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The moment the rough burlap sack was yanked off his head, Victor blinked at the sudden assault to his bleary eyes. For a few seconds, the world was fabricated from indistinguishable blurs and hazy shadows bleeding together, everything too disorientating to discern actual time or place.
Once the fog lifted enough from his vision that he could focus without feeling like he was trapped on the Tilt-a-Whirl ride at the county fair, the first thing he noticed was the surroundings he now found himself in. The room didn't have the grand dimensions of the typical warehouse hangar he expected when he had been blindly dragged in here earlier, resisting his unseen attackers the entire time until a swift kick to his temple had knocked him temporarily immobilized. But the amount of miscellaneous machinery—used for the manufacturing of textiles by the looks of it—and skids of unmarked wooden crates scattered around still implied it was a factory of some kind. If it wasn’t for the thick choking layer of dust blanketing every available surface and the stagnant stench of mildew hanging in the air, one would think the workers had simply halted production for the day, walking off the job only to never return after all these years. Victor could even spot what appeared to be a commercial-grade loom, still wrapped in massive skeins of wool thread that must’ve once been a brilliant crimson red but was now faded to a dull dirty brick due to age and decay.
No light shone through the cracked window tiles. The plates of glass were caked with a decade’s worth of grime, making it impossible to judge whether it was day or night outside. The sole source of illumination was the bare halogen light bulb swinging overhead, a soft ping heard every now and then as moths fluttered fruitlessly against it.
The second—and more important—thing Victor realized was that he wasn’t alone.
There were two men standing less than three feet away from him, both with matching hardened expressions on their faces, their mouths set to a thin-lipped grimace. Nothing in particular stood out about their appearances: they must’ve been in their late twenties to early thirties, hair slicked back, their outfits consisting primarily of charcoal pinstripe slacks and a white buttoned-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose their well-defined forearms. The only exception was the numerous vibrant tattoos inked on their exposed skin; the prominent visage of a golden bearded carp creature, tail curled up mid-splash against a background of indigo waves, was instantly recognizable to those who knew it.
Victor was one of those lucky few. Or it would more accurate to say ‘unlucky,’ considering his current predicament.
The men’s hands rested on the sleek guns openly displayed in the holsters fastened to the side of their hips, fingers ready to have the weapons drawn and fired if Victor even dared attempt to dash for the exit. But it wasn't like he could actually go anywhere. He flexed his wrists to test the strength of the rope binding him to the wooden chair he sat on, arms stretched out behind his back, his shoulders on the verge of popping out of their sockets at any minute now, but it was no use. The knots held tight no matter how much he struggled, the coarse, natural fibers rubbing tender skin raw in reward for his efforts.
He wasn't worried though, not yet. He had gotten out of tougher situations than this in the past with barely a scrape on him. Some said it was due his long-forged skills and ingenuity, the ability to keep a cool, focused head when necessity called for it in the midst of even the most heated moments. Other—notably the ones closest to him, such as his commanding officer, Captain Feltsman—said it was pure dumb luck. Victor never confirmed either theory, guarding the truth close to his chest, tickled pink that he could keep an aura of suspense about him. Fitting, in a fashion, since his line of work was all about unraveling mysteries.
So no, he wasn't fazed at being tied up by two armed men in an abandoned factory out in the middle of godforsaken nowhere. What did get his blood pumping, however, was the third man who sat directly across the way, appearance obscured by the shadows. Victor caught a brief glimpse of his facial features when a lighter, a gleaming silver piece inscribed with an insignia difficult to identify from where he sat, flicked open and lit the end of the cigarette dangling from the man's plump pink lips. The quick spark of flame cast a dim light over dark eyes and even darker hair, and then it was gone, replaced with the glow of burning filter paper and a grayish-white wisp of acrid smoke.
Everything about him screamed ‘person of power.’ It was in the way the man held himself, bared ankle resting on top of his knee to reveal the cuff of a thin ribbed trouser sock, clad in an immaculate pair of Italian leather shoes buffed to gleaming perfection. The cut of his heather gray bespoke suit tapered smartly to his waist like a second skin, layered over a midnight black shirt made of embossed satin, a single splash of color provided by the cobalt blue tie fastened by a simple sterling silver bar tie-clip. Lounging in his chair, he was the picture of poised nonchalance, but only to those who weren't smart enough to know better and unconsciously had a death wish. In actuality, he was more like the calm surface of a grand sea, hiding the maelstrom that churned deep underneath, threatening to drag anyone down who dared to cross it.
