . . . Viktor would have to learn what it meant to love; he would have to feel that powerful, all-encompassing, self-sacrificing devotion, and Yuuri would have to genuinely return that affection; truly, honestly, with his whole heart . . . and that was not something so easily accomplished.

It was not something they could just rush into; not something one could trick the other into, or flatter them into, or demand.

Viktor couldn't just pretend to be someone he was not in order to win Yuuri’s heart; he couldn't just shower the boy with gifts and praise and finery and hope to charm him with sweet nothings; the staff couldn't just push Yuuri to fall in love with their Master in order to break a spell.

Love was the greatest, most selfless thing Masumi knew . . . and asking such a thing of Yuuri? Forcing that responsibility on him? Fooling him, or flattering him into it? Masumi couldn't imagine any act more selfish than that.

If this was going to happen, it was going to happen right; and if it was going to happen right, it was going to take time.

If Viktor and Yuuri were going to fall in love, they were going to fall in love . . . and if they were not, they were not. That’s all there was to it.

So, Masumi would wait; and he would help; and he would hope.

In the end, that’s all he could do. He knew very well that love had a mind of its own; his own relationship was proof enough of that.

He swept past one of the many small windows, not bothering to open the casement; they had been frozen shut for years now, their glass panes all blurry and opaque with frost.

Something wet dampened his feathers as he fluttered by.

Masumi stopped, examining the ledge beneath him; he had painted a small trail of water behind him. 

Odd.

He turned, ever so slowly, and swept back towards the window.

The casement was white, heavily plastered in to the stone; the paint peeling and the wood warped over the years by the thick ice and snow.

And there, on the ledge just below, was a shallow pool of water.

Masumi looked from the pool to the window, before fumbling, armless, at the latch on the casement.

Surely it couldn't be . . .

The latch finally succumbed with a stiff “click”, tumbling from the rough wood; splintering off as it went.

The wood was . . . wet? Soaked through . . . like a flood . . .

Or a spring melt.

Masumi reached up a few tentative feathers and brushed gingerly at the frost on the window; it came away with ease, like dewy condensation . . . not the heavy, immobile sleet he had come to know.

Feathers trembling, Masumi pushed the window out at the bottom.

It gave away easily; a shower of chilly water dousing him as he pushed the small window open and propped it up on rusty hinges

Outside, the castle grounds were still white and slick; icy and cold . . .

. . . and wet.

Melting . . . it was . . . melting.

Not all of it; just some. Small and insignificant and almost imperceptible . . . but it was melting all the same.

An icicle shrank as it dripped frigid dew into a tiny puddle; a few blades of grass by the window shot up through the drifts, unmistakably green and alive.

A warm breeze blew in, rippling Masumi’s feathers and making him shiver.

Warm . . . it was . . . warm . . .

Masumi leapt from the ledge; scruffy and wet and disheveled, he raced back towards his bedchamber.

Chris was not going to believe this!

 *****

Lazy morning sunlight lapped at the tiled floor as Yuuri silently slipped down the gilded corridor outside his bedchamber. It was early in the morning, before breakfast, and mercifully, no one else was up yet.

He had been living in the enchanted castle for nearly a week now, and he was starting to get a sense of where everything was, though he still had not seen the monolithic manor it in its entirety; but Christophe had assured him that while there were many more rooms, most were in disuse and would be of little interest.

So instead of touring further, Yuuri had spent most of his time exploring and enjoying the places he had already seen; whiling away his hours in the gardens or the library or the music room, always accompanied by Makkachin and some clique of castle staff. Sometimes he was invited to join Viktor for a morning walk or an afternoon tea or a fireside chat; and every night, without fail, the two would meet for a succulent dinner in the magnificent dining room. Yuuri was rarely left unattended and life was an endless procession of laughter and conversation.

It was wonderful; to be here, to be wanted, to be the center of attention . . . but, in its own way it was also . . . exhausting.

Yuuri was not used to having all eyes on him; in fact, that was one of the very things he was trying to get away from. It was different of course; being surrounded by friends, rather than rumors, and Yuuri did enjoy the company very much, but life in the castle did come with its own unique set of quirks.

Nothing so off-putting that it made Yuuri re-consider his decision to stay, of course; just a few curious little oddities which often left him second guessing himself.    

For instance, it seemed like there was always something going on . . . every little activity became an event; a quiet afternoon in the library turned into a literary inquisition, a reflective stroll through the courtyard became a miles-long parade. Dressing every morning was a pageant, dinner every night was a banquet . . . every minute of every day was a show, a celebration . . . and it was all just a little bit draining.

Between Viktor and the Staff, Yuuri almost never had any time to himself . . . he couldn't even be alone is his own room, with Georgi there; not that the wardrobe could help it, of course. It was just a bit unsettling how closely supervised he was . . . in a way, it almost seemed purposeful. The anxious part of his mind fretted that perhaps his new friends did not trust him to be left to his own devices . . . and so, he had to constantly remind himself that he was welcome here, that the staff were just excited to have a new face about the castle, that they hadn't hosted company in a great long while and they wanted to be extra certain his needs were being met. They were just being friendly . . . if maybe, a bit . . . overzealous?

Still, Yuuri was not used to being fawned over . . . and though he did revel in the company of his new friends, he had noticed that conversations could be . . . unusual.

Long bouts of silence were not uncommon, and somehow every discussion seemed to come back to Viktor and his many admirable qualities; not that Yuuri minded, or disagreed . . . it just seemed an odd topic to bring up with such force and frequency. Yuuri also found that though he was asked a great many questions, his own inquiries went largely unacknowledged, or he received such vague, cryptic answers that he might as well have been ignored. Certain topics would be dropped or changed abruptly, and new, completely unrelated subjects would be brought up out of the blue without any warning at all. Not to mention that flourishing conversations would die the instant he entered the room.

 Stranger still . . . for all that Yuuri had thought that he and Viktor had been getting along, it seemed like the staff were constantly forcing Viktor to be nicer to him; even going so far as to make excuses for them to be alone together.

“Sorry Yuuri, I can't take you to the Library at the moment . . . perhaps the Master can show you where it is!”

“Hey, Yuuri, you know who would LOVE to have tea alone with you in the sitting room right now? . . . The Master!”

“So, Yuuri . . . what’s your favourite colour again? Wouldn’t it be an amazing co-incidence if the Master just happened to be wearing that colour today? I mean . . . what are the chances? It would be like . . . fate! You should go find out what he’s wearing! No reason . . .”

Yuuri had no qualms about spending time with Viktor; quite the opposite, in fact. But Yuuri wanted to be a gracious guest, and he didn't want Viktor to feel obligated to spend time with him. Viktor was the Master of a castle after all . . . and enchanted or not, Yuuri assumed that he must be quite busy managing it. He didn't want to be a burden.

Yuuri knew he was probably reading too much into the situation . . . over thinking things and jumping to conclusions. He did that a lot.

But at the same time . . . Viktor was . . . Viktor had always been so kind to him. Yuuri didn't want to inconvenience him with his trivial chatter . . .   

About a week had passed, but Yuuri was still settling in and getting his bearings; he supposed there really wasn't anything to worry about . . . he would get used to these little quirks in time. He could handle the grand gestures and the constant company. Besides, Yuuri’s arrival would soon be old news . . . surely once all the excitement died down, he would have a bit more time to himself, right?

But . . . there were other things too . . . bigger things . . . stranger things; the weird letter, the unsettling toast, and of course . . . the Incident in the Pantry.

A couple days ago, Yuuri had run into Christophe in one of the corridors after dinner . . .

“Oh, Yuuri! Thank goodness you’re here! Could you do me a quick favour, mon chou? Up in the back of this pantry are some fresh sheets . . . You’re so tall, be a dear and grab those for me? Ah, Merci!”

Of course, after Yuuri had stepped into the pantry, the door had swung closed and locked behind him. Five minutes after that, Viktor had been tricked into the same pantry in a very similar fashion.

Fourteen awkward minutes later they were both rescued by a very frazzled Masumi; and while Yuuri had managed to laugh the whole thing off as a silly prank, he got the distinct impression that, at the end of it all, Chris was very lucky he still had his job . . . and his beau.

Yuuri hadn't minded the joke, honestly; sure, it had been a bit embarrassing making small talk, trapped in the pantry with Viktor . . . especially when he had to explain how he had gotten in there in the first place . . .

But what had been even more unsettling was Viktor’s reaction to the jest; the same as when Yuuri had offered to repay him for saving Phichit, the same as when he had offered to call him ‘Master’; that incredulous, choked expression, the one which lay somewhere between disgust and mortification, smothered by polite words and a mask of cordiality.

Had it really been so terrible for Viktor, to be locked in there with him? To be that close to him for so long?

Yuuri supposed it must have been, because after that, Viktor had become cold again; more formal, like when Yuuri had first met him.

Now, Yuuri could handle a little prank here and there; he had come to the conclusion that it was just a bit of harmless fun, sparked by the novelty of having someone new around. What he couldn't make peace with, however, was that fact that every little thing he did seemed to rattle his host.

Which was a shame, really; Yuuri was actually becoming quite fond of Viktor . . . the small, genuine parts of Viktor which he had been allowed to see, that is.

Viktor was . . . admirable, obviously; regal and commanding, the Master of a Castle . . . but he was also interesting and thoughtful and witty, in a sarcastic sort of way . . . graceful, gentle, almost ethereal . . . and yet surprisingly easy to talk to . . .

It was enough to pique Yuuri’s interest; his imagination running wild. He couldn't help but wonder what other surprises Viktor might be concealing behind that cordial mask.

Yuuri hadn't stopped thinking about Viktor; not since their first stroll through the gardens together. Something about him was just so . . . fascinating. Perhaps it was merely the mystery of the spell which had captured Yuuri’s attention . . . or maybe it was the unexpected rush of warmth behind Viktor’s glacial facade. Viktor was an enigma, that much was certain; stern, yet welcoming . . . taciturn, yet charming . . . cold, yet kind. He was as elusive as he was enthralling, and always left Yuuri wanting more.

Though he would never admit it, Yuuri often caught himself fantasizing about what type of person Viktor might have been before the spell . . . had he been an intellectual, like Phichit? Or a gentleman; a blue-blood lush, like Minako? Had he once been a joker; full of laughter and life? Or had he always been so courtly and severe?

Yuuri often wondered if it was the devastation of the spell which had made Viktor so reclusive . . . or was stoicism just a part of his nature?

He supposed he would never know. Much to Yuuri’s dismay, he also hadn't gotten any closer to figuring out how to help Viktor break the spell . . . and that didn't seem likely to change any time soon.

Despite his best efforts to focus his attention elsewhere, Yuuri’s inquisitive mind never strayed far from thoughts of his mysterious host; and now that his ardent curiosity had raced headlong into the labyrinth of Viktor, there would be no relief until he reached the center.

But no matter how much the staff sang Viktor’s praises, they never answered Yuuri’s questions; and no matter how much time they spent together, Viktor’s reticent and refined demeanor remained, as always, a heavy barrier between them.

Yuuri was about halfway down the corridor now; the entrance to his own chamber still just barely in sight.

Between the all the unpredictable interactions and his vexing ruminations, life in the castle was just a bit overwhelming at times; and even though Yuuri adored Viktor and the staff and his wonderful new home, he desperately needed a break from the constant supervision, the baffling conversations, the contrived tête-à-têtes, the embarrassing pranks, the capricious moods of his taciturn host, and his own anxious, nagging thoughts.

And so, he had devised a plan to bring himself a little peace and quiet.   

He silently slid up to one of the various sets of identical double-doors, and gently pressed down on a golden handle. He leaned his weight, ever so slightly, onto the towering white timber and cautiously slipped into the wide room beyond.

He lifted his arms above his head, yawning languidly as he wandered into the abandoned sitting room.

It was one of the suites which had fallen into disuse; an old drawing room by the looks of it. It had a large window, wooden floor, and scant furniture; just a few worn couches and a behemoth felt-topped desk, all covered in white cloth, which Yuuri had previously pushed to one side of the room.

The wide picture window ran the length of the wall opposite the door, letting in the waxing sunrise. Yuuri contemplated drawing the curtains, but decided against it; no one would see him this high up, and besides . . . the sunlight felt warm and lovely on his skin. He wore only a light shirt and breeches; barefoot, with no hose or waistcoat. His glasses he carefully folded, and placed on top of the covered desk.

After a quick turn about the room, Yuuri settled in and began his regular stretches; a small, relaxed smile on his face.

He had never had a proper dance studio before.

The clearing in the woods had served him well enough over the years, but before he was able to use it, he would always have to make certain that the ground was even and clear; no gopher holes or debris or other hazards to impede his movements. Not to mention that it was completely unsalvageable in the winter. When he practiced with Minako they had to make do with her small wooden cellar, which again, was workable, but not entirely ideal.

But this . . . this was perfect. The smooth wooden floor was clean, open and inviting, practically begging him to bring it to life; all the space he needed and more.

Excitement bubbled in Yuuri’s chest; his tight muscles ached in protest as he stretched them out after their week-long hiatus. It was absolute bliss.

Soon, Yuuri would lose himself to the movement; his body would whirl and his mind would still, and for a few glorious hours he could focus solely on his art; not ruminate about unhelpful conversations or unbreakable spells or unreadable Viktor.

No, there would be only the pounding of his heart and the pumping of his blood; the billowing of his sleeves and the whipping of his hair. He would feel nothing; no disquiet, no disappointment, no doubt . . . just the pleasurable press of his feet on the floor and the delicate drag of the air across his cheeks.

There would be no music of course; but Yuuri didn't need it. He could hear it in his head, or count the beats aloud, or hum a melody of his own choosing, or just wrap himself up in the silence.  

After some time, Yuuri completed his stretches; his body now warm and limber, he was ready to dance.

And dance he would; whenever he wanted, however he wanted, as much as he wanted, as long as he wanted . . . unencumbered, uninhibited and uninterrupted.

And this time, there would be no secret audience; no unwanted suitors spying on him through the trees, no red-breasted hunters setting him in their sights.

Yuuri stood tall, settled into first position and centered himself with a deep breath, before letting inspiration take the lead and whisk him away.  

*****

Ex-Prince Viktor Nikiforov was not happy.

No, that was an understatement.

Ex-Prince Viktor Nikiforov was miserable.

Before he had been turned into a Beast, he never would have said such a thing, because he never would have felt such a thing, because he had made a point of not letting his emotions interfere with his duties.

But now that he had been turned into a Beast, it seemed he did nothing but feel things, which was a very useless skill indeed, because now that he did feel things, it seemed that all he ever felt was misery, which, of all the emotions he could name, was not only the least pleasant, but the least productive as well.  

Wasn't love supposed to be a happy thing? Wasn't that what all the ballads promised? Wasn't that the point of marriage?

If love was supposed to be a happy thing, then why was wooing Katsuki Yuuri making him so damn miserable?

Viktor scaled the grand staircase gingerly; trying to appear casual in his movements.

As he stepped, he noted the silence; it seemed Yuuri had been correct. Viktor did not, in fact, make any noise at all as he moved through the castle.   

Thinking of Yuuri made him smile.

And then he was immediately miserable all over again.

Viktor sighed, turning and slowly descending the staircase. He did not make it to the ground floor, but slumped down on the landing; melting into a crestfallen silver puddle.

It was hopeless; utterly, utterly hopeless.

There was no use denying it, Viktor was falling for the sweet, beautiful Katsuki Yuuri . . . and somehow, for some reason, Yuuri was right here, right now, living in his castle, with no intention of leaving, literally in the palm of his hand, just waiting for Viktor to sweep him off his feet so they could break the spell and live happily ever after . . .

. . . and somehow Viktor just kept fucking it up.

The last few days had been a disaster.

Viktor, relying on the advice of his staff, had attempted, several times, to gain Yuuri’s favour.

It had not gone well.

There was an attempt at a love note, which had been revised by Mila and Sara to the point of illegibility. The phrase, “You fill my days with sunlight” had ended up looking like, “You killed my daughter’s delight” . . . and that was one of the better lines.

Luckily, Masumi had claimed authorship of the note and convinced Yuuri that it was part of a poem he was working on; a terrible, terrible, poem.

Then, there was the ‘Plisetsky Approach’; Yuri’s rather blunt take on courtship.

At dinner one night, Viktor had been, for once, quite successfully flirting with Yuuri . . . except for the fact that Yuuri had not seemed to realize that he was being flirted with. So, in a bout of impatience, the angry little teacup had blurted out, “Hey, Katsudon! Viktor’s in love with you, get it? Just get married already!”

Mortified, Viktor had frozen, with no idea what to say.

Luckily, Masumi had quickly interjected with a laugh and a lie; claiming that the phrase was a loose, colloquial translation of an old northern idiom; a toast in fact! It didn't really mean that Viktor was “in love” or that he literally “wanted to marry Yuuri” . . .  it just meant . . . that . . . Yuuri was a cherished addition to the household . . . like new family gained through wedlock . . . yea . . . that’s it . . .

So, in order to keep up the charade, they had continued to toast to one another with the phrase, “Viktor’s in love with you – Just get married already!” for the rest of the night . . . and at every subsequent meal thereafter.

Then, there was the Incident in the Pantry. Chris had meant well, sure . . . and maybe if Viktor had not been cursed with claws and fangs and dog-breath, the situation might have played out differently. However, since he was a Beast, and not a human, with human lips and human hands and human . . . things . . . Viktor spent those fourteen minutes desperately contorting himself away from the poor boy in an attempt to respectfully keep his furry paws to himself.

Meanwhile, Yuuri had been trying to lift the mood with polite conversation, but instead, ended up accidentally spouting off a series of unintentional innuendos.

“Ah . . . wow . . . it’s such a tight squeeze . . .”

“Umm . . . maybe if we try a different position? I can get on my knees . . .”

“Well, this is one heck of a mess . . . I sure hope nobody else comes in here . . .”

At that point, it was a miracle Viktor could even remember his own name.

Luckily, Masumi had found them in good time, and Viktor had been able to hold himself together; he was a gentleman, after all.

Sure, Yuuri stirred up feelings in Viktor . . . all kinds of feelings . . . but he was not about to spring certain impulses on Yuuri out of the blue, and certainly not before he had made his romantic intentions clear, especially if those feelings were not reciprocated . . . and definitely not while he still had fuzzy ears and a bushy tail.

And so, in the wake of that particular incident, Viktor made certain to keep his distance, going to great lengths to remain especially civil, well-mannered and gracious towards Yuuri; perhaps even painfully so . . . but it seemed to him the only appropriate measure to take.  

Viktor sighed, his muzzle cupped in both enormous paws, elbows on his knees.

Why couldn't he ever do anything right?

Everybody else seemed to know what to do . . . everybody else at least had an idea of what to do, favorable or not . . . so what was wrong with him?

Although, now that he thought about it . . . it was Masumi who had actually been the most helpful during this whole ordeal; prim, proper, soft-spoken Masumi.

That was . . . surprising . . . to say the least.

Not that Viktor had ever assumed Masumi incapable of ‘turning on the charm’, as it were . . . this was the man who had caught Christophe Giacometti’s eye, after all. It’s just that when it came to affairs of the heart, Masumi wasn't exactly the first person who came to mind.

Viktor recalled how rocky and reticent the beginnings of Masumi’s relationship with Christophe had been; honestly, Viktor had nearly had a mutiny on his hands . . . a full-blown civil war raging within his very own kitchen.  

But . . . in the end . . . they somehow had fallen in love; and they were still together now, after all they had been through.  

Perhaps he had been too quick to dismiss the feather duster’s council.  

When Yuuri had first come to stay, the only advice Masumi had given Viktor was to ‘just be himself’ and ‘let nature run its course’ . . .

At the time, it had seemed too simple, too plain, too . . . boring; but Masumi hadn't steered him wrong yet . . . perhaps it was advice worth considering?

“Talk to Yuuri . . . spend some time together . . . get to know him!” Masumi had said, “Find out what you two have in common . . .”  

Viktor’s chest tightened reflexively; he couldn't just talk to Yuuri . . . that sweet, wonderful boy deserved so much better than Viktor’s clumsy words and useless feelings. Yuuri deserved the world . . . and Viktor was just a poor, lonely Beast.

Viktor had once been the greatest Prince his kingdom had ever seen. Under his rule, the lands had flourished, relations had been peaceful and the economy had thrived. This very castle had once been the envy of the land; an architectural marvel, the perfect blend of artistry and innovation. He had been surrounded by wealth and beauty and luxury.

Were he still a Prince, Viktor would have enough gold and influence to get Yuuri anything his heart desired . . . anything.

Yuuri would have only but to name it, and it would be his.

Viktor’s heart sank; how could the words of a Beast ever compare to the promises of a Prince?

How could someone like him ever please someone like Yuuri? How were Viktor’s poor company and pretty words meant to win the beautiful boy’s affections? How did those compare to the gifts and riches and wonders that other, much worthier suitors could offer him, in the bright, brilliant world beyond the forgotten castle? How was Viktor supposed to make Yuuri happy in a place like this . . . with a face like his?

How dare he hope that Yuuri might one day offer him  his heart . . . when Viktor had nothing to give in return?

And there it was again; misery in its purest form.

Viktor let out an involuntary growl and rubbed at his temples; if Masumi had just let him fill Yuuri’s chamber with ten thousand roses like he had wanted to in the first place, he wouldn't even be in this situation!  

Eventually, he lifted his big, beastly head and sighed. One thing was certain; he hadn't accomplished anything by sitting here on the grand staircase pouting about it.

It seemed he had no choice; whether he had faith Masumi’s advice or not, the fact remained that words were all he had.

Time to go put them to use.

Viktor rose, steeling his resolve, and swept silently to Yuuri’s chamber. It was late in the morning; Yuuri would definitely be up by now . . . it wouldn't be too early to come calling, surely . . .

But Yuuri wasn't there. Viktor’s knocking was answered by a cry from Georgi, who informed him that Yuuri had already slipped out just after dawn.

Odd.

Viktor thanked the wardrobe and turned back into the corridor.

As he swept languidly down the hall, he noticed a door slightly ajar; one which led into an unused drawing room.

Viktor approached slowly. A flash of movement passed in front of the open gap; soft scuffling and heavy breathing emanated from inside. He cautiously pushed the great door open just a little bit wider to see . . .

And oh, the sight within was breathtaking, indeed.

It was Yuuri. He was . . . dancing . . .

That’s right. Yuuri was a dancer. Viktor knew that.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew that; somewhere in the back of his mind . . . which seemed completely unable to function at the moment.

Viktor’s heart pounded, his breath hitched; Yuuri was absolutely stunning. His steps precise, his lines long and crisp and elegant, his transitions graceful; every movement so passionate, so purposeful . . . Viktor swore he could hear the music to which Yuuri danced, could read the story Yuuri wrote with his body.

It was the most beautiful routine that Viktor had ever seen; and he’d been to the City Ballet. He’d seen the most highly-praised professionals in the world perform with his very own eyes . . . but he had never seen anyone dance quite like this before.

Right, watching . . . Yuuri didn't know he was watching.

He was intruding.

He was being rude; horribly rude! What was he thinking? He didn't have Yuuri’s permission to be here! He should leave; immediately.

Yes. He would leave right this instant. That would be the prudent thing to do.

He . . . he would leave . . . right . . . now . . .

*****

Yuuri’s heart beat dully against his ribs. He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears; euphoria sang through his veins as he danced his way across the floor.

A turn, a jump, a step sequence, a spin, a cross; he let himself wander; he let himself experiment and play and practice. He let his impulses dictate the pace; starting one routine and dropping it for another mid-sequence, dancing his favourite choreography in reverse, blending styles together with reckless abandon, improvising entirely new pieces in the heat of the moment, following his own whims in a way he never had before.

There was no rush, no routine to learn, no Minako to impress; just a wide wooden floor as endless as his own imagination.  

The session had started out with more structure; with Yuuri trying to remember the sequence in which Minako would have him review his repertoire . . . but after a while it was becoming harder and harder to recollect, and eventually, the practice had devolved into its current state of chaos.

It wasn't perfect, not even close . . . but that wasn't the point; the point was to do something he loved, to regain some semblance of a routine, to carve out some normalcy in the chaos, to clear his head, to get some peace and quiet . . .

He had no idea how long he’d been at it now, which was entirely the point . . . but he was getting thirsty and sweating profusely and he was starting to ache and he didn't want to push himself too hard and chance an injury . . . especially considering that he was in bare feet; and although dancing ballet in bare feet was technically possible, and he’d stayed on demi pointe the entire time, lacking the proper shoes made the turns and slides and landings more difficult, and he didn't want to risk twisting or popping something that shouldn’t be twisted or popped.

Yuuri was losing steam; he could feel himself slowing down, cooling off . . .

He should end practice here . . . call it a day . . .

Well . . . maybe just one more pirouette a la seconde . . . then he would call it a day.

Yuuri stilled for only a moment, before launching into his final spin; heart plodding thickly in his chest, spacey grin looping over his face.

As he made his first pass, something caught his eye . . . by the door?

On his second pass he thought he saw a figure . . .

On his third pass, he was certain there was someone else in the room.

On his fourth pass he forgot to plié on his base leg.

There was no fifth pass.

Instead, there was a stumbling sequence of stomps, accompanied by a scandalized gasp and a shocked, “Ah! Vi – Viktor! What . . . what are you – ! I . . . didn't see you come in!” as Yuuri gracelessly fumbled out of the spin.

Yuuri caught his balance, but the world fell away; a sudden drop in the pit of his stomach, like suddenly sliding on ice, or missing a stair in the dark.

The scene hung horribly suspended in time.

Viktor’s face was pained; guilty and contrite.

“Yuuri! I’m so sorry! I didn't mean to - ! Forgive me, I shouldn’t have intruded . . . I’ll . . . I’ll leave you be at once!”

A jolt of alarm surged through Yuuri; electrifying his insides in a moment of panic.

“No, wait!” he barked, his words shattering the tableaux.

He didn’t know what had made him do it; Viktor’s apology? The anguish so clear in his voice? Or was Yuuri once again letting his curiosity get the better of him?

He was still on edge; exposed, and a bit embarrassed . . . but now the shock was ebbing and instinct urged him not to let the moment slip away.

He was trying to better understand his host’s fickle disposition after all . . . and since Viktor, the epitome of civility, did not seem to be the type to lurk in doorways unannounced, Yuuri couldn’t help but wonder what had gotten into him.

“I . . . sorry . . . you just startled me, is all,” Yuuri soothed, trying not to pant too crudely. His head swam with the sudden stop, his pulse nagging at his temples as sweat rolled down his brow. He quickly wiped a soft sleeve over his clammy face, praying he only vaguely resembled a drowned rat.

He tried to keep friendly eye contact as he stumbled over to the desk to collect his glasses; instead managing only an awkward side-step and a couple shifty glances.

“Please, the apology is mine,” Viktor replied contritely, “I most sincerely beg your pardon for interrupting,”

Swiftly donning his glasses, Yuuri quickly looked back up to Viktor, only to discover deep shame adorning his beastly features; Yuuri’s heart sank.

No . . . he was losing him . . . he could see Viktor drifting away, cast out to sea, sentenced to exile on an island of remorse.  

That wouldn’t do at all!

Viktor was already so withdrawn, so far from Yuuri’s reach; this was the exact opposite of what he wanted . . .

He couldn't let Viktor punish himself. Yes, he had idled . . . waited and watched without announcing his presence . . . but he hadn’t known Yuuri was in here; hadn't known that he was dancing. Surely Viktor had no unscrupulous motives . . . surely . . . it was just an innocent mishap. At the very least, he could let Viktor explain . . .

“Ah . . . d-don’t worry about it, Viktor” Yuuri fumbled, attempting a casual smile, “It’s fine, really! No harm done . . .” but his gentle instance only seemed to push Viktor further away.

His host shrank back a bit from the door, as if to quit the room. “You are . . . too kind,” Viktor murmured, with a bow of his head.

And as Viktor receded, Yuuri quickly stepped forward.

“Is there . . . something you needed?” he prompted, almost desperately, “Were you . . . looking for me? I haven’t missed some commitment, have I?”

Yuuri knew there was no commitment he had missed; he had chosen this morning to sneak off specifically for that reason. His heart hammered in anticipation of Viktor’s answer.

His host looked back up now, not directly at Yuuri, but past him, out the window; unable to meet his eyes. His demeanor was cordial and reserved as ever, “No, not at all,” he replied.

For one gut-wrenching moment, Yuuri thought that might be it.

But then Viktor spoke again, his eyes lowering to the claws of his own mammoth feet, “I . . . thought I might invite you to join me for tea this afternoon. Assuming you had no prior engagements, of course,” he admitted quietly, “I . . . was coming to call on you when I saw this door ajar . . . I only meant to investigate the cause . . .”

The rest he could not articulate, the unsaid words hanging thickly between them; a chance discovery . . . a view without permission, a show without a ticket. The tension was palpable; another inescapable curse that Yuuri felt helpless to dispel.

He habitually worried his bottom lip between his teeth; automatically reaching out a comforting hand, before self-consciously clasping it back to the other in front of his chest.

So that was it. It was just an accident. Yuuri’s ribs ached sympathetically; he should say something . . . anything . . . but what? Viktor wouldn’t accept absolution; Viktor wouldn’t even look at him . . . 

Then, Viktor spoke once again, still soft and sore and sweet, “For what little it is worth . . . it was not my intention to intrude upon your privacy . . . I will not become distracted and forget myself so carelessly again . . . you have my word,” 

“Distracted?” The question plunged irreverently from Yuuri’s lips before he could stop it.

He hadn't meant to be so blunt, but Viktor’s choice of wording had caught him off guard. The “intruding” part, Yuuri could understand . . . but “distracted”? “Forget himself so carelessly”? What was that supposed to mean?

“I . . .” The word dragged from Viktor’s throat, long and uncertain. His mystic blue eyes widened almost imperceptibly; if Yuuri hadn't known any better, he might almost think Viktor was nervous about something.

But this was Viktor. Viktor didn’t get nervous; impossible.   

Yuuri looked back at his host intently; big brown eyes eager and shining. His head cocked quizzically to the side, eyebrows knit together; not an accusatory expression, just targeted and curious.

Viktor at last reached the end of his cadence, no closer to the end of his thought. He closed his eyes reflexively, and let out a little huff of defeat.

“Forgive me, Yuuri . . .” Viktor sighed; he sounded wrung out, stretched and strained and all tied up in knots, “The instant I realized that you were using the room for dance practice I should have gone . . . turned around and left you be . . .

Something about the way Viktor spoke was making Yuuri’s heart race again.

“. . . but . . .” Viktor paused, bracing himself for the confession to follow, “I was distracted . . . by how beautifully you were dancing,”

Oh.

OH.

Now it was Yuuri’s turn to sport wide, nervous eyes.

Viktor pressed on honorably, never once wavering; speaking softly, but dedicated to completing the task at hand, “Yuuri . . . I must confess . . . I’ve never seen anything more extraordinary in my life. You clearly have a tremendous amount of talent . . . and such a singular technique! The way you move . . . it’s . . . it’s as if the music is already inside you and you’re using your body to release it. I was . . . captivated . . . and I regretfully forgot my manners,”

“V-Viktor . . .”

Yuuri felt all the air rush from his lungs, stolen from him as he spoke Viktor’s name.

Whatever he might have been expecting to hear, it certainly wasn't that.

Would Viktor ever cease to surprise him?

At the sound of Yuuri’s voice, hesitant and humble and delighted all in one breath, Viktor at last looked up.

Yuuri’s eyes met Viktor’s, bright and unflinching.

“Viktor . . . Do you like dance?” He asked evenly.

A small, relieved smile ghosted across Viktor’s wolfish muzzle.

“. . . I adore dance . . .”

And just like that, the curse was lifted; the floodgates opened, the corks unstopped, the masterpiece unveiled.

“You . . . you do?” Yuuri buzzed, all heady rapture and dizzy excitement.

This was . . . amazing! Incredible! Brilliant beyond belief!

Where to even begin?

“What . . . what’s your favourite style? Gavotte? Minuet? Allemande? Have you ever heard of the Ländler? It’s like a waltz, but with more hopping! I’m absolutely dreadful at it. Theatrical or ballroom?  Partner or solo? What’s your favourite ballet? Have you ever seen an actual, full ballet? To be honest, I haven’t really, just a few scenes from ‘La Grande Beauté Du Sud’ that my tutor re-enacted for me once . . .”  

His racing words ground slowly to a halt, as he noticed Viktor’s face. It had that same vast, unnameable expression he had worn when the day they had met, first at the feast, and then again later in his parlor; that heavy, impossible-to-place reverence radiating from deep within in his arctic eyes.

Yuuri flushed beneath the weight of it, “ . . . ah . . . s-sorry,” he murmured sheepishly, “I . . . got a bit carried away,”

“No, not at all!” Viktor encouraged brightly, “Please, go on!” the words ached with sincerity. There was no hidden meaning; nothing polite or calculated or conversational about them; a bough heavy with ripened fruit and the promise of more.

Now Yuuri was blushing for a whole different reason.

“Actually . . .” he began, trepidation fluttering in his chest, “I’d . . . I’d like to hear more of your thoughts . . . If you please . . . ”

Viktor hesitated a moment, and Yuuri quickly expanded to assuage his reluctance, “I . . . I’ve never met anyone else who’s enjoyed dance before . . . actually, genuinely been fond of it, I mean. Besides my tutor, no one else in The Village had much appreciation for . . . these sorts of things . . .”

Viktor raised a bushy eyebrow, “Phichit?”

“Of course, Phichit was always supportive,” Yuuri agreed quickly, “and we could always talk about anything. It’s just . . . at times, our conversations could get a little . . . one sided? I mean, I couldn’t tell a chisel from a file . . . he couldn’t tell first position from third . . .” he gazed up at Viktor, keen and restless, hoping he was not being too forward; too demanding. Praying that he had at last found the thread which would unravel the tangled mystery of Viktor, and would not accidentally push him away in the process, “. . . I . . . um . . . I always hoped that someday I might meet others who loved dance as much as I did . . .”

Viktor softened, ever-so-slightly, “Well, I cannot deny that I have a weakness for the arts . . . dance in particular, although I’m certain your experience far outpaces my own . . .”

Yuuri blushed and shook his head with a little shrug; a silent invitation for Viktor to continue.

“I was introduced to the arts early on, as a part of my regular studies . . . politics, etiquette, science, arithmetic, history, geography . . . but nothing held my attention quite like dance. I found myself drawn to the raw expression of movement; so graceful, so beautiful . . . and yet . . . so powerful. The way in which performative storytelling is able to elicit such visceral reactions from an audience is . . . exhilarating. And of course, the blend of athleticism and artistry is nothing short of inspiring,” Viktor’s ruminations rumbled forth like a raging river, and Yuuri soaked up every word.

“. . . unfortunately . . .” Viktor continued, the tempest now dwindling to a well spring, “I had little time to pursue my interests in a deeper fashion, so I remained a distant admirer of the form . . . though I confess . . . I would seize upon any opportunities I was given to indulge”.

“And . . . do you?” Yuuri asked eagerly, taking a small step towards Viktor.

“Do I . . . what?” Viktor asked, slightly abashed, “. . . indulge?”

“Do you dance?” Yuuri clarified, with a small, bashful chuckle.  

“Ah . . . well . . .” Viktor sighed apologetically, “I have . . . previously . . . but not so much anymore. The . . . ah . . . claws . . . tend to dissuade me”

He reticently lifted one massive foot, daintily wiggling his padded toes with their obsidian talons to punctuate his point.

Yuuri narrowed his eyes.

Strange . . . Viktor was innately graceful . . . that much had been proven during their first walk through the gardens. How was it that he could move so swiftly upon the ice, leave no trace in the snow, and make nary a sound within the castle, and yet claim himself incapable of the coordination required for dance? Especially since it was something he so obviously adored?

“They . . . they do? Really?” Another direct attack from Yuuri; this time motivated by disbelief rather than candor.  

“. . . When it’s not the horns throwing off my balance, yes,” Viktor teased.

He was using that sarcastic, self-deprecating wit again . . . Viktor was trying to distract him. Yuuri knew this game. It wouldn't work this time.  

“. . . but . . . you do enjoy dancing?” Yuuri pressed; his words gentle and insistent.

Viktor let out a small, apprehensive huff, “Ah . . . I . . . I was always more suited to the audience, I’m certain,”

“Hmm . . . I don't think that’s what I asked,” Yuuri chided sweetly, taking another step towards Viktor; they were close enough now that he could reach out and touch his silver arm if he wanted to.

“Yu-Yuuri . . .” Viktor wavered uncertainly, but he didn't back away.

“I just thought . . . you know . . . if you did enjoy dancing . . . that maybe we could dance together sometime?” Yuuri offered shyly, “I . . . I’ve never really had anyone to talk to . . . and I’ve never really had anyone to dance with . . . besides my tutor, of course . . . but she’s . . . not . . . here . . .”

Yuuri’s cheeks burned red. That had come out a little more . . . forward than he intended. But he’d said it. It was out there; nothing he could do about it now.

He nervously bit his lip, awaiting Viktor’s response.

Viktor’s eyes were wide and distant, “Yuuri . . . I am . . . so honoured you would offer, believe me . . . but . . .”

Oh, good, a “but”.

“. . . but I would not ask you to indulge such a poor partner. Please understand, Yuuri . . . I cannot in good conscience take your hand . . . not while I risk scraping it with these claws . . .”

Yuuri’s eyes snapped up to Viktor’s stricken expression.

Wait . . . that’s what this was about?

Viktor was afraid he would get hurt?

Is that why Viktor was always so formal? So distant? Is that why the staff kept singing his praises and pushing them together? Because they thought Yuuri could not see past the fur and fangs? Was Viktor worried about upsetting Yuuri? Injuring Yuuri? Is that why Viktor leaned so heavily on his manners and etiquette? So he could prove that he was not a dangerous, wild creature, but a tame and well-kept house pet?

Did he think that Yuuri was afraid of him?

“Viktor . . .” Yuuri sighed, all sympathy and soft edges.  

“But I assure you, it would be my unending pleasure to discuss art and dance whenever you would like . . . any time at all, Yuuri, just say the word –” Viktor interjected urgently.

“Viktor –”

“And, should you ever desire to hold a recital, I vow to put all of my resources at your disposal –”

“Viktor –”

“And of course, it would my distinct pleasure to attend . . . should I have the honor of being invited, that is –”

“Viktor!”

The rambling halted instantly, Viktor’s muzzle frozen open mid-sentence.

Yuuri scrutinized his host for a long moment, then let out a long, silent breath.

“You know . . .” Yuuri began evenly, “Phichit is really quite a talented inventor . . .”

It was Viktor’s turn to scrutinize Yuuri now; his silver countenance scrunched with confusion, “Yes . . . I am aware” he agreed haltingly.

“Mm-hmm,” Yuuri continued, mulling his own thoughts over before he spoke, “He made my glasses, you know. It’s true that I don’t have greatest eyesight . . . but these glasses . . . they’re really quite effective. When I wear them . . . well, honestly, I can see just fine,”

Viktor did not respond right away, puzzling over Yuuri’s words, “Yes . . . I believe it. Hearing Phichit detail his work was fascinating. He seems quite brilliant . . . and indeed, very skilled”

“Yes, he is,” Yuuri agreed brightly, throwing Viktor a very pointed look.

Viktor stared back at Yuuri, trying in vain to suss out his meaning a few moments more, before surrendering with a defeated sigh, “Forgive me Yuuri . . . I’m afraid I don't understand what you’re trying to say . . .”

At last, Yuuri took pity on the plaintive Beast before him, “What I mean is . . . I know what you look like, Viktor,”

The challenge hung in the air; it passed, unanswered. Viktor did not meet his gaze.

So, Yuuri took one more step, now nearly toe-to-toe with the object of his fascination;

He pressed on, his voice quiet, barely above a whisper; his words were gentle and round with sympathy, but still firm and resolute, “I can see your claws . . . I can see your horns and your fangs and your . . . fluffy tail . . . but it doesn't . . . those things don't bother me. They don't trouble me one bit. You may look frightening . . . but you can't fool me. I know you’re really just a big softie who likes art and literature and dance. So . . . you can stop trying to scare me away now . . . because it won’t work. I’m not afraid of you, Viktor.”

The silence which followed was thick and heavy, dense like a December snowfall and twice as blinding. But Yuuri did not flinch. He did not waver. He did not wish a single word away, or summon a fresh fleet to rouse distraction from the stillness. He let the wintry quiet blow through the air, allowing voiceless drifts of to pile up all around them in the secrecy of his makeshift studio; inviting the lull to settle into his skin and hibernate in his bones.

Eventually, Viktor spoke.

“Yuuri . . .”

“Yes, Viktor?”

“. . . Would you care to join me for tea this afternoon? Assuming you have no prior engagements, of course,”

Yuuri smiled, “Yes, I would like that very much,”

Viktor smiled back, “As would I. Whenever you have a moment, you may come call on me in my parlour”  

“Is . . . is now too soon?”

Viktor stopped short, stunned for a moment, before his smile spread, “Now?”

Yuuri shrugged, “I’ll . . . have to, ah, tidy up a bit. Get changed first and cool down. But . . . after?”

“Absolutely,” Viktor agreed, “In that case, I’ll have lunch waiting,”

“Thank you,” Yuuri replied automatically, still a bit unused to being waited on.

Viktor replied with a small nod, turning back out into the hall.

And as his host departed, Yuuri could have sworn he heard a few soft words left echoing in his wake.

“No . . . thank you”

*****

Four leagues away, the summer sun shone brightly over a quiet provincial town. The sky was a vast, open expanse of blue; cloudless and dreamy and warm, a sign of another perfect day.

However, a storm cloud was brewing in the distance.

It had been gathering for some time now; growing dark and heavy, lurking just out of sight for the past several days. But now, the storm cloud descended on The Village, blustering through the market and drawing the eye of every passerby as it raged on towards its final destination; a small cottage on the hill outside of town.

This particular storm cloud went by the name of Jean-Jacques Leroy; and he was done with waiting.

Behind him, as always, was Isabella Yang; choking on the dust he kicked up as he marched down the old dirt road to Yuuri’s house.

“J.J., if you would just listen –”

“No, you listen!” J.J. barked, “We tried it your way! I can’t just sit around and do nothing! I’m a man of action, Isabella!”

Isabella rolled her eyes and stomped after J.J.

“So what are you going to do? Just . . . order him to marry you? What happened to ‘taking it slow’ and ‘courting him properly’ and ‘showing him you could change’?”

She received no reply from her stubborn companion.

“What are you even going to say to him, J.J.?” Isabella demanded.

“I’ll figure it out when I get there!” J.J. hollered back.

Isabella groaned; J.J. was in one of his ‘moods’ again. There was nothing she could do now but wait it out. So, she continued to trudge up the hill behind Storm Cloud J.J.

“What makes you think he’s even here?” She pouted petulantly.

“That’s his house, isn’t it?” J.J. snapped back, “No one has seen him for what, a week now? Where else would he be?”

Isabella grit her teeth and did not reply; had it really been a whole week?

J.J. marched up to the cottage with Isabella in tow, and rapped sharply on the oak door. He straightened his jacket and smiled.

The door did not open; J.J. glared at it like it owed him money.

He knocked again, louder and more insistently this time.

Still, the door did not open.

“See?” Isabella gloated, “He’s not home. Let’s just go, J.J. –”

“Well then, where is he?” J.J. roared, “He hasn’t been to the market, the clearing, or the tutor’s place in days . . . if he’s not at home, then where is he?”

“I don’t care!” Isabella roared back

J.J. paused, sizing Isabella up like he was seeing her for the first time, “What . . . what did you just say to me?” 

Isabella’s lip trembled ever-so-slightly, “I said . . . I don’t care where he is,”

J.J. deflated instantly, “I . . . I can’t believe you! That’s my one true love you’re talking about!”

“J.J., he is not –”

“Oh not this again!”

“Yes, ‘this again’, because apparently you didn’t listen to me the first time I said it!”

“Because apparently you have no idea what you’re talking about! Just look how well your last idea panned out!”

Isabella shot J.J. a petulant glare; it wasn't her fault that Yuuri’s brother had called J.J.’s bluff.  

J.J., for his part, at least had the decency to look ashamed of himself. He rubbed at his brow contritely, before heaving a deep sigh, “I’m sorry. That was out of line,”

Isabella scowled.

“Come on . . . don’t be mad” J.J. wheedled.

Isabella kept scowling.

J.J. rolled his eyes, “Fine, you win!” he drawled in exasperation, “I just want to check on Yuuri. As soon as we find him, we can go, alright?”

Isabella crossed her arms, “He’s a grown man, J.J., not some . . . damsel in distress” she wailed.

“I know that!” J.J. snapped, “But . . . it’s weird, isn’t it, Isabella? Even you have to admit that it’s weird”

Isabella stewed silently for a moment; the last person to go missing from The Village had been Louis Dubois. Four years ago at the Annual Town Banquet, Louis had ‘overindulged’ his ale and wandered away from the festivities. Later, they had found him trapped at the bottom of a dry well just outside of town. And even he had only been gone for 3 days; Yuuri had been absent for at least a week now.

Isabella pouted, “What? You think Yuuri fell down a well or something?” she scoffed.

“It’s possible” J.J. insisted tersely, regaining his composure and standing up straight. Isabella replied with nothing more than a roll of her eyes.

J.J. took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, “Look, all I know is that the man I love hasn’t been seen in days. He’s missing, Isabella. I need to find him and make sure he’s safe”

Molten lava churned inside Isabella’s chest, threatening to surge up and brand J.J. with white-hot condemnation; “He’s not missing, J.J., he’s just avoiding you”!

Instead, she bit her tongue.

J.J. stared down at her from his place on the porch.

“So . . . are you with me, or not?”

His voice was heavy in the summer sunlight; soft but insistent, dragging her ever downward.

“You’re not a hero, J.J.,” Isabella whispered, “You’re a hunter,”

“For Yuuri, I can be both. Now, are you with me, or not?” His words were sharp; harsh and demanding.

How cruel he was, to threaten her with freedom.

“Fine. I’m with you,” She muttered.

She regretted it already.

J.J. however, perked right back up, “That’s what I like to hear!” he exclaimed triumphantly, “Together, we’ll find Yuuri in no time!”

Isabella just shook her head, “I still don't understand why you even bother,” she sighed. 

“Look, I know you don’t like Yuuri . . . but he’ll come around, you’ll see!” J.J. opined victoriously. He jumped off the porch and began to pace the length of the cottage, peering in through the windows as he did so.

“You sound very certain of that,” Isabella noted, her voice edged with challenge. 

“Of course I am!” J.J. crowed, “I mean, it’s not like there’s anyone else”

Isabella raised one graceful eyebrow, “Anyone . . . else?”

“Anyone else good enough for Yuuri,” J.J. explained, “I’m the most eligible bachelor in town, Isabella . . . and sooner or later, he’s going to realize that. Sooner or later, he’s going to realize that we belong together . . . that I’m the only one who would do anything for him . . . that I’m the best he’s ever going to get . . .”

“How romantic,” Isabella drawled sarcastically, “You should put that in your vows”

J.J. turned back to Isabella with a venomous glare; but before he could speak, a bright red plume lit up the sky, bursting into a shower of sparks with an earth-shattering boom.

Both hunters turned instinctively towards the commotion; something had just exploded above the old barn to the west.

Isabella looked back to J.J., her expression deadpan.

“Found him”.

J.J. just scowled in response and stomped across the field toward The Mad Tinker’s Workshop.

Once again, Isabella was left trailing behind.

*****

Viktor could hardly believe his luck.

He had no idea exactly how he had managed to turn his unseemly indiscretion into a tempting tea date, but by some miracle he had managed to weasel his way into Yuuri’s good graces; and now Yuuri was here, in his private parlour, discussing art and music and dance with him as if they were grand old friends, and not fledgling acquaintances, thrown together by chance and circumstance.

However, Viktor was finding it harder and harder to concern himself with propriety, or even remember that he was supposed to be feeling penitent in the first place; it seemed that Yuuri had a way of making him forget himself.

Honestly though, how was Viktor supposed to continue implementing the rigid rules of his etiquette when Yuuri was so wonderfully whimsical and open and honest and straightforward and free? How was Viktor supposed to uphold his end of the conversation when Yuuri’s voice was rapture incarnate? How was Viktor supposed to sit up straight when Yuuri’s smile made him so weak?

At present, Yuuri was sitting in Viktor’s own favourite magenta armchair; He had wanted Yuuri to have the best seat in the room, after all. Viktor sat directly across from him, on a plush bench with curling arms. It was upholstered in a deep plum coloured brocade, embroidered with a pattern of golden fleurs de lis. Viktor’s shaggy tail draped down inconspicuously over the open back.

He really wanted to make a good impression this time; to court Yuuri properly for once. So Viktor had taken the same opportunity as Yuuri to change his clothes and tidy up. It wasn't much of an improvement, but his mane had been combed at least, and he was wearing a shirt; the only one which had ever fit his beastly frame. It had been found up on the third floor in one of the old storage rooms; a vast, dusty tomb of a room, filled top to bottom with outdated clothing of nobility long since past.

So far, everything had gone according to plan; no staff had appeared to derail his progress, and for once, Viktor had managed not to make a fool of himself.

It was actually kind of . . . nice, just sitting here, talking like this. Maybe Masumi had been right; maybe simple really was better.

Yuuri was currently in the middle of regaling Viktor with the side-splitting tale of his first and only time dancing at the Annual Town Banquet.

“. . . now, keep in mind, I don't actually remember starting any of this . . . but apparently after watching me, they all decided to strip out of their shirts to dance . . . and by the end of the night, all the young men in town were running about in nothing but their breeches! The Captain was not impressed . . .”

Viktor laughed freely; the sound regrettably unfamiliar to his own ears, “Yuuri, how scandalous!” he teased, “Honestly, what sort of dancing do they teach you out in the country?”

Yuuri laughed as well; sweet and supple and bright. Viktor decided he could drown in that laughter and die a happy man; he briefly wondered if own his laugh was a pleasing one.

A bright blush coloured the tips of Yuuri’s cute little ears, “They don't, really . . .” he retorted playfully, “Besides, I already told you . . . none of that was my idea! I was just trying to help . . .”

Viktor raised a taunting brow, “You drank 16 flagons of ale, insisted on teaching everyone the Ländler, and then started to publicly disrobe . . .”

Yuuri flushed an even deeper red, “I . . . I was nervous! I lost count of my pints! And Theo Miller started it! He asked me to show him some steps so he could woo Paulette Baker! And I had only taken off my jacket! It was the summer equinox and it was hot outside . . . It’s not my fault everyone else got the wrong idea!” he objected, looking delighted all the same.

“Of course, of course,” Viktor conceded, “. . . Coincidentally, for this evening’s dinner, I will be serving exactly 16 flagons of ale . . .”

“Viktor!” Yuuri whined adorably, covering his face with his hands.

Viktor smirked triumphantly as his heart fluttered in his chest.

After a moment, Yuuri lowered his hands, semi-collected, “anyway . . . that was the only time I ever . . . did anything like that . . .”

“Which?” Viktor prodded, “Drank 16 flagons of ale, or led a cult of shirtless dancers?”

Yuuri laughed once more and rolled his eyes, “Attended a banquet,” he replied pointedly, “It’s kind of a shame actually . . . big celebrations like that . . . they’re the only time The Village had much to offer in the way of dance”. Yuuri’s voice had gone softer now, more wistful, and although the tone had shifted, Viktor didn't mind. He wanted to know everything about the sweet, beautiful dancer before him; to get lost forever in the story of Yuuri.

“That is a pity,” Viktor offered gently, “though it’s remarkable that your lack of resources has not hindered your passion . . . or your skill. I admit, I have to wonder Yuuri . . . if the opportunities to peruse dance back home were so slim . . . how did you become so enamoured of it in the first place?”  

Yuuri went soft at the edges then, as if a beautiful song had begun to play, “Well . . . I suppose I owe a lot of that to my tutor. My parents had hired her when I was really young to help me with my studies. I was . . . a bit of a daydreamer. Anyway, she had once been a courtesan, so she would tell me all kinds of stories about castles and princes and balls . . . and I loved them so much I begged her to teach me to dance . . .”

“You . . . just wanted to dance at a ball?” Viktor asked; his words round and full of awe; such a sweet wish from such a sweet boy.

Viktor himself had attended many balls, and even hosted his own with reputable frequently. Apart from being a perfect opportunity to socialize, develop better relations, bestow favour and show good will, Viktor had always found them to be a source of great mirth and fun; the closest he ever came to truly feeling free.

The balls had always been grand and opulent and extravagant . . . although, after having been to so many, the dazzling accoutrements had become dull, the glittering conversations turning trite and lackluster . . . but there was always music, and there was always dancing, so in the end, they were always worth it.

To dance at a ball; Viktor thought it a very wonderful dream indeed.

“Oh . . . well . . . I was just a kid,” Yuuri shrugged bashfully, “but, once I started dancing . . . I just couldn't stop. I fell in love, I guess,”

The quick grin he shot Viktor then nearly made the poor Beast’s heart stop.

“But you’re right, there’s only so much I can learn back home. That’s why I was planning to move to The City someday,” Yuuri confessed, “I . . . I’ve always wanted to see a live ballet. See actual, real dancers on stage . . .”

“You are a real dancer, Yuuri” Viktor objected, “At any rate, you’re much more talented than any of the principles I’ve ever seen at the City Ballet . . .”

“You’ve seen the City Ballet?” Yuuri chirped, sitting up straight on the edge of Viktor’s magenta chair; eyes bright and excited, “When? How? What was it like? Incredible right? I mean, it must have been, their shows are famous! I’ve always wanted to go to one. I hear that the City Theatre is three stories tall and three blocks wide . . . and right on the river! It must have been the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen!”

For once, Viktor couldn't agree with Yuuri; the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen was right before his eyes at this very moment.

“Come on, Viktor!” Yuuri begged charmingly, “Tell me more about the City Ballet! Please!”

Viktor couldn't say “No” to that face.

“It was . . . many years ago,” Viktor began carefully, “I had the privilege to see the opening of ‘La Grande Beauté Du Sud’,” he smiled, recalling the memory, “It was . . . a night I’ll never forget”

It had been one of the rare occasions Viktor had ever indulged himself as a Prince; he had been on a short sojourn to The City to work with the Capitol Treasurer on some project or other.

The City had made Viktor feel small and insignificant and despondent; but then, the poster for “La Grande Beauté” had caught his eye . . . and for that one perfect evening he had escaped from the dull, dreary streets of reality into a fantastic realm of beauty and romance.

Being with Yuuri felt much the same; like the world was just this big, empty, endless thing, and Yuuri alone carried all the songs and colours and sensations he needed to make life worth living.

So, Viktor recited his experience in detail; from the moment he arrived at the City Theatre to the standing ovation at the end of the show. Through it all, Yuuri sat enraptured; leaning forward in his chair, hanging on Viktor’s every word, spilling forth question after question.

“How big was the stage?”

“How many dancers were in the chorus?”

“Which piece was your favourite?”

Viktor answered them all, going on and on and on about costumes and set, technique and accompaniment, audience and etiquette, and of course, the show itself.  

“. . . then, in the final overture, the young lovers are reunited at last!”

“I knew it!” Yuuri gasped in delight.

“However! They’ve been followed!” Viktor continued dramatically.

“No!” Yuuri yelped.

“Yes!” Viktor cried “The jealous suitor has stalked them to the grove . . .” thump, thump, thump, “. . . the suitor draws his sword, and challenges the heroine to a duel . . .”

Thump, thump, thump . . .

“V-Viktor . . .”

“Steel rings against steel as they fight for the fair maiden’s hand!”

Thump, thump, thump. . .

“Viktor!”

Thump, thump, thump . . .

“. . . Yuuri? What’s wrong?” Viktor asked innocently.

Thump, thump, thump. . .

“Ah . . . nothing,” Yuuri replied. His face crinkled, as he tried not to laugh, “It’s just . . . your tail . . .”

Thump, thump, thump . . .

Viktor twisted around, quickly looking over his shoulder; his stomach plummeted.

In his excitement, he hadn't noticed that his big, bushy tail had started to wag; beating a soft, steady rhythm against the carpeted floor.

His tail was wagging; some Beast he made.

Viktor stole a quick peek at Yuuri, who looked like he was using every ounce of his willpower to keep a straight face.  

So, Viktor slowly sat up straight, nonchalantly reached behind himself and took hold of his tail, then gently wound it up over his waist, draping it across his lap; he elegantly folded his hands together over top of it, to ensure it remained securely pinned down. 

Viktor looked at Yuuri.

Yuuri looked at Viktor.

Viktor cleared his throat.

“Yuuri . . . I am a terrifying Beast” he insisted.

“Absolutely horrifying” Yuuri agreed, deadpanned.

“Yes. Incredibly fearsome,” Viktor reiterated, unable to stop the coy glint in his eye.

“Downright vicious,” Yuuri added with a smirk.

“Terror incarnate . . . the stuff of nightmares, really,” Viktor concluded with a satisfied grin.

“Yes. Very scary indeed” Yuuri concurred sarcastically, no longer trying to hide his perfect, endless smile, “. . . and not at all adorable,”

Time ground to a screeching halt.

Viktor’s heart stopped; did . . . did Yuuri just say he was adorable?

It was sarcasm, sure . . . but still . . . Yuuri said he was adorable.

YUURI. SAID. HE. WAS. ADORABLE.

"Viktor . . ."

So this is what all the ballads were on about.

“Viktor?”

Nothing in the world could ever possibly feel better than this exact moment; Viktor needed ten thousand roses, IMMEDIATELY.

“Viktor!”

“Hm?” Viktor snapped harshly back to reality; Yuuri was grinning at him, with his bottom lip caught nervously between his teeth.

“I was asking if they live happily ever after . . .” Yuuri chided, “The heroine and her fair maiden, in ‘La Grande Beauté Du Sud’ . . .”

Viktor gazed into those big, brown eyes and melted, “Yes . . . of course they do, Yuuri,”

That was a lie.

A big lie.

The ballet had ended in tragedy; the suitor had deviously coated his blade with poison, and he managed to land a single hit before the heroine stuck him down. The heroine had then died in her lover’s arms.

But he couldn’t tell Yuuri that.

Not when Yuuri was looking at him with those big, beautiful brown eyes.

“Good”, Yuuri replied with a serene little smile.

Viktor returned that smile, and then some.

“So,” Yuuri prompted, scooting even closer to the edge of the chair; his feet were firmly on the ground now, his elbows on his knees he was leaning so far forward. 

“So?” Viktor repeated, half uncertain what Yuuri was getting at, half distracted by the sudden, newfound closeness; unbridled euphoria still buzzing through his brain.

“So, how does it end? Does the heroine defeat the suitor?  Does he die? Does he flee? Is there a wedding?” Yuuri wheedled, his smile brightening.

Viktor’s ears perked up; oh, Yuuri wanted to know the end of the story!

Right . . . the end of the story . . . the happy ending which didn't exist . . . because Viktor had just lied.

Now he had done it.

“What . . ?” Viktor drawled, frantically stalling, “You mean . . . you want me to go and ruin the ending?”

Yuuri straightened, a little abashed, “It wouldn't ruin it . . .” he objected softly.

“But . . . but you’re going to see it at the City Theatre someday, yes?” Viktor countered, more confidently than he felt, “I couldn't possibly deprive you of experiencing it for yourself! Forgive me, I’ve probably already said too much!”

“Viktor, please!” Yuuri groaned dramatically.

“I’m sorry, Yuuri,” Viktor apologized coyly, “I just can't bring myself to spoil it for you”

Yuuri narrowed his eyes, starring Viktor down, “It’s that good?”

“It’s that good,” Viktor promised, hoping to change the subject quickly.

At last Yuuri relented, “Well . . . I’ve waited this long,” he acquiesced with a little smile, “I suppose I can wait a little more”.

Yuuri relaxed back into the chair; his eyes drifting towards the unlit fireplace.

Viktor felt a slight pang of guilt, watching Yuuri recede; his earlier delight still humming in the back of his mind.

Yuuri had called him adorable; he had to get this tea date back on track now.

“Are you cold?” Viktor asked kindly, “Shall I get a fire going?”

“Ah, no thank you, I’m alright,” Yuuri declined politely.

The air was spotted with silence as Viktor wracked his mind trying to come up with a new topic of conversation. He couldn't let it end now; not when he was so close!

However, Yuuri spoke first.

“When were you in The City?” he asked, the question light, saccharine and unobtrusive.

Simple as it was, Viktor was forced to contemplate his answer a moment; halting his own rapid ruminations.

Honestly, he had no idea how much time had passed since the spell had first been cast. When had he been in The City? 5 years ago? 50?

“. . . When I was much younger. Perhaps 22 . . . 23,” He replied at last, the answer vague and affable.

Time had no meaning to him anymore; he and the staff did not age within their bewitched prison . . . but that was the best way he could answer.

Thankfully, Yuuri did not probe any further, “I’d like to see it someday . . . The City, I mean,” he explained, “I always dreamed of living there. Phichit and I . . . we didn’t . . . we don't really belong in The Village, I suppose,” his face was still turned towards the unlit fireplace, his voice pleasant and warm, but now tinged with melancholy.

“. . . What kept you there, then?”

Viktor didn't know what had made him ask; it was such a terribly familiar question. Highly inappropriate for two fledgling acquaintances such as themselves; but something about the way Yuuri looked now, so small and distant and vulnerable, made Viktor want to reach out and gently pull him back down to earth; like the string of a kite abandoned to the breeze.

Yuuri slowly came back to him, mulling over the question, “Ah . . . well, mostly money, I suppose,” he answered reasonably. Viktor nodded sympathetically.

“And . . .” Yuuri continued cautiously, “It can be hard . . . to leave home . . . even if it’s not perfect, it’s still . . .”

“Home” Viktor finished for him; his voice just as soft and reticent.

“Yea,” Yuuri agreed with a shrug, “but I mean, the world is so much bigger than that,” he added quickly, “there’s so much more to do and see . . . so many places to go . . .” his spirits and speech had both perked up significantly.

“Ah, do I sense a bit of wanderlust now?” Viktor teased, immediately matching Yuuri’s energy.  

Something still felt off though . . . something Viktor couldn't quite name . . . couldn't quite place.

“I’ve always wanted to travel,” Yuuri admitted brightly, “my grandfather, on my mother’s side, he was a sailor before he met my grandmother,”

“Sailor’s blood, that explains it,” Viktor joked, in a very matter-of-fact tone.

Yuuri just smirked and continued, “Apparently my great-grandparents didn't want my grandmother to marry him. They thought a sailor would never be able to settle down with a farm girl . . . too much wanderlust,” Yuuri chided, playfully throwing Viktor’s own word back at him, “but . . . they were in love. They got married, and eventually inherited the farm, and . . . that’s where Phichit and I live now,”

Understanding crashed over Viktor like a tidal wave, “. . . it would be hard to walk away from that,”

Another pang of guilt reverberated in Viktor’s ribcage.

“A bit, yea,” Yuuri agreed; no longer melancholy, but rather, a bit proud, “Do you want to know what my grandmother got my grandfather as a wedding gift?”

Viktor nodded eagerly.

“An atlas,”

“An . . . atlas?” Viktor repeated gently.

“Mm Hmm,” Yuuri confirmed with a grin and a little nod, “She wanted him to have a copy of the world for his very own . . . since he gave up his whole world to be with her,”

An unseen vice wrapped around Viktor’s heart, yanking it hard and making it ache.

Viktor smiled, “. . . well, I think we’ve discovered where you get your love of happy endings,” he remarked sweetly.

Yuuri snorted.

Honest to goodness snorted.

And it was adorable, because everything Yuuri did was adorable.

“Could be,” Yuuri conceded through his laughter, “He passed it down to me, you know . . . his atlas . . . I used to spend entire days looking through it; dreaming of all the places I wanted to go,”

Viktor nearly flinched; another sharp stab to the chest; the guilt was back.

“Like . . . The City?” he ventured.

“Yea,” Yuuri shrugged, “someday,”

Viktor nodded resolutely.

How foolish he had been.

How selfish.

He should have known better.  

Yuuri wasn't just a random acquaintance; some lost traveler whom he had met by happenstance.  

Yuuri wasn't just a farm boy or an artist or a dancer.

Yuuri wasn't just a friend.

Yuuri wasn't just the object of his affection.

Yuuri was real.

Yuuri had a past, and a present, and a future. He had thoughts and feelings and hopes and dreams and desires and ideas and plans and memories. He had family and friends and a life of his own; an infinite number of intricacies woven into a single human being.

There were parts of Yuuri that Viktor would never know; parts which changed and shifted and evolved and acted completely independent of Viktor’s existence.

Yuuri’s life did not revolve around Viktor.

And yet, here he was.

And here Viktor was.

Viktor’s conscience rumbled, like distant thunder.

How could he not have realized?

If Yuuri was here with him . . . then he couldn't be at The City Ballet; he couldn't be at home with Phichit; he couldn't be sailing the seas or wandering the world or chasing his own dreams.

How foolish Viktor had been.

How selfish.

“Well,” Viktor began smoothly, “When the day comes that you do make it to The City . . . promise me you’ll audition for the Ballet”

“W-what”? Yuuri bolted upright in his seat, face burning beet red, “I’m not . . . I couldn't possibly!”

“Oh? And why not?” Viktor challenged, his voice thick with amusement, “I wasn't merely being polite before, Yuuri . . . you have tremendous talent. Better than any principle I’ve seen . . . even at The City Ballet,” he made his words as sincere as possible.  

“I . . . that’s a long way off,” Yuuri stammered, “I . . . I have a lot of work ahead of me before I’m ready for that . . .”

Viktor smiled, “Well then, it’s lucky you have your very own dance studio,” he remarked casually, “and as much time as you desire to practice,”

Yuuri looked like he was about to object, but instead just continued to blush, with a cute little nod.  

After a moment, Yuuri spoke, “About that . . . I’m sorry. I . . . I suppose I should have let you know I was planning to commandeer one of your spare rooms for practice,” he apologized sheepishly.

“No, no, not at all!” Viktor objected quickly.

How could he make Yuuri understand?

“. . . the castle is your home now, Yuuri,” he stated gently, “ . . . you’re free to go wherever you wish, use whichever rooms you desire, spend your days however you like . . . please, do not feel like you require my permission to go about the castle, or partake in pastimes you enjoy; you are not beholden to anyone.”

“Oh . . . alright then . . .” Yuuri’s previously averted eyes became bright and wide and started to sparkle.

Viktor loved that face; seeing Yuuri’s eyes so big and innocent and sparkly.

It usually happened when Yuuri was surprised, or delighted, or ruminating on some stubborn puzzle.

He always loved Yuuri’s eyes, but he especially loved it when they sparkled like that.

He wished he could see that face every day for the rest of his life.

He wished he could be the one to make Yuuri’s eyes sparkle like that.

Viktor’s chest ached; eaten away by his new revelation. His heart was torn into halves, then thirds then quarters.

Selfish.

“I . . . I sincerely wish for you to be happy here, Yuuri,” Viktor continued, a bit more softly now, “If . . . if there is anything I can provide, or adjust, or even remove, in order to make your stay more comfortable . . . you have only but to ask,”

“. . . T-thank . . . you” Yuuri blinked bashfully, eyes still sparkling away.

A shiver ran up Viktor’s spine. 

“Ah . . . however, if I may ask . . .” Viktor glanced to Yuuri for permission before continuing.

“Anything,” Yuuri invited brightly.

Death. Death would take him soon, Viktor was certain of it; gazing into those deep, dark, dreamy eyes while his very own conscience tore him to shreds.   

“Though you are, of course, welcome to use any room you would like . . .” Viktor began slowly, “I . . . can't help but wonder if you would prefer to pursue your dancing . . . in the ballroom?”

If it was possible, Yuuri’s eyes went even wider.

“The . . . the what?”

“The . . . ballroom,” Viktor repeated a little uncertainly.

Yuuri was silent a moment; Viktor was about to panic, but then gratefully glimpsed the tell-tale curve of Yuuri’s smile.

“I didn't know there was . . . do you really have a . . ?” Yuuri’s eyes sparkled like never before, “Will you . . . show me?”

Viktor’s heart flooded with a warmth he never thought possible.

“Your wish is my command,”

*****

Phichit was not impressed.

Well, actually he was; immensely so if he were being honest.

But he was the adult here; which meant he was in charge; which for the moment, meant he had to be “not impressed”.

Or at least, it meant he had to exude a district air of “not-impressed-ness”.

He stood in the middle of his workshop, between the center and south benches; in front of him, the Nishigori Triplets stood in a line with their heads hung, their expressions sporting varying degrees of contrition. Minako sat at the south bench, pouring over tax records and being absolutely no help at all.

Because, in her own words . . . “My entire vocation centers around disciplining children, I’m not about to take it up in my free time”.

Fair enough.

Phichit scrutinized the three girls; how they had even managed to find the fireworks in the first place, he had no idea. How they had figured out how to get into the locked safe box, prep the launch site and rig the ignition was a whole other story entirely.

Seriously, it was impressive.

No, not impressive! The most completely not-impressive thing. Ever.

Because children . . . explosions . . . danger . . . etcetera.

“Alright girls,” he said at last, his voice stern and boring and not at all fun, “Your parents and I agreed to let you spend time in the workshop, as long as you promised to be safe, and follow ALL the rules,”

The girls sighed, “Yes Monsieur Chulanont” they chimed in unison.

“And were you following the rules?” Phichit asked; sounding so much like his old schoolmaster he scared himself . . . sounding so much like Yuuri he scared himself.

“No, Monsieur Chulanont” the three admitted shamefully.

“And are you going to follow the rules, or do I need to send you home?” He asked sternly; the threat breaking his own heart as it said it.

“No! No, please let us stay!”

“We’ll be good!”

“Yea, we promise!”

“Please don’t send us home!” The Girls wailed, sporting the biggest puppy-eyes Phichit had ever seen.

“Well . . .” Phichit made a big show of thinking it over as the girls continued to beg, “I suppose you can stay!”

He folded like a house of cards.

He couldn’t help it! Their eyes were just so big and their faces were just so sad!

The girls celebrated instantly.

“But!” Phichit cut in on their merriment, “If you break the rules one more time, I will have to send you home! Do you understand?”

“Yes!”

“Of course!”

“Absolutely!”

“We’ll behave! We promise!” The three grinned up at him innocently.

Maybe a bit too innocently.

“Alight!” Phichit declared, “Let’s go over the rules one more time! Axel: Workshop Rule number one?”

Axel jumped to attention, “Don’t touch anything!” She chirped.

“Good!” Phichit praised, “Lutz: Workshop Rule number two?”

Lutz smirked, “Don’t touch anything!”

“Right!” Phichit congratulated, “Loop: Workshop Rule number three?”

Loop narrowed her eyes, “Uhh . . . don’t touch anything?”

“Excellent!” Phichit grinned, “And why do we not touch anything in Monsieur Chulanont’s workshop?”

“Because it could explode!”

“Exactly!” Phichit confirmed, “There are lots of sharp, pointy bits in here, and if any of you got hurt under my supervision, your Papa would throw me right in jail . . . you don’t want Monsieur Chulanont to go to jail, do you?” he joked with a dramatic, saccharine smile.

“Haha, you’re funny Monsieur Chulanont” Axel giggled.

“We won’t touch another thing!” Lutz promised.

“What else in here explodes?” Loop inquired.

“Ah . . . okay, let’s . . . let’s just get back to work, alright girls?” Phichit suggested.

The triplets toddled back over to south workbench, returning to their previously abandoned drawings and schoolwork.

Phichit grinned; mission accomplished.

Ever since he had fixed their doll, the Nishigori Triplets had become . . . quite taken with Phichit.

It had started innocently enough, with the girls bringing him more broken toys to fix; which he hadn’t minded in the least. It was quick and fun and he was happy to do it; besides, he had offered. Phichit had only started to suspect that something was amiss when they began to come to him with broken toys every single day; sometimes twice or even three times in one afternoon! Sometimes even with the same toy.

It soon became clear, however, that their interest did not, in fact, lie in the toys at all, but rather in the ‘super fun totally mysterious and completely off-limits workshop run by an eccentric recluse’.

Except, to the triplets, Phichit was not mad, or eccentric, or even strange in the slightest; he was just their friend Monsieur Chulanont, who fixed their toys and had a cool workshop full of neat doodads.  

They had wanted to learn more; about science, about mechanics, about inventing, about . . . explosives. So, Phichit had spoken to Yuuko and Takeshi, who agreed that the girls could spend time at the workshop, as long as they were supervised, and as long as they were safe and as long as they followed the rules.

Setting off Phichit’s hidden stash of fireworks didn't exactly fall within the boundaries of those rules . . . but Yuuko and Takeshi didn't need to know about that.

Truth be told, the Nishigoris had been more amenable to the idea when they found out Minako would be present most of the time as well. Apparently having a well-respected tutor on his side really helped Phichit’s case; if the girls could be working on their studies at the workshop while Phichit was inventing things, well then . . . it was all just very educational, right?

But the girls loved coming by, and truth be told, Phichit was glad for the company.

He missed Yuuri desperately, and he was nowhere closer to bringing him home; his and Minako’s brains had both nearly turned to mush from reading so many old tax forms.

It was really kind of nice . . . watching the girls pester Minako, listening to the girls complain about schoolwork, showing them his inventions and watching their eyes light up. He had even introduced them to the mice; whom they had all gotten along with swimmingly, of course.

And even with three extra sets of eyes and ears, he wasn't too worried about him and Minako being discovered. The girls were too young yet to care about tax records; declaring his and Minako’s work to be ‘boring’ when Phichit had told them about the “centennial project”. 

So that is how he had passed the last week; fixing toys and scouring tax records and supervising the triplets, all the while hobbling along on his crutch as his leg slowly recovered from the wolf bite.

The triplets had now turned their attention to drawing pictures of the firework they had just set off; Phichit had supplied them with sketch paper and coloured pencils during their regular visits, so they could ‘design their own inventions’; adorable.

With the girls engrossed in their artwork, Phichit took the opportunity to catch up with Minako.

“Find anything yet?” He asked lowly, head bowed close to the tutor’s over her current file.

“Hmmm . . . nothing so far,” she reported, “maybe if –”

A sudden, sharp sound made them all jump.

Bang, bang, bang!

Someone was knocking at the big, southern barn door, causing it to rattle on its rail.

Who could possibly . . ?

Bang, bang, bang!

“Coming!” Phichit called urgently; perhaps it was one of the Nishigoris.

Oh no. Had they seen the firework?

Phichit hobbled to the barn door as quickly as he could, praying he would not open it to reveal a very peeved Guard Captain Nishigori Takeshi.

He had really only been half-joking about the whole ‘jail’ thing.

Taking a deep breath and leaning all his weight to the right, he hauled the door open.

It was not Guard Captain Nishigori Takeshi on the other side.

But upon seeing who actually stood at the entrance of his workshop, Phichit sincerely wished it had been.

“My dear old friend, Phichit!” J.J. chirped tersely, fake smile plastered to his face, “It’s been too long!” Isabella hovered just behind him, looking bored and aggravated.

“Not long enough,” Phichit muttered indignantly.

Oh great, what did J.J. want?

As if she could read his mind, Minako gave voice to the thought, “Well . . . J.J., Isabella, this certainly is a surprise,” she remarked, her words light and welcoming, with a hint of warning just below the surface, “I don't think either of you have ever come by the workshop before. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

J.J. turned his fake smile on Minako, and sauntered in past Phichit, “Just came to say ‘hi’ and catch up with Yuuri,” he said stubbornly.

“Well that’s odd,” Minako said innocently, “considering that Yuuri isn’t here”

Phichit’s breath caught in his throat; what was Minako doing? She was going to blow their cover!

The triplets were now stealing glances up from their drawings, intrigued by the newcomers; Isabella leaned against the door frame imposingly.

J.J. paced around the workshop, eyes shifting, searching for something, “You know, that is odd,” he agreed, coming to rest beside the makeshift forge, “but you know what’s even more odder?”

“Enlighten us,” Minako invited, pointedly ignoring J.J.’s poor grammar.

“The fact that Yuuri doesn't seem to be anywhere” J.J. challenged, reaching down to fiddle with a fire-poker.

Phichit’s blood ran cold. They could not be found out, not now; especially not by J.J. of all people, “What? That’s –”

“DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!” The triplets cried in unison.

All four adults turned to them; J.J. dropped the poker.

“WORKSHOP RULE NUMBER ONE,” Axel recited, standing up on the bench, “DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!”

“THAT GOES FOR GROWNUPS TOO!” Lutz added, following suit.

“IF YOU DON’T FOLLOW THE RULES, YOU HAVE TO BE SENT HOME” Loop finished defiantly, crossing her arms.

“I . . . what?” J.J. stammered, caught off guard.

“You heard them,” Phichit goaded, “That’s the rule. Don't make me send you home,”

J.J. threw his hands into the air and stormed back over to Phichit, “Just tell me where Yuuri is!” he demanded

“Why, so you can harass him some more?” Phichit snapped; his restraint frayed beyond repair.

“What? How dare –” J.J. huffed, anger making him inarticulate, “I am . . . I will . . .”  

“It’s been over a week,” Isabella supplied languidly from the door, speaking for the first time.

Minako turned to the other woman, apparently appraising her as the more rational of their two guests, “over a week since what, pray tell?” she inquired, purposefully drenching her tone in naïveté.

Phichit caught himself, stamping down his own fury; oh, Minako was good . . . must be a trick she picked up at court. 

“Over a week since Yuuri went missing!” J.J. exploded; his face as crimson as the earlier firework.

“Missing?” Minako let out a demure little laugh, “What ever do you mean, J.J.?”

“No one has seen Yuuri in a week!”J.J. raged, practically frothing at the mouth, “he’s missing, and you people don't even care!”

“Apologies . . .” Minako drawled, turning back to Isabella, “I don't think I quite understand . . .”

Isabella rolled her eyes, “J.J. has gotten it into his head that Yuuri has fallen down a well,” she explained bitingly.

“You mean . . . like Louis Dubois did that one time?” Phichit asked incredulously, eyebrows furrowing.

Isabella rolled her eyes, “Something like that. I’m just here to prove him otherwise”

Minako let out a great, world-weary sigh, “Well, allow me to assuage your fears J.J. . . . Yuuri has not fallen down a well” she huffed, “he has hay fever,”

A light went off in Phichit’s brain; so that’s what Minako was doing. Acting normal; playing dumb. The excuse so common and uninteresting it didn't even warrant a second thought.

Phichit took it back; Minako wasn't good . . . she was very good.

There was no way they wouldn't buy it, right? The way Minako had built up to the reveal . . . the way she had turned her phrase . . . so certain, so forceful, no hesitation whatsoever.

Phichit wouldn't be the one to give them away now. So, he nodded in agreement; his expression turning immediately grave.

J.J. narrowed his eyes, “Hay . . . fever?”

“Yes, hay fever” Phichit insisted, “You may be familiar with it. It’s a common illness . . . makes you sleepy . . . sneezing, itching, red eyes . . .” he trailed off condescendingly.

“I know what hay fever is!” J.J. shot back petulantly.

“Good, then you know that Yuuri shouldn't be disturbed,” Minako admonished, “He’s been inside getting some much needed rest these past few days, and we would appreciate it if you would leave him in peace”

J.J. glared at Minako.

Minako glared at J.J.

“Doctor’s orders,” Phichit shrugged.

Isabella reached out a lazy arm to clap J.J. on the back, “You see? He’s just fine, J.J.” she drawled, “Come back and see him when he’s healthy,”

J.J. glanced suspiciously around the workshop, from the disinterested Minako to the contemptuous Phichit, to the silent, wide-eyed triplets.

“Fine,” J.J. spat, “but let Yuuri know that I’m here for him if he needs anything,”

Phichit was about to tell J.J. to stick his offer where the sun didn't shine, but Minako was too quick.