Even his own lackeys seemed on edge around him. They refused to look at him full on; instead, they darted furtive glances towards him out of the corner of their eyes, standing to rapt attention and waiting on unspoken cues to proceed.
“...So,” the man finally spoke on another exhale of smoke, his lips curving up into a small smile like he was amused by a private joke, “do you want to tell me what you were doing skulking around outside?”
The question wasn't one to be ignored, but Victor was too enthralled by the sound of the man’s voice to formulate a response. The tone was low, with some serious weight behind it, but not too deep, a hint of boyish pitch slipping out on the question mark. There was an accent too, faint, peeking from behind the syllables every now and then. Victor never thought he'd have a thing for voices, but he might just have to make an exception.
One of the other men squared his shoulders up and stepped forward to jab Victor in the chest with a blunt meaty finger, right smack in the middle of the sternum. “Are you deaf or something?” he snarled, spittle flying out of his mouth in every direction. “Katsuki-san just asked you a question.”
Victor turned his gaze like it was an inconvenience, his glacier blue eyes assessing the worth of the man now directly in front of him and finding it to be lacking. He recognized the man’s type immediately: cocky, brash, so eager to earn a cushy spot in life that they would plunge headlong without thinking. Nearly all of the new recruits on his force were like that when they joined, thinking they could throw their weight around now that they had a shiny police badge attached to their name. Very few ever managed to crawl up the ranks and get out of beat work, most of them burned out like a candle lit from both ends by the pressures of the job or injured out on the field thanks to their own damn carelessness. Victor himself could act the same way at times (at least according to his captain), but he had worked hard to earn that right, and it wasn't without eating a couple slices of humble pie along the way.
However, there was no such thing as a ‘learning experience’ in the gritty underbelly of the crime syndicate. With his hot temper betraying his inexperience, this guy might as well have been walking around with a target on his back, just goading his superiors into making him an important lesson about getting stuck up one’s own ass.
Still, Victor had to at least thank him for providing their leader’s name.
“Well, ‘Katsuki-san’,” Victor crooned, watching with quiet satisfaction as the blood drained from the lackey’s face in realization of his slip-up. “What would you say if I told you I was lost?”
“‘Lost’?” Katsuki repeated. His smile grew wider, twitched, like he was on the cusp of bursting out into laughter. His cigarette continued to smolder between two well-manicured fingers, temporarily forgotten. “The closest sign of civilization is miles away; no one comes up here unless they have a reason. Hell of a place to get lost in.”
Victor could bullshit a story about having car trouble and searching for help before he had been caught. He could be so convincing that they might even believe him. But what was the point? Even if his intentions were innocent and unrelated to whatever illegal business dealings were happening on here, it was unlikely he’d be sent on his merry way with a mere slap on the wrist for getting involved with things that didn’t concern him.
Might as well have some fun before they decided there was no longer any reason to keep him alive.
“I meant lost in your gorgeous eyes,” Victor cooed. He even batted his silvery blonde eyelashes at Katsuki for good measure. “I could stare at them for hours if you’d let me.”
Victor swore he heard a muffled snort come from Katsuki’s direction, but it was hard to tell for certain, especially over the loud click of a gun being cocked and the bite of cold steel against his forehead. “You think this is a joke, asshole?” The gung-ho lackey from before asked. The barrel of the gun pressed further into Victor’s skin when he didn’t respond, and he innerly lamented about the probable indentation that was going to be left behind. But if they were waiting for him to cower and plead for his life, they were going to be there awhile.
“How about I just shoot you,” the lackey sneered, “and then we’ll see who’s laughing then, huh?”
“Put the gun down, otouto-chan[1], or the only one who’ll have a bullet in their brain will be you.”
Everyone’s attention snapped to Katsuki, who still hadn’t moved from his earlier position. And yet something in his demeanor had shifted, twisted, and Victor could see why Katsuki’s own men had been so cautious around him. There was something about a person who didn’t need a show of physical strength to capture the entirety of a room, who could stop a trigger-happy thug in his tracks with words alone. A shiver ran down Victor’s spine, but he didn’t know if it was from fear or excitement. Maybe both.
The man answering to ‘otouto’—shame, Victor thought his nickname of ‘vyperdysch’[2] was much more fitting—shoved the gun off Victor’s head before turning back towards Katsuki. “...I’m sorry, aniki[3],” he murmured while falling to his hands and knees, bowing so low his head brushed against the ground. “I just can’t stand him disrespecting you and the family like that.”