“Thank You for your consideration J.J., I’m certain Yuuri appreciates it. I assure you that we have him well taken care of,” she replied; courteously, yet cold.

The way she spoke . . . it almost reminded Phichit of . . .

No; surely he was just imagining things . . .

But in that moment, he could have sworn she sounded just like The Beast.

. . . Maybe it was just a court thing.

. . . Maybe he was just losing his mind from reading all those tax forms.

J.J. turned to leave, before swiveling sharply back around, “I mean it. If he needs anything at all . . .” he insisted, “Yuuri’s hero will come for him,”

Both Minako and Phichit stared blankly after J.J. as he finally quit the workshop; Isabella gave them a sloppy, disinterested salute in farewell and followed.

Phichit rolled the barn door closed with a loud “clang”, and pulled the lever down to lock it in place.

He and Minako looked to one another with twin expressions of horror. 

Yuuri’s Hero? What the hell what that supposed to mean?

Phichit slowly turned and made his way back to the triplets, donning a chipper demeanor once more.

“Alright, girls!” he chirped, “Workshop Rule number four . . . no J.J.’s allowed!”

*****

Yuuri was thrumming with excitement; little shivers of anticipation racing up and down his spine.

“Are we almost there?” he asked, one hand extended in front of him, grasping blindly at empty air. His eyes were closed, as he had promised; his glasses off and tucked into his collar.

“Almost,” Viktor teased, his voice round and giddy, “just a few steps more . . .”

With his other hand, Yuuri hugged his newfound ballet shoes tight to his chest, so he could make certain not to drop them, “Viktor!” He whined impatiently; the word breaking over his own laughter.

Earlier, Viktor had insisted that if Yuuri was going to dance in a proper ballroom, he needed proper shoes first; and amazingly, he knew just where to find some.

On the third floor of the castle was a massive old storage room; filled from top to bottom with all manner of old outdated clothes, and apparently home to a haughty carpetbag named Anya and her great hulking cedar chest of a fiancée. Among the vast assortment of tattered cloaks and dusty petticoats was a selection of costumes and other decorative regalia from festivities long since past; including a small collection of ballet shoes, all outgrown or otherwise abandoned.

Most were completely unsuitable for Yuuri; child-sized or mismatched or worn straight through, with no shortage of pink satin pointe shoes. But in the end, they hand managed to find a pair of men’s ballet shoes which miraculously fit and matched; nothing fancy, just standard black leather, simple, flexible and perfect.

They had quit the storage room in high spirits, despite Anya grousing at them the entire time and demanding that they tell Georgi to quit sending her sappy messages via the other staff.

And so, ballet shoes in hand, Viktor had guided Yuuri to the entrance of the ballroom.

Well, nearly.

When they had made it halfway down the corridor leading up to the entryway, Viktor had proposed that Yuuri close his eyes, so that it could be an even bigger surprise.

After some playful wheedling, Yuuri had agreed.

Honestly, who knew that the stoic and impassive Master Viktor had such a whimsical streak?

At present, Viktor was chuckling, very pleased with himself indeed, “Just trust me, moye solnyshko . . .” he cooed in response to Yuuri’s pouting.

Yuuri grinned, groping wildly before him in retaliation; an exaggerated gesture of his helplessness.

His swinging hand was suddenly caught in mid-air; met halfway by a deft and gentle paw.

The raucous giggles slowly petered out; it was suddenly very still in the corridor.

Yuuri felt himself blush.

But he didn't pull away, instead, he smiled and relaxed into the touch, holding Viktor’s paw a little tighter in silent affirmation; allowing himself to be led.

He swallowed hard. His chest felt strangely tight, but not in a bad way . . . more like his insides had been filled to overflowing. Like a glass poured high with heady champagne; bubbling through his veins and buzzing through his brain.

The two continued on with slow, quiet steps; each one pulling Yuuri’s puppet-strings tauter, winding the tension in his chest tighter and tighter until he was ready to burst.

His heart was racing.

Eventually, Yuuri heard the creak of a door, and was pulled carefully through.

Though his eyes were closed, a sudden brightness assaulted his senses; the air was still and stale, like breathing in the pages of an old book.  

“Now?” Yuuri asked expectantly; simmering with delight.

“Not quite,” Viktor cautioned, “just a bit more . . .”

Yuuri bit his lip in a pout, but let Viktor continue to guide him all the same.

Finally they came to a halt.

“Alright . . . you can look now,” Viktor’s voice surrounded him, echoing back in wave after breathless wave.

Yuuri slid his glasses back on and slowly opened his eyes.

All around him, the world was drenched in light; a never-ending sea of white and gold splendour reflecting back in on itself a thousand times over. It was like he had stepped inside a painted music box, or fallen right into one of the gilded pictures adorning the castle halls.

Bleached aspen floors that shone like polished marble stretched out in all directions to meet gilded wainscot walls; inlaid with a pattern of swooping golden designs as intricate as the threads of fate itself. An avalanche of snowy white light spilled in through full length arching windows, stretching from the floor up into eternity, running all along the far wall. In the center of the windows lay an enormous set of heavy glass doors, which lead out onto an elegant white stone veranda.

Yuuri turned around slowly, taking it all in with breathless wonderment. Behind him lay a massive staircase, even more elegant than the one on the entryway; this one was all white marble with gold striations, steps running up to a center landing, then splitting off to the east and west wings respectively. The stairs were wide and welcoming, with a heavy runner of gold draping down each step. The railings were also marble, heavy and wide; the banisters carved into all manner of beautiful creatures; cherubs and satyrs and dryads and nymphs, fawns and fairies and sprites of all kinds, their celestial faces dancing across the ornate marble.

Statuesque columns upheld a colossal domed ceiling as boundless as the sky itself, painted with endless murals of ethereal scenery. A few raised daises dotted the perimeter of the dance floor, the steps to each one trimmed in gold. On one of the platforms near the stairs sat a few abandoned instruments; a harpsichord, a cello, a viola, a horn.

From that heavenly ceiling hung shimmering crystal chandeliers on golden chains; draped with white sheets to keep off the dust.

Frost and age tainted most corners of the massive chamber, but that only seemed to add to the enchanted nature of the ballroom.

Yuuri turned a few more times; slowly, smoothly, taking it all in.

Finally, his eyes settled on Viktor; long silver mane and puffy white shirt, horns and fangs and fuzzy ears and fluffy tail and graceful, clawed feet laid bare for the world to see.

Yuuri gripped his new ballet shoes tighter.

Viktor wrung his paws nervously, “Do you . . . like it?”

Yuuri stood stunned a moment, “Do I like it?” he repeated incredulously, “Viktor . . . this is . . .”

Beautiful? Wonderful? Incredible?

No single word quite seemed to do it justice.

Instead, Yuuri just looked to Viktor and smiled, “Thank you”

Viktor smiled back, “You are most welcome, Yuuri”

“Um . . . should I? Can I . . ?” Yuuri asked after a moment, gesturing to the shoes in his hands. He wouldn't be long . . . wouldn't do a full practice . . . but really, he couldn't just stand in a ballroom, ballet shoes in hand, and not at least try a few steps . . .

“Yes, please do!” Viktor agreed immediately, “But allow me to introduce you to the musicians first . . . I believe they will be most excited to have a reason to play once more”

Yuuri blinked, “The . . . musicians?”

“Of course!” Viktor chirped mischievously, “what’s a ballroom without accompaniment?”

Viktor turned towards the stairs, gesturing for him to come along; stunned and bewildered, Yuuri fell into step beside him all the same.

“I’ve . . . never really had accompaniment before” He admitted shyly.

“A shame . . . but not entirely unexpected, considering what you have told me of your tutelage” Viktor replied sympathetically. He then stopped walking, as if a thought was just occurring to him, “If . . . if you would prefer to continue to practice solo, that can absolutely be arranged,” he added quickly.

“No, no!” Yuuri objected kindly, “I’m excited. Just . . . surprised”

Viktor smirked, “I like surprises”

Yuuri grinned in reply as they continued on; they were heading for the dais with the deserted instruments.

He was starting to think he quite liked surprises too.

They at last reached the steps up to the little stage, and Yuuri was greeted with another unexpected curiosity.

“Look! It’s Master Yuuri!”

“Yuuri? Katsuki Yuuri?”

“The one everyone’s been talking about? He’s here?”

“And he’s with Master Viktor!”

“This is the best day of my entire life!”

“All of you, calm down, you’re embarrassing yourselves”

The instruments were talking.

The instruments were talking about him.

Yuuri froze in panic for a moment as he got his bearings.

The musicians! Right!

Musicians, enchanted castle, instruments . . . now it was all making sense.

But why were they talking about him?

Yuuri had no more time to ruminate, as Viktor thankfully cleared his throat to speak, “Good afternoon, gentlemen,”

At once, the harpsichord, the cello, the viola and the horn all turned to face them, with a singular, “Good Afternoon, Master Viktor!”

Viktor introduced Yuuri first, although somehow, Yuuri highly doubted it was necessary.

With that acknowledgement officially made, Viktor turned back to him once more, “Yuuri, these are the castle musicians, Leo de la Iglesia, Guang Hong Ji and Seung-gil Lee,” Viktor paused, smiling warmly at the little horn, “it seems that today they are also joined by our herald – ”  

“Minami Kenjirou!” The little horn honked proudly, beaming up at Yuuri, “Sorry! I’m just so excited! I can't believe I really get to meet you!”

Yuuri’s mouth moved silently, trying to find the right words, or any words at all really, “It’s . . . it’s nice to meet you too, Minami . . .” he managed at length.

Minami let out a loud squeak; the little red and gold flag attached to his brass body fluttered with elation, “Ahh! Katsuki Yuuri knows my name!”

“Obviously he does, you just told it to him,” The cello scolded.

“Aw, give him a break Seung-gil,” the viola, Guang Hong, pouted in response.

“Ah, something we can help you with today, messieurs?” Leo offered, shuffling closer to Viktor and Yuuri on his stately wooden legs, harpsichord keys clanging as he went.

“As a matter of fact, we were hoping to employ your musical talents” Viktor revealed coyly.

The other musicians snapped to attention; Minami continued to gape at Yuuri.

“You see,” Viktor continued, “Master Yuuri is quite the talented dancer . . . and he is in desperate need of some accompaniment”

The musicians beamed; Leo and Guang Hong both lit up like a summer day, Seung-gil even smiled a little.

“Of course! Of course!” Leo agreed immediately, “We would love to!”

“Oh, this will be fun!” Guang Hong sighed, “It’s been so long since we’ve played!”

 Seung-gil curtly nodded his agreement.

 “Where do you want to start? Do you have a piece in mind?” Leo inquired; his full attention on Yuuri.

“Oh . . . I . . .”

“Ah, a moment,” Viktor interrupted gently, “Where is Lilia?”

“Over there!” Minami blurted, pointing his bell towards a discarded chair near the dais.

“Ah, thank you” Viktor quickly excused himself, returning seconds later with a small, angular box, which he placed squarely on the empty harpsichord bench.

The box ticked rhythmically; a weighted arm swung back and forth in front of its measured ebony face as its piercing eyes scoured the room.

A metronome.

Yuuri swallowed hard as the metronome scrutinized him, “so this is the boy?” she asked gruffly.

“Yuuri, meet Lilia Baranovskaya . . .” Viktor grinned, “Our current conductor, and former prima ballerina, choreographer, and dance instructor to various branches of the northern nobility for two generations,”

Yuuri gaped at Viktor with wide eyes; it seemed there would be no end of surprises today.

“I . . . how do you do?” Yuuri stammered, fidgeting with the ballet shoes, “It’s a pleasure to meet you,”

“You are a dancer?” The metronome barked, “Then show me what you are capable of. Or do we need to start from square one?”

“Go easy on him, Lilia” Viktor pleaded playfully, “I need him intact,”

“No back-talk Viktor,” Lilia commanded; she turned immediately to Yuuri, “You, shoes on. Start stretching,” she turned back to the musicians, “Harpsichord Concerto Number 1 in E major, third movement”

The instruments hopped to obey; Yuuri scrambled to do the same.

Viktor turned to leave.

Yuuri bolted after him, quickly catching his sleeve; Viktor looked down to the boy pinning him in place.

“Ah . . . I . . .”

“Yuuri?” Viktor raised a quizzical brow, “Ah, I realize Lilia is intimidating, but I promise she isn’t as frightening as she seems,” he smiled hopefully, “I . . . ah . . . I thought you might enjoy –”

“Stay?”

“W-what?”

Yuuri took a deep breath, “You . . . you love dance Viktor . . . so I thought . . . I was wondering . . .”

He looked up at Viktor, whose eyes were wide with anticipation.

“Will you watch?” Yuuri suggested; if Viktor wouldn't dance himself . . . he could watch, and still take part that way . . . that much, at least, he could do.

“You . . . do you really want me to, Yuuri? I . . . I don't have to . . .” Viktor replied; guarded yet eager.

Yuuri smirked; If Viktor wasn't going to offer, then he was going to insist.

“Watch me, Viktor,” Yuuri breathed, tugging harder on the sleeve balled in his fist, “don't take your eyes off me,”

Unbridled shock flashed across Viktor’s features. Yuuri felt very smug, charged with a sudden possessive rush of adrenaline; for once he was the one with the surprise.

“Don't dawdle!” Lilia snapped, breaking Yuuri out of his stupor, “Shoes on! Viktor, sit!”

Yuuri slowly released Viktor’s shirt; glowing as the latter retreated to sit on the stairs, never once looking away from him.

He turned back to the ballroom, to Lilia and the musicians and Minami and his shoes; the music began to sound, and he started his stretching once again, all the while feeling the heavy gaze of those dazzling arctic eyes.

*****

Viktor watched Lilia scold Yuuri from the stairs and sighed; even blushing and beleaguered, Yuuri was perfect.

Practice was in full-swing now, and though Viktor worried Yuuri might tire with two practices in one day, they hadn't been going too long, and Lilia wouldn't push him too hard. Not the first time around, anyway. Today they were only reviewing positions, going over Yuuri’s repertoire, and assessing his level of skill.  

Yuuri was doing well, very well; as nit-picky as the metronome was being, she liked him. Viktor could tell; Lilia had once been his own instructor, after all.

The way Viktor felt being here now . . . being invited to stay . . . literally being stopped in his tracks and having his presence demanded . . .

Was there even an emotion to describe this feeling? Happiness didn't come close to covering the extent of his elation.

And there was more . . . so much more. There was the joy and the wonderment and euphoria . . . the guilt and the melancholy and the misery . . . and the tingly, unnameable rush when Yuuri had pulled on his sleeve, setting him on fire with a few simple words.

“Watch me, Viktor . . . don't take your eyes off me,”

He shivered at the memory.

How could a person feel so many things all at once? How could Yuuri pull all of that out of him? How had he gotten so lucky?

What had he done to deserve Katsuki Yuuri?  

Because Yuuri was here now; the decision was final. There would be no going back; no more second guessing or running away. Yuuri had chosen to stay and showed no signs of regretting it . . . but all the same, Viktor knew that staying meant sacrifice.

Yuuri’s presence here meant that Viktor had hope once more . . . but that same hope came at a cost; and in the end, it wouldn't be Viktor paying the price.

If Yuuri was going to stay . . . if Yuuri was going to be fearless and selfless and set his own dreams aside . . . then Viktor was determined to at least make him happy.

So, he would listen to all of Yuuri’s stories, and watch all of Yuuri’s practices and do anything that Yuuri asked . . . he would make Yuuri’s favourite meals and shower him with little surprises and give him everything he had; his time and his energy and all of his attention. He would give Yuuri his home and his possessions, his resources and his support, his company and his connections, his words and his deeds, his thoughts and his feelings, his head and his heart, his body and his soul; everything Yuuri deserved and more.

Because . . . small and insignificant as it was . . . that much, at least, he could do.

Chapter Text

The world was warm and bright; a soft, hazy fog of fine cotton and silk.

Viktor turned over languidly, gloriously smothered by his ephemeral, downy cloak. He was . . . weightless.

It was so serene here. So peaceful.

Wherever “here” was.

It smelled like summer.

Time stretched and slowed wonderfully as he shifted through the heavenly plane. It was so empty here. So quiet. Nothing at all save the bed he laid upon.

Oh, there was a bed now.

How nice.

He ran a hand over his face, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. He blinked once. Then twice. Then a third time.

This bed was like his bed.

This chamber was like his chamber.

But somehow . . . it was better.

How curious. 

Suddenly, a sound stirred in the empty vacuum of ‘here’.

It was . . . a voice . . .

Viktor knew that voice.

Viktor loved that voice.

“Mmm . . . Viktor . . .”

He turned towards the ethereal sound; beneath him on the bed, nestled between his arms, a soft, sleepy Yuuri had materialized.

“Y-Yuuri?” Viktor whispered uncertainly.

Yuuri sprawled out luxuriously on his back, the view bare and beautiful and beguiling.

At the sound of his name, he graced Viktor with a bright, mischievous smirk.

“Mmm, Viktor . . . c’mere,” he beckoned softly, raising a gentle hand to caress Viktor’s own bare chest; scorching a trail from his smooth, pale collar to his tightly muscled abdomen.

Yuuri’s hand went no further; a tease; a glimpse of things yet to come.

Viktor shivered at the touch; gentleman though he was, he couldn't possibly resist that invitation.

He lifted his own hand to graze the gentle slope of Yuuri’s neck; his touch feather-light.

Yuuri gazed up at him with those big, beautiful brown eyes; a bashful smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Something suggestive danced within his gaze. 

Viktor responded in kind; the tips of his pale, slender fingers traced a teasing trail down Yuuri’s chest to rest at his side.

Yuuri arched into the touch; his hands sweeping up into Viktor’s silky, silver hair. Reverent fingers ran through short, shiny locks; urging Viktor closer.

It was Viktor’s turn to moan. His own alabaster fingertips absently skimmed along Yuuri’s waist in a sweet, affectionate tease; his exploration never ceasing.   

Yuuri slowly reeled Viktor in further, then closed the distance entirely.

“Mmm . . . Viktor . . . Viktor . . .”

If only he could capture this moment forever; the way his name tasted tumbling from those lips.

“Mmm . . . Nnn . . . Vik-Viktor . . . ah! Ahhhh! AH! VIKTOR! AUGH!”

Yuuri’s breathy moans became tortured gasps.

Viktor jerked his head up violently.

Beneath him he saw Yuuri’s beautiful face, contorted in agony . . . and there, running along his side, an infinite cross-cross of angry red wounds.

Viktor was nauseated.

Somehow, his human hands had reverted back to beastly paws; his gentle caresses becoming feral scratches, tearing deep red welts into the flawless skin he so ardently adored. Piercing and puncturing where he had once held on tight.

How.

HOW?

“Aaaaaaaugh! AHHHHH! VIKTOR!”

Screaming.

So much screaming.  

“I . . . I’m sorry . . .”

He was a Beast . . .  a monster . . . nothing more . . .

“I’m sorry . . .”

“VIKTOR!”

Viktor sat bolt upright in bed; gasping for air, his mane damp with sweat.

A . . . a nightmare . . . a bad dream, nothing more.

He tried taking deep breaths to steel himself as he sat alone in his chamber; the night dark and heavy all around his beastly form.

He hadn't actually hurt Yuuri. He hadn't.

Not yet.

Stupid! What a useless, nonsense thing to think. Yuuri was fine . . . he was fine . . . Viktor would never hurt Yuuri.

Not on purpose.

“Stop!” Viktor cried to the empty night, claws tangling tightly in his mane as he squeezed his eyes shut, willing his wicked thoughts away.

No . . . no, everything was going to be fine . . . Yuuri was happy here. Viktor made him happy.

It had been what, a fortnight since Viktor had gifted him the ballroom? Since then, life with Yuuri had been absolute perfection . . . there was no way that Yuuri was unhappy . . .

Right?

Viktor desperately flung the heavy down covers off himself and leapt from his bed. In a sleepy haze, he stumbled over to the little iron side-table by the balcony.

He tore the cover off the crystalline rose case, bracing himself for the worst.

But behind the dazzling diaphanous dome, the rose continued to flourish.

Viktor rubbed at his eyes again, assuring himself that it wasn't merely a trick of the light.

He lifted the glass case off and gently placed it on the ground beside him.

Wonderment filled his sleepy mind as he gazed at the rose. A full quarter of its petals had thawed; eager crimson splashes now littered the icy facade. Even the stem and thorns were starting to look whole and hale once more; sharp green spears piercing through the sleet, reclaiming their rightful home.

Viktor breathed a sigh of relief; the sight a soothing balm to his aching doubt.

He smiled at the rose and carefully replaced both the case and the cover before returning to bed.

He settled in beneath the covers, weary and drained.

Everything was fine . . . Yuuri was safe . . . Yuuri was happy . . .

Maybe . . . maybe a dream was just a dream . . .

*****

Yuuri wandered aimlessly through the castle halls; the plush red runners beneath his shoes muffling his steps as he went, Makkachin plodding along happily beside him.  

He was in no hurry, meandering through the maze of corridors with the dog-stool at his heels; almost pacing in his complacency, pondering where he should look next.

He hadn’t seen Viktor once yet today; he wasn’t in the ballroom or the gardens or his parlor, and Yuuri wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was worried. Ever since the day that Viktor had first shown him the ballroom, they had been nigh inseparable, so for Viktor to suddenly start avoiding him like this . . .

No, that was ridiculous, he wasn’t being avoided. Viktor probably didn’t even know he was being sought after. Viktor must have just . . . forgotten. Or maybe he was caught up in something else. Or maybe . . .

Yuuri’s drifting steps brought him at last to a fork in the hall; a pair of voices echoed along the corridor to the right, growing steadily louder and their owners drew closer.

He smiled to himself; he’d know those bubbly tones anywhere.

Makkachin barked excitedly, bounding over to the approaching accessories.

“Good Morning, Yuuri!” Mila and Sara sang out in unison. Yuuri greeted them in kind; forcing jubilance into his tone that he did not feel in his heart.

It also must have shown on his face.

“What are you doing, wandering around down here?” Mila pouted sympathetically, “You didn’t get lost, did you?”

“You’re a long way from the ballroom,” Sara smirked knowingly.

Yuuri blushed, “Ah, yes. I am. I mean . . . no I’m not lost, but yes, I am wandering . . . I suppose . . .”

He heaved a great, world-weary sigh; might as well tell them the truth. After all, Mila and Sara knew all the castle gossip; maybe they could tell him where Viktor was. “I’ve been looking for Viktor, actually. He said he would be at dance practice again today, but I can’t seem to find him anywhere”.

“Oh! Didn’t anyone tell you?” Sara gasped, “Master Viktor isn’t feeling well, the poor dear”.

“It’s nothing serious,” Mila added, “I guess he just didn’t sleep very well last night, so he’s having a bit of a lie-in this morning”

“Oh . . .” Yuuri breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t being avoided after all.

He immediately felt guilty for his reaction; of course he wasn’t happy that Viktor was unwell . . . but all the same, the anxiety which had settled into the pit of his stomach was now pleasantly abating.

“I’m sure he’ll come find you when he’s up!” Sara chimed, sensing Yuuri’s apprehension.

“Absolutely!” Mila joined encouragingly, “like I said, he’s perfectly fine; he’s just being lazy today”. She smiled sweetly up at Yuuri.

“Of course . . . I should let him get some rest,” Yuuri agreed quickly, smiling at Mila’s little jibe. “So . . . where are you two headed this morning?” he returned, quickly changing the subject.

Mila and Sara shared a brief, pointed look between them, which Yuuri politely ignored.

“Oh . . . nowhere” Mila drawled mischievously.

“I guess . . . you could come with us and find out,” Sara invited, “If you wanted to . . .”

Yuuri looked between the handkerchief and the fan, suspiciously scrutinizing their identical Cheshire grins.

“Well . . . okay. Sounds like fun,” Yuuri relented affably, bending over to let Mila and Sara climb up into his hands.

With Viktor absent, it’s not like he had anything else to do. Besides, how much trouble could the little accessories possibly get him into?

Mila and Sara drifted into his waiting palms eagerly, while Makkachin jumped up playfully; as if she too wanted to be picked up. Yuuri laughed, giving the dog-stool a light-hearted pat, as Mila fluttered up to settle on his shoulder.

Once Makkachin was finally satisfied that she’d gotten enough attention, Sara started to direct Yuuri down the corridors.

After a few turns, he found himself at the top of a vast stone staircase which he had never seen before. It was more than a little ominous, with cold, bare steps leading down to a much darker floor. There were no windows below, and although the elegant sconces along the wall had all been lit, they did nothing to keep the shifting shadows at bay; instead merely bathing the subterranean corridor in a haunting orange glow.

Yuuri hesitated a moment; he hadn't known that the castle had a basement.

“Just down the steps and to the left!” Sara directed merrily, completely unfazed by the sharp change in scenery.

Though uncertain, Yuuri did as he was told. Makkachin raced ahead down the steps, her wooden legs clicking on the stone as she went, while Mila and Sara chatted happily the whole way down.

Despite his reluctance, Yuuri found that the basement floor was really quite nice; not as opulent as the upper floor, but still stately and well-kept. Iron torches replaced golden sconces, and heavy slate replaced polished marble, but there were still runners beneath his feet and decorations along the wall.

Although, down here, the runners were threadbare and worn, and the decorations had a distinctly more intimidating feel. Rather than oil paintings and bejeweled vases, they passed by imposing suits of armour and a vast collection of decorative weapons, dulled and gilded and securely mounted on ornate velvet backings.

Yuuri took it all in, still slightly ill-at-ease.

“So . . . what’s down here, anyway?” He asked lightly; trying to hide his nerves.

“Not much. Just the servant’s quarters, the storage rooms, the wine cellar . . .” Mila listed dryly.

Yuuri nodded; that wasn’t so bad

“. . . and of course, the barracks, the armory . . . and the dungeons,” She finished with a wicked smirk.

Yuuri swallowed hard.

“Mila! Don’t frighten poor Yuuri like that!” Sara chastised jokingly, “Or he won't want to come on any more of our adventures!”

The two accessories snickered; Yuuri gave a good-natured roll of his eyes.

Suddenly, Makkachin ground to a halt in front of them; stopping so abruptly that Yuuri nearly tripped over her.

“We’re here!” Sara cried happily.

Yuuri looked around slowly, dread creeping up his neck. They were right in the middle of an open corridor; there weren’t even any doors nearby.

Where exactly had they taken him?  

“Uhhh . . .” Yuuri started to speak, when a sharp, strident voice erupted out of the gloom.

“Get your hands off my sister, you little rat!”

Yuuri jolted upright, nearly flinging Sara clear across the hall. He swiveled wildly in search of the voice.

“Mickey!” Sara scolded from her flailing perch, “Don’t be so rude!”

Yuuri settled, following Sara’s eyes to the wall on their left. Mounted on the towering gray stone was a gleaming silver shield, pinned to a backdrop of plum coloured velvet. A pattern of precisely-cut amethysts sprawled diagonally across his face; the silhouette of a roaring lion was embossed in black lacquer beneath it.

The shield glowered down at Yuuri with piercing purple eyes.

“Who are you? What the hell do you think you're doing with my sister?” he demanded sharply.

“Uhh . . . I . . .” Yuuri tried to answer, but was distracted by Mila quietly snickering in his ear.

“That’s enough, Mickey!” Sara snapped, leaping from Yuuri’s hand to Makkachin’s back, drawing herself closer to the shield.

“But . . . but Sara” The shield whined, looking down at her with wide, hurt eyes.

“Calm down, Crispino!” Mila snorted, “It’s just Yuuri! You know, the one we’ve been telling you about . . .”

Yuuri sighed; at least now he knew how he’d gotten so popular in the Castle. Mila and Sara must like him even more than he thought, considering how much they apparently talked about him.

The shield continued to pout.  

“Katsuki Yuuri?” A fifth voice suddenly entered the fray, bright and brassy and full of life.

At the sound, Yuuri’s head swung sharply to the right.

A few feet down the wall, just beside the shield, hung an ornate long sword on a backdrop of teal. His shiny steel blade pointed downward; his entire hilt plated with gold. The gilded pommel was decorated with a brilliant turquoise gemstone, and multiple smaller gems of a similar hue ran down the grip in a neat little line. His cross-guard curled elegantly towards his blade at the tips; the fine metal molded into the shape of wings and etched with intricate feathery designs.

Yuuri stumbled back to look evenly between the two; violet shield and teal sword, harsh and bright, hostile and friendly, intense and carefree, grumpy and jovial; as opposite as night and day.

“Ah . . . yes, that’s me,” he answered the sword uncertainly, “Katsuki Yuuri,”

“Wow! It’s such a pleasure to meet you!” The sword beamed, “Emil Nekola, Chevalier, at your service!”

Mila leaned in close to Yuuri’s ear, “They’re knights” she whispered proudly.

“A pleasure,” Yuuri smiled genuinely, bowing to the sword and shield in turn; careful not to jostle Mila too much as he did so.

“And that sorry excuse for a Chevalier is my twin brother, Mickey” Sara sniffed, with a haughty wave at the shield.

“Sara,” The shield groaned, as if her words physically pained him.

“No. You apologize to Yuuri this instant!” Sara scolded, unmoved by her brother’s pleas.

“Oh, it’s alright . . . that’s not –” Yuuri started to object.

“Katsuki Yuuri . . . I . . . apologize for my earlier outburst,” the shield muttered, “Michele Crispino, Chevalier, at your service” 

Yuuri blinked silently; stunned. Now that was unexpected.

“Ah, Th-thank you,” he stuttered, “It’s no problem, don’t worry about it, really –”

“But I do not apologize for defending Sara,” Michele interrupted, “She is my blood, my life, my only sister . . . and I will always protect her. It is my duty, as her brother and a man –”

“Mickey, please!” Sara reprimanded once again, her papery cheeks flushed with embarrassment, “How many times do I have to tell you – ?”

The siblings continued to bicker; their words blurring and mixing and running together as their squabbling echoed down the gloomy hallway. Emil happily shouted over both of them, trying to mediate their little dispute as Mila, rather unhelpfully, dissolved into uproarious laughter. Not one to be ignored, Makkachin suddenly started barking; apparently she too wanted a say in all this.

Yuuri’s shoulders went stiff; so much for not getting him in trouble.

“Don’t worry, they’re always like this,” Mila assured him, still reveling in the chaos.

Yuuri nodded but said nothing; feeling a small pang of envy bloom in his chest as the siblings argued.

Mari . . .

He didn’t protect her; not like he should have.

Not that he could have.

Eventually, the fan and shield both simmered down; Mila stopped snickering, Makkachin stopped howling and Emil remained as chipper as ever.

The Five eventually settled into a less chaotic repartee, and at length, Michele became slightly less suspicious of Yuuri’s intentions. It was Sara who turned the tide; bragging about her brother’s exploits, and making Michele crack a shy, almost imperceptible smile. The Sword and Shield spent the next several minutes regaling Yuuri with tales of their knightly adventures; which had Mila retaliating with embarrassing stories about them from court. Through it all, Sara teased her brother mercilessly.

Yuuri felt another wave of envy, but quickly brushed it aside.

The dim corridor slowly filled with bright, rolling laughter; intimate and uproarious all at once. Yuuri’s mood lifted with his friend’s spirits; enjoying both the stories and company, as raucous as they were.

 Maybe the basement really wasn't so scary after all.

*****

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Vitya!”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“ . . . Vitya! You’ve slept in long enough for one day!”

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“Vitya! DON’T MAKE ME COME IN THERE AND GET YOU!”

Viktor groaned and pulled a floppy pillow over his eyes; smothering the light, and hopefully himself before Yakov could get a hold of him.

His Major Domo could be so cruel sometimes.

Soft grumbling rumbled from the doorway; the tell-tale ‘swoosh’ of the massive chamber doors alerting Viktor that Yakov was, in fact, going to make good on his threats.

Clack, clack, clack, clack.

“Vitya! It’s nearly noon! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Yakov’s voice was now infinitely closer. Viktor didn’t remove the pillow.

“Go away. I’m dead,” he whimpered from beneath the downy shield. 

Silence.

“Are you gone yet?” Viktor drawled, knowing full-well that Yakov remained. He could feel those furious eyes boring into him through the fluffy pillow.

Silence.

Viktor removed the pillow in resignation, flopping his head to the side to pout at the fuming clock.

Yakov stood a foot away from him on the ornamental side-table beside his bed. He did not look impressed.

“So, are you just going to stare at me?” Viktor prodded petulantly.

Yakov sighed, “You’re wasting time,” he explained, finally willing to answer now that the disrespectful pillow-mask had been disposed of.

Viktor pursed his lips, sealing in a snarky comeback.

“Katsuki has been wandering around the Castle all morning . . . looking for you,” Yakov accused, his face unflinching.

A pang of guilt pulsed in Viktor’s chest; that was low, even for Yakov.

“I don’t feel good,” he whined childishly.

“So find Katsuki and ask him to nurse you back to health,” the clock spat unsympathetically.

“You’re so mean,” Viktor grumbled.

Yakov sighed once more, “it was a nightmare Viktor, not the plague” he scolded.

“Meanie,” Viktor reiterated, rolling away from the hostile time piece.

The news of his nightmare had spread quickly through the staff; the castle’s rumor mill working at full speed, as always.

Viktor really should have learned by now . . . never tell Chris anything.

“Vitya . . .” Yakov sighed a third time, sympathy replacing exasperation, “Have you ever considered . . . just telling Katsuki about the spell?”

“I think your gears need a good winding,” Viktor muttered, with no real venom in the jibe.

“My gears are just fine, thank you,” Yakov snapped imperiously, “I think it’s your head that needs a good winding,”

Viktor sat up angrily, turning to the snarky clock.

“What do you want me to do?” he bellowed, frustrated and defeated, “just go up to him and say ‘oh by the way, Yuuri, the Castle is under a terrible spell and you have to fall in love with me right now, or else everyone here will suffer a fate worse than death’? How very romantic,”

“What are you so afraid of, Vitya?” The clock pressed gruffly; his words were harsh, but there was kindness behind them.

“I’m not . . . afraid of anything,” Viktor sputtered indignantly.

“No, of course not,” Yakov drawled sarcastically, “You’re not avoiding Katsuki because of a silly nightmare . . . you’ve just been hiding in your chamber all morning because you enjoy accumulating bedsores,”

“I am not afraid,” Viktor insisted haughtily, “I just . . . Yuuri and I barely know each other. It’s too much too soon. I can’t just put that kind of pressure on him . . . I might as well just ask him to marry me!”

“Seems practical enough”

“Yakov!”

“Well, isn’t that what you want?”

“YAKOV!”

“ISN’T IT?” Yakov demanded, unrelenting in his interrogation.

“Yes!” Viktor snapped, “I mean, no. I mean . . . it’s not that simple . . .”

“Hm,” Yakov frowned, scrutinizing the frustrated prince, “well, this seems like the type of thing you should figure out, Vitya, and quickly”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, it isn’t exactly up to me,” Viktor scoffed miserably, “None of this is. No matter how I feel, no matter what I do, I can't just . . . make him fall in love with me . . .”

“Just talk to Katsuki,” Yakov commanded tersely, “The boy might be naïve, but he isn’t dim, Vitya. He’s going to figure it out eventually . . . all of it”. He gave the Prince a very pointed look.

Viktor heaved a bitter little laugh, “if Chris doesn't tell him first,” he amended morosely.

“I’d be surprised if he hasn’t already,” Yakov huffed.

Viktor nervously wrung his downy comforter in his massive paws.

“Well . . . whatever you decide, Vitya . . . you can’t do anything from in here,” Yakov declared, “Now, up you get . . . can’t keep Katsuki waiting.”

Viktor nodded numbly as Yakov hopped back onto the floor. The stern clock waddled back out into the hall, the signature ‘swoosh’ sounding as the chamber door swung closed behind him.

Viktor groaned.

His nightmare had rattled him more than he realized.

He couldn't tell Yuuri how he felt.

He couldn't tell Yuuri about the spell.

He couldn't let Yuuri see him like this. 

It . . . it would hurt too much. Viktor never wanted to hurt Yuuri, but the truth . . . the truth about how he felt . . . the truth about what he was . . .

How could he tell Yuuri any of it, and expect him to stay?

How could he tell Yuuri any of it, and expect him to understand?

How could he tell Yuuri any of it, and still hope that the beautiful boy might someday fall in love with him?

How could he bring himself to talk about that day? About his horrible mistake? How could he find the strength to confess his failings, face his demons and lay bare all of the hideous desires lurking inside of him?

How could he know if his feelings were even real? How could he be certain that he didn't just think he was in love because he wanted so badly to break the spell?

How could he sleep at night; knowing that in order to save all that he loved, he would be forced to burden Yuuri with the feelings of a miserable beast? How could he bear to present Yuuri with such a disgraceful offering?

How could he hurt Yuuri like that?

How could he ever win Yuuri’s heart under such appalling circumstances?

How could he bring himself to be honest now, after all this time?  

Viktor took a deep breath, before casting off the safety of his covers.

“. . . Can’t keep Yuuri waiting . . .”

*****

In a stony basement corridor, Yuuri was parting ways with his eccentric new friends.

He had decided that Michele really wasn't so bad after all; the shield was really quite pleasant, once he no longer considered Yuuri a threat. And it was impossible not to like Emil; his optimistic outlook was infectious.

“Bye-bye Mickey! Bye-bye Emil!”

“So long! See you soon!”

“I miss you both already!”

“Farewell Sara, please be safe!”  

“Arf, arf, arf!”

Mila, Sara and Emil had erupted into a sweet cacophony of good-byes, as Makkachin protested the idea of leaving at all. Michele was slightly more cordial, but joined in the clamour all the same.

Finally, as the din died down, Yuuri politely bid farewell to the bold, brazen Chevaliers.

He nearly offered to carry Sara back upstairs, but took one look at Michele and thought better of it; deciding that she would be just fine with Makkachin.

Yuuri turned to make his way back down the hall with the dog-stool and her charge at his side. They were barely three steps away, when Michele’s voice echoed after them.

“Sara! Will you . . . come again tomorrow?”

Makkachin stopped; the comforting click-clack of her paws on the stone ceasing, plunging the little group into silence.

Sara turned back to Michele softly, “Of course, Mickey . . . I haven’t missed a day yet, have I?”

“No,” Michele conceded with a melancholy smile, “not one”

Sara nodded, and the little group continued wordlessly back down the corridor towards the vast stone staircase.

At length, they emerged back into the hallway at the top of the stairs, opulent luxury replacing the cold, empty silence of the basement below.

“Thank you for coming, Yuuri,” Sara said quietly, gracefully dismounting Makkachin; Yuuri gently placed Mila back on the ground beside her. “Again, I’m so sorry about Mickey. I only wanted to introduce you two . . .”

“It’s alright,” Yuuri replied gently, “he was just being protective,”

Sara nodded, trying to smile; she looked as weary as Yuuri felt.

“Can I ask . . ?” Yuuri began quietly, not wanting to overstep.

Sara looked to Mila, defeated.

“Michele and Emil . . . they’re . . . stuck down there” Mila explained carefully.

“They can’t . . . you can’t take them off the wall?” Yuuri pressed gently.

Sara shook her head, “No. We’ve tried everything,” she answered wistfully, “But no matter what we do, they won’t budge . . . so instead, I go and visit Mickey every day.”

Yuuri blinked slowly, processing Sara’s words; his confusion dissolving into woe.

“That’s . . . really good of you Sara . . . I, um . . . I’m sorry,”

“It’s alright,” Sara shrugged, “I mean, I’m happy to do it . . . he’s my brother,”

Yuuri nodded, understanding perfectly.

Only weeks ago, he himself had raced headlong into the woods to help his own brother; tracking him to this very castle.

He missed Phichit.

He missed Mari.

Yuuri furrowed his brow, “There’s really no way to get them down?”

Mila shrugged, “No . . . it must be the spell”. 

Sara gave Mila a sharp shove, glaring at her in warning. Mila straightened up, suddenly realizing what she had just said, “I . . . uh . . . I mean . . . they’re just stuck there so tightly, it . . . it’s like they’re under some type of, um, curse . . . you know, like . . . a magic . . . glue”.

Yuuri took pity on the scrambling handkerchief, “It’s alright,” he interjected softly, “I . . . I know about the spell”.

Mila and Sara looked to one another uncertainly, eyes filled with alarm.

“Chris,” Yuuri explained simply.

“Ugh! Chris!”

“He would!”

The accessories moaned in unison.

“What a blabbermouth!” Mila huffed; entirely ignoring the irony in her statement.

Sara looked up at Yuuri with wide, imploring eyes, “So are you . . . does that mean –?”

“Is that why you’re here?” Mila asked bluntly.

Yuuri swallowed hard; his heart stopped and his mind reeled, grasping for some simple way to answer.

But it wasn't simple; not at all. Layers of ‘how’ and ‘why’ stacked on top of one another, like the pages of some great, massive tome; the first installment of an eternal series, housed in an endless library of explanations. 

“I . . . I want to help,” Yuuri confessed at last, nervous under their collective gaze, “I mean, I wish I could help . . . but Chris said that it’s up to Viktor to break the spell . . . that it was something only he could do,”

“He did?” Mila blurted incredulously.

“Because . . . we can't believe he would even say that much!” Sara amended.

“Right! Exactly!” Mila stammered, “That Chris . . . what a scamp!” She finished meekly.

Sara shifted restlessly, “Did . . . did he say anything else?” She pressed.

Yuuri paused a moment, trying to follow the strange, shifting conversation. It took him a few seconds to realize he had been asked a question.

“No . . . not really,” Yuuri answered slowly, “he . . . told me that you were all human once . . . and then the Enchantress . . . um, cursed you, and no one knows why. He told me that . . . no one in the outside world remembers the Castle, or any of you . . . and . . .” Yuuri took a deep breath, “and that if Viktor doesn't break the spell in time . . . it becomes . . . permanent”.

The air was thick with words unspoken.

Mila nodded, “That . . . that pretty well sums it up,” she confirmed mournfully.

“So then . . . if you’re not here to break the spell . . .” Sara wheedled, “why are you here, Yuuri?”

“Well . . . I mean . . . like I said, I wanted to . . . help,” he started uncertainly, “I . . . I couldn’t just leave after everything you’d all done for me . . . and I . . . um . . . I like it here. And I like all of you . . . a lot. You’re my friends”.

Yuuri flushed; was he even making sense at all anymore? Why did it feel like they were all talking in code?

Despite his misgivings, Mila and Sara turned back to one another and smiled, seemingly pleased with his answer.

“Good,” Sara praised with a satisfied smirk, “because we like having you here”.

Mila nodded, “a lot”

Yuuri smiled; sad and confused and grateful all at once.

“Master Viktor likes having you here too,” Sara added knowingly; and just like that, Yuuri was blushing.

Mila and Sara excused themselves shortly thereafter, claiming that they suddenly had somewhere very important to be.

Truth be told, Yuuri did find it a bit suspect, but he didn't press the matter, and the three parted ways amiably. He really did like the sweet accessories; something about them felt like home. So, he made up his mind that whatever was going on . . . there had to be a good reason for keeping him out of the loop.

The Spell seemed to be a painful subject for them both . . . maybe they just couldn't bear to talk about it for too long.

He absently hoped he hadn’t gotten Chris into too much trouble.

Warmth and melancholy mixed together inside Yuuri’s chest. He drifted back out towards the main entryway, with Makkachin still at his side.

It was nearly noon now; perhaps he would go see if Viktor was up yet.

As he passed through the opulent halls, doubt started to nag at the back of his mind.

It was true; he had stayed in the Castle because he liked it here . . . because he loved it here. He had stayed because he had wanted to . . . but all the same, he still had a debt to repay.

There was something he was supposed to be doing; a responsibility that he had been shirking, a task which desperately needed his attention.

Chris’ ominous words came back to him, the ones spoken that first night in the castle.

“The Master is . . . working on borrowed time”.

Yuuri frowned; how could he have been so foolish?

“We’ll be no more than scrap metal . . . the castle will fall to ruin . . . and the Master will remain a Beast for all time,”

How could he have been so selfish?

He should have known better.

Here he was, goofing off, indulging in dance practices and going to tea parties and wasting Viktor’s time, when his poor friend had a spell to break.

Here he was, strolling through the gardens and enjoying incredible meals and exploring the magnificent castle while his friends remained trinkets . . . while Michele and Emil remained hopelessly bound to the basement.

And Yuuri was supposed to be helping.

That’s what Phichit was doing back home right now; toiling away while Yuuri was here, fooling around.

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

Yuuri turned on his heel, re-setting his course for the library.

It wasn't too late.

He would start now.   

He would stop getting distracted.

He would find a way to help.

He would make it up to Viktor.

He would make it up to all of them.

*****

“. . . three weeks . . .”

“J.J. . . .”

“It’s been three weeks!”

“J.J. –”

“NOBODY HAS HAY FEVER FOR THREE WEEKS!”

“J.J., keep your voice down!” Isabella hissed; others in the tavern had started to stare.

J.J. drained his tankard and slammed it down on the table with a loud ‘bang’, ignorant of the eyes following his every movement.

He leaned in close, his chest draping across their little table, “You know what this means?” he seethed, voice low.

“What?” Isabella scoffed, humoring her tipsy companion; she could smell the ale on his breath.

“They lied to us,” J.J. spat venomously, “The rat bastards lied to us!” He threw himself back in his chair with a wobble.

Isabella said nothing. She wanted to protest, but . . . honestly, J.J. had a point. It had been three weeks since anyone had last seen Yuuri; two since she and J.J. had visited The Mad Tinker’s Workshop. Though she was loathe to admit it, it seemed that her obsessive friend was on to something.

“Perhaps it’s a very severe case,” She wheedled, trying to put J.J. at ease; though she herself did not believe a word.

J.J. shot her a knowing look, picked up his tankard for another swill, realized it was empty and then threw his hands up in frustration; the heavy pewter tankard clattering to the ground as he did so.

“They lied,” J.J. declared, full of self-righteous indignation, “and I’m going to find out why.”

He stood up suddenly, his sturdy wooden chair scraping loudly across the tavern floor. Heavy footsteps in heavy boots rang out as J.J. shoved his way towards the exit. Isabella scrambled to follow, tossing a few coins on the table for their pints.

The Tavern door crashed open and J.J. thundered through, marching fiercely down the village streets, towards the small cottage on the hill outside of town.

“J.J.!” Isabella hollered, racing to keep up, “Stop! This is a bad idea! You can’t go see Yuuri right now! You’re too –” 

She latched on tightly to the sleeve of his red coat, yanking his arm and stopping him in his tracks.

J.J. looked from Isabella’s white-knuckled grip to her beet red face.

“I’m not going to see Yuuri,” he growled, “I’m going to see the Tinker,”

J.J. jerked his arm out of Isabella’s grasp, and resumed his mission.

Isabella’s heart raced. She had to follow him; she had to stop him . . . before he did something he would regret.

*****

The Library was a vast, archaic room; silent and unchanging.

Vaulted ceilings gave way to warm, wooden walls as sepia-toned sunlight spilled in through the high, arching windows. Monolithic redwood shelves stood in endless rows; stalwart, age-old sentries housing every tome known to man; the spines of a million stories making infinite rainbows of maroon and navy and emerald and bronze along the sturdy brackets.

To step into the Library was to travel back in time, like entering the temple of an ancient Goddess; serene, yet awe-inspiring in its grandeur.

It reminded Yuuri a little bit of Phichit’s Workshop; the way it smelled like raw wood and polish and leather and parchment.

“Hmm,” Yuuri hummed to himself, sliding another genealogical record off the shelves, studying the forest green cover and embossed lettering.

Satisfied with his find, he gripped the book tightly, swinging his weight on the rolling ladder to fling himself back to the end of the row.

There was a creak and a groan as the old wheels protested the movement, but the ladder held fast, delivering Yuuri to his desired destination.

He popped nimbly off the steps, next to a sleepy Makkachin. At his approach, the dog-stool quickly scrambled up from where she had been laying, loyally following him over to the small sitting area.

It was intimate and cozy; tucked away near the far side of the Library. A circular blue rug lay invitingly beneath four stout leather armchairs; their chestnut upholstery nearly camouflaging them with the shelves. A large fireplace of grey marble and bronze acted as the centerpiece, nestled into the back wall, the seats arranged in a loose circle facing towards it.

Yuuri scrutinized the fireplace. It was bigger than most, even others in the castle; certainly much larger than the one in Viktor’s Parlor. Little brass knick-knacks adorned the mantle, and a small pile of black, unlit coals nested in its open maw. There was no grate, but a set of slim iron pokers hung on a stand nearby.

It would be fine. 

He turned back to peruse the small stack of books that he had already accumulated. They sat on the redwood side table near his chosen seat; furthest from the fireplace, but still close, nearly facing it head-on.

Among his collection were historical accounts, architectural inventories, outdated atlases and even more family records; anything he had judged to be even remotely helpful.

If he could just find out who Viktor really was . . . a rank or a surname or a date of birth . . . then he would at least have some context for when or how or maybe even why the spell was cast in the first place.

At the very bottom of his pile lay a wide, thin book with red binding; a book of Fairy Stories.

He hadn’t been able to locate anything about magic, per se; not that he had expected to find any spell books or tomes of the occult shelved in a Palace Library.

It was worth a read, though. If there was nothing to be gained there, he would move on to the mythology section, perhaps. There had to be answers somewhere; even just something to spark his imagination, or give him some idea of what Viktor might be dealing with.

Hopefully, these would be a good place to start.

He settled into the cushy leather chair, genealogy in hand. Makkachin faithfully padded closer, coming to rest near his feet and contentedly curling up on the ground once more.

“Good girl, Makka,” Yuuri praised absently.

Excited and determined, he flipped open the emerald cover, and started to scan the pages.

One way or another, he would finally get some answers.

*****

In a makeshift workshop on the hill outside of town, Phichit was struggling to keep his eyes open.

It was just Minako and himself today; The Triplets had recently been grounded.

Phichit hadn’t asked why; he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

He flipped a yellowing page irreverently, watching it flap and flutter listlessly onto the workbench beside him.

Minako looked up with a glare; apparently Phichit was making too much noise again.

“Sooor-rry,” he huffed, drawing the word out petulantly.

Minako rolled her eyes and looked back to her files.

They had been at this for weeks now and still had found nothing; they were both tired and frustrated and starting to get on each other’s nerves.

Phichit knew he should be more patient. Minako was his friend, and she was just trying to help. Besides, there was no way they could bring Yuuri home antagonizing one another like this.

He just . . . he missed Yuuri so much. He couldn't stand being in this rut.

Usually his failures were a lot more colourful; but this . . .  this was just disappointment after disappointment, and there was nothing he could do but move on to the next futile page. It was infuriating.

Phichit pouted; this was impossible, they would never break the spell . . . Yuuri was gone forever.

Ok, maybe that was a bit dramatic.

He sighed, hoping his brother was having more luck at the Castle; hoping he was happy there. Hoping The Beast was treating him well . . .

Minako glared at him again; apparently he couldn’t even wistfully exhale in his own workshop!

He pushed himself sharply up from the workbench; stretching his legs would do him some good. One was still stiff and sore from the wolf bite. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Minako demanded, “You’re not making me do this all by myself!”

“Just give me five minutes! Mercy!” Phichit snapped, sounding very unlike himself.

He hated it; the angsty, irritable person he was becoming.

Minako glared again.

“Just . . .” Phichit huffed, trying to be lenient, “let’s . . . let’s both just take a break, alright?”

Minako scowled and dumped her current stack of pages back onto the table; it landed with a loud ‘thud’ and toppled over, pages sliding across the workbench and falling off the sides, fanning out like a deck of cards. 

“I hate this,” Minako spat, as unladylike as Phichit had ever seen her.

“I hate it too,” Phichit agreed sympathetically. His voice was barely a whisper.

They weren’t talking about the paper work.

Minako sighed and stood up with a stretch. She rubbed her eyes wearily, before turning them back to the workbench.

“Only 2 more stacks . . .” She observed sadly.

They had been returning the Tax Forms as they finished with them; making it less likely for any of the files to go missing and in turn, get them caught. They had started with dozens of stacks, and now only two remained.

For Phichit, it was both a relief and a letdown . . . if they didn’t find anything in those last two piles . . .

No, he couldn’t think like that. He wouldn’t.

“We’re . . . we’re certain that there was nothing in any of the files we already put back?” He asked timidly.

Minako looked like she was about to snap, then stopped herself with a deep breath.

“I’m certain,” she replied gently, “We double . . . no, triple checked them all, remember?”

Phichit nodded, though he couldn’t help but worry.

“We’ll find something, Phichit. I promise,” Minako laid a comforting hand on his shoulder; a sign of solidarity.

“You’re right,” Phichit agreed with a confidence he did not feel.

“Come on, back to it, then?” Minako encouraged.

Phichit nodded again, grateful that he was not alone.

The two turned back to the bench and then stopped, looking over the mess of Minako’s sprawling papers.

Minako sighed, “I’ll take these ones,” she offered dully, gathering up some rouge pages which had fluttered to the floor.

Phichit drifted to the other side of the bench, bending over to help corral the wild parchment.

Soft scuffling filled the workshop as they worked; the gentle ‘swish-crunch’ of loose pages cutting through the fog of their exhaustion.

Phichit grabbed up the final form with a ‘whoosh’, crinkling the corner in his fist.

He stopped in his tracks.

“Hey . . . Minako . . .”

The Tutor popped up on the other side of the bench, the papers in her hand still scattered and disheveled. She said nothing, just raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

Phichit squinted at the page in his hand, “What is . . . I mean, where is . . . have you ever heard of a place called . . . Niker . . . Niikiver . . .” he shook his head in frustration, “. . . Ni-ki-for-ov Manor?”

“Um . . .” Minako furrowed her brow, “I . . . I don’t think so. Why?”

“That’s what it says here,” Phichit extended the page towards his accomplice, “look”

Minako snatched the page from his hands, scanning it quickly.

“Nikiforov . . .” She repeated slowly, scrutinizing the page, “Hm. Sounds Northern. I don’t . . . I don’t think I recognize it,”

Phichit held his breath, “Wasn’t . . . wasn’t this Province once Northern territory?” he asked haltingly.

“. . . maybe?”

“Maybe?” Phichit teased, “You’re the tutor, you should know this!”

“I can't remember off the top of my head . . .” Minako objected defensively, “I’ll . . . I’ll have to look it up!”  

“Check the pages! See if it shows up anywhere else!” Phichit suggested eagerly.

Both he and Minako began to rifle through the leaflets in their hands.

“It’s here!”

“Here too!”

“And on this one!”

Phichit and Minako quickly gathered up the rest of the pages and immediately set about putting them back in order.

“There. Right there! That’s where it changes,” Minako stated proudly, her delicate finger pinned to the scrawled line of text, “This year shows all taxes going to the Capitol . . . but this one . . . the year just before . . .”

“Nikiforov Manor,” Phichit finished softly. His stomach flip-flopped violently; he thought he might be sick with excitement. “That’s . . . that’s only about 20 years ago . . .” he gasped, scanning the dates next to the destinations.

“. . . 20 years ago,” Minako repeated wistfully. She shook her head, “And every year before that . . .”

“But . . . if this was only 20 years ago . . . wouldn’t we remember our taxes going somewhere other than the capitol?” Phichit pressed, “Well . . . maybe not me. I was just a baby back then, but you –”

Minako narrowed her eyes in warning

“– you . . . are a brilliant, worldly woman,” Phichit amended quickly, “Wouldn’t you remember something like that?”

Minako swallowed hard.

“. . . not if the spell made me forget . . .”

They looked to one another with wide eyes; simultaneously understanding the implications.

“. . . Mercy,” Phichit breathed softly.

“. . . I think I might be sick,” Minako muttered.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Both Minako and Phichit jumped at the unexpected sound.

Someone was at the door.

“Who the hell –?” Minako cursed.

“Open up, Tinker! Your good friend J.J. needs to speak with you!”

*****

“Mmm . . . nnn . . .”

Yuuri groaned weakly in the emptiness of the Library.

It was warm . . . so warm . . . his neck felt damp, his scalp sticky and sweaty.  Something sharp dug into the side of his face. Everything was dark.

Had he fallen asleep?

And . . . and what was that smell?

Like something . . . burning . . .

Yuuri jolted awake, quickly adjusting his skewed glasses; he gazed in horror at the sight before him.

The world was bathed in red and orange and yellow, sweltering flames licking their way out of the enormous fireplace, creeping ever closer . . .

Yuuri let out a terrified squeak, reflexively retracting his legs up onto the chair; his knees curling into his chest.

When did it . . ? How had it . . ?

No. It was too close. Too close. It was too hot. He couldn’t breathe . . . and that smell . . .

That smell.

Yuuri’s stomach tightened; instantly nauseated. His fingers dug painfully into the toasty arms of the chair, gripping them in a frenzied vice.

No, no, no, no, no . . . this isn’t . . . this wasn’t . . .

He was fine. He was fine. He just had to take a deep breath. He was fine.

Yuuri’s head swam with each inhale; the air reeking of smoke. It made him want to retch. He wrenched his eyes shut and held his breath, petrified. 

“No . . . stop . . . make it stop . . . make it stop . . .” small, unbidden whimpers scurried past his lips.

A soft weight bumped his chair, accompanied by a little whine.

Makkachin.

Makkachin was here . . . Makkachin was here and he was safe. The library wasn’t on fire . . . it was just the fire place. Just . . . just the fire place.

He was fine.

“No . . . no, no, no, no, no . . . make it stop . . . please . . .”

He couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes.

“Arf! Arf, arf!” Makkachin snuffled in closer, rocking the chair ever-so-slightly as she tried to jump up next to Yuuri.

“I . . . I can’t . . . Makka, I can’t . . .” Yuuri wailed, tears now rolling down his cheeks.

It was so hot. Too hot. Too much smoke. He couldn’t breathe . . . he couldn’t breathe . . .

Eventually, the soft weight against the chair ceased its assault; Makkachin let out another small whine. 

“Make it stop . . . makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop . . .” 

“Arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, awoo!”

‘Clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’ . . .

Makkachin was leaving; racing towards the Library doors in a frantic fit of howls.

Yuuri squeezed the chair tighter.

Makka was gone. Makka was gone.

Shit . . . shit!

Ok . . . that was fine. He was fine. The Library wasn’t on fire.

It was just the fireplace.

All he had to do was stand up and leave.

Just . . . just open his eyes and stand up and leave . . . and he would be fine.

Yuuri slowly forced his eyes open, holding his breath as best as he could.

Red orange yellow too bright too bright too hot too hot can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t . . .

Yuuri’s eyes snapped shut with a shaky exhale.

Tears continued to trail down his cheeks; sweat began to drip down his brow.

“Make it stop . . . please, someone make it stop . . .”

Yuuri braced himself more securely; he . . . he would just have to wait. Sit tight and wait it out. Try not to breathe. Try not to look. Try to calm down. Just sit and wait. It was just the fireplace. It couldn’t burn forever. It couldn’t. It couldn’t. It . . .

‘Clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’ . . .

“Arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, awoo! Arf, arf, arf, arf!”

. . . Makkachin?

“Yuuri? YUURI!”

Suddenly the air around him cooled ever-so-slightly, a massive shadow blocking out the scorching flames beyond his barricaded eyes.

“Yuuri!”

Yuuri sucked in a fluttering breath; everything still stank of smoke.

“Yuuri? What’s wrong? Are you ok? What happened?”

Too many questions. Too hot. Too loud.

“Yuuri? YUURI? Answer me, Yuuri!”

No. No. Can’t. That voice. Too loud. Too hot. Too Loud. Too hot. Too hot. Can’t . . . can’t breathe can’t speak can’t move can’t . . .

“Arrrrwwww,” A loud whimper from Makkachin.

“Mmmmm-ma-make i-it st-st-st-st-stop,” Yuuri managed at last.

“What? Yuuri I can’t . . . I don’t . . . make what stop?”

“. . . f-f-f-f-f-f-f-ire . . . m-make it st-stop . . .”

The cool shade vanished abruptly, dousing Yuuri once more in the sweltering light.

Schwing-swoosh-flutter-whoosh-stamp-stamp-stamp-stamp-crunch-creeeeeeeeeek

With each sound the light grew dimmer; the world cooling bit-by-bit.

It still smelled like smoke; like ash and fear and death.

“Yuuri . . ?”

Yuuri couldn’t answer, all his energy focused on sucking air back into his lungs. Great, heaving gasps rushed past his lips as he clamored for calm, rattling him to his core.

“ . . . Yuuri . . . it . . . it’s out now. It’s . . .”

Yuuri nodded mutely; he just . . . he just needed a minute.

His lip quivered and he bit it instinctively, residual shock thrumming through him in waves as adrenaline continued to roar through his veins.

“. . . Yuuri . . ?”

He strained to open his eyes, at last coming face to face with a terrified Viktor.

He was kneeling on the floor in front of the chair, eyeing Yuuri with concern and wary uncertainty, like he was expecting him to explode at any second.

Shit. Shit fuck damn it.

 He . . . he couldn't let Viktor see him like this. He couldn't let Viktor come to his rescue. Not this time.

He pried his fingers slowly off the arms of the chair, hands shaking as he pulled them close to his chest; trying to be as small as possible . . . trying to disappear.

Tears tingled at the edge of his vision; he quickly tucked his chin to his chest, burying his face behind his knees. His glasses pressed painfully on the bridge of his nose. A great wet sob escaped before he could stop it.

“Yuuri . . .” Viktor cooed softly, gently patting the top of his knee.

“Don't,” Yuuri bit out sharply; the word muffled, but the meaning clear as day.

Viktor yanked his paw away as if it had been burned; Yuuri hoped his shame would kill him right then and there.

Makkachin whined again.

“I . . . I’m sorry, Yuuri . . . I’m not very good with people crying . . .”

“I’m not crying,” Yuuri lied, slowly starting to unfurl himself, refusing to meet Viktor’s searching gaze.

He had to get out of there.

“. . . just tell me what to do,” Viktor offered, his voice on the edge of breaking.

Yuuri shivered, experimentally stretching out his limbs; Viktor stood to give him some space.

Yuuri swallowed hard. Everything felt off . . . heavy and . . . wrong; like he wasn't in his own body anymore. It was almost worse than the panic attack itself.

He needed to go. He needed to go now.

“That’s okay. It’s . . . it’s nothing. It’s fine. I’m fine,” he rambled, slowly pushing himself to his feet, little tremors still wracking his limbs. He felt like he was floating.

By the look on Viktor’s face, he clearly did not believe him.

“Yuuri,” he pressed gently, “Please . . . tell me what’s wrong . . .”

“Nothing, it’s okay now. It’s fine. It’s good. Thank you though. I’m alright. I’m fine,” Yuuri started to back away, when something rich and regal caught his eye.

Viktor’s claret cape was stuffed into the fireplace; crumpled up and doubled over, singed and covered in ash and reeking of smoke. 

He had put out the fire . . . by smothering it with his favourite cape.

Yuuri’s eyes filled with tears once again.

Viktor followed his sullen gaze.

“I . . . I didn't have anything else,” he explained gently.

Yuuri didn't hear him. “Your . . . your cape,” he whimpered helplessly.

“It’s just a cape,” Viktor assured him quickly.

“Your . . . favourite cape,”

“It’s just a cape, Yuuri,”

“But . . . but . . .”

“It’s alright. I’ll get another one, Yuuri”

“I . . . I . . . I’m s-so s-s-sorry,”

“Yuuri!” Viktor moved to touch him again, and then quickly thought better of it, “Yuuri . . . it’s . . . it’s just thread and fabric . . . it’s not that special. You are much more important than –”

“I’m sorry!” Yuuri wailed, turning on his heel and taking off towards the Library doors; brain foggy and body drained.

Viktor’s voice echoed after him.

“Wait! Yuuri! Stop! It’s . . . it’s alright! Please!”

But Yuuri did not stop, he ran from the Library, back towards the safety of his chamber, sprinting the entire way.

*****

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“Hide the forms!” Phichit ordered, adrenaline racing through his veins.

No, no, no . . . this was not happening. Not now!

Minako scrambled to gather up the delicate pages, quickly sweeping them off the workbench with the other stacks and dropping them into an empty barrel.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“Tinker! TINKER!”

Phichit jolted, then took a deep breath before responding.

“Yea, yea, I’m coming! Keep your shirt on!” he hollered angrily.

He slowly made his way over to the door, forcing himself to stay calm. His leg twinged a bit when he put weight on it, and he still had a bit of a limp, but he no longer needed his crutches.

Phichit took another deep breath, steeling his resolve; he had already faced down a pack of wolves, after all . . . surely he could stand up to J.J.

Yuuri was counting on him; he couldn’t let his brother down. 

He leaned all his weight on the door, hauling it open after one last look at Minako. She had covered the barrel with some scrap wood and was now sitting back at the workbench, idly playing with her hair; the very picture of innocence.

The barn door squeaked horrifically as it rolled on its rail; Phichit made a mental note to oil it later.

J.J.’s crimson visage came into view. Isabella hovered close behind.

Typical.

“What do you want?” Phichit snapped venomously.

“Where. Is. Yuuri?” J.J. demanded through gritted teeth, his words slow and deliberate.

“This again?” Phichit sighed in exasperation, “We already told you, he has –”

“NOBODY HAS HAY FEVER FOR THREE WEEKS!” J.J. roared, forcing his way into the workshop. Phichit stumbled as he pushed past.

Isabella hung back by the door like the last time; however, unlike last time, she did not lean lazily against the frame. Instead she remained alert and focused, her eyes never once leaving J.J.; watching him like a wild animal.

“You lied to me,” J.J. growled, his furious gaze boring into Phichit. He was quieter now, but his tone had a dangerous slant to it.

Phichit didn’t give an inch, “I’d like to see you prove it,”

J.J. savagely snatched up a broken chair leg from the massive pile of debris, holding it menacingly in his meaty fist, “I want the truth RIGHT NOW, you little – ”

“How many times do I have to tell you NOT to touch ANYTHING in my Workshop?” Phichit hissed, staring J.J. down with all the fury in his lithe little body.

J.J.’s face contorted with rage as he brandished the chair leg.

Phichit tensed, closing his eyes and bracing for impact . . .

. . . but the blow never came.

Phichit cautiously blinked his eyes open; just in time to see Isabella lunge forward and yank the makeshift club right out of J.J.’s hand.

She said nothing, just glared at the other hunter, giving him a small shove as she returned the chair leg to the scrap pile; tossing it roughly on top the other detritus with a loud ‘clang’.

J.J.’s eyes never left Phichit.

The air was thick and suffocating in the aftermath.

Phichit gaped at Isabella, Isabella glared at J.J., J.J. scowled at Phichit. Minako raised an eyebrow and sat up straighter, calmly re-adjusting her skirt as she did so.

Eventually, Isabella smacked J.J. lightly on the arm, a signal that they should leave. When J.J. didn’t move, she tugged sharply on his lapel.

Still, J.J. did not move.

“You lied to me,” He accused softly.

“Yea, I wonder why,” Phichit scoffed sarcastically.

“I want the truth,” J.J. demanded miserably, “and I’m not leaving until I get it”

Isabella rolled her eyes, looking to Phichit with a weary expression that said, “Just tell him so we can go already”

Stubbornly digging his heels into the packed earth beneath him, Phichit refused to give an inch, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Phichit,” Minako beckoned; her tone was light and unhurried, as if Phichit hadn’t almost just been beaten to a pulp, “I think we’ve had enough trouble for one day. Let’s just tell him, shall we?”

Phichit’s jaw dropped; gaping at Minako in disbelief.

Minako just smiled back; a clever little curl of the lip.

. . . oh.

J.J.’s gaze finally left Phichit, and had now turned on the cordial tutor suspiciously.

Phichit looked from the gracious Minako to the weary Isabella to the volatile J.J.; he didn’t know what Minako had planned . . . but he had no choice but to trust her. 

“Fine,” he sighed rigidly. His arms dropped back to his sides, and he slowly limped back over to the workbench to rest his aching leg; pushing his nerves down once more and praying that J.J. could not hear the hammering of his heart.

“You lied to me,” J.J. accused once again; this time addressing Minako.

“Yes, J.J., we lied to you,” Minako confessed bluntly; not at all repentant or contrite.

Phichit tried to stay calm.

Trust Minako. Trust Minako . . .

“I knew it!” J.J. cried victoriously, “Yuuri doesn’t have hay fever! He never had hay fever!”

“No. Yuuri never had hay fever,” Minako confirmed calmly.

“Then, where is he?” J.J. demanded once more, “If he’s been hurt, I swear –”

“Yuuri is just fine,” Minako interrupted coldly, her words frosting over with impatience.

“Then where is he?” J.J. grit out slowly. Isabella never took her eyes off him.

“Yuuri is gone,” Minako answered candidly.

Phichit’s hands curled into fists.

What was she doing?

“G-gone?” J.J. stuttered, “Gone where?”

Phichit held his breath.

“To The City, of course,” Minako replied simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “honestly, J.J. where else would he go?”

Phichit let out the breath he had been holding. He still wasn’t entirely certain where Minako was going with this, but all that mattered now was that J.J. bought it. 

J.J. deflated ever-so-slightly, “Well . . . when is he coming back?” he asked desperately. A flash of sympathy lit up Isabella’s eyes.

“Hopefully never,” Minako answered jovially.

“Wh-what? How can you –?” J.J. blustered.

“Because,” Minako interrupted sharply, “Yuuri has gone to The City to follow his dream of being a dancer and I for one want him to succeed,”

J.J. opened and closed his mouth indignantly, working to find his words; gaping like a big floppy fish.

“You couldn’t have just told us all this in the first place?” Isabella droned wearily.

“Yuuri asked us to keep it a secret,” Minako explained, coloring her voice with melancholy, “You see . . . he only has enough funds to support himself for three months in The City . . . if he doesn’t make it by then . . .”

“He’ll lose his chance. He’ll have to come home,” Phichit finished morosely; catching on to Minako’s game, “He, um . . . he didn’t want anyone to know. He didn’t want to get everyone’s hopes up, just in case things . . . didn’t work out,”

“He’s always been a nervous guy,” Minako added wistfully, “so, we promised not to say anything,”

“Yuuri and I . . . we’ve been saving up for years,” Phichit piled on, drenching his tone in heartache, “I just . . . I wish I could have given him more time. I wish . . . that I had done more.”

Ok, so maybe he wasn’t really acting now; not entirely. 

Phichit wrung his hands sadly.

It was perfect, in a devastating kind of way; if he and Minako were able to break the spell and bring Yuuri home, they could just make it seem like things hadn’t worked out in The City. But . . . if they couldn’t break the spell . . . if Yuuri never came back . . . then they could say that he had made it, that he had gotten his big break and was living his dream at last . . .

And then . . . at least they could pretend to be happy that he wasn’t here.

Minako cleared her throat demurely, snapping Phichit back to reality.

“I’m actually quite surprised you didn’t know all of this already, J.J.” Minako drawled savagely, “Considering your . . . feelings for Yuuri, I had assumed that the two of you were very close.”

J.J.’s face crumpled in shame. He looked so much like a kicked puppy . . . Phichit almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

“He . . . he’s really gone?” J.J. whispered, broken and defeated.

“Yea,” Phichit murmured, “he’s really gone”

J.J. closed his eyes reflexively, and let out a deep sigh.

“Alright,” he relented at last, his voice cracking on the word. With a nod to Phichit and Minako, he turned to leave. Isabella frowned.

“Wait! J.J.!” Phichit gasped suddenly.

The Hunter turned back around to face him slowly.

“Don’t . . . don’t tell anyone, alright?” Phichit begged, “Please? For Yuuri?”

It wouldn’t do for J.J. to go spreading their lie to the whole town, after all.

“Yea,” J.J. agreed sadly, “And . . . I, uh . . . I’m sorry,”

Phichit visibly flinched, but caught himself before the cringe spread all the way to his face, “Yea . . . yea, thanks” he muttered.

J.J. quickly turned back around, practically fleeing the workshop.

Isabella lingered a moment more.

“For what it’s worth . . .” She sighed, “J.J. really does care about him,”

“I’m sure he does,” Minako replied graciously.

“But personally,” Isabella continued, “I hope I never see Katsuki Yuuri again,”

Minako huffed a little laugh, “Me either” she agreed, “Not unless I’m in The City”.

Isabella smiled, then followed J.J.’s earlier path, through the Workshop door and out into the rolling hills beyond.

She slid the barn door closed behind her.

A few moments of tense silence followed, before Phichit let out a heavy sigh, practically collapsing in on himself.

“Thank mercy they bought it,” He murmured quietly. He turned to face Minako, who was still staring at the barn door, as if the hunters might return any second. “You’re brilliant, you know,” Phichit praised sincerely.

Minako shivered, then quickly looked to Phichit with a mischievous grin, “I know” she chirped proudly.

Phichit rolled his eyes playfully; some things never changed.

“What if they go looking for Yuuri in The City?” he quipped, only half-joking

Minako shrugged, “Well, I guess they’re The City’s problem, then” she returned with a chuckle.

Phichit burst out laughing; it felt so good to joke around again, especially since he’d nearly been on the wrong end of a broken chair leg. He really needed to be more careful about provoking J.J.

“Now then . . .” Minako drawled, still smiling “let’s see if we can find anything else on this Nikiforov Manor”

*****

The world was gray and muffled; blurred by smoke and tears and shame.

Yuuri lay in bed, curled up on his side on top of the covers, staring blankly at the far wall with the bookshelf and the cozy blue chair and the little white marble fireplace. Everything felt numb and heavy; and though he was now thinking clearly, back in his own head after his panic attack, the guilt of his earlier humiliation thoroughly pinned him in place. 

He’d been lying here for, what? Minutes? Hours?

He supposed it didn’t matter.

The sky outside his windows was starting to grow dark.

Georgi was thankfully asleep; the fewer witnesses, the better.

He bitterly wondered how long this little incident would take to become the latest castle gossip.

‘Tap’, ‘tap’, ‘tap’.

Yuuri ignored the soft knocking at his door; he couldn’t bring himself to face Viktor.

Not now; maybe not ever.

‘Tap’, ‘tap’ . . . ‘tap’.

Each knock was like a nail to his heart; hammered into place with shame.

“Oi, Katsudon . . . you awake?”

Oh . . . it wasn’t Viktor at his door after all . . . it was Yuri.

What was he doing here?

Yuuri pushed himself up stiffly, sitting stone-faced on his bed, feet dangling off the side.

He took a deep breath.

“Yea . . . yea, I’m awake. Come in,” he called, as evenly as he could.

The chamber doors slowly swung open, and Yuri rattled in on his little tea-cart.

It was set up beautifully, the shiny silverware all lined up in proper order with a white cloth napkin, crown-folded and propped up on the left. In the middle, a covered plate sat next to a teapot with a matching teacup. A nice, big glass of water stood near the right edge. Above the plate, a cheerful daisy floated in the bottom half of a salt-shaker; an ingenious little makeshift vase.

Yuri rolled to a stop in front of him; the tea-cup looked put-out, as usual.

“. . . Grandpa heard you weren’t at dinner,” he mumbled, by way of explanation.

Yuuri’s heart flooded with both warmth and remorse; he hadn’t realized he’d missed dinner. This . . . this was so kind. He hoped Nikolai hadn’t gone to too much trouble.

“Are you just going to sit there, or are you going to eat?” Yuri drawled impatiently.

Yuuri snapped back to reality, nodding quickly, “Um. Yes. Yes, th-thank you. This is . . . really nice of him,”

Yuri rolled his eyes, “we’ll, yea, he’s not just going to let you starve,” he scoffed.

Yuuri nodded, holding back grateful tears.

“What’s wrong with you?” Yuri drawled, “You’re acting weird,”

“Ah! It’s nothing, I’m fine,” Yuuri lied, earning himself a glare from the surly teacup.

In an effort to change the subject, Yuuri gingerly reached forward to lift the silver cover off the thick porcelain plate.

“Ah . . . pirozhki!” Yuuri exclaimed, as he eyed the tasty spread; a small smile sneaking onto his face despite his gloomy demeanor.

“Eat,” Yuri commanded gruffly.

“What? Right now?”

“Yes, now!”

Yuuri didn’t want to be rude, eating in front of Yuri while he just sat there on the tray; but he also didn’t want to invoke the teacup’s wrath, so he quickly snatched up the topmost pirozhki and took a bite. It was still warm and the fresh-baked pastry smelled amazing. 

Yuuri’s eyes lit up, “Hey, there’s rice in here . . . pork and egg too! Wait . . . is this . . ?”

“Da! Grandpa came up with it himself! Aren’t they great?” Yuri opined proudly.

And . . . and was he smiling?

He was. Yuri was actually smiling.

“Yea! Vkusno!” Yuuri agreed, gratefully devouring the rest of the pirozhki and immediately picking up a second. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was.

As he ate, Yuri lounged on the tea cart; his eyes glazing over with boredom. He must have been hanging around so he could take all the dishes back, without making more than one trip.

Yuuri quickly stuffed down the other pirozhki, not wanting to keep the teacup waiting too long. It was a delicate balance, savoring the amazing meal while still consuming it quickly.

He was on his last one when Yuri spoke once more, breaking the awkward silence which had fallen between them.

“So, why did you miss dinner anyway?” He asked, his tone disinterested and flat, “you sick or something?”

Yuuri smirked, “Why? Were you worried about me?” he joked, attempting to deflect from the real issue.

“No,” Yuuri huffed, “Just wondering why I had to drag dinner all the way up to your room, that’s all,”

Yuuri had finished the last pirozhki now; swallowing stiffly.

“Um . . . thanks, by the way. I appreciate it,” he replied softly, unfolding the napkin to wipe his fingers.

“What is with you? Why are you being so weird?” Yuri demanded, scrutinizing Yuuri more closely, “I mean, you’re always weird, but this is like . . . weird, weird . . . not normal, Katsudon weird”

The words were haughty and imperious, but Yuuri swore there was some concern in there as well.

“It’s nothing,” Yuuri whispered, “Just . . . had a bad day I guess,”

“I figured that much,” Yuri snapped impatiently, “Viktor’s all sulky too. You assholes get into a fight?”

Yuuri flinched, but didn’t answer; the guilt had returned now, worse than ever.

Viktor’s cape was ruined and it was all Yuuri fault; because he couldn’t keep it together, because he was weak, because he –

“And . . . I heard you burned yourself on the fireplace or something?”

Yuuri closed his eyes and hung his head; so much for keeping this afternoon off the radar.

“I . . . um . . . I mean . . . we’re not fighting . . . exactly,” Yuuri sighed, forcing himself to look at the teacup.

Yuri raised a callous brow, silently ordering the other boy to continue.

“I . . . I fell asleep in the library . . . and when I woke up the . . . the um . . . fireplace was lit, and . . . and I wasn’t expecting it . . . and I . . . panicked,” Yuuri explained numbly; it sounded weak, even to his own ears.

Yuri’s eyes narrowed; he glared at the human for a long, silent minute.

“So . . . what? You’re . . . you’re like, afraid of fire?” he puzzled slowly.

“No,” Yuuri shot petulantly, “Not . . . really . . .”

Yuri gaped at him like he had grown another head, “That’s stupid, Katsudon, even for you,” he huffed derisively.

Yuuri nodded, shamefaced.

Yuri was right; he was weak and stupid and –

“I mean,” Yuri continued with snarky little laugh, “You’re more afraid of fire than Viktor? That’s just . . . weird,” 

Yuuri blinked at the teacup, silent and confused.

“What?” Yuri snapped defensively, “You weren’t afraid to chase your brother into the woods and you weren’t afraid to stay in this creepy castle and you weren’t afraid of being friends with a gross, disgusting beast . . . and somehow you’re still not sick of Viktor’s stupid face yet . . . and it’s just weird that you can do all that, but still be scared of a harmless little fireplace, okay?”

Yuuri let out a shaky laugh; he supposed that was almost a compliment.

“Ugh, what are you doing? Why are you laughing?” Yuri groaned, rolling his eyes.