“I can handle a little disrespect if it means finding the source of the leak after all these months,” Katsuki said, and then cocked his head to the side with a humorless smirk. “Unless you want to be the one to tell the shatei-gashira[4] the reason why our sole lead on weeding out any marubo-dekka[5] was killed before we could get any information from him. In fact, why don’t you go and request a personal audience with the oyabun[6] himself?”
The man on the ground visibly flinched at the casual title drop of the organization’s top-tier leader. Even Victor almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
“Or,” Katsuki continued without missing a beat, “you two can go and search for anyone else who might’ve been with him”—he gestured towards Victor, who was currently trying to portray the pinnacle of innocence—“and don’t come back until you find something.” In case his intentions weren’t clear enough, Katsuki pulled out a slim switchblade from his jacket’s inner breast pocket, his nimble fingers twirling the inlaid mother-of-pearl handle. “Leave him to me. This one’s mine.”
Both of his men wasted no time heading towards the exit as instructed, the echo of their heels swiftly clacking against the cement floor fading away until he and Victor were left alone in silence. Time ticked by like a death knell until Katsuki suddenly pushed up and out of his chair without warning. His approach was slow and calculated; a hungry predator circling weakened prey. His lithe body tensed on the balls of his feet, prepared for the mercy blow. Victor held his breath as the blade flashed in the light, Katsuki’s arms wrapping around his neck, and then—
The moment the rope holding Victor down was severed, he surged forward to pin Katsuki down, all while still remaining mindful of the opened blade.
“...Yuuri,” he purred, “you know how hot it gets me whenever you take charge like that.”
The switchblade clattered harmlessly to the ground, flung aside for the time being, as Katsuki Yuuri—undercover agent from the organized crime and gang section of the criminal division, not to mention the absolute love of Victor’s life—gave Victor a proper embrace despite the odd angle of their position. “Only you, Vitya,” he murmured, voice still breathless after having the wind knocked out of his lungs, “would get excited over playing hostage. You’re lucky it was me this time; the others would’ve shot on sight.”
“Mhmm, you’re right, I am lucky.” Victor nuzzled against the curve of Yuuri’s neck, wishing he could leave a mark there to replace the ones that had faded much too long ago. Instead, he pushed himself up, rising to his feet before offering his hand to help Yuuri stand. “I knew I could count on you.”
Yuuri huffed, his fond exasperation a sharp contrast to the stoic mask he wore just minutes before. He turned his face downwards as he purposely dusted himself off, but Victor could still spot the light pink that bloomed across his cheeks and beamed at him. His Yuuri always did have a thing for praise, didn’t he? How his darling lapochka[7], who loved poodles as much as Victor did, was known for his figurative heart of glass, and had the sweetest smile out of anyone on the planet, could slip into the role of a respected top-ranking member of the infamously brutal Chihoko group with relative ease was such a interesting juxtaposition for Victor. Yuuri was one of those intricate and complex mind puzzles that were near impossible to solve, and to be honest, Victor hoped he never did. Not completely, anyway.
There was a tell-tale click of a lighter as Yuuri lit another cigarette. For Victor, the sight was a bittersweet one; the lighter and matching cigarette case had been gifts from himself, etched with an ornate snowflake, their initials cleverly hidden and intertwined in the swirling design. It served as a reminder of the unusual winter weather of that fateful April day they met, even though it was unlikely either of them would forget any time soon. When Yuuri first received the set, he had weakly protested that he didn’t need such superfluous tokens of affection from Victor, but then they turned out to be the few personal items he let himself hold onto while deep undercover.
But now that Victor was close enough, he could see the minuscule tremble in those long, slender fingers that clenched the cigarette almost to the point of pulverization. It was only noticeable to those who truly knew Yuuri, which Victor did, intimately, inside-and-out, in more ways than one. He plucked the mangled cigarette from Yuuri before he could take a drag and kissed his right ring finger, lips brushing against the faint white line left behind by the golden band currently tucked away on a hidden chain Victor wore for safekeeping. “You were so close to quitting too,” Victor said, his scolding gentle to dull the edge of his displeasure. “What happened?”
“Nicotine withdrawal,” Yuuri muttered with a slight wince. His accompanying shrug was a gesture of frustration and defeat, his shoulders pressed down by an unimaginable weight. “I couldn’t concentrate, and the patches didn’t help.”