Yuuri looked back to his indignant companion, “Thanks Yuri,” he said quietly.

“Whatever, weirdo” the teacup drawled haughtily, “Just . . . just don’t miss dinner and freak everyone out like that again, okay?”

Yuuri smiled as the teen scowled; the atmosphere now warm and amiable . . . maybe even friendly.

“I won’t” Yuuri promised.

“Or if you’re gonna be scared, at least be scared of something that actually makes sense,” Yuri rambled, “like thunderstorms,”

“. . . thunderstorms?” Yuuri asked knowingly, mischievously raising his eyebrows at the little teacup.

Yuri’s eyes went wide with alarm, “Yea. You know . . . like . . . like Beka. He’s the one that’s afraid of thunderstorms. I'm not afraid of anything,” he quickly corrected.

Yuuri smirked, “Otabek is afraid of thunderstorms?” he teased, seeing right through Yuri’s lie. 

“Yea, but . . . but don’t say anything to him about it,” Yuri stammered, “He’ll just deny it. Because . . . you know . . . it’s personal,”

Yuuri relented, taking pity on the little china mug, “I’ll keep it to myself”, he promised.

“Yea . . . yea, you’d better,” Yuri replied tightly, his tough, callous demeanor returning once more. “Anyway, if you’re finally done I’ll take these back to the kitchen,” he muttered.

Yuuri nodded, and the teacup began to depart with a huff.

But when he got to the doorway, the little cart slowed to a stop; Yuri spoke, but did not turn back to face him.

“Hey . . . Katsudon?”

“Yea?”

“You’re . . . you’re fine now, right?”

Yuuri nodded, even though the teen couldn’t see it, “Yea. Yea I am,”

“You could . . . go tell Viktor that. If you want,”

Guilt slapped Yuuri across the face.

“I . . . yea, I know” he agreed sadly.

Yuri paused a moment more, then swiveled around angrily, “Ugh, what’s your problem now?” he snapped, facing Yuuri with a full glower.

“Viktor . . . found me in the library and used his cape to put out the fire,” Yuuri confessed, his words rushing together as he spoke.

Yuri raised a skeptical eyebrow, “so?”

Yuuri’s lip quivered, “So . . . it’s . . . it was his favorite cape, and . . . and now it’s ruined and it’s all my fault, and I’m just . . . I don’t know how to . . . I don’t know what to say”

“Oh, spare me!” Yuri chastised, rolling his eyes, “You know the guy owns a castle, right? He’s not going to cry over one stupid cape when he has like, a billion more in his closet. Yeesh,”

Yuuri snorted, but didn’t say anything in response. It wasn’t just the cape bothering him of course . . . but he had to admit the teen certainly did have a unique way of looking at things.

“Ugh. You two idiots are perfect for each other,” Yuuri scoffed, “you’re both completely hopeless,”

Yuuri was about to retort, but . . . something about the way the teacup had phrased his sentence nestled warmly inside his chest. He and Viktor were “perfect for each other” . . . it was strange to hear, but also kind of . . . nice.

Even if they were both “hopeless idiots”.

Yuuri supposed maybe he was being a bit foolish.

“Just . . . just go talk to Viktor. Or don’t. Or whatever. I don’t care,” Yuri finally declared with a little huff, rolling out of Yuuri’s chamber and into the hall, the towering door swinging closed gently behind him.

The latch on the door caught with a soft ‘click’ and Yuuri was left alone in the silence.

He sat there rigidly for a minute, digesting the pirozhkis and Yuri’s advice.

He knew he couldn’t hide from Viktor forever. It wasn’t fair to him; he deserved to know that Yuuri was okay now.

He deserved to know what had happened.

And why.

All he could do now was trust Viktor to understand.

*****

Viktor sat alone in his dark, empty parlor.

His leg bounced rapidly, releasing his pent-up feelings in a hail of nervous energy. His ears lay against his mane, flat and apprehensive; his muzzle sporting a worried pout.

Bathed in the soft glow of his own fireplace, he stood up suddenly; reflexively pushing himself out of his chair and sending shadows sprawling across the walls.

He had to go check on Yuuri; he had to know if he was okay.

Viktor immediately sat down.

No . . . no, just give him space. Give him time. Let him be.

Maybe he should send someone else to go check on Yuuri . . . maybe Masumi would, or Mila . . .

No . . . no, just give him space. Give him time.

Unless . . . unless Yuuri wanted Viktor to come to him? Needed Viktor to come to him?

He shot out of his chair once more, pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace.

No . . . He couldn’t go to Yuuri. He didn’t even know what was wrong. He would just ruin everything again.

Memories of the past afternoon flashed before his eyes; Makkachin racing to find him, wailing like a banshee as she led  him to the Library . . . and . . .

Seeing Yuuri there, his body so tense, teary eyes closed, murmuring in fear . . .

Viktor had handled it so poorly; he hadn’t been thinking clearly, he had just panicked and made everything worse. Stupid.

And then Yuuri was crying again; apologizing and running away.

Why?

Viktor stopped, gazing into his own little fire, past the singed grate at the leaping flames beyond.

He didn’t even know what had happened. What had scared Yuuri so badly? Was . . . was he afraid of fire? How was Viktor supposed to know . . ?

He scrunched his brows, thinking hard.

The feast . . . on the first night . . . hadn’t Yuuri had turned back to blow out the candles in the dining room? And on the day that Viktor had first shown Yuuri the ballroom . . . hadn’t he specifically declined to have a fire in this very parlor?

How . . . how had Viktor not noticed that?

Now that he thought about it, he didn’t think Yuuri had ever requested a fire . . . and he had never asked for any wood or tinder for the fireplace in his own chambers. He never chose seats near candles or fireplaces; never stood too close if he could help it . . . and, sometimes, when Chris ignited his own enchanted flames unexpectedly, Yuuri seemed to flinch away.

They were small things . . . nearly imperceptible details. But he should have realized . . . he should have seen . . . he should have done more . . . he should have kept Yuuri safe . . . he should have protected him . . .

He deserved every nightmare he got.

‘Tap’ . . . ‘tap’, ‘tap’ . . .

A soft, reticent knock sounded from the door.

“Come in” Viktor called absently, still ruminating on his failures.

“I . . . ah . . . I thought I might find you in here,”

Yuuri.

Viktor quickly swiveled around to face him; a thousand questions perched on the tip of his tongue. But as he took in Yuuri’s sullen eyes and heavy shoulders, there was only one answer he cared about.

“Yuuri . . . How are you?”

The words were gentle and sincere, but not laced with pity; as if Yuuri had merely recovered from a cold, and not . . . whatever this afternoon was . . .

“Better,” Yuuri answered quietly, wringing his hands. Viktor wanted nothing more than to take them in his own.

Yuuri continued, soft and determined “I just wanted to . . . um, apologize. And . . . and to thank you. For earlier,” he murmured.

Viktor shook his head vigorously, “No, Yuuri, I . . . I’m happy to . . . you don’t have to apologize for anything,” he insisted.

“I . . . I do, actually,” Yuuri replied, finally looking Viktor in the eye, “I’m sorry for not telling you sooner, about . . . everything. I’m sorry your cape is ruined . . . and I’m sorry for snapping at you and . . . running away like that. I’m sorry for not being honest with you . . . and . . . and I’m sorry if I . . . worried you . . .”

“Y-Yuuri . . .”

“Is it alright if . . . I mean, I think I need to . . . can we . . . talk about it?”

Viktor’s face softened, he felt like he might cry any second, “Of course we can,” he whispered.

Yuuri took a deep breath and nodded resolutely. Viktor turned to take a seat, only to be greeted by his own roaring fireplace.  

“Uh, I can . . . I’ll just . . . um . . . put this out . . .” He offered uncertainly.

Yuuri was beside him now; staring at the flames along with him.

“No,” Yuuri quietly declined, “It’s okay,”

And . . . and he seemed to mean it. He was breathing normally, he wasn't shaking or stuttering or flinching away. He seemed to be at peace.

Yuuri nodded for Viktor to sit, so he did; sinking slowly into his magenta armchair. Yuuri sat across from him on the plum coloured bench; on the far side, away from the fire.

He . . . he really seemed alright, but . . .

“Are . . . are you certain you wouldn't like me to . . ?” Viktor let the question hang, unfinished.

“I’m certain,” Yuuri affirmed, more confidently this time, “It’s . . . small. And the grate is up . . . and I’m . . . prepared for it . . .

Viktor nodded, deferring to Yuuri’s judgement.

If Yuuri said he could handle it, then Viktor believed him.

The sweet boy continued on, “. . . and . . . and you’re here with me . . . so . . .”

Viktor nearly crumbled.

They sat in silence for a minute; Viktor trying not to push, wanting to let Yuuri start so he could follow the other’s lead. He was acutely aware just how far out of his element he was now.

At last, Yuuri spoke.

 “I . . . um, sometimes . . . sometimes I get these . . . the healer called them ‘panic attacks’. It’s . . . it’s just the way that my body sometimes reacts when I . . . feel like I’m in danger. When it happens, I can't calm myself down . . .  I can't really think straight, I . . . my body just physically responds . . . and that’s what happened this afternoon,”

Viktor mulled over Yuuri’s confession for a moment, choosing his next words carefully, “Does it . . . is it painful? Are you hurt? Do you . . . need . . . anything?”

To be honest, he still didn't quite understand . . . Viktor held his breath, hoping he had not said anything upsetting.

Yuuri’s face softened slightly, a bit of the tension fading. Had he been bracing for a rejection?

“I’m not . . . injured or anything like that, no” He explained slowly, “I mean . . . they’re not pleasant, but they won’t . . . I don't need a doctor or anything. Mostly when I get them I just . . . feel like I can't breathe. My heart races and I can't really speak or control my thoughts . . . and sometimes I feel nauseated or dizzy. But they don't usually last for too long, not for me anyway . . . and once it passes, I’m . . . I’m mostly fine. Usually just . . . embarrassed. I . . . I actually don't get them very often anymore either. Sometimes my body just decides to react like I’m in peril, even if I’m not. It’s just . . . the way I am?”

Viktor nodded, relieved that Yuuri really was going to be alright.

Physically anyway; the beautiful boy’s face was still drawn in a deep frown. Something nervous stirred in Viktor’s gut.

“So . . . so this afternoon you had a . . . panic attack . . . because of the fire?” He asked cautiously. 

“Well . . . yes and no,” Yuuri replied honestly, “I . . . I fell asleep in the Library . . . and then when I woke up it was just . . . there. I wasn't expecting it. I . . . I didn't even light it, I just opened my eyes and . . .”

Yuuri stopped, his voice breaking on the last word; Viktor wanted to reach out and hold him, but thought better of it, remembering how Yuuri had pushed him away earlier. Right now, he needed space; Yuuri would come back to him when he was ready.  

After a visible breath, Yuuri continued, “I . . . I think it also happened because I . . . I was thinking a lot about my sister today,”

Viktor’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. He couldn't recall ever hearing about a sister before. That seemed . . . strange. Yuuri talked about Phichit all the time . . . so why had he never mentioned his sister until now?  

“You . . . have a sister?” Viktor prompted gently.

Yuuri blinked hard a couple of times; it looked like he was trying to hold back tears.

“Had,” he quietly rasped.

Viktor felt his stomach plummet; the air was knocked from his lungs as he finally pieced everything together.  

“Oh . . . Yuuri . . . my sympathies,” He managed; comforting and awkward all at once.

Yuuri sniffled quietly, “Her name is Mari” he croaked.

“What happ–” Viktor caught himself abruptly, before he accidentally plunged Yuuri headlong into heartache, “I mean . . . do you want talk about what happened?”

Yuuri was silent for a few moments, gathering his thoughts.

“We . . . we don't have to – ”

“No, it’s alright,” Yuuri insisted gently, “I . . . want to. If . . . if you do,”

“I do,” Viktor confirmed softly.

Yuuri made him feel things he never had before; joy and wonder, guilt and fear, and now . . . sympathy and sorrow. He wanted to give something back . . . give anything back. If Yuuri wanted to talk, then Viktor wanted to listen.

The room was quiet, save for the crackling fire. At length, Yuuri began to speak.

“When we were little . . . Mari and Phichit and I . . . we had this . . . ‘secret clubhouse’. It wasn't actually a secret . . . or even a clubhouse really . . . we just used to play up in the hayloft of our old barn all the time. We would sit up there together and read stories and build forts and play pretend . . .” Yuuri swallowed hard, steeling himself before continuing, “The summer before my ninth birthday was . . . really bad. Really hot and dry . . . it was practically a drought. We didn't really understand that though. We were just kids . . . Mari was fourteen. Phichit was only five. One day we were just . . . playing up in the hayloft like always . . .”

He paused, taking a few deep, shuddering breaths. Viktor nearly told him to stop, to not push himself so hard, but Yuuri was already pressing on; determined to tell Mari’s story.

“It was fine at first . . . all I can remember is that it suddenly got really . . . hot . . . and stuffy, and it . . . it smelled terrible . . . and then, out of nowhere, Mari started screaming that we had to go. We had to get out. Phichit and I didn't . . . we didn't realize . . . we didn't understand. So she opened the hayloft door . . . and right outside the barn, there was this . . . grass fire. This . . . this huge grass fire . . . and the barn was already catching. It was so old and the wood was so dry . . . and it was just . . . full of hay and timber and . . . and that’s why everything had gotten so hot . . . it was stuffy because of the smoke. It stank because of the smoke.

So . . . so we all scrambled to get out, and Mari made me and Phichit both go down the ladder before her. And the whole time she just kept yelling at us to be careful and stay low and go faster and we finally . . . made it out. But once we were outside, everything was still on fire and it kept getting closer and closer and Phichit and I . . .  we just . . . ran for it.

It wasn't until we were all the way back home that we realized she wasn't with us.

I don't know if . . . if maybe her skirt got caught on something, or if her foot slipped and got trapped between the bales . . . but she just . . . wasn't there.

We screamed for our parents, just . . . screamed and screamed and screamed. Somehow they figured out what was going on, and then my dad took off running and Phichit’s dad took off running and our moms . . . they made us stay there in the cottage with them. They wouldn’t let us go back for her no matter how much we cried. I think . . . I think they probably already knew . . .”

Yuuri fell silent once more; but his eyes were dry, his hands were still, and his breath was even. The fire snapped softy in the voiceless vacuum of the parlor.

Viktor quickly blinked away a few traitorous tears of his own; he couldn't break down now. Not when Yuuri needed him.

But . . . he couldn't find any words. He wasn't good with things like this.

Instead, he slowly extended his paw; Yuuri leaned in closer and took it with a gentle squeeze.

And that is how they remained; silent and heartbroken, holding on to one another in the luminous glow of the docile orange flames.

“You must miss her very much,” Viktor offered at last.

“Yea,” Yuuri confided, “I do,”

Viktor slowly released Yuuri’s hand, allowing him to pull back to where he was comfortable. Yuuri retracted, ever-so-slightly, letting a small shiver overtake him as he did so.

“Will you . . . be alright?” Viktor asked tenderly, still taking stumbling steps towards becoming a better confidant. He felt awkward an unsteady; unworthy of Yuuri’s faith and trust.

Yuuri nodded, glancing at the fire, “I will be,” he answered resolutely.

“Is there anything I can do?” Viktor pressed tentatively, “Do you want me to . . . talk to the staff? Tell them not to leave any fires going?”

“Ah. That’s alright . . .” Yuuri assured him, “I’m . . . I’m sure whoever lit the fireplace in the Library was only trying to be kind. Maybe I looked cold, just . . . asleep on the chair like that . . .”

Viktor nodded; Yuuri was always so gracious.

“Besides,” Yuuri added, “I barely ever have panic attacks anymore . . . and I used to get them all the time. I’m usually better at . . . coping. Today was just . . . hard, somehow. But . . . but I don’t want people to think that I’m . . .  weak or something . . .”

Viktor acquiesced with what he hoped was a comforting smile, “You aren’t a weak person, Yuuri. Nobody who knows you would ever think that,” he proceeded tentatively, “I mean, you . . . you manage so well that I . . . unfortunately I didn't even realize that you had an . . . aversion to fire . . .”

Viktor hoped, once again, that he had not said anything wrong.

“Yea . . . I don’t like to let it . . . interfere,” Yuuri conceded, “I mean . . . It would be hard to go through life like that . . . being afraid of something I use every day. I mean, fire . . . it’s necessary . . . for light . . . for heat. Over the years I’ve just . . . learned to accept it. The fear, the panic attacks . . . they might be a part of me . . . but I can’t let them keep me from things I love. Or people I love. So I take precautions and do the best I can . . . and it’s gotten a little bit easier . . . with time,”

Yuuri truly was the most valiant person Viktor knew. How he envied the sweet boy’s perseverance; his drive and stamina and zest for life . . . so unlike his own faulty temperament. If only Viktor had Yuuri’s bravery . . . then his own fears, his own shortcomings might be less paralyzing.

Perhaps, had he been more like Yuuri, he would have broken the spell by now. 

Viktor was so choked up he couldn't speak; instead, he nodded wordlessly, inviting his companion to continue.

“It . . . It used to terrify Phichit, actually . . . the panic attacks,” Yuuri admitted, “back when we were younger they were really bad. The first time I had one . . . I . . . I actually thought I was dying. But now I’ve learned how to manage . . . mostly,” he uttered a small, self-deprecating chuckle.

Viktor could hardly stand it; he just wanted to reach out and wrap Yuuri up in his arms; hide him away from the rest of the world and never let anything hurt this perfect, precious boy ever again.

“It’s . . . it’s still difficult at times . . . it causes problems. Like today . . . and you should have seen the fight Phichit and I got into over his workshop . . .”

“His . . . workshop?” Viktor asked.

“Yea . . . it was years ago,” Yuuri explained, “One day, while he was still in the process of renovating the barn, he just casually happened to mention that he would be adding a forge to it . . . and I . . . I lost it. All I could picture was another barn burning to the ground . . . but this time . . . with Phichit inside,”

“I . . . I’m sorry,” Viktor offered gently, “That . . . must have been upsetting,”

“Yea . . .” Yuuri agreed wistfully, “Phichit was younger than I was when Mari . . . when the barn burned down. I think, maybe he found a different way to handle it . . . instead of running, he threw himself into it head-first; learning all he could about combustion and explosives and things. I think that maybe, understanding the nature of the beast made him less afraid of it. And at the end of the day, I couldn't bear to keep him from doing what he loved, so we . . . compromised about the workshop”

“Compromised?”

Yuuri smiled ever-so-slightly, “I . . . I made him put in every safety precaution known to man,” he laughed again, a bit louder this time, “He has to wear proper clothing whenever he uses the forge; goggles, heavy apron, leather gloves . . . all of it. He’s not supposed to keep anything flammable within ten feet. There have to be several barrels of rainwater standing by at all times. And the workshop floor is all packed earth . . . the outside perimeter is lined with shale and more packed earth for a good ways out . . . so just in case anything ever does happen . . .”

“The fire can't spread,” Viktor finished knowingly.

“Exactly,” Yuuri agreed. “It . . . it was a lot, maybe too much, but . . . Phichit understood how important it was to me . . . how important he is to me. And even though I’m certain that he’s always careful . . . even though I’m certain that he knows what he’s doing . . . there have still been times where I’ve woken up in the middle of the night . . . and he hasn’t come in yet . . . so I’ve gotten out of bed to go check on him . . . just . . . just to be sure . . .”

“You’re a good brother, Yuuri” Viktor murmured with another little smile.

It was awe-inspiring sometimes, how devoted Yuuri was; Phichit was the whole reason he was even here, after all.  

“I try to be . . . when I can,” Yuuri answered melancholically, “I’m the older brother . . . it’s my job to look out for him . . . like Mari used to for both of us.”

Viktor nodded, “So . . . when you told me . . . that first night . . . when you said . . . he was your whole world . . .” understanding settled deep into Viktor's bones, shaking him to the core; the scope of his epiphany leaving him empty and breathless.  

“Yea . . .” Yuuri confessed, “He’s . . . my little brother. He’s all I have . . . Mari is gone . . . so are Okāsan and Otōsan . . . and Ojīsan . . . even Mæ̀ and Ph̀x. Phichit is my only family now . . . I . . . I really don't know what I would do if anything happened to him,”

“It must be hard . . . being so far away from him,” Viktor noted sadly.

“It is,” Yuuri admitted, “I . . . I miss him a lot,”

“I’m sorry,” Viktor blurted.

Yuuri tilted his head quizzically, “For . . . what?”

For keeping you here.

For tearing you away from your only family.

For being so selfish.

“For . . . how far away the castle is,” Viktor said instead; taking the coward’s way out, as always.

Yuuri huffed a little laugh, “It’s alright,” he assured him, “You can't control where your castle is. And, besides . . . I . . . I like it here . . . a lot. Everyone is so kind and thoughtful. Sara introduced me to Michele and Emil today . . . and Nikolai made me these amazing katsudon pirozhkis . . . Yuri even brought them up to my room when I missed dinner. I . . . I hope this doesn't sound too strange, but, the castle . . . it . . . it almost feels like home . . . in a way . . .”

Viktor’s heart melted right then and there.

It was astounding really . . . how resilient Yuuri was. How adaptable. How resourceful. How fearless. How loving.

There was pain and sadness and tragedy and chaos in both his past and his present . . . and yet he was still so soft and joyful and passionate and open and honest. He had never given up. Not like Viktor had; and Viktor hadn't even lost anyone.

Yet.  

Where Viktor had been weak, Yuuri had always been strong. He had been brave enough to seek Viktor out, brave enough to tell him the truth, brave enough to talk about his own painful past . . . while a single bad dream had Viktor cowering in his chambers. 

“What . . . what is it?” Yuuri asked haltingly, seeing the melancholy little smile which had crept on to Viktor’s face.

He swallowed nervously, “It’s just . . . you. You’re an incredible person, Katsuki Yuuri,”

Yuuri’s nose crinkled and he turned away bashfully, “I . . . no . . . I’m not, really.”

“You are,” Viktor insisted breathlessly, “If it’s not too bold of me to say so . . . I think that Mari . . . I think that your whole family would be proud of the person that you are,”

Yuuri smiled then, warm and peaceful, “Thank you, Viktor . . . for understanding”

Viktor smiled back, the two settling into companionable silence as they watched the little fire slowly die down, dwindling to harmless ruby coals.

Someday, Viktor thought, maybe he could be just as brave as Yuuri.

*****

The breeze blew wonderfully through Isabella’s short dark hair; it was a beautiful day, and she had never felt better in her life!

He was gone! Katsuki Yuuri was really gone! And best of all, he was never coming back!

She hadn’t even had to do anything! This whole terrible mess had just magically worked itself out! She was happy, Yuuri was happy, his family was happy . . .

Well, happy enough.

The point being, that everyone was happy!

Everyone except . . .

Isabella scanned the horizon, spotting J.J.’s signature crimson jacket flapping in the wind just a little ways down the hill. 

The poor guy; he really was heartbroken.

And sure, Isabella felt for him; she loved him, after all.

But even though J.J. was sad now, he would get over it in time, right? Besides, he was much better off without Yuuri anyway. This obsession with Katsuki was killing him . . . making him do terrible things. This wasn’t the J.J. she knew.

This wasn’t the J.J. she loved.

But now, everything could go back to normal and –

Isabella stopped in her tracks.

She thought . . . she thought she had heard something.

She waited, listening intently to the sounds on the breeze.

There it was again; the whinny of a horse, high-pitched and drawn out over the acres.

She turned around slowly, scanning the horizon.

There, in the paddock on the far side of the Workshop, a draft horse plodded along merrily near the gate.

Odd; she could have sworn that Yuuri’s family only owned one horse.

If . . . their horse was here, then . . . then how had Yuuri gotten to The City?

“No. Stop it, Yang,” Isabella scolded herself, “Don’t ruin this for yourself now,”

She turned sharply back onto the path she was meant to be following.

Surely she was only imagining things. Maybe she was wrong . . . maybe Katsuki did have two horses instead of one. Or . . . or perhaps the Tinker had gone with Yuuri to The City, and dropped him off and . . .

“No! Just . . . just let it go . . .”

She raised her head proudly, searching once more for her ruby target.

“J.J.!” She cried cheerily, “J.J., wait up!”

The world fell away as she ran to catch up with the man she loved; so fast she felt like she was flying.

Everything was going to be just fine.

Chapter Text

“Five minutes!” Lilia hollered, “Then back to it!”

Yuuri nodded to the metronome respectfully; panting and sweaty and disheveled and . . . perfect.

Viktor sighed, gazing fondly at the beautiful dancer. His tail wagged lazily, thudding softly against the massive marble stairs on which he sat.

He didn’t even bother to hide it anymore. 

Things had gone back to normal after Yuuri’s panic attack a fortnight prior; perhaps even better than normal, if he was being perfectly honest.

Though Viktor had stumbled a few times over the last couple weeks, in his enthusiasm to keep Yuuri in good spirits, it seemed that their maudlin conversation had actually ended up bringing them closer together.

It was strange, Viktor mused; this whole time he had been focusing solely on making Yuuri happy; terrified that if Yuuri was ever upset or bored, or angry or sad, then . . . then that would be it. The instant Yuuri became unhappy, he would leave; Viktor would lose him forever.

But, Yuuri had surprised him once again; his honesty, his openness, his bravery . . . all of it had only made Viktor fall that much further in love.

Viktor was used hiding his feelings; used to ignoring them and bottling them up and pushing them down; a royal habit he had picked up out of necessity. And yet . . . the two of them talking about Yuuri’s sorrows had somehow made everything . . . better.

At the very least, it was a relief to know that although Yuuri would inevitably face both heartache and grief, he was willing to do so by Viktor’s side.

Viktor smiled; how curious that such a tragic conversation could still lead back to this . . . to this perfect moment, watching Yuuri dance as he sat on the ballroom stairs.

Yuuri roughly toweled the sweat off his brow; catching Viktor’s eye as he took a deep pull of water.

Viktor quickly looked away, repentant for his gawking.

He casually straightened his lapel, trying not to appear too eager for Yuuri's attention; he had taken to wearing the billowing white shirt these days, due to the heroic demise of his beloved claret cape.

Soon, Yuuri was wandering over to him with a shy smile; the one that always made Viktor’s insides go all fluttery.

“Getting tired?” Viktor teased, as Yuuri closed the distance between them.

“Hardly,” the dancer quipped with an adorable roll of his eyes, “you just seemed bored . . . sitting over here all by your lonesome,”

Viktor’s wagging tail begged to differ; as did his wry smile.

“As if I could ever tire of watching you dance,” He replied sincerely.

Yuuri blushed, ever so-slightly, the tips of his ears turning a pale, rosy hue; Viktor’s tail wagged faster in response.

The corner of Yuuri’s lip curled upward in a sly grin, “Really? That’s such a shame . . .”

Viktor’s tail stopped wagging and his eyes went wide and plaintive.

“Wha . . . I . . .”

Yuuri furrowed his brow pensively, “Yes. An absolute shame . . . apparently I’m doomed to a lifetime of solos . . . as it seems I’ll never be able to persuade you to join me. You know, since you won’t ‘ever tire of watching’ . . .”

A confused moment hung in the air, before Yuuri broke down and snickered.

“Yuuri!” Viktor pouted, “Yuuri, you’re so mean to me!”

And although his voice was pained, his tail was wagging once more; thumping in time with the rapid beating of his heart.

Yuuri broke down, laughing through his apologies.

After several minutes of dramatic fawning, Viktor’s ego was finally placated.

Yuuri smiled at the satisfied Beast, then looked down at his hands, suddenly shy, “You know . . . if you ever want to . . . I mean . . . we still can. Dance, I mean . . .”

Viktor’s heart stopped.

“Oh . . . I . . . I’m certain I wouldn’t be able to keep up with you,” he lied, trying to re-direct the conversation.

Obviously, Viktor wanted to dance with Yuuri very much; more than anything in the world, in fact. Day after day he pined; longing to hold the beautiful boy in his arms and whisk him away to the tune of romance . . .

It was just . . . too much, too soon. Too intimate; too risky. Viktor knew that if he ever set so much as a single clawed toe on the dance floor with Yuuri, he would break down and confess his love right then and there.

He would probably even propose.

Which was also something he wanted to do, of course . . . but there were so many things he and Yuuri hadn’t yet spoken of; so many things Viktor still kept hidden. He couldn’t possibly confess his feelings while there were still secrets between them; it wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be fair.

Viktor looked away quickly to avoid the disappointment pooling in Yuuri’s big brown eyes.

He bowed his head further in shame; someday he would make it up to Yuuri.

Someday he would say ‘yes’; someday he would sweep Yuuri off his feet.

Someday he would stop being such a coward.

But today was not that day.

“I’ve thought this for a while, but your stamina is pretty impressive,” Viktor continued suddenly, trying to distract from his rejection, “I would attribute it to your professionalism, drive and passion . . . but it could also be a subconscious desire to make use of the new resources, considering your previous practice conditions. You’re also still relatively young and have sustained no major injuries –”

A sudden sensation made Viktor stop mid sentence; a soft touch to his ear, a gentle stroking of thumb and forefinger.

Viktor slowly lifted his gaze to meet Yuuri’s.

The dancer abruptly snatched his hand back, looking utterly mortified.

“I just couldn’t help it! Sorry!”

It took all of Viktor’s willpower not to smirk.

“Are they really . . . that fuzzy?” he murmured piteously instead; feigning offense.

Yuuri’s eyes went wide and contrite, “No, No, No, No!” he cried, “They’re very sleek and shiny!”

Viktor fainted backwards on the stairs, one arm dramatically draping across his eyes, “You’ve wounded me, I don’t know if I will ever recover . . .”

“I’m sorry! I don’t know what I was thinking! Please, don’t be –” Yuuri yelped, rushing in after the wilting Viktor.

As he did so, his foot caught on the bottom stair, sending him sprawling out on top of the unsuspecting beast.

They crashed together with an “oomph” and a “thud”, Yuuri accidentally pinning Viktor beneath him.

Their eyes met briefly, before they both burst into laugher.

Slowly, they struggled to sit up, trying to disentangle themselves several times in vain; both laughing far too hard to maintain any semblance of balance.

At long last, they were both back upright; Yuuri pulling Viktor into a sitting position with a gentle tug on his paw.

Viktor never wanted to let go.

Yuuri was now blushing furiously, “I . . . Umm . . .”

Suddenly, Lilia’s voice shattered the moment; forcing Yuuri to return to practice.

Viktor reluctantly relinquished Yuuri’s hand; the dancer’s sliding slowly out of his own as Yuuri ruefully turned back to his instructor.

One last look over his shoulder, and he was gone.

Viktor bubbled with delight; perhaps “someday” would come sooner than he thought.

*****

On the landing at the top of the stairs, a nosy clique of castle staff huddled together, overlooking the ballroom between the gaps in the ornate banisters; gauging the romantic progress of their wayward Prince.

Chris and Masumi snuggled close to one another, with Mila and Sara crammed in beside them. Yakov stood a little ways off, pretending to be above such foolish behaviour, while Yuri and Otabek shared another vantage point further down the line; Yuri scowling as always.

Things between Viktor and Yuuri seemed to be going well; very well indeed.

Presently, the two were exchanging quips, situated so closely together and speaking so softly that, despite the sophisticated acoustics of the ballroom, their voices didn’t reach up to where the well-meaning spies could hear them.

They both looked very happy, lost together in their own little world.

Then, Yuuri was reaching for Viktor; gently caressing his . . . ear?

A small chuckle escaped Chris’s waxy lips, “Well, who'd have thought?” he purred quietly, so as not to be overheard.

Masumi sighed his assent, “Well, bless my soul!”

Viktor was now fainting dramatically as a part of some joke . . . and Yuuri had just fallen on top of him, in his haste to retort.

“Well, who'd have known?” Sara giggled.

“Well, who indeed!” Mila agreed jubilantly. 

“And who'd have guessed they'd come together on their own?” Chris jabbed.

The staff nodded, recalling the hopeless hours they had spent labouring in the name of love.

Suddenly, Yuuri cried out below; both he and Viktor had toppled over once again as they tried to sit upright, their laughter echoing brightly through the ballroom.

Mila let out a little snicker of her own, watching her once stern and stoic Prince acting so adorably love-sick, “It's so peculiar!”

“We'll wait and see a few days more . . .” Chris grinned, “There may be something there that wasn't there before . . .”

Now Lilia’s voice was booming though the ballroom, ordering Yuuri back to practice.

They watched as Yuuri slowly released Viktor, reluctant to obey. Even from the top of the staircase, they could see the dancer’s shy smile and soft blush.

Yakov hummed pensively, “. . . perhaps there is something there that wasn't there before” he relented. 

“What?” Yuri snorted derisively. 

With the dancer returning to the floor, there was not much more left to see, and slowly, the staff began to dissipate; all in very high spirits.

Yuri pouted, puzzled.

Otabek caught the surly teacup’s gaze and shrugged, “There may be something there that wasn't there before,” he repeated simply, before he too retreated from the rail, returning to his daily duties.

Yuri growled and followed Otabek out of the ballroom.

He still didn’t see what everyone was so worked up about; this was nothing new . . . Viktor and Katsudon had always been like that.

*****

‘Tap, tap, tap’.

Nothing . . .

‘Tap, tap, tap’.

Still nothing . . .

Isabella frowned at the heavy spruce door in front of her; eyes tracing over the decorative wrought iron plate, which read “LEROY” in stately capital letters. The afternoon sun did not glint off of the tarnished metal, instead absorbed by the charcoal black ore.

‘Tap, tap, tap’.

The door did not budge, no sounds echoed from inside the expansive abode.

Isabella shifted nervously, and tried the handle.

Locked.

A lump formed in her throat as she reached into the pocket of her hunting jacket; the one which matched J.J.’s stitch for stitch. She fumbled for a moment, then pulled a matching iron key from its crimson folds.

Of course J.J. had given her a key; they were best friends after all, nigh inseparable since birth.

She quickly popped the little skeleton key into the lock, jerking it to the left.

The door swung open and she ventured in.

“J.J.?” She called softly; the curtains were all drawn, and it was dark inside, despite the warm glow of the sunlit afternoon, “J.J.? Are you here?”

The two-story stonework house was the largest in the village; not a mansion or a villa by any stretch of the imagination, but it was strong and sturdy, a good family home, decorated like a cozy hunting lodge on the inside, all finished wood and checkered blankets.

Isabella passed by a large granite fireplace on her way to the stairs; smiling as she recalled the hours she and J.J. had spent together in that very spot, cross-legged on the floor with their schoolwork, basking in the glow of its flames.

The stairs creaked only slightly under her boot; sanded cedar displaying a veritable sea of knots and rings. So like J.J., she mused; smooth and polished . . . yet complex and unfathomable . . . strong and sturdy and natural and wild.

Whenever she thought of J.J., she thought of pine and campfire smoke, of autumn and leather and windy days . . . and home. 

She hadn’t seen him in weeks, and she was worried.

He was fine, he had said. He needed time to himself, he had said. He would be back to normal soon, he had said.

But a fortnight did not count as “soon” in Isabella’s opinion.

She came to the second story, more sturdy cedar planks stretching out into a long hallway; a narrow corridor of white papered walls hung with acrylic landscapes in hand-carved wooden frames; painted by J.J.’s mother, put on display by his father.

She turned to the left, knocking sharply on the first door that she came to.

‘Tap, tap, tap’.

 “J.J.?” She called once again. He was in there, she knew, but it would do no good to barge in on him.

Silence.

“J.J. . . . I’m coming in,” She announced at last, giving the pine door a sharp shove.

It swung open to reveal J.J.’s own bedroom; the one in which they used to play ‘hunters’ when they were little, the one in which they had whispered childish schoolyard rumors, the one in which they used to have sleepovers . . . until they grew too old and everything had to change.

J.J. was sitting on the cushioned window seat, gazing despondently at the streets down below; his hunting knife and whetstone had been discarded at his feet.

He was dressed at least; but barely . . . just a shirt and hose and waistcoat.

His red hunting jacket lay rumpled and abandoned at the foot of his bed.

“What are you doing here?” He murmured, not turning to face her.

Isabella scoffed, “What do you think I’m doing here, idiot?” she returned, with no real malice; picking her way carefully closer to J.J.

“I didn’t think you wanted to see me, is all,” J.J. explained morosely, still refusing to turn.

Isabella’s heart lurched; J.J. was doing worse than she imagined.

J.J. had always been so sure, so confident . . . so strong.

But now . . .

Isabella grimaced; she hated Katsuki Yuuri more than she had ever hated anyone in her life.

“You . . . said you wanted to be alone,” she mumbled petulantly, stamping down her errant rage.

“And yet . . . here you are,” J.J. reflected, not sarcastic or snippy, but wistful, and almost awed.

“You haven’t been seen in a fortnight . . . I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t fallen down a well,” Isabella goaded, hoping to pull J.J. from his funk. 

She was rewarded with a small huff of laughter; a melancholy smile.

“I . . . haven’t been myself lately, have I?”

“No,” Isabella murmured, with a small shake of her head

“And . . . I’ve been acting poorly,” J.J. apologized.

“I’d go with insufferable and bone-headed, but . . . yes,” Isabella agreed fondly, “and also . . . worrisome . . .”

J.J. frowned, looking down at his clasped hands, “Then . . . I suppose I shouldn’t tell you that I still can’t stop thinking about him”

Silence drifted between them and Isabella’s stomach tightened; so close, yet so far.

“But . . . Yuuri is . . .”

“Gone . . . I know,” J.J. finished automatically, “It doesn’t . . . it still feels the same. I don’t know how to make it . . . not,”

J.J. wasn’t exactly a poet, but Isabella could read him like a book. He was still pining, still hoping, still wondering what could have been.

It tore her to shreds.

“We . . . we could always go to The City,” She offered reticently, “You know . . . try to find him there . . .”

Though she was loathed to indulge J.J.’s obsession, she had no idea what else might comfort her grim friend.

“No,” J.J. declared resolutely, “we don’t have to . . . he didn’t even say goodbye,”

“But only because he –”

“Didn’t want the pressure, I know,” J.J. interrupted again, “still doesn’t hurt any less when the man you love just . . . vanishes without a word.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, J.J.,” Isabella admitted, “I know it’s rough, but . . . that’s just how Yuuri is. That’s how he’s always been,”

“I know,” J.J. sighed, his head tipping backwards plaintively to rest on the wall, “It’s just not fair,”

Isabella’s forehead scrunched in confusion.

“It’s . . . things are supposed to be different,” J.J. explained, “My whole life, I’ve worked hard, followed the law, been a good person . . . I’ve done everything I was supposed to do . . . so, why doesn’t anything ever go right? I’ve spent my whole life working to be the best . . . The best son, the best hunter, the best man I can be, and what do I get in return? Nothing. All I want is to be with Yuuri . . . is that really too much to ask? Why does he have to be so difficult? I mean, I love him . . . I would do anything for him . . . so how could he just leave me like that? It's not supposed to be this way . . . the hero is supposed to ride in and save the day and marry their one true love and live happily ever after . . . not get jilted without so much as a 'goodbye'. I just . . . don't understand why”.

“Well . . .” Isabella wavered, mulling over her thoughts, “Maybe . . . maybe that’s why”

“That’s why what?” J.J. inquired, staring up at the ceiling.

“Maybe that’s why he kept turning you down . . .” Isabella bit her lip, the words burning like acid on her tongue, “because he planned on leaving, and he didn’t want to get your hopes up,”

J.J. was silent a moment, pondering the implications.

“So . . . you’re saying that . . .  I’m not the problem? He . . . he might actually love me, but he just can't be with me?”

“I didn’t say that!” Isabella back-pedaled quickly, “I mean, it’s possible . . . everyone loves you . . . I’m just saying that maybe none of this has anything to do with you. Maybe Yuuri didn’t mean to upset you, maybe he’s just . . . aloof and self-centered and indifferent? Artistic types are usually like that, right?”

J.J. frowned again, “I can live with indifference, I suppose,” he relented sadly.

“No, you can’t” Isabella asserted, shocking J.J so suddenly that his eyes rapidly swivelled to meet hers.