Neither one of them mentioned how Yuuri often used the vice as a soothing balm, a way to keep both his body and mind occupied. There was a good reason for its recent necessity; if they followed through with the plan that had been in motion for nearly two years now, Yuuri would be the one most affected by it. Even while under police protection in exchange for the copious amount of insider knowledge he had discovered, he’d be cast in the constant shadow of possible retaliation from the Yakuza for the rest of his life. He didn’t just have to be concerned for his own safety, but also that of his family back home in Hasetsu, of his friends, of his fellow officers, even Victor himself.
Just because it was an unfortunate reality of the job didn’t mean Victor hated the prospect of Yuuri being in danger any less. Not for the first time, he wondered what it would be like if they just...walked away. Handed over their badges, fled the country, and assumed new identities on a tropical paradise somewhere in the muggy Far Pacific. Victor had some roleplay fantasies about becoming Yuuri’s personal cabana boy he was more than willing to act out.
There was no point in suggesting it, even as an offhand joke, not when Yuuri would reject the notion, full stop. Besides his steadfast stubbornness and loyal dedication to the force, he’d never allow Victor to step down from his position like that, caring more about the sanctity of his career than his own. And while Victor would love to share a permanent honeymoon with Yuuri, he knew there were too many people counting on them that he couldn’t disappoint.
Still, he asked, “Is it time, solnyshko[8]?”, granting Yuuri one last chance to back out of this mess. Victor could have the extraction team alerted in a matter of minutes if Yuuri just said the word.
Yuuri responded by snatching the switchblade off the floor and using it to rip the stitching of a fake panel sewn to the inside of his suit jacket. Victor only had a second or two to mourn the loss of the quality piece of clothing—he enjoyed seeing Yuuri dressed to the nines, even if he had doubts about that blue tie—before a thick packet of papers was shoved into his line of view.
“That’s a list of every group head that’s attending this Saturday night, and you can count on every one of them bringing at least five of their own men in their party,” Yuuri explained as Victor flipped through the makeshift dossier, its crisp, concise lettering written in Yuuri’s own plain yet precise style. “The arms negotiation they’re planning is going to be huge, one of the largest this area has ever seen; there’s rumor that even some of the local triads are invited. We’re going to need every available officer from the neighboring counties if we want to be able to take them all down effectively.”
“Don’t worry, we will.” Victor folded the papers and slid them between the hem of his pants, snug against the small of his back. It was a formality only, waiting until he had the chance to dispose of the evidence properly, having already committed the vital information contained within to photographic memory. There was a running joke among the squad about how he could be sharp as a tack recalling the fine details of an investigation, but had a mind like a sieve when it came to mundane things like remembering lunch or that it was his turn to be the carpool driver for the week.
He cupped the side of Yuuri’s face, cradling it in his palm while stroking a thumb against Yuuri’s feathery soft cheek. “And once this is all over, you can finally come home.”
Something fearful flickered in Yuuri’s expression, his brown eyes shimmering with unshed tears, but then he blinked and it was replaced with a watery smile. “...You should get going now,” he said. “I don’t know how much longer those two are going to take before they give up. You can see how well they follow directions.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” Victor sighed and ran his free hand through his hair, snagging on the strands, reluctant for what came next. “You know how much I hate this part, lyubov moya[9].”
“I know.” Yuuri tugged Victor’s hand away from his face and curled Victor’s fingers into a fist, secured into place by his thumb on the outside to protect it from harm, before kissing each one of his knuckles. “But I can take it, Vitya, don’t hold back. Remember, it has to be believable.”
Victor nodded and then swung his arm back, angling for dramatic flair rather than an actual incapacitating strike. He knew he was told not to hold back, but he couldn’t help it, the idea against his very nature.
Especially when the resulting crunch of cartilage from his punch connecting with Yuuri’s nose pained him more than the subsequent throb in his hand ever could.
—
The whole police department was going to be buzzing about the Chihoko raid for weeks, if not months.
Everything had gone off without a relative hitch. There had been a minimal exchange of gunfire with minor injuries on both sides, which was to be expected, but at least no casualties. The majority of the syndicate members had been so caught off-guard by the sudden burst of officers in full body armor swarming their ‘private’ event that they had no time to react until they were already restrained in zip tie handcuffs and being read their rights. No doubt the higher ranking ones would be in contact with their overpriced lawyers by the end of the night, but no amount of wheeling and dealing would prevent them from appearing in court, not this time. Victor had every faith in the county’s district attorney making the defendants’ case a living hell; there was a reason Lilia Baranovskaya was called ‘the Prima Piranha’ behind her back when a visit to her office often meant a veritable bloodbath thanks to her sharp tongue and wit.
Now that the surge of heart pounding adrenaline triggered by the thrill of the mission had started to dissipate from his body, Victor felt a ragged weariness sink into his bones, like he was in danger of sleeping for a thousand years if he allowed himself to stay stationary in a single place for too long. His typical charismatic smile was plastered on his face as he helped wrap everything up, but it was strained, pulling on the pronounced lines in the inner corners of his eyes.
He was relieved too, of course, more than satisfied by the conclusion of an operation that had been culminating for what seemed like decades. It was another step towards the eradication of organized crime from their district, the community able to sleep in their beds a little easier tonight.
Except, it was a hollow victory when Victor had yet to locate the one who deserved the most credit for the whole thing. He couldn’t stop and celebrate now, not until he had Yuuri securely back by his side.
Victor soon lost track of how many congratulatory thumps to the shoulders he received in passing as he pushed through the crowd of his brothers and sisters in blue, exhausted pride the collective mood among the group, and he returned any compliments for a job well done with an idle wave and a few absent-minded comments of his own. He found the captain standing tall amidst the throng, surveying the entirety of the proceedings with his arms crossed over his chest, his expression set to what Victor affectionately labeled as ‘grumpy bulldog.’
Before Victor could even open his mouth to say anything, Captain Feltsman beat him to it. “If you’re expecting a pat on the back from me too, Nikiforov,” he began, flashing what he probably thought constituted as a smug smile but appeared more like the older man was suffering from a bout of constipation, “you can keep on walking. You did your job like you were supposed to; you don’t get extra brownie points for that.”
“Aww, Yakov,” Victor teased with a unique familiarity born from the two working together since Victor was a fledgling officer, fresh out of the academy, “while you and I both know you’re secretly proud of me, I have to insist that all of this was thanks to my partner. Have you seen him yet by the way?”
“Yeah, where is that asshole, anyway?” piped up Officer Plisetsky as he shoved a uncooperative suspect into a nearby van, ‘accidentally’ smacking the perp’s head against the metal rim of the roof in the process. It seemed like a certain newbie needed another lecture from his favorite senior officer about proper handling protocol. “I thought the minute we busted the place he’d be all over you like a pig on shit.”
Victor frowned. Aside from Plisetsky’s poor attempt at covering up his late adolescent crush with uninspired, childish insults, he made a good point. It wasn’t like Victor had expected Yuuri to immediately rush into his arms—as wonderful as the scenario was, it would only serve as a clue to those who happened to see about the identity of the person who had ratted the organization out—but he wished the two of them would’ve at least somehow made plans to eventually rendezvous together.
Had Victor missed him in the chaos? Yuuri’s assumed role as the regional shatei-gashira’s right-hand man meant it was guaranteed he’d be one of those present at the meeting. Victor had already spotted said shatei-gashira being led away in cuffs earlier, the man swearing up a storm in crude Japanese that Victor could catch almost every other word of, thanks to his diligent studying with the language app installed on his phone.
So where was Yuuri?
Not bothering to reprimand Plisetsky for his foul mouth this time (the issue could always come up again when they were sparring partners at their weekly Krav Maga[10] training session), Victor turned on his heel and doubled his search efforts. Maybe one of the newly sworn-in officers, still wet behind the ears, had accidentally mistaken Yuuri as an actual suspect and put him under arrest along with the others. It wouldn’t be the first time Yuuri had been in the backseat of a police cruiser, but Victor preferred when it had been the two of them, alone, at the end of their night shifts, hidden out of public view in a rarely frequented parking lot. The memory of the partition cage grate cutting into his fingers as he gripped it while begging Yuuri to go faster and harder sprung to mind, reminding Victor just how much he had really missed Yuuri. Not just in the physical sense (though that was more than fantastic too) but it had been lonely these past months of not being allowed to bask in the innate bond Victor hadn’t been able to form with anyone else.
He missed their competitive outings at the police sanctioned shooting range as much as he missed date night with the Hallmark Channel rom-coms Yuuri insisted were cheesy fluff but watched with Victor anyway, cuddled on the couch and munching handfuls of fat-free popcorn together. He missed their walks in the dog park with Makkachin, unlinking their hands only to toss the soggy tennis ball for the poodle to chase after yet again, like how he missed Yuuri performing a perfect jiu-jitsu[11] throw and slamming him down to the wrestling foam mat for the nth time. If it meant Victor was going to be choked to death one day between those perfectly sculpted thighs, so be it; he couldn’t think of a better way to go out.