“You are Jean-Jacques Leroy,” she declared, “and Jean-Jacques Leroy does not settle,” her lip trembled only slightly, “You deserve something better, something more . . .”

“Yuuri is –”

“Not your one true love. Yuuri is odd. He’s odd, J.J.,” Isabella insisted, “And sure, maybe he has some good qualities . . . but do you really want to spend the rest of your life pining after some . . . pretentious, preening, playboy?”

J.J. opened his mouth to retort, but no words came.

“I get it. I do,” Isabella snapped, “but J.J. . . . true love or not . . . playboys don’t make good husbands!”

J.J. looked back down to his hands once more, shame-faced.

“But he’s . . . special,” the hunter whispered plaintively.

“Fine. He’s special,” Isabella relented, “he’s mysterious and interesting and beautiful. He’s your one true love . . . and you want to be a hero. Fine. I get it,” she seethed, suppressing her fury as she tried to make J.J. see reason, “But . . . have you ever considered that Yuuri might not need rescuing?”

J.J. sighed, swivelling towards Isabella and planting his feet firmly on the ground, “then . . . what am I supposed to do now?”

Isabella hummed pensively, her eyes wandering around the cozy wood-scented room.

She smirked.

“Take a page out of Yuuri’s book,” She replied coyly, “and get out of The Village”

J.J. raised an eyebrow.

“Yea . . .” Isabella continued jubilantly, “Let’s get out of town, J.J.! We can go on a big, week-long hunting expedition, just like we used to back in the old days! You loved those!” she smiled wide.

“I don’t know . . .” J.J. sighed wistfully.

“Picture it!” Isabella cajoled, sitting next to him on the window seat with a friendly shove, “A week out in the wilderness, just you and me, no people, no responsibilities . . . no Yuuri . . . we could just . . . get away from everything for a while. You could . . . clear your head. Figure out what you really want . . .” she looked at the man she loved with hopeful eyes, “so . . . what do you say?”

J.J. looked to the floor, “Sorry . . . I . . . I don’t think I’m up for it,” he declined apologetically, “I think I just want to . . . stay here for a while,”

Isabella tried to ignore the shattering of her heart, “You . . . need some more time?” she offered supportively.

“I think so . . . yea,” J.J. confirmed.

They sat in silence a moment longer, until Isabella finally took her cue to leave.

She drifted wordlessly to the door, pausing before she closed it behind her.

“If there’s anything I can do . . . you’ll let me know?” she asked, a shade of desperation colouring her tone.

J.J. just nodded and went back to reclining on the window seat, staring out at the endless thatched roofs and cobblestones.

Isabella shut the door with a soft ‘click’; every step though the house more miserable than the last.

She crossed the threshold of the front door, stepping back into the real world. She locked the door behind her, and shuffled aimlessly along the alleyways.

There had to be something she could do . . . something that would lift J.J.’s spirits, something that would make everything alright again . . .

The busy Marketplace hummed noisily around her.

“One Side! Coming through!”

“Bread! Get your bread here!”

“Fish! Fresh fish! Two for a pound!”

The words rolled off her like raindrops.

A sudden noise made her stop; the whinny of a horse.

She watched distractedly, as a stout man tried to tug an ancient nag through the throng. The horse stood firm and brayed again.

A thought began to creep into Isabella’s mind; a thought she had not entertained for weeks.

But, maybe . . . just . . . maybe . . .

The Tinker technically owed her one . . . after all, he was still in one piece, thanks to her.

Maybe he could do something . . .

Perhaps . . . tomorrow morning, she would pay him a little visit.  

*****

Yuuri had awoken in high-spirits; there was a certain lightness to him, a bounce in his step this morning as he ambled leisurely towards the ballroom. His footfalls sounded softly in the gilded corridor as he casually strolled past the endless array of extravagant decorations.

Once intimidating in their opulence, the golden framed portraits and bejewelled sculptures were now as familiar to him as any tool or trinket in Phichit’s Workshop; the ominous Castle becoming as comfortable to him as his own cozy little cottage.

A calm, sugary feeling filled his chest, in anticipation of his destination.

Another dance practice; another day spent with Viktor.

Morning practice, then afternoon tea, walks in the garden, a shared dinner and an evening curled up in Viktor’s parlor, exchanging stories and innocent quips until the evening grew late and the logs in the fireplace all burned down to coals; it had become their new norm, both slipping into the routine with ease and enthusiasm.

Despite Lilia’s sharp and demanding methods, Yuuri adored her tutelage; but what he really loved about practice, what he really looked forward to was –

Yuuri’s cheeks grew hot and tinged with red, blushing as though anyone might suddenly be able to read his thoughts.

But he was alone in the corridor . . .  so . . . perhaps it would be alright to let his mind wander . . . just this once . . .

Besides . . . the way that Viktor made him feel . . . the way that he was beginning to feel about Viktor . . . now that was a subject which demanded immediate rumination.

Yuuri slowed his pace, giving himself some extra time to mull before he reached the grand ballroom entrance.

It was true that Yuuri had never been one for attention. He loved his art, he loved dance . . . he understood that it was meant to be a performance; meant to be watched and participated in and shared. But he had never been able to do so before. All his life, he had hidden his talents, practicing in relative secrecy, never once performing, never dancing at festivals or even joining in simple daisy chains . . .

Because nobody had ever really understood before.

Because everyone thought he was odd.

And they were right; he was odd.

Yuuri was kind and decent . . . but he was also quiet and shy and awkward and anxious. He was the type of person that nobody ever looked at twice.

He was invisible . . . and he liked it that way.

At least . . . that’s what Yuuri had always thought.

That’s what he had always said.

That’s what he had always believed about himself.

And yet . . .

Somehow, it was different with Viktor.

With Viktor, he wasn’t odd.

With Viktor, he wasn’t quiet and shy and awkward and anxious. Or maybe he still was . . .  but it just didn’t matter anymore.

With Viktor, he didn’t want to be invisible.

The way Viktor made him feel . . .

The way Viktor made him feel as he danced, knowing he was watching his every move . . . it was indescribable.

It didn’t feel judgemental or threatening or invasive. It didn’t feel like he was being hunted. It didn’t feel like he was being consumed.

It felt . . . incredible; it felt supportive and safe and sincere.

It felt faithful.

It felt . . . empowering.

Yuuri had never felt anything like it before.

And so, as days had turned to weeks and weeks had turned to months, Yuuri found himself thinking about Viktor more and more; wanting to be near him, wanting to talk to him and spend time with him and dance with him and . . . touch him.

It had been that very line of thinking which had led to his mortifying faux pas the previous day. Even now the embarrassment lingered, but . . . Viktor’s ears were just so cute and fuzzy . . . Yuuri couldn’t help himself!

And although he could hardly believe it . . . there was no other explanation for his strange new boldness and possessive new feelings.

He was . . . falling for Viktor.

When Yuuri had first started having these ‘feelings’ he had tried to ignore them; tried to convince himself that it was merely the kinship of a fellow artist which had touched him so deeply; tried to write them off as friendship or gratitude or admiration . . . but those excuses were becoming harder and harder to justify. And now, pacing here in the corridor, with blushing cheeks and bouncing steps and racing heart, he found that he could no longer deny it.

And strangely, he didn’t want to.

Yuuri couldn’t pinpoint exactly when his infatuation had taken root; had it been when Viktor had comforted him after his panic attack . . . or maybe when Viktor had gifted him the ballroom? Or their first stroll through the gardens together?

Or perhaps even the very first moment they had spoken; when gentle words and thoughtful eyes belied a beastly countenance.

Viktor’s humor and conversation, his generosity and patience . . . his gentle touch and heart-shaped smile and all-encompassing gaze had bewitched Yuuri, drawing him deeper and deeper into the depths of affection, without ever realizing he was so far in over his head.

Surely . . . surely it wouldn’t be so bad, would it; to let himself have these . . . ‘feelings’?

Viktor was human after all, beneath the guise of the spell; and a good man, at that.

More importantly . . . he and Viktor . . . they cared about one another, didn’t they?

Yuuri frowned; it was possible that he was merely over-thinking things again; letting his imagination run wild and jumping to conclusions . . .

But he just couldn’t help but feel like . . . like, maybe there was something there . . .

Would it really be so terribly foolish to hope?

A crystal chandelier caught the light, casting rainbows around his feet on the brightly polished marble.

Yuuri sighed; He knew that wishing would not get him very far at all. Eventually, he would have to say something.

But . . . he didn’t even know where to begin. He had never felt this way about anyone before. It was all so new and confusing and uncertain; there was no way to know where Viktor’s heart lay; or if he even desired a romantic entanglement at all!

Besides, Viktor had a spell to break; that was where his focus needed to be.

That was where both of their attentions needed to be.

Surely, Viktor didn’t have time for his silly little crush.

So, with a heavy heart, Yuuri resolved to wait, out of respect for his dearest companion.

He could be patient, be a good friend and keep his feelings in check while he tried to help Viktor break the spell.

But . . . maybe after . . .

After the spell was broken . . . once everyone was safe and Viktor was human again . . . maybe then Yuuri could say something. Maybe then he could start hoping.

Yuuri slowed to a stop, gazing back at his own face as he caught his reflection in a gleaming, full-length mirror.

Or maybe . . .

Once the spell was broken . . . maybe Viktor would want to . . . return to the life he once had. Return to the pageantry and prestige of the ruling class. Take up his banners again and . . . rekindle old acquaintances?

Viktor was clearly well-to-do; one didn’t live in a castle of this magnitude without wealth and stature behind them. But had Viktor been a Duc? A Marquis? A Comte? What of his family? His duties? What if someone contested Viktor’s claim once the spell was broken? What if Viktor was forced into an arranged marriage? What if Viktor was suddenly too good for him?

What if Viktor couldn’t spend time with him anymore?

What if Viktor didn’t care about him anymore?

What if Viktor didn’t want him here anymore?

Yuuri turned away from the mirror sharply; resuming his journey to the ballroom.

One way or another . . . he and Viktor would have to go their separate ways. That’s what would really happen once the spell was broken, right?

A simple farm boy like him didn’t really belong in a castle after all . . . especially not on the arm of a Nobleman . . .

Especially when he didn’t even have the courage to tell Viktor how he felt . . .

His maudlin musings carried him straight into the ballroom.

“Yuuri!”

Yuuri snapped to attention as Viktor jumped up with a wide smile, excitedly beckoning him over, tail wagging like a puppy.

And just like that, Yuuri brightened; feeling lighter than ever and only a tiny bit hollow.

He greeted Viktor with a smile, as his companion launched into an enthusiastic pitch for the day’s practice; apparently he and Lilia had been talking.

Yuuri barely registered a word but immediately agreed, just for a chance to see Viktor’s endearing heart-shaped smile.

Truth be told, Yuuri was terribly distracted, imagining how stunning those azure eyes might look, beaming back at him from a human face.

Lilia barked and Yuuri fell in line; feeling the comforting weight of Viktor’s eyes on him as he did.

Yuuri smiled and began to stretch; a bittersweet tilt of his lips.

He didn’t know how long he would be allowed to stay with Viktor . . . or how long the spell would last . . . but as long as he was here, he would make the most of the time they had together.

*****

The morning was hot; infuriatingly humid and sticky.

Though Phichit had tried to increase the airflow by opening all the rooftop slats in his workshop, it did nothing to ease the unrelenting temperature.

After all, he couldn’t create a breeze if the wind wasn’t even blowing to begin with.

He lay on his back on top of the center workbench, alternately gazing up at the sky, then covering his eyes; simultaneously amusing himself and making himself sick with sunspots.

At the South Workbench, Minako paced.

They had reached a dead end.

They now had a name, “Nikiforov Manor”; but that was where their luck had ended.

Every book, every historical record, every drunken tale told in The Tavern; they had scoured them all, but nothing and no one had shed any more light on the mysterious and magical goings-on. They had found, to their incredible dismay, that every book and tome and file in the entire village had somehow been “conveniently” published within in the last 20 years.

If only Lord Maire Marchand kept as close an eye on their genealogies as he did their tax records.

Phichit growled; they were well and truly doomed.

Or Yuuri was.

Or The Beast was.

Or they all were.

He grimaced at himself; ever since he had started on this particular puzzle, he had become very cynical indeed.

He really hadn’t expected it to be this hard.

“What about the Chaplain? He might have histories . . . or other texts? Religious doctrines or mythologies, maybe?” Minako’s voice suddenly pinged through the cavernous workshop.

“He already gave us everything,” Phichit sighed, irritation creeping into his voice, “he said he ‘donated’ all his ‘old, worn out’ books years ago, remember?”

Minako’s voice was terse, “Alright . . . Town Hall? We’re certain that we –”

“Yes,” Phichit wailed in exasperation, “We looked through it all . . . and the schoolhouse and the library and the healer’s place and The Tavern. Nothing. Nanda. Zip. Zilch. Bupkis.”

“What about . . . other people?” Minako suggested, “Maybe someone has a personal collection –”

“Pfft,” Phichit scoffed, “You’re joking, right? You know you and I are the only people in town who read,”

Well . . . Minako and himself . . . and Yuuri.

Although he supposed that Yuuri wasn’t technically ‘in town’ anymore.

“Well then, let’s hear your idea, genius!” Minako snapped.

The heat was getting to them both.

Phichit melted further into the wooden surface of the workbench; his head lolling pathetically towards Minako.

“M’not” He pouted.

“Not what?” Minako sighed in exasperation.

“. . . a genius,” Phichit moaned pitifully, pressing the heel of his palm to one irritated eye.

“Oh no . . . Phichit, don’t you dare –”

“What do you want from me?” Phichit wailed, shooting upright, his injured leg aching as he did so, “I screwed up, alright? Yuuri is gone and it’s all my fault!!”

“Phichit, this is not helping” Minako insisted through gritted teeth.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize I was supposed to be helping” Phichit drawled sarcastically, “I’ve been goofing off this whole time, you know, having a right good laugh about it!”

“Phichit Chulanont, I swear if you don’t stop this instant –”

“You’ll what? Tell Yuuri on me? Oh right, you can’t because he’s not here. He’s gone, trapped forever in an Enchanted Castle because he indebted himself to a Beast in exchange for my life!”

“Phichit!” Minako snapped, “Lower your voice!”

Phichit glared at the tutor petulantly, secretly ashamed of his outburst.

“Phichit . . .” Minako soothed, taking a step towards him, her voice soft and low and cautious, “It’s not your fault. Yuuri made a choice. He isn’t in any danger . . . you said yourself that The Beast was kind. I’m sure he’ll take good care of Yuuri. We still have time to break the spell. So . . . do you think that maybe you’re being a bit dramatic?”

“Of course I’m being dramatic!” Phichit cried, “Considering the situation, I think dramatics are entirely called for!”

“Well, what do you want then?” Minako barked “Dramatics aren’t going to bring Yuuri back!”

Guilt and frustration and helplessness churned inside Phichit’s gut; he was shaking himself apart. He wondered if this was how Yuuri felt, when he had his panic attacks.

He fisted his hands painfully in his hair, “I don’t . . . I don’t know!” he wailed.

Phichit’s stomach lurched as he realized how true the sentiment was; consumed by an all-encompassing hopelessness he had never experienced before in his life.

Minako rubbed at her temples as Phichit bounced his good leg distractedly. 

“I want . . . I want to see Yuuri!” He decided at last, “We can’t break the spell on our own . . . we just . . . we have to go back and get him . . . we have to go back to the castle and –”

“NO!” Minako yelped, grabbing Phichit by the shoulders; whether to shake or still him, Phichit wasn’t certain.

“Why not?” he demanded.

“Because!” Minako objected, “it’s too . . . dangerous . . .”

She let go of her grasp on Phichit, instead winding her arms around her own waist; the world falling into stillness.

“Don’t patronize me” Phichit muttered with a glare.

What was wrong with him? This was so unlike himself . . . he hated it, but he couldn’t . . . he didn’t know how to stop.

“The last time you went into those woods, you were mauled by wolves! Your leg isn’t even properly healed yet!” Minako snapped, her voice rising, just as she had chastised Phichit for earlier.

“Not wolves . . . wolf! Singular! Just one! And my leg is fine!”

Minako glared right back, before sharply prodding Phichit’s bite mark with a pointed finger.

“AAAAAAAugh!” Phichit screeched at the contact, “What the hell is wrong with –”

“I can’t lose you too!” Minako wailed, all composure gone.

Little crystal tears began to sparkle in her eyes.

Phichit deflated, “I . . . what?”

Minako sniffled, “I . . . I can’t lose you too” she repeated thickly, as a single teardrop rolled down her cheek.

Phichit had never seen Minako cry; he had never seen her project anything less than one hundred percent control in any given situation.

“I . . .” Phichit faltered, “I’m . . . sorry . . .”

Then he was crying too, fists pressed to his eyes, trying to make it stop.

He had to be strong.

He had to be strong for Yuuri.

He had to be strong and clever and resilient and quick and perfect and –

Lithe arms circled his chest, pinning his own arms in place; Minako tucked her head into the crook of his neck and wept.

Phichit manoeuvred his arms out of her vice to return the embrace.

They stayed like that for a long while, until the tears ran dry and the summer heat forced them to part.

“Maybe . . . maybe we should take a break?” Minako suggested reticently, “Just . . . take a few days . . . spend some time apart to –”

“Yea,” Phichit agreed instantaneously, “Yea. Good idea”

He didn’t want to be alone; not really . . . but he and Minako were both exhausted and frustrated and ready to kill one another. A break would do them some good; maybe it would even give him a new perspective, relieve some of the stress . . .

Minako gave Phichit one more quick squeeze, “I’m not giving up” she promised, voice cracking in a very un-Minako-like fashion.

“Me either” Phichit pledged, releasing her.

She took a step back, putting herself to rights before going back out in public.

“Just a couple of days . . . then we’ll come back to it fresh. If I think of anything . . .” She offered hesitantly.

“You know where to find me,” Phichit finished with a melancholy smile.

Minako nodded with a sad grin of her own.

Slowly, she turned and departed the workshop, leaving Phichit in stuffy, sweltering silence.

*****

“Five minutes! Then back to it!”

Lilia’s familiar break-time dismissal echoed through the ballroom.

Yuuri nodded to the metronome respectfully, before turning away to dry off and cool down; Viktor didn’t care about his state of dishevelment, of course, but Yuuri still wanted to be at least somewhat presentable for his companion.

Once he was satisfied that his flushed, sweaty face wasn’t overtly offensive, Yuuri allowed himself to casually wander over to where Viktor sat.

As always, Viktor’s eyes were on him; his muzzle rested atop one giant paw, propped up on his knee, and the tip of his tail flicked back and forth contentedly across the stair, altogether making him look adorably dreamy and serene.

Yuuri scolded himself; now was not the time for such thoughts.

“So . . .” Viktor wheedled, sitting up straight with a self-satisfied smirk, “You look like you’re enjoying yourself . . .”

It took Yuuri one panicked moment to realize that Viktor was referring to dance practice; and not his current . . . view.

“Ah . . . yea!” Yuuri replied quickly, “Yes. I am. A lot,”

Viktor grinned victoriously.

“Thank you,” Yuuri murmured, “This was a really fun idea . . .”

This morning’s practice had been very different from the others; owing to Viktor’s brilliant stroke of inspiration. Rather than focusing on ballet, today Lilia was taking him through the various aspects of a Royal Ball, including attire, hierarchy and etiquette, along with a review of all the most important dances; their steps, significance and the proper order in which they should occur.

Yuuri was positively glowing, and it seemed that Viktor had very much noticed.

“I thought you might like it,” Viktor agreed humbly, “I know it’s not as good as the real thing, but . . .”

“It’s wonderful,” Yuuri finished.

Viktor beamed back at him, his muzzle pulling into that infamous heart-shaped smile once more.

“Although,” Yuuri hummed pensively, “it is a little odd . . . attempting the couple’s dances with no partner to practice with . . .”

He hoped it was a subtle enough hint.

“Even so, your footwork is stupendous,” Viktor replied obliviously, “Though I understand the trouble with the contredanses . . . I’m afraid you’ll just have to use your imagination with those, as we don’t have seven additional dancers . . . or even five. But the branle is coming along nicely, and from here at least, it doesn’t seem like you’re having any trouble with the danses à deux . . .”

As Viktor trailed off pensively, Yuuri plucked up his courage, “Well, you know . . . the danses à deux are choreographed for pairs . . .”

“Yes,” Viktor agreed blithely, “hence the name, I would assume,”

He smiled tightly up at Yuuri; the heart-shape was gone.

Oh.

Viktor wasn’t being oblivious; Viktor was rejecting his offers as delicately as they were being made.

Yuuri felt a lump form in his throat; right . . . how foolish of him.

He tried valiantly to hide his disappointment; quickly scrunching up his face in a forced smile.

“Ha, ha, of course,” Yuuri lied, “I just meant that . . . that’s why the steps for the danses à deux are easier to master . . . because there’s only one other person to imagine . . .”

Viktor quickly looked away, pretending to be distracted by something out the window. Yuuri’s gaze fell to his own hands, as he fiddled with his sleeves.

“And besides . . .” Yuuri rambled, desperately trying to dispel the tension, “. . . I already knew most of the danses à deux . . . I mean, the basics anyway. Minako taught me”.

Viktor was silent a moment, brows furrowed in confusion.

“. . . who?”

“Minako,” Yuuri replied buoyantly, relieved to have Viktor’s attention once more, “My . . . my tutor, back in The Village. The one that used to be a courtesan”.

Viktor blinked slowly, “I . . . sorry, Yuuri . . . I . . . must have misheard you. You said their name was . . . Minako?”

Yuuri suddenly felt nervous again, “Yea . . . Minako. Okukawa Minako,” he confirmed.

Viktor paused a moment more, committing the name to memory before speaking, “Well . . . they must be immensely talented,” he returned with a smile, “to impart such skill to you,” he turned his arctic gaze on Yuuri; it was once again filled with affection, but a strange hint of ‘something else’ lingered behind his eyes.

Yuuri smiled back hopefully, “She is, yes,” he agreed, “Not everyone has the patience to teach a ten-year-old ballroom dance,”

“Oh, I don’t know . . . I’m certain you were an attentive student, at least” Viktor teased.

Yuuri snorted, “As attentive as any schoolboy can be, I suppose,” he retorted, “but, I was the one who begged her to teach me . . . so she never let me off easy. We focused mainly on ballet . . . but some days we would do ballroom instead . . . kind of like this, actually. We spent most of our time perfecting the danses à deux, since there was only the two of us. She taught me so many . . . Minuets, Passepieds, Sarabandes, Bourrées, Gavottes, Allemandes, Rigaudons, Courantes . . . I honestly can’t even remember them all,” Yuuri huffed a tense little laugh.

Viktor continued to uphold his smiling facade, “which was your first?” he asked softly.

“A branle,” Yuuri answered, “It was such a simple one too . . . but, Minako refused to teach me anything else until I mastered it. Any time I badgered her for something new, she would just smile and say, ‘every ball opens with a branle’ . . . and we’d keep at it,”

Yuuri’s heart ached, recalling the memory; he missed Minako more than he had realized. He quickly collected his thoughts and continued, “Back then . . . I thought she was just testing my dedication, you know? Trying to see if I would waste her time or not . . . but . . . it’s true, isn’t it?”

Viktor nodded distractedly, “every ball opens with a branle,” he confirmed.

Yuuri grinned, “I suppose she really did know what she was talking about then,” he joked.

Viktor merely nodded once more, now a strange shade of melancholy.

“I was so proud the first time I got all the steps right,” Yuuri mused aloud, trying to pull Viktor from his daze, “Minako used to tell me that first impressions were a gentleman’s most important tool, both in life and in dance . . . which was why she insisted that I perfect the branle before learning anything new. After that, she let me move on to ballet and the danses à deux . . . and, well . . . here I am," he finished awkwardly.

“Yes . . . here you are,” Viktor repeated wistfully.

Yuuri’s eyebrows knit together, contorting with concern, “Viktor? Is everything – ?”

“Break over! Back to it! Quickly, now!”

Lilia’s voice rang out sharply, ruining the moment.

“Best not keep her waiting,” Viktor offered with that same faltering smile.

Yuuri’s chest tightened; what had he said wrong now?

He ruefully turned and made his way back over to the metronome.

The rest of the morning somehow felt off, as if the entire world had shifted one inch to the left. Yuuri kept up with Lilia’s instructions alright, and he successfully executed most of his choreography, but something was . . . missing.

Perhaps he was just homesick from thinking about Minako . . . or perhaps it was that Viktor was no longer watching him, instead lost in his own private thoughts.

Yuuri frowned; he really had to stop pushing Viktor to dance . . . since all it seemed to do was push him away.

*****

The morning was hot; infuriatingly humid and sticky.

Isabella trudged up the dusty hill; her sights set on the Tinker’s Workshop.

She didn’t know what she wanted exactly . . . but doing something was better than doing nothing.

Maybe The Tinker had Yuuri’s address, so J.J. could write to him . . . or maybe he could tell J.J. how Yuuri was doing, or if he might be coming back . . . anything to give J.J. some closure and peace of mind.

She approached the wide barn door, hand poised to knock, when she heard a shout echo inside.

“Don’t you dare –”

Was that . . . the tutor?

Impossible; that hoity-toity so-and-so never raised her voice. What was going on? Who was she scolding? The Tinker? And why?

Isabella pressed her ear to the door nervously; something wasn’t right here.

She held her breath to listen.

“What do you want from me?”

The Tinker.

“I screwed up, alright? Yuuri is gone and it’s all my fault!!”

Isabella’s eyebrows furrowed . . . what was that supposed to mean?

“Phichit, this is not helping”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize I was supposed to be helping. I’ve been goofing off this whole time, you know, having a right good laugh about it!”

“Phichit Chulanont, I swear if you don’t stop this instant –”

“You’ll what? Tell Yuuri on me? Oh right, you can’t because he’s not here. He’s gone, trapped forever in an Enchanted Castle because he indebted himself to a Beast in exchange for my life!”

Isabella’s blood ran cold.

What? No. This was . . . absurd . . . impossible . . .

What were they even saying?

A Beast? Enchanted Castle? Were those some sort of . . . dancing terms? Were the two inside just that far gone, to believe such nonsense? Or . . . were they really in danger?

“Phichit!” The tutor snapped “Lower your voice!”

Isabella swallowed hard, muscles tense and frozen; had she been detected?

Shuffling steps, soft hisses.

After a moment there were no more sounds of movement; perhaps she hadn’t been found out after all.

She should . . . go . . .  she should leave . . . this conversation clearly was not meant for her ears . . .

But . . . whatever was going on . . . if The Tinker was in danger . . . if Yuuri was in danger . . .

Then perhaps, she and J.J. and the rest of The Village might be in danger as well.

What the hell had they gotten themselves into?

Isabella pressed her ear more closely to the door; the tutor was still speaking, but so softly that Isabella couldn’t make out the words.

“Of course I’m being dramatic!” The Tinker cried suddenly, making Isabella jump, “Considering the situation, I think dramatics are entirely called for!”

“Well, what do you want then? Dramatics aren’t going to bring Yuuri back!”

“I don’t . . . I don’t know! I want . . . I want to see Yuuri! We can’t break the spell on our own . . . we just . . . we have to go back and get him . . . we have to go back to the castle and –”

Isabella’s stomach plummeted.

A Spell? An honest to mercy magic spell?

Damn it! She should have known there was something wrong with those two.

And Katsuki as well.

“NO!”

“Why not?”

“Because! it’s too . . . dangerous . . .”

“Don’t patronize me”

“The last time you went into those woods, you were mauled by wolves! Your leg isn’t even properly healed yet!”

“Not wolves . . . wolf! Singular! Just one! And my leg is fine!”

A pause.

“AAAAAAAugh!”

Isabella shoved herself off the door as the scream rippled through her body.

She couldn’t listen for another second.

She backed away slowly, before turning tail and racing back down the hill; kicking up dust as she went.

Her pace finally slowed once she had reached the market again; she looked around nervously, forcing herself to breathe.

Her feet carried her to The Tavern, where she immediately ordered a pint; hiding herself away at a small, shadowy table in the corner.

She took a deep pull of the fizzy lager; tasteless and flat on her tongue.

Okay . . . okay . . . so . . . what did she know?

Yuuri was not in The City as The Tinker and tutor had claimed; he was actually being held captive in an Enchanted Castle . . . by some sort of monster?

No; Beast. That’s what they had said; Beast.

And there was a . . . spell? And they were trying to break it . . . because . . . because of some sort of debt? To get Yuuri back?

Because The Tinker had almost died? Mauled by wolves?

No . . . not wolves . . . wolf.

Was that what really happened to his leg?

And that scream . . . what in mercy’s name were those two doing in there?

Isabella ruffled her dark hair in frustration; trying the shake the thoughts from her head.

Maybe she had heard wrong . . . or maybe they had been talking in code . . . or maybe it was . . . some sort of trick? Or joke? To get back at her and J.J. for . . . certain things?

Maybe J.J. could –

Oh no.

She couldn’t tell J.J.

Imagine what this would do to him!

But . . . she had to, didn’t she?

Much as it pained her . . . she couldn’t keep something like this from him; it was far too important!

Especially since Yuuri was involved.

Besides . . . if this was actually real . . . if there was some sort of . . . evil Beast lurking nearby . . . an evil Beast who stole people away and held them captive . . . an evil Beast that could cast spells and use magic . . . then . . . then the whole village was in danger!

And what about the wolf? Had the Beast sent that too?

Whatever was going on, The Tinker and the tutor were clearly incapable of handling it.

How long had Yuuri been gone? Months now? That was how long they had they been keeping this secret . . .

Why hadn’t they just gone to Captain Nishigori? Or hired a militia? Or just told J.J.? J.J. was the best hunter for miles . . . and he was in love with Yuuri . . . J.J. would have killed the Beast and brought Yuuri home by now, if only he had known . . . 

Isabella froze; was Yuuri even still alive?

No . . . he had to be . . . The Tinker wanted to go back to the Castle and get him . . .

So then . . . they knew where the castle was.

They knew where Yuuri was.

They knew where the Beast was.

Isabella drained the rest of her tankard, slamming it down on the table with a harsh, hollow ‘clang’.

So . . . it was decided, then.

For the sake of The Village, she had to expose this conspiracy . . . and bring Katsuki Yuuri home once and for all.

*****

Viktor’s mane whipped around wildly as he bolted up the grand staircase.

“Wait! Vitya –”

“What’s wrong? Where are we going?”

Behind him, Yakov and Chris struggled to keep pace with their fleeing Prince.

Viktor had excused himself from the ballroom the instant practice was over; racing to find his most trusted staff. He had made up some excuse for Yuuri’s benefit, trying to be nonchalant about his sudden departure; though the anxious crack in the dancer’s voice when he had said, “go ahead, Viktor, I understand,” still haunted his every step.

But . . . if what Yuuri had said was true . . . it could change everything.

Viktor had to know.

He had to know now.

Viktor stopped suddenly, sliding a bit on the marble as he turned to scoop Yakov and Chris into his massive paws. Both yelped in protest, but Viktor did not heed their grumblings; there was no time to explain.

He charged down the corridor, quickly reaching his chamber doors and crashing through them so violently he was certain he heard the wood splinter. He deposited the squirming staff members onto his bed as gently as he could.

“Vitya! What on earth has gotten into you?” Yakov scolded, bouncing roughly on the mattress beside the candelabra.

But Viktor did not answer, instead yanking at the topmost drawer of his bedside table, almost ripping it right off its track.

He tore through the contents, flinging handkerchiefs and trinkets carelessly across the room in his urgency. Chris and Yakov slowly made their way towards the edge of the bed, resigned that they could do nothing more than watch their frantic Master.

At long last, Viktor found what he sought.

He lifted the artifact out with a shaking paw; a small yet heavy silver hand mirror with a delicate handle and oblong face. On the back, shimmering crystals decorated the fine metal, twinkling in the shape of a rose. 

Viktor turned it over in his paws, gazing apprehensively into the glass surface; still kneeling on the floor by his side-table.

He took a deep breath.

“Show me . . . Show me Okukawa Minako,” He commanded.

Yakov’s brow furrowed in concern and Chris’s eyes went wide with alarm; both leaning in as far as they could in order to see.

A grey fog swirled across the glass, sweeping over the surface like frosty condensation as it transformed Viktor’s reflection into a new image before their very eyes.

There in the frame stood Okukawa Minako . . . outside in the bright noon-day sunlight, surrounded by a vast field of green behind a little wooden house; hanging laundry on a line to dry.

Speechless, Viktor lifted his padded fingers to trace the edge of the glass.

“It is her . . .” He murmured at long last.

“She looks like she hasn’t aged a day . . .” Chris agreed breathlessly.

They sat there in stunned silence a while longer; Viktor tilting the mirror so the other two could see.

“Yes . . . she seems . . . she seems just fine, Vitya” Yakov hedged, “Now . . . why exactly are you showing us this? We already –”

“Yuuri knows her,” Viktor mumbled distractedly, “or, she knows Yuuri, or they know each other. They –”

“How?” Chris gasped.

“She’s his tutor,” Viktor explained, his voice breaking over the words, “She’s the one who . . . taught him to dance . . .”

Chris and Yakov looked to one another uncertainly, as Viktor slid off his knees, slumping to sit on the marble floor with his back leaning against the side of the bed. The mirror dangled limply in his paw.

“So what does this mean?” Yakov demanded, “Does Katsuki know?”

Viktor let the mirror drop to the floor, bringing his paws up to tangle in his mane.

“I . . . I don’t know,” He answered, voice shaking, “I don’t . . . she doesn’t remember, does she? She can’t remember . . . and if she can’t then she wouldn’t have . . . so then he doesn’t . . .” Viktor choked, nearly on the verge of tears, “If she had . . . if she could . . . then she would have come home,”

Viktor pressed the padded heels of his paws into his eyes, forcing himself not to cry.

This was why he never used the mirror.

It had been left behind by the enchantress . . . another one of her cruel tricks.

“. . . The important thing is that she’s safe, mon petite bichon,” Chris soothed, settling on the side of the bed near Viktor’s shoulder, awkwardly stroking his mane with a stubby candle, “had she been here when the spell was cast . . .”

“She would have been cursed too,” Viktor finished, gathering his thoughts and steeling his nerves, “I know,”

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, trying desperately not to shake apart; even though the mirror could show him anything he desired, he rarely found comfort in it.

When the spell had first been cast, he’d used it often; keeping track of the goings-on in his kingdom; watching everything as it happened in real-time. He could see the whole world . . . and all those he cared about most.

For, even though they had forgotten him, he still vividly remembered them.

But as time passed and the years dragged on, it became far too painful to look out into the bright beautiful world, while he remained hopelessly bound to the ruined keep of ice and snow.

And so, the mirror had fallen into disuse; shoved to the bottom of his drawers under layers of detritus and debris, where it remained safely forgotten for years.

He had picked it up again for the first time mere months ago, when Phichit had left and Yuuri had stayed; Viktor had only wanted to make sure Phichit had arrived home safely on his own, considering the injuries he had sustained.

Of course, he had wanted to show Yuuri; to reach out to the beautiful dancer and put his mind at ease . . .

But then there would have been questions; questions about the mirror, the magic, the castle, the spell . . . and him. Questions which were better left unanswered; things that Viktor still could not bring himself to speak about.

“Just think, mon chou . . .” Chris continued delicately, “if Minako is still out there . . . then perhaps it has not been so long after all. Perhaps the others are still –”

“They’ll come home once the spell is broken,” Yakov interrupted harshly, “Until then, there is nothing we can do. Isn’t that why you cast aside the mirror in the first place, Vitya? Because it upset you so?”

“I’m not upset,” Viktor objected petulantly, “I’m just . . .”

Yakov rolled his eyes. Chris swatted the clock reproachfully.

Viktor took a deep breath, “Yuuri said . . . Yuuri said he started dancing when he was little, because his tutor . . . his tutor Minako would tell him stories about . . . about her time at court. About . . . castles and balls and . . .”

Princes.

Viktor pressed on, his words shaky as a newborn fawn, “So then . . .  so then she must remember something? But . . . what? How much? And why . . ?”

Why hadn’t she come home?

Yakov sighed, “I don’t know, Vitya,” he replied firmly, “None of us have the answers those questions . . .”

Viktor hung his dizzy head.

“But . . .” Yakov continued, “we all know who does,”

Viktor swallowed hard, “Yakov . . . I can’t . . .”

“You can and you will,” The clock refuted stubbornly, “this nonsense of yours has gone on long enough, Vitya. You have to tell Katsuki. Everything. By tonight.”

“Everything?” Viktor echoed numbly.

“Everything,” Yakov asserted, refusing to give a single solitary inch.

Christophe looked contritely between the two, “he already knows that the Castle is enchanted . . . that much is obvious, Viktor,” the candelabra opined gently, “so . . . what harm could there be in telling him why?”

“He . . .” Viktor’s protest was barely a whisper, “He might . . . once he knows the truth . . . when he learns what I’ve done . . . when he finds out that all of this is my fault . . . he might hate me. What if he’s mad? What if he’s ashamed? What if . . . what if he leaves?”

Silence fell like the first snow of winter as Viktor’s world crumbled. He felt his chamber . . . his secret refuge, his hidden sanctuary . . . fall away all around him; no bed or stonework floor to keep him upright . . . the very walls peeling apart and exposing him to the cold, bitter reality of his own making.

“Of course it’s a risk, Viktor,” Christophe replied slowly; sober and serious for once in his life, “But . . . it’s a risk you have to take. Not for the castle, or for the spell, or even for us . . . but for yourself . . . and for Yuuri,”

Viktor felt his insides hollow out; no words, no thoughts, no feelings came to him in the abyss of his epiphany.

When Viktor did not speak, the candelabrum continued, “He won’t leave. The Yuuri I know would never do that,” His voice was strangely calm; unwavering and certain.

Viktor nodded. Christophe was right.

There was no point arguing anymore.

He couldn’t run away any longer.

He had no more excuses. The only thing standing in his way now, was fear.

But why should Viktor be afraid, when it was Yuuri he was running to?

Despite the spell, despite the failures and the secrets and the impossible odds, Yuuri had become his everything . . . and that meant Yuuri deserved the truth . . . no matter what.

He could do this.

Viktor’s claws closed around the silver mirror and he pushed himself to his feet.

Bracing himself, he quit his chambers; shoulders square and strides determined. He had already lost everything once before . . . and he might lose everything again . . . but now, there was truly no turning back.

*****

Yuuri sighed.

His eyes rested on the kitschy brass knick-knacks atop the massive library fireplace, dazed and unfocused.

A Newton’s cradle, a gyroscope, a light mill, an hourglass, a globe . . . all unmoving, brightly burnished but covered in dust. He had been gaping at them so long, that the image of them playing sentry there on the mantle was surely branded into his memory for all eternity.

Yuuri slumped despondently in one of the leather sitting chairs, which he had casually maneuvered a few feet farther back from the fireplace; the book he had been perusing slid lazily down his lap.  

He had come to the library planning to do some more research, considering Viktor’s sudden absence this afternoon; his books still sitting in the piles where he had left them weeks before. Though he intended to continue sleuthing into the mysterious spell, he had, as usual, become distracted; and what a surprise that he should be distracted by thoughts of Viktor.

But he could hardly be blamed; his companion had been acting very strangely, after all.

Ever since this morning, Viktor had been hesitant, reticent, withdrawn . . . he hadn’t even watched the second half of practice . . . he had practically raced from the ballroom the second they had finished . . . and Yuuri knew it was all his fault.

He had asked Viktor to dance again; making his companion uncomfortable and pushing him away once more.

It had been foolish, he knew . . . self-centered and reckless and careless; but Yuuri just didn’t understand.

Why wouldn’t Viktor dance?

Viktor loved dance; he was practically an expert. There was no way he could have learned it all just by watching and studying; he had to have been a dancer himself.

Besides, all of Viktor’s previous excuses had been thoroughly disproven; being ‘too clumsy’ on his paws, not wanting to ‘accidentally scratch’ Yuuri, being ‘unable to keep up’ . . . none of that was even remotely true, and Yuuri knew it.

Viktor could dance . . . Yuuri could feel it in his heart, in his bones, in his very soul.

So, why wouldn’t Viktor dance?

Was he shy? Did he have stage fright; or . . . ‘ballroom fright’, in this case? Did he honestly believe that he himself wasn’t any good?

Yuuri worried his bottom lip between his teeth. He genuinely didn’t mind sticking to the basics and keeping things simple, if it meant that Viktor would finally dance with –

Oh.

Yuuri’s stomach plummeted at his epiphany.

The question wasn’t, ‘why wouldn’t Viktor dance’?

The question was, ‘why wouldn’t Viktor dance with him’?

Yuuri suddenly felt sick.

So . . . so alright . . . Viktor could dance . . .  Viktor loved to dance . . . Viktor just . . . didn’t want to dance with him . . .

But . . . why?

Maybe Viktor didn’t actually think Yuuri was as talented as he claimed to?

That was possible, Yuuri supposed . . . but seemed unlikely, considering Viktor’s virulent enthusiasm during practice.

So then . . . if it wasn’t Yuuri’s skill which had turned Viktor off . . .

Then that could only mean . . .

Yuuri’s heart cracked like a melting glacier; icy bits plunging into the merciless depths of an arctic sea.

He had to admit that he hadn’t been the most subtle about his . . . ‘feelings’ as of late. Perhaps, on some level, he had wanted Viktor to find out, despite his own resolution to wait until the spell was broken before adding any more complications to Viktor’s life.

Whatever the reason, Yuuri certainly hadn’t been trying to hide his ‘affections’. And, while it was possible that Viktor hadn’t picked up on Yuuri’s . . . infatuation, it was much more likely that he had . . . and that Yuuri’s feelings were simply not reciprocated.

Viktor was distancing himself; trying to let Yuuri down gently, just like he had every time Yuuri offered him a dance.

The realization stung; fizzling through Yuuri’s limbs and leaving him empty.

It was just as he had feared.

But it made sense, he supposed miserably. Viktor was nobility, after all. Once the spell was broken . . . things would go back to the way they had been before. Viktor would be remembered; he would regain his title, whatever it was, along with everything that came with it. Viktor would get his humanity back . . . he would get his status and influence and riches and responsibilities back . . . he would get his whole life back . . . a life that had no place for Yuuri in it.

Even just thinking about it made Yuuri ache. It hollowed him out; slowly eating away at him, corroding his insides like acid.

Yuuri frowned; he shouldn’t have hoped.

He had been very foolish indeed.

Desperate to distract himself from his heartbreaking revelation, Yuuri forced his eyes sharply back down to the book in his hands; the wide anthology of fairy stories with the red binding.

He had grown tired of pouring over records; the children’s book had been as much a break as anything else. Yet even now, he could not bring himself to focus on the simple stories and hatched illustrations.

He glared at the flimsy tome as if it had done him a personal offense.

Magic and spells and castles and princes and balls and . . . love . . . it was nonsense; all of it.

He tossed the book aside gruffly, landing with a loud ‘thwap’ on the mahogany floor.

Yuuri rubbed at his eyes; frustrated at the books, at the world, at himself.

Foolish, foolish, foolish.

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

Whatever happened between him and Viktor . . . whatever hopes did or did not come to pass, Viktor was still his friend . . . and he still needed help.

Yuuri lurched forward in his chair, surveying the tomes scattered around his feet. Historical accounts, architectural inventories, outdated atlases, family records, genealogies, mythologies and fairy stories all lay sprawled in haphazard piles by his toes. He pouted, resting his chin in his hands as he debated where to look next.

“. . . Yuuri . . .”

Yuuri sprang up in his chair, startled out of his reverie by the one voice he hadn’t wanted hear.

“Viktor!” Yuuri squeaked, swiveling around and craning over the side of his chair, “Sorry . . . I wasn’t expecting you,”

Viktor said nothing, his eyes cast down. In his paws, he clutched an exquisite silver hand mirror, intricately molded and glittering with crystals.

Yuuri slowly rose from his chair, moving steadily towards his morose companion.

“Viktor? Are you alright? What’s going on?” Yuuri queried softly; genuine concern overturning his earlier cynicism.

Something was wrong . . . very wrong. For the first time that he could recall, Viktor actually seemed . . . afraid.

“Yuuri . . . there’s . . . something I need to tell you,” Viktor murmured, “something I should have told you a long time ago,”

“What is it?” Yuuri breathed. A shiver ran up his spine; Viktor’s nerves, it would seem, were infectious.

The whole world grew just a little bit colder as he stood there, waiting for Viktor to continue. Time itself frosted over in the agonizing stillness.

“I wanted to talk about . . . I know that you . . .” Viktor huffed, running an agitated paw through his mane.

Oh no.

This was ‘the talk’.

This was the ‘I know how you feel, about me’ talk.

This was the ‘I don’t feel the same way’ talk.

This was the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ talk.

This was the ‘let’s just be friends’ talk . . .

Or worse . . . the ‘we should go our separate ways’ talk.

Yuuri went ridged; petrified with dread.

“V-Viktor, I –”

“Please, Yuuri . . .” Viktor all-but begged, “I . . . I have to . . .”

He took a subtle step closer to Yuuri, and heaved a deep sigh.

“By now,” He pressed on, “By now I’m sure you’ve noticed . . . certain things . . .”

Yuuri braced himself for the impending blow.

“. . . About me . . . about the castle . . .”

Yuuri’s brow furrowed, his clenched muscles slowly unraveling.

“About the . . . castle?” He repeated quizzically.

Now he really didn’t know what Viktor was talking about.

“Yes,” Viktor relented softly, “I . . . assume that you’ve noticed the strange goings-on? Even for an Enchanted Castle, there are more than a few . . . inconsistencies,” As he spoke, Viktor trudged slowly through the sitting area, as if he could distance himself from his confession, as well as Yuuri.

Beleaguered and befuddled, Yuuri just blinked, following Viktor with his eyes.

“It’s . . . it’s time you knew the truth . . . it’s time you knew where the magic came from . . . . and why ” Viktor came to rest by the unlit fireplace, his voice cracking on the last word.

Yuuri gaped a moment more, before it all finally clicked.

The spell!

Viktor was talking about the spell!

Of course!

Viktor didn’t know that Yuuri had already been told everything.

They had never actually spoken about the spell before; with Yuuri being too shy, and Viktor too secretive.

So then . . . this wasn’t about Yuuri’s feelings?

Then, that meant . . . that meant nothing today had been about Yuuri’s feelings . . . Viktor had been distracted by something else entirely.

Relief washed over Yuuri; forcing air back into his lungs in a rush, like surfacing on the ocean’s bright blue waves after being plunged into its dark, briny depths.

“Viktor . . . it’s alright, I –”

“The castle is under a spell,” Viktor blurted unceremoniously. He could not look Yuuri in the eye, “The castle, the staff and I . . . we . . . we’ve all been . . .”

“. . . cursed,” Yuuri finished gently, “I . . . I know . . .”

Viktor paused for a moment, taken aback by Yuuri’s admission. One paw suddenly grasped the mantle, as if to keep his balance; the mirror dangled limply in the other.

“You . . . know?” Viktor repeated slowly. He sounded so . . . lost.

Yuuri felt cold all over again.

Was Viktor . . . angry? Angry with him? For not telling him that he knew?

Regret surged through Yuuri’s veins as he scrambled for an explanation. He hadn’t meant any harm . . . he just . . . hadn’t wanted to upset Viktor, or bring up painful memories, or make him feel weak. He . . . he hadn’t lied to be cruel . . . he had only wanted to help. He hadn’t thought . . .

Of course . . . just like always, he hadn’t thought.

The way Viktor’s gaze scorched holes in the wooden floor almost made him flinch.

“P-please don’t be mad,” Yuuri whimpered, “I . . . I didn’t mean to . . . I wasn’t trying to . . .”

Viktor snapped to face him suddenly, and Yuuri almost jumped right out of his skin. But the look in Viktor’s eyes was not one of fury or loathing; rather concern and confusion.

Yuuri stopped suddenly, unable to continue.

“Yuuri . . .” Viktor’s voice was hollow and exhausted, “I’m not mad . . .”

“But . . . you are!” Yuuri scrambled, “You’re upset . . . you seem upset . . .”

“I’m not upset,” Viktor objected slowly, “Though . . . perhaps I should be . . . with Christophe, I imagine?” His tone had become a little bit lighter during his inquiry.

Yuuri released a small, nervous chuckle, “Ah . . . yea. He . . . he told me . . .” the admission tumbled out reticently. Viktor seemed to be teasing, but Yuuri was now in completely uncharted waters.

Viktor sighed, plunging himself into one of the chairs, depositing the mirror on a side table as he did so. He looked so . . . adrift; it made Yuuri’s heart break.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri blithered, “I should have said something before. I thought you knew that he . . . I mean, I never brought it up because I didn’t . . .”

Didn’t what? Didn’t think it mattered? Didn’t want to make things awkward? Didn’t want to get Viktor’s hopes up? Didn’t want to stop? Didn’t want to leave?

“I didn’t want to . . . pry,” he finished awkwardly.

Viktor nodded mutely, still looking for all the world like a lost little puppy.

“And . . . no one really tried to hide it,” Yuuri rambled, attempting to ease the tension and minimize the damage, “I . . . I just assumed it was one of those ‘unspoken things’ . . . ”

Alarm flashed in Viktor’s eyes.

Yuuri grimaced; mercy, what was he doing? That wasn’t what he had meant! What was he even saying? Why couldn’t he just shut up?

“Even . . . even you didn’t . . . I didn’t think you were trying to keep it a secret? I guess? When we were talking . . . and, and you were telling me all about your studies and the City Ballet . . . It’s just that you couldn’t have . . . I mean, I didn’t exactly think that you had been able to attend the ballet looking like –”

Yuuri froze, mortified.

Seriously, what was hell was wrong with him?

“. . . I mean . . . in your current state . . .” he finished weakly; pallid and shamefaced.

Forget ‘feelings’ . . . Yuuri would be lucky if he and Viktor were even still friends after this.

The silence stretched unbearably; though the fireplace was unlit, Yuuri was burning up from the inside out.

He had never been very good with words; but then again, Viktor wasn’t really either . . . and yet he had managed to be there when Yuuri needed him.

Now, Yuuri was the one who needed to be there for Viktor, and he couldn’t think of a single comforting thing to say as the poor beast remained rigidly curled in on himself, crushed by the truth and unable to do anything but stare into the void of his own turmoil. 

The silence was maddening.

Yuuri fluttered like a leaf on the breeze, “Please . . . say something . . .” he begged, his words weak and watery.

He couldn’t stand it; he needed to hear Viktor speak. Needed to know what he was thinking.

Viktor could scream, he could cry, he could tear Yuuri to shreds and banish him for all eternity . . . anything was better than this, this terrible, uncertain silence.

Viktor’s muzzle fell open, but no words came out.

Yuuri’s vision blurred. Mercy . . . how weak could he be? Viktor was the one who should be crying right now . . . not him. Not foolish, selfish Katsuki Yuuri.

“I don’t . . . understand . . .”

Viktor’s voice pinged softly at the edge of his consciousness. Yuuri scrubbed quickly at his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again.

Truth be told, he didn’t much understand either.

“How long have you known?” Viktor asked, his voice strained as he tried to keep his tone even.

Yuuri crumbled; there was no point in hiding it anymore.

“Since the beginning” he confessed, his eyes dropping to the floor in shame.

All the air in the room vanished, leaving a cold, vacant vacuum in its wake.

“. . . ‘the beginning’?” Viktor repeated; his question awash in denial and disbelief.

Yuuri felt his stomach lurch, but there was no going back, “Chris told me the very first night . . . after the feast. After I came to see you,” he explained, uncertain if he should say anything more.

“Chris . . .” Viktor hissed the name like a curse, swiping a paw over his tired eyes.

“He didn’t mean to!” Yuuri squeaked, “Phichit and I were leaving and I felt bad because I had upset you and I didn’t know what I had done wrong and he was just trying to explain and it sort of . . . came out. He wasn’t . . . I wasn’t –”

Viktor swallowed hard, “then why did you –?” he stopped speaking abruptly, deciding against voicing the rest of his thought.

Yuuri flinched as if he had been struck. He could only imagine how Viktor had meant to finish that sentence.

Then why did you lie to me?

Then why did you take advantage of me?

Then why did you betray me?

Suddenly, Yuuri jolted, his feet carrying him closer to Viktor, trying to close the distance and head off the next accusation, “I never meant to lie to you! I only wanted to –”

Yuuri choked on the end of his sentence, as his toe collided with a haphazard pile of books, sending them spiraling towards Viktor.

Yuuri froze; his heart didn’t even dare to beat.

Viktor scanned the books, then bent forward to scoop up the closest tome with a large, deft paw; the forest green genealogy. He skimmed the title; his face contorting in anguish as understanding took hold. His gaze darted briefly over the other titles, confirming his fears.

Yuuri’s lip quivered uncontrollably and he bit it hard in an attempt to stop the tremors from shaking him to his very core.

Viktor took a deep breath, “So . . .” he rumbled; his voice broken and distant and heavy as a stone, “So . . . this is why you stayed . . . to break the spell . . .”

The book tumbled carelessly out of his paw, hitting the hardwood floor with a flutter of pages.

“No!” Yuuri yelped, “I mean, yes, but . . . but not like that,”

“You only stayed to repay a debt . . .”

“No! That’s not –! I didn’t mean to . . .”

“That’s all this ever was to you . . .”

“No! Viktor, please! I swear –”

“Then why did you stay?” Viktor snapped, finally meeting Yuuri’s eyes.

Yuuri sank to his knees under the force of Viktor’s glare; though it was not anger brimming in those beautiful arctic eyes . . . but heartbreak.

Viktor quickly looked away; his long silver mane falling across his eyes as claws dug into the leather arms of the sitting chair. 

Seismic shaking rattled Yuuri’s ribs as earthquakes of shame tore his world asunder, consuming him alive. 

“Because . . .” He murmured remorsefully, “I . . . had to. I couldn’t just . . . leave,”

Viktor twisted further in on himself, his head bowing lower and his paws clenching tighter.

Yuuri couldn’t stand it.

This was all his fault.

He had done this.

Viktor was hurting . . . because of him.

Yuuri shuffled forward slowly on his knees until he sat directly at Viktor’s feet.

He reached up, ever so slowly, to part the curtain of Viktor’s mane with gentle fingers, desperately trying to meet his sullen gaze.

Beneath the veil of silver, Viktor’s aquamarine eyes glittered with tears.

“Yuuri? What are you looking at?”

Viktor’s soft, silky locks felt oddly comforting tangled up in Yuuri fingertips. An unusual sense of calm overcame him as he spoke, “I’m just . . . surprised to see you cry” he replied numbly.

“I’m mad, okay!” Viktor huffed, pushing Yuuri’s hand away, “what should I do?”

Mad.

So, he was mad.

He denied it before . . .

But it was true . . . Viktor was mad.

Not upset or withdrawn or tense . . . but mad.

Had he ever been mad before?

Or had Yuuri just never been able to tell when he was mad before?

The crumbling of Viktor’s stoic visage was staggering.

So, Yuuri didn’t let his hand fall; instead it followed the path of Viktor’s paw, gently guiding it into his own two trembling human hands. He held on tight, clinging to it like a lifeline; a silent plea not to give up . . . not to let go.

Viktor didn’t pull away, though his eyes still did not meet Yuuri’s.

“I’m sorry, Viktor,” Yuuri murmured, slow and sincere, “I never meant to hurt you . . . I only wanted to help”

“I know” Viktor relented, his words escaping as a whisper.

Yuuri wanted to feel better . . . to be comforted by Viktor’s acknowledgement, but he could literally hear the pain still lurking in his tone.

They stayed like that for some time; desperate and apprehensive. 

Eventually, Viktor heaved a great sigh, tenderly dislodging himself from Yuuri, who reluctantly looked up to face him.

“Yuuri . . .” Viktor began, reticent and contrite, lacing his own paws together as he spoke, “You don’t . . . have to stay here anymore. I believe I’ve kept you from home long enough,”

An electrical current replaced the blood in his veins as Yuuri shot up straight, “What?” he barked, “No! Viktor, I can’t leave, I –”

“While I’m grateful for your efforts . . . the spell can’t be broken by books or bribery,” Viktor objected firmly, “believe me, Yuuri, I’ve tried,”

And the look Viktor gave him then was filled with such fondness, Yuuri thought his heart might tear in two.

“You don’t owe me anything, Yuuri” Viktor asserted gently, “I can’t ask such a thing of you . . . I can’t allow you to stay –”

“Please don’t send me away!” Yuuri begged, interrupting sharply. He was ashamed of how desperate he sounded, but the thought of losing Viktor was too much to bear . . . he had to at least try.

“Wha –?” Viktor gasped, shocked by Yuuri’s sudden plea, “Yuuri, I –”

“Viktor, I’m so sorry,” Yuuri whimpered, “I know I made a mistake . . . I should have told you I was trying to break the spell . . . but please . . . please don’t ask me to leave!”

He felt himself folding inward; imploding.

He felt the tears prickle in the corner of his eyes and spill out the sides.

He knew this couldn’t last forever, what he had here with Viktor . . . but he thought they would have at least a little bit more time together . . .

“Yuuri?”

He felt a warm, soft paw cupping his cheek, gently tilting his face up; tentative and uncertain.

Yuuri couldn’t help but turn towards it, reaching up with his own hand to hold Viktor’s in place.

“Yuuri . . . I don’t want you to go,”

Another wave of tears cascaded down Yuuri’s cheeks; Viktor tried to wipe them away with his enormous thumbs, careful not to bump Yuuri’s glasses. He succeeded only in smearing them across his face; but Yuuri didn’t care.

Viktor looked as if he was once again on the brink of tears as well, “I don’t want you to go . . . but I can’t allow you to stay trapped here in the castle with me. I had thought . . . I had thought you wanted to live here . . . I thought you had chosen to stay . . . but . . . remaining out of obligation . . . because of a debt . . . it’s not the same, Yuuri. There’s a whole big, beautiful world out there waiting for you . . . I can’t allow you to stay and waste your life on an impossible task. I won’t let you sacrifice your freedom for me . . . I can’t ask such a thing of you . . .”

Yuuri took a deep, shaky breath “You didn’t” he murmured.

“. . . Didn’t what?”

Yuuri tore himself away from Viktor’s caress, yanking off his glasses and swiping at his eyes with his sleeve, “You didn’t ask me sacrifice anything . . . you invited me to stay . . . and I said ‘yes’,”

“I understand, Yuuri,” Viktor conceded, “you said ‘yes’ . . . but it’s about why you said ‘yes’ –”

“I said ‘yes’ because I wanted to!” Yuuri objected sharply, “I did choose to stay . . . but not out of obligation! I chose to stay because . . . I like it here. Because . . . Chris and Masumi and Mila and Sara and Yuri and Makka and the rest of the staff . . . they’re my friends. Because . . . it’s beautiful here and . . . and I don’t belong in The Village . . . there’s no future for me there. And, yes, I chose to stay so I could try to find a way to break the spell . . . but not because of the debt . . . because of you. Because you’re important to me and I wanted to help because I care about you! Is that really so hard to understand?”

Viktor’s eyes went wide; he had probably never been so thoroughly chastised in all his life.

“Yuuri . . . I . . . I didn’t . . .”

“You saved Phichit’s life!” Yuuri continued, “I will forever be grateful to you . . . and I absolutely owe you . . . but it’s never been about the debt. I mean, maybe that was part of it . . . maybe it started that way . . . but things have changed . . . things are different now. We’re different now. And . . . we both know that we can never truly be ‘even’. I told you before, saving my brother’s life is a debt I can never repay. Not even if I broke a thousand spells. And . . . this . . . all of this . . . it’s always been so much bigger than that. It’s . . . so much more complicated. Even that first night . . . after the feast, in your parlor . . . I didn’t offer you a reward because I owed you . . . or so that we would be even . . . I . . . I wanted to thank you. I just wanted to show you how much your actions meant to me. And, yes, when I found out about the spell, I wanted to break it . . . I still want to break it. I want to help you and the others just as you all helped me . . . but not out of pity or obligation or guilt . . . I want to help you because we’re friends . . . because you’re good and kind and wonderful and you don’t deserve to be cursed,”

“I . . . I don’t know what to say . . .” Viktor murmured, his voice was light, reverent and almost star struck.

Yuuri swallowed hard.

“. . . say that everything is okay now?” he entreated, willing his voice not crack, “Say you’re not mad at me anymore?”

“Oh, Yuuri,” Viktor sighed; his name a reverent whisper, “I wasn’t! I . . . I was mad at myself . . . not you. Never at you . . .”

Yuuri nodded, slowly coming back to himself after the afternoon’s emotional upheaval.

“G-good,” he replied, scrambling for some semblance of control, “Because . . . I . . . I really would like to stay . . . I’m not ready to go back to the farm just yet . . . so . . . so no more trying to scare me away, got it?”

Yuuri bit his lip nervously; his little jab there hadn’t come across quite as light-hearted as he’d hoped.

He melted as Viktor graced him with a tiny little heart-shaped smile.

“I promise”.

Yuuri’s lips twitched up at the corners and soon he was beaming right back.

Viktor stood up slowly, taking Yuuri’s hand and pulling him to his feet as he did so.

His paw relaxed, as if he were about to let go; but suddenly he changed his mind, squeezing Yuuri’s hand tightly.

Viktor took a deep breath; silently coming to some decision in his own mind.

“Come with me,” he implored, equal parts fearful and excited, “There’s . . . something I want to show you,”

Yuuri just nodded, squeezing Viktor’s paw in return.

He didn’t have a chance to ask what or where, as Viktor was now tugging him along, out of the library towards their mystery destination.

The sitting area was left in silent chaos; disturbed chairs, scattered books . . . and a little silver hand mirror, carelessly forgotten on a redwood side table.

*****

The afternoon heat was even more oppressive than the morning’s; Isabella felt suffocated by her hunting jacket.

She gazed blankly at the heavy spruce door in front of her.

“LEROY”

The stately wrought-iron letters mocked her; it seemed that no matter what she did, she always found her way back here – to a home that would never be hers, and a man who could never love her back.

Isabella grimaced; it seemed J.J. would get his chance to be Yuuri’s hero after all.

She hesitated, dreading what she knew must come next; J.J. would do anything for Yuuri . . . but just how much would he be forced to sacrifice to save his precious Playboy?

Isabella could only hope that she and J.J. would be a match for . . . whatever it was they were up against.  

Katsuki had better be grateful for this.

Though she supposed . . . it wasn’t really Yuuri’s fault.

Nothing had been Yuuri’s fault.

All these flaming arrows, and nowhere to aim them; it seemed their fire would just consume her instead.

She pulled the iron skeleton key out of her pocket, sliding it into the lock. It rattled around a bit, finding no purchase, not allowing her to turn.

Was the door . . . unlocked then?

Suddenly, the solid spruce disappeared; revealing a smiling J.J., wearing his cardinal read tailcoat; pressed to perfection.

“Isabella!” J.J. chimed, “What luck! I was just on my way to see you!”

The huntress could do nothing but gape, “J.J.! You’re –”

“Come in!” The hunter beckoned. Isabella followed him insde as if in a trace, closing the door behind her. J.J. led her into the kitchen, where rations and gear lay spread out on the table.

“I thought about what you said,” J.J. continued, bustling to and fro, gathering more items from around the room and depositing them on the table with the others, “You were right,”

“I . . . was?” Isabella asked, dumbfounded. How had J.J. changed so much in such a short time?

“I’m still in love with Yuuri . . . I always will be” The hunter clarified, as Isabella tried to interject; derailed by unexpected conversation, “But . . . you were right. He’s . . . an artistic type . . . a ‘free spirit’ . . . that’s just who he is. But I’m not giving up on him. Someday, we’ll be together . . . but right now, he wants to run off and fool around and . . . do his own thing. He doesn’t want a hero. He doesn’t need . . . rescuing” the admission tumbled out almost sheepishly.

Isabella cringed; if only J.J. knew how wrong he was.

“So,” J.J. continued, pulling an empty canvas sack up onto the table, and packing the items inside, “I’ll wait. Until Yuuri is ready to settle down,”

“Settle down?” Isabella repeated slowly, her mind number than her body.

“Of course,” J.J. smiled, securing the canvas sack, which was now full to bursting, “You’ve said it over and over and over . . . I’m the most eligible bachelor in town. Anyone would lucky to be with me. The only reason Yuuri kept turning me down, was because he knew he was leaving. So, all I have to do is wait for him to get this . . . I don’t know . . . ‘wanderlust’ out of his system and come to his senses. I’m sure he’ll figure it out. Eventually, he’ll get sick of The City and come home . . . and when he does . . . I’ll be here to welcome him with open arms,”

J.J. smirked, slinging the sack over his shoulder.

“That’s not . . . I didn’t exactly say that . . .” Isabella objected futilely; considering that advice was no longer relevant, as it turned out that Yuuri was not actually absent of his own free will.

“No, you did something better,” J.J. clapped a hand on Isabella’s shoulder, “You helped me figure it out on my own,”

Isabella swallowed hard; she supposed it didn’t matter anymore.

If they couldn’t defeat this Beast . . . then none of it mattered.

And if they could . . . well then . . . she supposed she would just have to try and be happy for J.J. and Yuuri.

After being held prisoner by an evil Beast, she very much doubted the dancer would decline J.J.’s proposal a third time.

“That’s . . . great, J.J., I’m happy for you,” She said, trying to fill the hollow feeling in her chest with pretty lies.

J.J. smiled at her, pure and unguarded.

“So, what are you waiting for? Go home and grab your gear!”

Isabella stared blankly at her friend, “What . . . gear?”

“Don’t tell me you forgot already!” J.J. teased, “I believe someone promised me a week-long hunting expedition,”

Isabella blinked; oh right . . . the sack, the supplies, the rations . . . not for a Beast Hunt, but something else entirely . . .

Did that mean?

But . . . they couldn’t leave now . . . they had to save Yuuri . . .

Didn’t they?

Something slimy whispered wicked thoughts inside her head.

What if . . . she didn’t tell J.J. anything?

What if she just forgot all about the dreadful exchange she overheard this morning? Pretended she had never gone to The Tinker’s Workshop? Pretended to believe that Yuuri was safe and sound in The City?

What if . . . what if she left with J.J. right now, and never looked back?

What did she owe Katsuki Yuuri anyway? Or The Tinker? Or the tutor?

Nothing; less than nothing.

And so what if something happened to them? Or The Village? It was their own fault . . .

“Hello? Isabella? Did you hear me?” J.J. goaded, waving a hand in front of her face.

She snapped out of her daze, “Yes. Of course. Let’s go right now!” She chirped.

“That’s what I like to hear!” J.J. crowed, “We’ll go pack your gear and head out tonight!”

Isabella nodded eagerly, grinning like a fool.

“Great!” J.J. exclaimed, stomping jubilantly towards the door, “This is going to be brilliant! Just you and me and the trees and the stars!”

Isabella’s insides fluttered.

Just you and me and the trees and the stars.

Just you and me . . . and the trees and secrets.

Just you and me . . . and the lies and the stars.

Just you and me . . .                                      

“Hey . . . you alright, Isabella? You don’t look so good,”

J.J.’s furrowed brow hovered into view. Isabella hadn’t moved a muscle.

It wasn’t right . . . it wasn’t fair . . .

J.J. was happy now . . . he had moved on, almost. He was at peace, kind of.

But . . . how happy would he be if he were to find out that she had kept this from him?

If something happened to Yuuri and J.J. found out . . . if something happened to Yuuri, and J.J. learned that Isabella had done nothing to stop it?

How could she ever face him again?

If something happened to Yuuri . . .

If something happened to The Village . . .

If something happened to J.J. . . .

How could she ever live with herself?

Isabella squeezed her eyes shut; it just wasn’t fair.

As much as she hated Katsuki Yuuri . . . she couldn’t just walk away.

J.J. was finally happy again . . . and now she had to go and ruin it.

A large hand pressed roughly against her forehead, “Are you sick? You have a fever or something?” J.J. asked gruffly; genuine concern suffusing his callous tone.

Isabella took a deep breath.

It was now or never.

“J.J., there’s something I have to tell you . . .”

*****

The setting sun dappled the rolling hills in splashes of pink and orange and violet; turning the grassy plains into a messy canvas of colours.

Inside the workshop, the air was stagnant and rosy; thick with humidity and smoke and fatigue.

“I mean . . . it’s not like I’m mad or anything. It’s just . . . it is what it is, you know?”

Phichit frowned, squinting as he delicately dragged a swath of pink paint across his latest project; the delicate detail brush poised precariously between his fingers. He sat at the North Workbench; the scent of paint and varnish and lacquer both aggravating and comforting. The familiar stench centered him, giving him some sense of normalcy.

The sky was starting to darken, and although the rooftop slats were still fully open, the shadows had started to irritate Phichit’s eyes as he painted; so he had lit the forge for a little extra light.

Yuuri wouldn’t have been happy about that, but Yuuri wasn’t here now, was he?

Besides, it wasn’t unusual for Phichit to stay up late; though he no longer had his own unique little lantern to light his workbench, as it had shattered into pieces somewhere in the forest.

“I know Minako had a point . . . it doesn’t really make sense to go back to the castle . . . but to be honest, I don’t see any other option. I can’t just . . . sit around and hope, can I? I mean, maybe this break will be good for me, you know? Give me some time to screw my head on straight . . . but it’s . . . frustrating? Every second I sit here painting dolls is time I could be using to break the spell . . .”

Phichit trailed off, dabbing delicately at fussy wooden lips.

The dolls were a surprise for the triplets; he’d fixed their favourite one so many times, he figured he might as well make each of them one of their own.

It was a fun little project; easy and distracting. He was actually quite proud of the result; he had improved upon the design of the original doll, re-enforcing the delicate joints, and carving each to look like the triplet who would receive it. He had been working on them for some time, and now all that remained was to paint the final details, and give each a smooth coating of protective lacquer.

The girls were still grounded; or rather, they had been grounded again for trying to sneak out to the workshop during the first grounding. Phichit wasn’t certain when they would be back, but he estimated that by now, nearly enough time had been served. 

“And I guess . . . maybe this is selfish, but . . . I just miss Yuuri,” Phichit murmured, gently putting down the doll he had been working on to dry.

He immediately snatched up a second, brush at the ready.

“We should have set a time limit,” Phichit sighed, “You know . . . ‘if you’re not home in three months I’m allowed to come get you’ . . . that type of thing. I don’t even know if he’s okay. I mean, I know that Yuuri is . . . safe . . . probably. Call me paranoid, but who knows what may have happened after I left? I mean . . . what if it was all an act? Like . . . a trap? What if The Beast is actually . . . what if he’s not what he seems? What if Yuuri regrets everything and wants to come home? What if he’s miserable . . . or bored . . . or lonely?”

Phichit’s brush stilled, as he gazed numbly at the half-painted monstrosity in his hand.

Something constricted inside his chest; the truth strangling him from the inside out. He squeezed his eyes shut with a shaky exhale, “He’s . . . not miserable at all, is he?”

Hollow and hopeless, Phichit set the barely-finished doll back down on his workbench; propping his brush upright in the little jar of rosy oil paint.

“Maybe . . . I’m just hoping that he’s miserable . . . because I want him to want to come home?” Phichit’s voice cracked with shame, “Does that make me a terrible person?”

He dropped his eyes to the workbench, where Poppy was greedily inhaling the seeds Phichit had left out tonight. The soft ‘scritch scratch’ and ‘pitter patter’ of tiny paws filled the silence as the other mice explored the workbench. Knut and Bolt were feasting on corn kernels, while Cog, Spring, and Screw investigated the strange smells emanating from the many open jars of paints and lacquers and varnishes. Widget was curled up in the corner; fast asleep on first doll’s skirt.

“Well?” Phichit asked again, raising an impatient eyebrow.

Poppy stood up on her hind legs, sniffing the air; her nose twitching ever so slightly, causing her whiskers to flutter.

“Some help you are,” Phichit cooed, extending a hand for her to climb up into.

He cupped the field mouse carefully, bringing her closer to his face.

“At least you like it here, don’t you? You’d never leave me for some fancy Enchanted Castle?” He asked sadly, gently petting Poppy with a single finger. He didn’t actually expect an answer, but he liked talking to the mice; it made him feel a little less alone.

Poppy squirmed in his hand; disappointed that Phichit was only bearing his soul, and not giving her more seeds.

“Traitor,” Phichit laughed, depositing her carefully on the workbench beside Knut and Bolt, “There’s still corn, if you’re that hungry,”

Poppy immediately clutched a single kernel; munching away.

“That’s what I thought,” Phichit sighed.

He knew he wasn’t being entirely fair . . . but things were . . .  complicated.

It had been obvious to Phichit, even in the short time they had spent there, that Yuuri had fallen in love with the mysterious and beautiful castle; its grandeur, its magic, its secrets . . . its fascinating staff and its enigmatic Master. 

Yuuri himself may not have realized, oblivious as he was . . . but Phichit knew his own brother well enough to understand what was really going on here. Yuuri had always been a dreamer, a storyteller, an artist . . . and though he had always virulently denied it, he was a romantic at heart.

It was the perfect place for Yuuri; no more poor provincial life, no more rumors, no more J.J., just endless days of magic and mystery with his exciting new friends.

Phichit frowned; even if he and Minako did find a way to break the spell . . . he knew that Yuuri would not be coming home.

How could he, when he’d finally found someplace where he truly belonged?

Phichit reached out across the workbench; gingerly picking up the half-finished doll and the pink-coated paintbrush, setting to work once more.

Poppy scuttled closer, sniffing at the large can of acrid lacquer finish with disdain.

A small, melancholy smile spread over Phichit’s features, “I know . . . terrible stuff, isn’t it? Smelly and flammable and poisonous . . . but at least it makes everything look pretty. And it makes a good wolf deterrent . . . if you're in a pinch,” he teased, supervising Poppy’s tentative exploration with a tender gaze.

Phichit watched the mice scurry about the bench, stuffing their faces and darting through the clutter; a litter of siblings, brothers and sisters safe and warm and happy together as they explored their forever home.

He couldn’t help but think of his own siblings; his dwindling family now scattered to the wind.

Mari and Yuuri had always stood up for him . . . protected him and advised him and supported him and kept him company. No matter what, they had always been there for him; he had taken for granted that they always would be.

Now, both of them were gone . . . and Phichit had no idea what he supposed to do next.

Phichit looked blankly at the doll in his hand; he supposed finishing the paint job was a good enough place to start.

With a deep breath he coated his brush once again, applying the cheerful paint in smooth, precise strokes.

He finished the second doll, and placed it gently beside the first.

Not too bad, if he did say so himself.

Phichit plucked the third doll off the table, once again setting to work.

“Does this look even to you?” Phichit asked, displaying his handiwork to the mice, who all promptly ignored him, “The light isn’t that great, so I can’t really tell . . . but I think it’s a little bit –”

‘KA-THUNK CREEEEEEEEEEEEEAK CRASH’!

The Workshop door was violently flung open; screeching on its rails.

Phichit jumped at the sudden intrusion; paint brush and doll slipping out of his grasp and clattering to the ground.

“Mercy’s sake!” Phichit roared, his hands streaked with sticky smears of pretty pink; more likely than not, the doll's paint job had been ruined, “You know, most people knock before –”

The words died in Phichit’s throat as his eyes settled on his unexpected guests.

There in the entryway, stood J.J. and Isabella . . . and both looked furious.

“Tinker,” J.J. greeted with a Cheshire smile, stalking towards the workbench; his paces were slow, measured and even. Isabella didn’t follow; instead, she rolled the rickety door shut, throwing the latch down to secure it behind them.

“Ignorant Brute,” Phichit returned coldly, “To what do I owe this unwelcome intrusion?”

“You know . . . you should really start being nicer to me . . .” J.J. scolded, planting himself firmly in front of Phichit, nothing but the paint-laden workbench between them.

“Oh? And why is that?” Phichit scoffed, “Because you’re just such a swell guy?”

J.J. grit his teeth; his grin hysterical, his eyes gleaming, “Because . . .” he hissed victoriously, “I know your little secret . . .”

*****

Viktor bolted up the grand staircase; racing towards his bed chamber. It was the second time he’d done so that day; but this time, he had Yuuri in tow. The gentle weight of the dancer’s slender hand anchored him; all at once centering him and spurring him on.

“Viktor!” Yuuri puffed behind him, “where are we going?”

“My chambers,” Viktor replied absently, still swept up in a wave of inspiration.

Yuuri had been full of surprises this afternoon, as always; though today’s earlier revelations were not something which Viktor could have ever prepared himself for.

And, fool that he was, all he had been able to think in that moment was, “why?”

If Yuuri knew about the spell, if he knew what an utter failure Viktor was, if he knew that the castle was doomed, then why; why would he ever willingly stay?

Then Viktor had been answered; his hopes dashed and heart shattered by those four agonizing little words . . .

“Because . . . I had to”

Sacrificing himself repay a debt; Yuuri had resigned himself to a dark and dismal future on the arm of a beast.

It was more than Viktor could bear; he had broken down, weeping like an infant . . . right in front of Yuuri no less!

Fury and grief and heartbreak had consumed him; he could have sworn himself crushed under the weight of it. Fury at himself for being so foolish, for not seeing what was happening right in front of his eyes; for letting himself fall in love with someone indebted to him. Greif at the loss he knew had to come; the pain of setting Yuuri free. Heartbreak caused by his own selfishness; mortified that he had unintentionally imprisoned Yuuri, ignorantly inflicting injuries he could never remedy. Devastated to learn that he had hurt the one he loved most in the world out of sheer carelessness.

But . . . Yuuri hadn’t turned away.

He hadn’t left; in fact, he had begged to stay.

The doors had been thrown wide open . . . the storm had raged and the tides had churned, and yet . . . Yuuri had held fast.

And when the rain had passed, he had picked up the tattered remains of Viktor’s heart, and stitched it back together with a simple explanation.

“Because . . . I had to”

Not an obligation . . . not self-imposed exile . . . not by force or command.

“Because . . . I had to”

Loyalty . . . and longing . . . and love.

Viktor was unused to having others looking out for him; unused to people showing him genuine affection, without titles or ranks or favors or debts in the way . . . without strings attached . . . without demanding something in return.

Viktor was a Prince. It was his job to take care of his kingdom; and he had been very good at his job; carefully tending to his lands and people with fondness and devotion.

In order to do that, he had to be strong. He had to be swift and decisive. He had to be charismatic and clever.

He had to be perfect.

Perfection meant not showing weakness; it meant not expressing his own needs or desires . . . not allowing anyone to worry over him. 

So he supposed it made sense that he could not recognize it . . . when for once, he was the one being cared for.

It had caught him off guard, to say the least.

But luckily, Yuuri had put him firmly in his place; and Viktor found he wanted to stay there forever.

Now that his heart was whole and hale once more, he wanted to tell Yuuri everything; feeling weightless and unstoppable.

He had to take a chance; he had to confess his feelings now, while he still had the nerve.

And he knew just how he would do it.

“Your . . . chambers?” Yuuri asked, his voice breaking into Viktor’s reverie. They reached the landing with a small ‘thud’.

Viktor slowed a little, so Yuuri could catch his breath.

“Of course,” Viktor confirmed, trying to not get ahead of himself, “why?”

Yuuri smirked a little, “Just clarifying . . . you’re saying there’s something you want to show me . . . in your chambers?”

Unlike during the incident in the pantry, this innuendo was intentional.

Viktor threw back his head, roaring with laughter as he continued to drag Yuuri playfully down the corridor; feeling lighter than air.

Yuuri laughed along with him, and willingly kept pace.

At last, they reached the massive doors; which swung open gently at Viktor’s touch. He released Yuuri’s hand as they entered, holding the door open for the dancer.

Yuuri looked around the chamber with wide awe-struck eyes; Viktor had grown used to his abundance of gilded ornamentations, and often forgot how ridiculously opulent they were, though he loved them all the same.