He missed Yuuri.
At the moment, all Victor wanted to do was take Yuuri back to the apartment and bundle him in the multiple blankets on their king-sized bed before they curled up in the safe warmth of each other’s arms, the sound of Makkachin’s tail lazily thumping at their feet lulling them off to sleep. They’d do a proper homecoming too, later and after they rehabilitated, inviting all their friends and co-workers to a lavish dinner where they could all sing their praises to an increasingly red-faced Yuuri.
Victor just needed to find him first.
It took another loop around the perimeter before he caught a glimpse of a familiar head of unruly black hair hidden between the EMS vehicles. Victor’s smile widened on instinct, and unable to help himself despite the severe gravity of their current situation, he thrust his arm in the air and shouted, “Yuu—”
Only to stop dead in his tracks when Yuuri raised his sunken head off his chest.
Victor knew not enough time had passed since the warehouse meetup for the injuries he had given Yuuri to be healed already. As guilt-ridden as they made him, they had been a necessary means to an end, a way to pretend Victor hadn’t ‘escaped’ without putting up a hell of a fight in the process. So he had been expecting the skin mottled in various colors of blacks and blues and sickly yellows, and the crooked nose Victor was now going to have to kiss twice as much to make amends.
He just hadn’t been prepared for everything else.
Yuuri’s left eye was swollen shut, an angry crimson imprint of a glass bottle circling from the tail end of his brow down to his cheekbone. The right side of his face had been gouged out by a thin blade, a zig-zag pattern carved into the skin to ensure later scarring, a clear message to anyone Yuuri met in the future. His lips were puffy and cracked, a stiff glop of dried blood stubbornly clinging to where the bottom one had split. The way Yuuri held himself was stiff, hesitant, preemptively wincing at every movement no matter how minor, like his battered body was comprised entirely of countless aches and pains.
But most disturbing was the soiled makeshift bandage wrapped around his left pinky finger, now a full digit shorter than what it had been before. [12]
The realization of who did this to Yuuri and why collapsed on top of Victor like a crumbling brick wall, his entire world tinged red and then a blinding white.
He should’ve known. He should’ve known. No information was without its price, and his Yuuri had been the unfortunate one to pay the steep cost. Why had Victor been so foolish in thinking otherwise? He would’ve gotten Yuuri out of there, would’ve convinced him to never go undercover in the first place, if Victor had only known.
In retrospect, it was so obvious to see Yuuri hadn’t been as clueless. There was no way he hadn’t been aware how poor the odds of emerging from the underbelly unscathed were—if permitted to leave it alive at all—not when he had firsthand experience on how the yakuza treated their inadequate members. He might have even dealt a few past punishments himself while playing the part. He knew what risk he was taking when he allowed Victor to leave the warehouse.
He had known, and accepted his fate without saying a single word to Victor.
“Vitya,” Yuuri rasped, tearing Victor from the grip of his dark, snarling thoughts. Yuuri lifted his arms outward, acting as if the motion took what little strength he had left out of him, but he was still determined to reach for Victor. “Vitya, I’m here.”
Victor didn’t have to be told twice. With three long purposeful strides, he closed the remaining distance between them and scooped Yuuri up into his arms, bridal-style. He regretted his sudden action at the sound of Yuuri’s soft pained grunt, but before he could even apologize, Yuuri’s head was already nestled against his shoulder.
“We did it, Vitya,” Yuuri said. His scratchy voice was barely decibels above a whisper, but his awed excitement was palpable, shining brightly through his words. “We actually did it.”
“No, you did it,” Victor corrected, matching his tone to be calm and quiet, as not to overload Yuuri’s frayed nerves. He gave a swift, light peck to Yuuri’s temple, more of an experimental brushing of lips against tender skin than anything else, and was rewarded by Yuuri’s pleased hum. “None of this would’ve been possible if it wasn’t for you. I’m so proud of you, zolotse[13].”
Yuuri hummed again, his good eye fluttering closed. Which was a good thing; he needed the rest, and it provided a chance for Victor to begin mentally plotting how he would make those responsible pay for what they had done. It didn’t matter if the end result meant a written warning for improper conduct, or even dismissal from the force. Victor wasn’t going to let them get away without administering his own personal sense of justice.
Not now though. They could rot in a cell a little while longer for all Victor cared. Right now all he concerned himself with was having Yuuri back by his side, pledging to never let him go again.