The curtains to the wide balcony were pulled back, letting in the soft pink light of the setting sun; refracting beautifully off the glassy icicles beyond. Yuuri gazed out into the encroaching night with wonder.

Perfect.

This was perfect.

Everything was perfect.

“So . . . what did you want to show me?” Yuuri inquired softly, turning back to face him.

Viktor’s insides fluttered with embarrassment; he had been gawking again.

“Here,” he beckoned, calmer than he felt, gesturing towards an unassuming iron side table.

Yuuri drifted over to it and Viktor joined him, standing by his side, almost touching; nervousness creeping in once more.

A heavy, padded heap sat before them; innocent and unassuming, though Viktor knew what terrible magics lay beneath. Yuuri gazed at it quizzically, but said nothing, biting his lip adorably in anticipation.

Viktor reached out one massive paw to remove the heavy cover.

“Yuuri?” he asked suddenly, his claws halting; poised above the cloth, “What . . . what exactly did Chris tell you that night? About the spell?”

Embarrassment coloured the dancer’s face, but he did not flinch away, “He said . . . that you were all human once . . . but then an Enchantress came here in disguise, and gave you a gift, in return for your hospitality . . . to repay you for your kindness. But . . . it was a trick. The gift was cursed. She transformed everyone . . . buried the castle in snow and . . . made the rest of the world forget that you exist. He said that only you could break the spell . . . and that you didn’t have much time left before it became . . . permanent . . .”

Viktor’s brow crinkled in confusion, “that . . . is that all he told you?” he asked suspiciously. It didn’t seem like Chris to omit any juicy or salacious details; especially when it came to Viktor’s love life.

Yuuri looked up at him owlishly, “Why . . . is there more?” he asked skeptically.

In lieu of an answer, Viktor slid the padded cover off the crystal rose case; exposing the shimmering flower beneath.

Yuuri stifled a gasp as Viktor proceeded to lift the case off as well, setting both it and the cover on the ground beside him.

The rose hovered ethereally before them.

Viktor had to smother a gasp of his own; now, well over half of the petals had thawed; rivers of red spilling over the frost, crimson and bloody and alive. The stem and thorns were crisp and vicious; emerald green and glittering.

Yuuri gaped at it, enraptured by its beauty, “Is that . . . a rose?” He asked breathlessly, “Why is it . . ? How is it . . ?”

“This rose . . .” Viktor explained, “. . . is the gift which was bestowed upon me by the Enchantress,”

Yuuri nodded mutely, understanding; still transfixed by the stunning artifact.

“It’s . . . obviously not a normal rose . . .” Viktor continued, “It carries her enchantment, acting as a sort of . . . timer. I have only until the last petal freezes to break the spell. If the rose turns to solid ice . . .”

“Then the spell becomes permanent” Yuuri murmured, catching on quickly.

“Yes,” Viktor confirmed.

Yuuri did not flee or turn away, as Viktor once feared that he might. Instead, he merely leaned in a little bit closer, studying the rose as if it were a puzzle box; sussing out the best way to unlock its secrets.

“Chris said that only you can break the spell . . .” Yuuri reiterated, straightening up, “is that true?”

“More or less?” Viktor conceded, unintentionally cryptic.

Though it was true that he couldn’t break the spell alone, that he would have to earn the love of another to lift the enchantment, Viktor wasn’t entirely certain exactly what that entailed. A kiss? A confession of love? A marriage?

Was it simply the act of him reconciling his own shortcomings which would break the spell? Or was it the connection he was meant to forge with his intended, which would unravel this web of despair?

Technically, it was up to Viktor to pursue that romance; he was the one with something to lose in this scenario, not the hypothetical lover he was meant to take. So then, did that mean that the spell was his responsibility alone? Or would his paramour have to shoulder some of the burden? Or both of them together?

It was all very unclear. Viktor found it almost impossible to explain; unable to give Yuuri concrete answers, when even he himself did not fully understand.

“More or less? What does . . . what is it that you have to do, exactly?” Yuuri asked gently, tilting his face up to Viktor with a raised eyebrow.

Viktor normally would have taken the moment to savor Yuuri’s adorably befuddled expression, but now was not the time for distractions.

He took a deep breath . . . where to even start?

How could he explain? How could he make Yuuri understand? How could he discuss something so tragic, and then segue into a confession of love?

He had to be honest . . . but he couldn’t be too blunt; informative but not overwhelming, truthful yet optimistic.

Maybe there was a way to . . . ease into it?

“In order to break the spell,” Viktor explained, “I must, in essence . . . correct a . . . a ‘character flaw’ . . . and improve myself to the Enchantress’ satisfaction”

He supposed that was technically correct; more or less.

‘If you can learn to love another, and earn their love in return before the rose turns to solid ice, then the spell will be broken . . . if not . . . you will be doomed to remain a beast for all time,’

So, that meant that Viktor had to become more loving, right? More desirable? He had to improve his personality; he had to romance someone without the aid of his wealth or status or good-looks . . . that’s what it actually meant, right?

Forcing Viktor to become a better person; that was the real intention behind the spell . . . if one looked past all the prose and poetry and flowery language, of course. Though it shamed Viktor to admit, it seemed that perhaps he had not been as perfect a prince as he’d once thought; in the eyes of the Enchantress, at least.

Yuuri’s face contorted in confusion, “What? That’s so . . . vague. What does that even mean?” he pouted, “how are you supposed to do that? And once you do, how are you supposed to prove it to her?”

Viktor huffed a small laugh, “That’s exactly what I have been asking these many years,” he agreed fondly, “it’s a very . . . ambiguous objective, to say the least,”

“Can I . . . ask?” Yuuri hedged uncertainly.

“Anything,” Viktor allowed; it would do no good to omit any details now.

“What . . . what’s the flaw?”

Viktor raised an eyebrow.

“Not that I agree, I mean! I don’t think you’re . . . I like you just the way you are! But, um . . . you said that the Enchantress has something she wants you to . . . improve?”

Viktor gazed into Yuuri’s expectant eyes.

It was time.

Time to tell Yuuri everything; time to confess his love.

But . . .

. . . As Viktor looked into those hopeful brown eyes, the words refused to come.

Though surprisingly, for the first time ever, it was not fear which stayed his tongue . . . but love.

Yuuri was . . . perfect. Truly, genuinely perfect; not the shameless, selfish version of ‘perfect’ Viktor had once idealized. Yuuri was perfect in the same way a sunset was perfect; purely and ardently and effortlessly. Yuuri was good and kind and beautiful and brilliant and determined and talented and loyal and gentle and strong and selfless . . . because it was simply in his nature to be so.

Yuuri had proven himself to be Viktor’s truest friend.

Yuuri was more than willing to do whatever it took to break the spell.  

Yuuri would do anything for Viktor, no questions asked.

But that was exactly the problem.

Yuuri had already given up so much; his home, his family, his time . . .

What else might Yuuri sacrifice, if only Viktor asked?

His future?

His dreams?

His heart?

The sick, sinking feeling from earlier seeped back into Viktor’s soul; he couldn’t do it . . . he couldn’t tell Yuuri how he felt.

Not now.

Not like this.

It suddenly felt wrong . . . it felt like blackmail. It felt like manipulation.

Viktor was certain that Yuuri would not reject him; there was no doubt in his mind that, even if he were to go as far as propose, right here and now, Yuuri would say “yes”.  

And he wouldn’t even hesitate.

But . . .

If Viktor confessed his love now . . . in the context of the spell . . . then he would never know for certain if Yuuri genuinely reciprocated his affections . . . or if he only consented out of desperation; out of his determination and desire to help.

All because Yuuri cared about him.

Viktor loved Yuuri . . . and perhaps someday, Yuuri might truly love him in return.

If there was even the slightest possibility that they could fall in love for real . . . then Viktor had to take that chance. He could not smother the spark and freeze to death for fear that the flames might consume him.

If they cared about one another the way Viktor thought they did . . . the way he knew they could . . . then he had to trust Yuuri.

He had to trust himself.

If they both wanted this, then they would make it happen . . . no matter what. They would fall in love regardless of magic or time or distance. They would confess their feelings when they were ready. The spell would break when the time was right, and not a minute sooner.

The rose was thawing again, regaining its colour and blooming once more. There was no reason to be afraid. Not now. Not anymore.

“Forgive me, Yuuri,” Viktor answered at last, “But . . . I don’t think I should tell you”

Desperation replaced hope as Yuuri’s eyes widened, “I . . . Viktor, I know I haven’t . . . I know I’ve made mistakes . . . but I promise –”

“Yuuri,” Viktor beckoned sweetly, gently taking the dancer’s hand in one enormous paw, “Please understand . . . I’m not denying you because I’m upset, or because you don’t deserve to know. You must believe me when I say that . . . you are more important to me than anyone else in the world. I would trust you with anything . . . the rose, the spell, my life . . .”

My heart.

“Then . . . why?” Yuuri whispered plaintively.

Viktor took a deep breath, willing Yuuri to understand “It is my belief that the spell can only be broken, if the change that I make is genuine,” he began, “If I were to tell you what I’m trying to do . . . then you would only try to help me. Which I adore you for . . . but . . .”

“It would be forced,” Yuuri finished, “It . . . wouldn’t be real. You would just be pretending. Like . . . doing a good deed for a selfish reason? Your motivations matter more than your actions . . . and that’s what will ultimately break the spell,”

Viktor squeezed Yuuri’s hand; he couldn’t have said it better himself, “Thank you,” he whispered.

Yuuri nodded sadly, “Then . . . then there’s really nothing I can do?” he asked.

“I didn’t say that,” Viktor countered with a buoyant smile, scrambling to lift the dancer’s spirits, “Yuuri, I . . . I really can’t break the spell without you . . . and you’ve already done so much,”

Yuuri looked slightly taken aback, “But . . . I haven’t done anything” he objected softly.

“You have, solnyshko,” Viktor returned mischievously, “just look at the rose”

Yuuri scanned the glowing flower a moment, very clearly perplexed.

“When you first arrived . . . on the day that we met . . . the rose had only three red petals left . . . only three, Yuuri. But, just look at it now . . .”

“How is that possible? Why did it . . ?” Yuuri’s brows scrunched together adorably. Viktor couldn’t help but smile.

“It’s thawing . . . because of you”.

Yuuri looked up at him once again, his eyes wide with humility and disbelief.

“But I really haven’t done anything . . . I don’t . . .”

Viktor glowed warmly at his companion, “I think . . . that you’ve been a very good influence on me, Yuuri” he flashed an impish smile which made Yuuri blush.

“Years ago, when the spell was first cast,” Viktor continued, “I . . . I did exactly what you did. I poured over every map and tome and file I could think of, just trying to find some way out; a hint . . . a clue . . . a loophole . . . anything. When I couldn’t find a shortcut, I . . . resigned myself to my fate. I accepted that the only way out was to meet the requirements of the spell. But . . . if it meant getting my life back . . . then I was resolved to play the Enchantress’ game. I conceded to break the spell on her terms; the way she wanted me to. But, in my mind . . . what she asked me to do was inconsequential . . . all I cared about was lifting the curse; out of obligation and spite, rather than willingness or desire.

“I didn’t realize . . . how much trying to break the spell would affect me. I didn’t . . . I couldn’t have imagined how much effort it would take. I didn’t comprehend the nature or magnitude of my task. It seemed impossible . . . obscured by my resentment . . . my bitterness . . . my coldness. I’m not proud to admit that . . . eventually . . . I gave up.

“And then . . . I met you,”

Yuuri was speechless; Viktor reached up, tenderly brushing a wayward lock of hair out of the boy’s eyes as he continued.

“For the first time, things don’t seem so hopeless . . . for the first time, I . . . I actually care. I want to try. Not for the enchantress . . . not to break the spell . . . but for myself . . . and for you, Yuuri . . . you make me want to try,”

“Viktor . . .” His name was a breathless whisper on Yuuri’s lips.

“And I . . . like it,” Viktor confessed, for once grateful for his furry silver mane, which was currently hiding a sheepish expression.

“You . . . like . . . what?” Yuuri repeated numbly; flushing cheeks completely exposed.

“I like . . . caring?” Viktor murmured, tilting his eyes to the floor, suddenly nervous for no reason, “The curse, the magic, the research, the years of loneliness, meeting you . . . all of it has had an impact on me. Everything I’ve done in pursuit of breaking the spell has . . . changed me . . . and I . . . like it. I like who I’m becoming. I . . . I want to keep trying . . .”

Viktor risked a quick glance at Yuuri, who was regarding him with open fondness, as always.

He held the dancer’s gaze, “I . . . I have to know if this could be . . . real”

Yuuri beamed at him, “Well, in that case . . . I hope that it is,” he whispered.

Viktor squeezed Yuuri’s hand, “me too” he agreed.

He slowly released his grip, feeling at peace for the first time in his life.

“I know this isn’t exactly . . . ideal,” Viktor expounded, shuffling to replace the crystal case over top of the rose, “I realize that by not telling you everything, I may be making this . . . more difficult. It might take longer to break the spell”.

The case made contact with the iron table soundlessly.

Viktor gazed at the shimmering flower, “But . . . I want you to know that I truly do care about you, Yuuri. And I want to thank you,”

“Thank . . . me?” Yuuri repeated bashfully.

“Yes,” Viktor smiled, turning to look at his beloved once more, “for trusting me . . . and forgiving my mistakes . . . and letting me try,”

Yuuri said nothing, too flattered to speak; instead, the dancer just beamed back at him, equal parts warm and proud and shy.

After a moment, Viktor turned to replace the padded cover; but just as he was about to drape the heavy material over the case, his paws stilled.

“Viktor?” Yuuri inquired gently, “Is everything alright?”

Viktor scrutinized the cover, wringing it pensively before tossing it right back onto the floor.

“Everything is perfect,” he replied, smiling at Yuuri once more in the ethereal glow of the magic rose.

Relief washed over the dancer’s features, as he returned the fond gaze.

As they stood together in the tranquil stillness, the sky beyond the window grew dark, turning the icicles outside from blushing rose quartz gemstones into deep, enchanting sapphires.

“Yuuri . . .” Viktor ventured finally, shifting closer “can I tell you something? Something I’ve never told anyone before?”

“Of course,” Yuuri replied immediately, “anything”

“It’s . . .” Viktor took a deep breath, holding it as he searched for what to say, "it’s . . . been so hard . . . living with this curse,”

Yuuri frowned sympathetically, “I can only imagine . . .” he offered, prompting Viktor to continue.

“I . . . I lost everything. The Enchantress . . . she took everything,” Viktor whispered, “My home is in ruins and my friends are in danger . . . and . . . it’s all my fault,”

“It’s not,” Yuuri objected gently, winding both of his arms around one of Viktor’s, linking their arms in a comforting pseudo-hug, “She tricked you Viktor . . . she was cruel to you for no reason. It’s not fair, you didn’t deserve to . . . it . . . it could have happened to anyone. It doesn’t . . . you’re not . . .”

Yuuri started to sputter, searching for words; just as he always did when he got worked up like this.

Viktor smiled.

“All these years . . . I’ve been so afraid,” he confessed, his voice even and his insides still, “Every day the spell went unbroken just felt like another failure . . . I began to think I would never be free of it . . . that everyone would . . . perish . . . because of me . . . because of one stupid choice I made all those years ago . . .”

Yuuri didn’t say anything, looking up at Viktor with wide, plaintive eyes; desperate and uncertain, but warm and comforting all the same.

“But . . .” Viktor continued, shoulders relaxing and smile widening, “the funny thing is . . . I’m not afraid anymore,”

“You’re . . . not?” Yuuri asked curiously, both relieved and wary.

“Well,” Viktor hummed, “I’m not . . . happy about it, of course. I wish I wasn’t bewitched . . . I want to break the spell . . . but . . . it’s not as terrifying as it once was. It doesn’t feel impossible anymore . . . not with you here,”

And if a beast could blush, Viktor would have burnt up right then and there.

Yuuri smirked, “and now, you’ll never be rid of me,” he teased.

Viktor laughed, “I can think of worse fates,” he returned.

Yuuri leaned against Viktor, his head tilting ever-so-slightly to the right, squeezing tighter with his arms; Viktor brought up his other paw to grasp one of Yuuri’s hands.

“I know I can’t actually do anything . . .” Yuuri murmured, “except, be here for you . . . but . . . you’ll let me know, won’t you? If you think of something? If there’s anything else I can do?”

Viktor slowly turned towards Yuuri, gently untangling their limbs to look into those big beautiful, warm, wonderful, perfect brown eyes.

“Just . . . stay close to me?” He entreated.  

Yuuri wrapped his arms around Viktor in a tight hug; beaming face nuzzled into his broad chest.

Viktor clung to Yuuri, bowing his beastly head.

For once in Viktor’s life, everything felt right; spell or no spell, there was nowhere he would rather be than right here, right now, wrapped up warm and safe in Yuuri’s sweet embrace.

*****

The setting sun dappled the rolling hills in splashes of pink and orange and violet; turning the grassy plains into a messy canvas of colours.

A warm breeze blew Minako’s long, loose hair into her eyes as she gruffly tugged her laundry off the line.

It was mostly dry now, and she wanted to collect it before dark; she had learned the hard way that the people out here were not above nicking another’s linens under the cover of night.

She yanked at another sheet; restless and frustrated. It billowed heavily into her beat-up wicker basket. A ladybug crawled merrily over the handle.

“At least someone around here is happy,” Minako huffed, as she gently cupped the little critter and placed it onto the grass.

She whipped back to the line, roughly pulling down another sheet; sending the clothespins spiraling to the ground.

Happy.

Happy, happy, happy . . .

She had tried to be happy here in The Village.

She pretended to be happy here, at least . . . and some days, it almost worked . . . the pretending. Those were the days that she spent tutoring Yuuri; the stories and lessons and danses à deux in her little wooden cellar . . . those counted as happy days, didn’t they?

She had found some peace, at least . . . if not actual joy.

In any case . . . she had come to terms with her lot in life; she had put the past behind her, found a way to support herself and keep a roof over her head. She had made a name for herself, even all the way out here in the country.

More importantly, she had Yuuri and Phichit; real friends who cared about her, who understood her. Friends who made this awful place slightly less unbearable . . .

Then, all of a sudden, Yuuri had disappeared; throwing her life into chaos once more.

And now . . . she was as lost as he was.

Beasts and spells and magic . . . all manner of impossible things . . .

Because that’s what they were. Impossible.

And yet . . .

Minako growled, yanking angrily on a little dishcloth; bouncing the line and sending her other articles fluttering onto the grass below.

She groaned, sinking to her knees to collect her wayward washing.

A blouse, a skirt, a doily; she snatched them all up and chucked them into her laundry basket.

Minako quickly scanned the grass to double-check he hadn’t missed anything, when out of the corner of her eye, she spied a little white handkerchief. She gasped, quickly snatching it up before the wind could blow it away. The tips of her fingers curled desperately around the square of linen, and she drew it reverently to her chest; soft lace trimmed the edges and tickled her palm.

Maybe . . . maybe she could remember this time . . . if she really, really tried . . .

Clutching the handkerchief in both hands, Minako closed her eyes.

She . . . she had been travelling. See was supposed to go to see . . . someone. Or she had been coming back from seeing someone? There . . . there was a boat and a port and a road in the woods . . . and then . . .

Then she had woken up in The Village Inn. Some travelers had found her wandering around in the forest in the pitch black night and taken her back with them.

And Minako couldn’t remember a thing.

Amnesia, the doctor had said.

He said to rest.

He said to take it easy.

He said not to rush.

He said to stay put in The Village.

He said someone would be looking for her.

“Don’t you worry, miss! A pretty young thing like you – I’m sure there’s a handsome lad or lovely lady out there trying to find you this very minute!”

That’s what he had said.

He said to wait.

He said to be patient.

He said she might remember someday.

But it had been 20 years . . . 20 years since she had woken up, scared and confused and far from home, with no idea where to go . . . and no idea where ‘home’ even was.

So, she had persevered, she had taken care of herself, and she had waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And when no one had come for her, she had settled in, built herself up anew, and given up on ever reclaiming the life she had once lived; the person she had once been.

But it hadn’t all faded away . . . not like she had hoped it would; not like she had wanted it to.

No. That would have been much easier.

Though she had no memories, she still retained certain . . . skills; certain habits and inclinations and mannerisms . . . things she couldn’t have done, things she couldn’t have known unless she had once been nobility.

It came to her in flashes; in shifting shades and moving shadows; in bolts of inspiration and muscle memory, soaked into the skin and bones of her very being. She could see it in her periphery, recalling feelings and figures, but not faces or names; like losing the end of a sentence part way though speaking it.

So she had turned her inexplicable skills into a career; relying on her intuition to see her though each day and fashioning a new persona out of grandeur and lies, refusing to either marry or move, remaining aloof and mysterious and unattainable . . . the same as she had counseled Yuuri to be, only a few months prior.

Castles and princes and balls filled her dreams by night; uncertainty and sorrow and regret and filled her mind by day.

And now . . . now . . .

Now it was possible, however remotely, that her only friends in the world had unwittingly delivered her the answers she had once so desperately sought . . . the answers she had given up all hope of ever finding.

Would it really be so terribly foolish to hope once again?

Not amnesia . . . but a spell.

Not a prince . . . but a beast.

Not the end . . . but the beginning.

And not she, but Yuuri, who would finally set them all free.

Minako slowly opened her eyes, unfurling the little handkerchief; her most prized possession in the world.

It was one of the few things she’d had on her when she had awoken in The Village, carefully folded and tucked into her bodice, right next to her heart.

Golden thread glimmered in one corner; an elegant, swooping monogram.

“V.N.”

“N” . . . for “Nikiforov” . . . like “Nikiforov Manor”? The same Nikiforov Manor which mysteriously disappeared 20 years ago, along with all her memories?

It seemed too fantastical to be true.

She had previously assumed those to be the initials of a long lost lover, as the doctor had once suggested, but now . . .

Now . . .

Minako hadn’t told Phichit . . . she hadn’t told him any of it. She didn’t want to get his hopes up . . . but they were facing a dead end, with no other leads . . . and after the way things had ended between them this morning . . .

Perhaps . . . perhaps now was the time.

Minako tucked the handkerchief away tightly, next to her heart, as always.

“Nikiforov” . . . that was a Northern name . . . Minako herself wasn’t Northern . . . although, in a Mosaic Province like this, that hardly mattered.

She pushed the rest of her washing firmly down into the basket, scooping it up as she stood; heading back around to the front door of her humble little house.

So . . . Northern names which started with “V”. . ?

Vlad?

Vlad Nikiforov?

Vanya Nikiforov?

Vasily Nikiforov?

‘BONG’, ‘BONG’, ‘BONG’!

Minako snapped to attention.

That sound . . . The Village warning bell . . .

‘BONG’, ‘BONG’, ‘BONG’!

She dropped the wicker laundry basket at her doorstep, darting out towards the street.

As she came closer to the Town Square, she saw others; young men hollering and racing over the cobblestones as old ones shook their heads; gossipy ladies leaned out their windows to watch as Mothers ushered their children inside.

Minako snatched at the sleeve of a passing villager; Damien Dupont, a lanky, humorless seventeen-year-old; a good friend of J.J.’s, and a regular member of his hunting party.

“What’s going on?” Minako demanded, assertive and collected as always.

Damien glared at her, yanking his arm away with a toss of his long, flaxen hair.

“Fire,” he grunted, “outside of town,”

“Where?” Minako urged, “Where outside of town?”

Damien continued to scowl, “Why don’t you go ask your friend The Tinker?” he sneered, “. . . I always knew that loon was dangerous,”

He sped away without another word.

Minako’s hands twisted in her skirt, holding it aloft as she pushed her way into the dizzying throng of people; all racing towards the small cottage on the hill outside of town.

Chapter Text

The air was still and stale, reeking of straw and mothballs and varnish.

Phichit shifted uncomfortably on his little mattress; limbs numb and heavy as lead. The rough, handmade blankets pressed uncomfortably against his cheek and his leather apron caught beneath him as he tried to turn over.

Right . . . the apron. He hadn’t bothered to take it off last night.

That’s where the varnish stink was coming from.

The first rays of morning light began to creep in through his little window; turning the walls from a dark dreary gray, to a slightly less dark, yet still very dreary gray.

Phichit hadn’t slept; every time he closed his eyes, his mind filled with images of the night before.

‘KA-THUNK CREEEEEEEEEEEEEAK CRASH’!

The door screeched on its rails.

‘KA-THUNK CREEEEEEEEEEEEEAK CRASH’!

The wooden doll dropped to the floor.

‘KA-THUNK CREEEEEEEEEEEEEAK CRASH’!

J.J. and Isabella towered above him.

‘KA-THUNK CREEEEEEEEEEEEEAK CRASH’!

The Workshop door was violently flung open; screeching on its rails.

Phichit jumped at the sudden intrusion; paint brush and doll slipping out of his grasp and clattering to the ground.

“Mercy’s sake!” Phichit roared, his hands streaked with sticky smears of pretty pink; more likely than not, the doll's paint job had been ruined, “You know, most people knock before –”

The words died in Phichit’s throat as his eyes settled on his unexpected guests.

There in the entryway, stood J.J. and Isabella . . . and both looked furious.

“Tinker,” J.J. greeted with a Cheshire smile, stalking towards the workbench; his paces were slow, measured and even. Isabella didn’t follow; instead, she rolled the rickety door shut, throwing the latch down to secure it behind them.

“Ignorant Brute,” Phichit returned coldly, “To what do I owe this unwelcome intrusion?”

“You know . . . you should really start being nicer to me . . .” J.J. scolded, planting himself firmly in front of Phichit, nothing but the paint-laden workbench between them.

“Oh? And why is that?” Phichit scoffed, “Because you’re just such a swell guy?”

J.J. grit his teeth; his grin hysterical, his eyes gleaming, “Because . . .” he hissed victoriously, “I know your little secret . . .”

Phichit froze.

No; not possible.

He and Minako had been so careful . . . they hadn’t told anyone a thing, they hadn’t left out any papers, or signs . . .

Unless . . . maybe . . .

Maybe J.J. didn’t actually know . . . maybe he was talking about something else entirely. The hunter was prone to flights of fancy, after all.

Phichit’s heart pounded almost out of his chest; Mercy, if only Minako were here . . .  she was much better at this sort of thing than he was. She would know what to do.

Okay . . . so . . . he just had to be like Minako, right?

Stuffing down his panic, Phichit cleared his throat, eyes flicking down to his splattered hands, “You’ll have to be more specific,” he returned eventually, swallowing hard. He hoped his tone came across as disinterested, rather than defensive.

J.J. slammed his fist down on the workbench, hard, startling the mice and sending them skittering in all directions.

“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

Both J.J. and Phichit roared in unison.

“You scared the mice!” Phichit admonished, his ersatz poise scattered like the frightened critters that now scurried about his feet.

“You care more about some stupid rats than your own brother?” J.J. spat.

So this was about Yuuri . . .

Not good. NOT GOOD.

Warning bells went off in Phichit’s brain, drowning out what little logic still struggled to breach the surface of his weary mind.

Phichit’s paint splattered hands curled into fists, “How dare you . . . do you have any idea –”

“Haunted castle, magic spell, hideous Beast . . . I think I’ve got the gist,” J.J. spat, his eyes steady and full of steel, locking on Phichit like a rabbit at the end of a rifle.

Something ugly swelled inside the inventor’s chest.

He knew, somehow, J.J. knew . . .

All cordiality fled, as the warning bells blared louder; demanding that he get rid of the hunter immediately.

Deflect! Distract! Destroy!

Phichit grit his teeth, “It’s an Enchanted Castle, you ignorant buffalo. Now, I don’t have any idea how you found out about –”

“Isabella overheard your little screaming match this morning,” J.J. huffed, “So, here’s what’s going to happen . . . you’re going to tell me where this haunted castle is, and I’m going to go save Yuuri,”

“Pfft,” Phichit snorted, “you must really be desperate if you think I’m going to tell you where Yuuri is,”

J.J. gave the workbench a violent shove towards Phichit; rocking him where he sat and sending all manner of paints and lacquers splashing over the tops of their jars, onto Phichit’s dolls, his hands, his apron. 

“DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING IN MY WORKSHOP!” Phichit snapped, clinging to the one thing in his bitter, broken world that still made any semblance of sense; the one thing that would always be constant; the one thing that hadn’t changed, “How many times do I have to tell you? For all you know, these things could be dangero– ”

“Why are you being so difficult? I’m trying to help you here, you little weasel!”

“You’ve got a sick way of showing it!”

“I know we’re not exactly friends, but if you had just told me –”

“Oh sure, this is all my fault,”

“WELL IT IS!” J.J. growled; Phichit glared back.

A fragile silence filled the air as they stared one another down. Not even the mice scuffled in the stillness. 

“And how do you figure that, genius?” Phichit challenged, cocking an eyebrow defiantly.

J.J. just smirked, “It must really hurt . . . that leg of yours, I mean”

The workshop froze as the blame hung between them; suspended in time. Isabella lurked near the south workbench, inspecting the leaflets littering its surface.  

“Not that I would know . . .” J.J. continued, straightening up, “I’ve killed a lot of wolves in my day . . . never been stupid enough to get caught by one though,”

“Get out,” Phichit seethed, his eyes tethered the floor so that J.J. could not see the tears that were brewing there.

“Good thing you have a brother like Yuuri looking out for you . . . you know, always willing to bail you out . . . take the fall . . . clean up your messes . . .”

“GET. OUT.” Phichit’s very soul was shaking to pieces.

“And now, you can’t even return the favour . . . it’s been months and you still haven’t gotten him back! If you had just left this to me, Yuuri would be home by now!”

Phichit shattered.

“Like hell he would be!” Phichit snarled, cruelty colouring his tone and riding roughshod through his veins. He sneered viciously up at the hunter in the crimson tailcoat.

For a single second, J.J.’s confidence wavered, “Wha – ?”

“Yuuri would never go anywhere with you!” Phichit hissed; tongue lashing, words cracking like a whip, “Yuuri can’t even stand the sight of you! Yuuri hates you! He’s always hated you!”

“You take that back, or I swear –”

Phichit launched himself to his feet, the seat of the workbench clattering to the ground behind him, “Yuuri would rather die than –!”

A rush of wind, a crimson blur; Phichit’s workshop bloomed into a messy, stinking rainbow, as the jars of paint and lacquer were flung violently off the workbench.

Glass pinged in every corner as the fragile containers shattered against walls, against benches, against the forge; exploding into slick, dripping fireworks of shiny, poisonous sludge.

A tidal wave of clear lacquer drenched Phichit; oozing all down the front of his worn leather apron; it was in his nose, his mouth, his hair.

He gagged, heaving wads of toxic spit into the dirt as he furiously scrubbed at his face with his sleeve, towelling up as much of the acrid varnish as he could.

The sides of J.J.’s sleeves were stained from where he had swiped at the containers; the ground was soaked through, drenched with acetone and ether and dye. All over, the packed earth was littered with fragments of glass; large and jagged like icicles, small and glittering like snowflakes.

“Tell me where the Castle is NOW” J.J. threatened, “Or that’s not all I break,”

Phichit’s head swam with the stench; he couldn’t answer, he couldn’t even think straight.

Where was Minako? Shouldn’t Minako be here? He needed Minako, he needed Yuuri; why had he pushed them away?

Phichit’s eyes stung with unshed tears as he bit his bottom lip; it tasted of paint.

He needed to . . . to wash it off . . . wash it off now . . .  

But J.J. was still here . . . why wouldn’t he just . . . go away?

“Spit it out, Tinker! We don’t have much time! Just tell me already!” J.J. thundered, somewhere in the distance.

“TELL ME!”

“He doesn’t have to . . .”

Phichit turned numbly towards the sound of Isabella’s voice.

He’d forgotten she was even there.

She was holding something aloft between two gloved fingers; a piece of . . . parchment?

“. . . I found his map,”

The room spun as Phichit desperately grasped for his bearings.

“No . . . don’t touch that! It’s mine!” He barked, rasping as he accidentally licked the lacquer on his lips.

“Nikiforov Manor, hmm?” Isabella taunted as she strolled over to J.J.

Phichit cursed himself; why had he written that down? Why had he marked the hidden path?

“Sure sounds like the lair of an evil beast to me,” Isabella opined, settling beside the hunter.

Phichit’s head swam and he screwed his eyes shut; something was wrong with that sentence.

“He isn’t . . .” Phichit objected weakly

“Isn’t what?” J.J. snapped

“Evil . . .” Phichit gasped. Everything reeked of paint fumes; thank mercy the slats in the roof were open. He stumbled around the side of the workbench, begging the hunters to understand, “He’s a little . . . cold . . . but he’s not evil!”

J.J. let loose a derisive snort, “As if I can believe anything you say,”

Phichit needed to get that map back . . . needed to get it back now.

Get rid of it.

Destroy it.

His fuzzy eyes settled on the smouldering forge.

Isabella turned to hand the map to J.J., but Phichit was faster; lunging forward and snatching it out of her hand as he barreled between them, his sights set on the fire.

Clumps of sodden dirt clung to his shoes as he stomped his way closer; he felt the heat of the forge and slid to a stop. Then he leaned back, covering his face as he let loose the parchment.

It landed briefly atop the cinders.

Phichit fell to the ground, yanked back by his collar, as J.J. followed the map into the flames.

“DON’T!” Phichit cried.

But it was too late.

The map had been rescued, but one corner still smouldered, as did the hem of J.J.’s sleeve.

Panicking, J.J. lost his grip, and the burning map fluttered to the chemical-soaked dirt below.

The lacquers ignited, tracing a trail of flame across the workshop floor.

Phichit rolled out of the puddle he’d landed in before the fire could reach him; covering himself in mud as J.J. slapped at the little cinders on his sleeve.

By the time the hunter had put himself out, the fire had spread across the sodden dirt to the north workbench, which instantly went up in flames.

Phichit pushed himself up onto his hands and knees.

“GET OUT!” He screamed, “GET OUT!”

This time, J.J. and Isabella scrambled to obey; Phichit heard the metallic whinging of the latch, the creaking of the rail as the barn door rolled open.

He struggled to his feet, coughing and hacking as he dashed over to the closest barrel of rainwater.

He could stop this . . . he could stop this . . .

With a single-minded focus, Phichit drenched his face and chest with freezing rainwater, submerging his sleeves before shoving the barrel over and dousing the scorching earth.

A few flames flickered out under the torrent, but the workbench was still alight and more flames were exploding to life as they reached each shattered pot and pool of paint.

Phichit turned over the second barrel as close as he could to the north workbench . . . yet the fire still raged on.

Now the center workbench had caught, and the pile of scrap wood and detritus too. The air was darkening, filling with smoke and smog.

“No . . .” Phichit quivered, paralyzed by the roaring ribbons of red and orange and yellow, “No . . . not again . . .”

Suddenly he felt a sharp yank on his arm; his feet left the ground as he was hoisted up over a broad, crimson shoulder.

Then he was outside, stumbling to his knees as he was dumped roughly to the ground under the watchful eye of the twilight sky.

Then there were . . . people. So many people . . . a whole crowd of them, yelling and screaming and running around; but Phichit barely took notice, stupefied by the gluttonous golden flames now consuming his life’s work.

The fire licked its way up the sides of the workshop, as The Villagers scrambled to douse it with little buckets of water from the well.

The fools.

They were too late.

The fire wasn’t spreading; the packed earth and shale ringing the barn was doing its job well; acting as a twisted, makeshift fire pit in which in the inferno could rage.

There was nothing left to do now, but let it burn itself out.

A creak, a groan, and the roof caved in, crumbling into the black, ashen heat; a plume of sparks rose like a phoenix in its wake.

It was . . . gone.

Everything was gone.

Phichit couldn’t close his eyes; couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t look away.

Voices murmured all around him as The Villagers started to dissipate.

“We were just . . . coming for a surprise visit . . . mercy knows the poor guy could use some more friends . . . it’s a good thing that we happened by . . .”

That voice.

J.J.

“The whole place was up in flames when we got here . . . I’m just glad I was able to pull him out –”

“LIAR!” Phichit roared, springing to his feet, “LIAR! I’LL KILL YOU WHERE YOU STAND!”

He was breathing hard, hyperventilating as his dizzy mind tried to catch up with the scene before him.

Captain Nishigori, interviewing J.J. and Isabella about the ordeal . . . and they were lying.

“Alright,” The Captain soothed; he was pulling out his fatherly voice now, “just . . . take it easy Phichit, you’ve been through quite – ”

“He started the fire!” Phichit accused, pointing a shaking finger at J.J., whose eyes went wide and innocent.

“He . . . he threatened me! He smashed my paints! Spilled the varnish . . . and they were trying to steal my – ”

Phichit stopped short; swaying slightly in the night breeze. He couldn’t tell the Captain about the map . . . then he would have to tell him about the Beast and the Spell and the Castle and . . . Yuuri . . .

His mind raced as he tried to make words work.

“Phichit . . .” Captain Nishigori warned.

“It’s alright, Captain,” J.J. cooed, “poor fellow’s had quite a turn . . . he doesn’t know what he’s saying,”

“I DO SO!” Phichit countered indignantly, “How could you . . . if I ever see your face again, I swear I’ll –”

A cool, dainty hand clamped down over his mouth; the delicate fingertips digging sharply into his cheek. A slender arm wrapped tightly around his waist, hugging him from behind.

“Shh . . . It’s alright Phichit . . . I’ve got you . . . you’re safe now”

M . . . Mari?

“My apologies, Captain . . . he’s just so very upset . . . please, let me take Phichit inside. I’ll see to him . . .”

No, not Mari . . . Minako.

The Captain raised an eyebrow, “You’ll stay with him?”

“I promise he won’t leave my sight,”

Phichit squirmed, trying to wriggle his way out of Minako’s grasp; he didn’t need to be handled like some sort of child!

“Shh . . . Phichit . . . please,”

Her voice was tighter this time, closer to his ear; a hiss. A warning.

Minako believed him; of course she believed him . . . but he was making a scene.

Making things worse.

Just like he always did.

Phichit stopped struggling, his arms dead weight at his side.

“Come along now,” Minako coaxed, slowly releasing him, “let’s wipe all that ash off your face and get you into something clean and fresh,”

It was condescending, saccharine and intolerable; but it was just a show.

Phichit played his part, allowing her to lead him into the safety of the small cottage.

The blankets were heavy and suffocating; stiff and tangled and filthy and splattered with dirt and paint and varnish and ash.

Phichit tried to pull himself free, but quickly gave up, flopping back onto the straw mattress with a dull thud.

It was gone.

All of it . . . gone.

The workshop, the dolls, the tools, the inventions, the research . . .

The mice.

He didn’t know what had become of them; surely they had run aground, back into their deep burrows after J.J. had scared them off? With the thick earth to shield them from the heat . . . and more than one way in and out of their nests . . . perhaps they’d made it to safety?

A small mercy to be sure . . . but the only mercy he could hope for now.

A soft knock interrupted his mourning.

He said nothing, his mouth sealed shut with lacquer and shame.

The bedroom door slowly creaked open.

“. . . Phichit?”

Minako.

She was still here.

Even after how he’d acted last night.

“I heard you thumping around in here. I know you’re awake,” she cooed, showing herself in.

Soon her face was above his, framed by her dark locks; she looked exhausted, but her smile was warm.

“Come on, sit up and wash your face. I’ve just finished boiling the water,”

She bustled about, pulling the covers away and dragging in one of the kitchen chairs to act as a side table; on top of it she placed a large basin of hot water, with a soft cloth and some soaps.

Phichit sat up as if pulled by puppet strings.

“Y’already made me,” he objected weakly, as Minako perched beside him on the mattress.

“Properly this time,” Minako admonished, “with soap. I have lavender, rose or jasmine,”

As Phichit stared blankly into the steaming bucket, Minako began to roll up her sleeves.

He’d decontaminated himself last night; flushing his eyes and washing the bulk of the varnish off his skin. All under Minako’s watchful eye; she had refused to even entertain the thought of letting him retire before he did so.

He had yelled at her for that.

“But – ”

“No back-talk!” Minako huffed, “You’ll feel better once you don’t reek like smoke and paint. Besides . . . it’s relaxing,”