Chapter Text
“The king is dead!”
The words pierce Yuuri’s chest like a knife, sharp and twisting and colder than steel. It’s hard to resist the urge to close his eyes, harder still not to just bolt into the nearest bathroom and empty his stomach until there’s nothing left.
He knew this was coming.
He’s known for months that he’d be taking the kingship within the year, for weeks that it was likely to be within a few months.
He’s known since the airport that it’d be within the day, and now…
He’d had mere minutes.
“Long Live the King!!” The Captain of the King’s Guard shouts, voice filling the small room.
“Long Live the King!!” The people echo.
At that, everyone falls to their knees, and Yuuri meets Viktor’s eyes just before he’s pulled to kneel as well. Somehow, that makes everything worse. Viktor stares at him for a second, dumbfounded, scared, and if Yuuri thought he’d had too little time to prepare… Viktor had figured it out in the airport, with no time whatsoever in between learning the truth and being thrown headlong into it. No time to get ready to see Yuuri as royalty, much less to see him assume the monarchy.
He’d never wanted it to happen like this.
There’s a flurry of activity, staff members rushing around in all directions as the Royal Guard surrounds Yuuri. He glances back at Viktor, pleading silently for him to stay, to wait for an explanation, to not abandon him to this life that’s so familiar, yet so incredibly foreign. Guards forming a solid wall around him, there’s no way to push through, to grab Viktor, to seize the comfort he so desperately needs right now. It’s useless anyway, Viktor’s been pulled away to who-knows-where, and Yuuri has a series of emergency meetings to attend at some point. Looking once more at his father, he takes in the familiar face, the ghost of the smile he’d seen when his father had recognized him lingers on the now-slack jaw. This will be the last time he sees him before the funeral, before he’s standing in front of the people he’s meant to rule and somehow expected to hold himself together.
He was supposed to have time to say goodbye.
Closing his eyes, he swallows thickly. A Crown Prince…
A King… does not cry. Not in public.
He’s king now, and a sudden spike in his already sky-high anxiety leaves him fighting the urge to bolt into the nearest passage and get blissfully lost, to run down to the kitchens like he used to in search of something comforting and warm. It’s too much, it’s all too much, and there’s a rush of voices as he’s pulled down the hallway. A door to a nearby sitting room opens, and he sees a doctor walk out, holding a box of tissues, followed by a shorter woman.
His mother. She takes one look at him and her face crumbles, only for an instant before she assumes the mask she wears in public. There’s a shout, and Mari comes running over, out of breath and with tears streaking her face, and as she stops in front of him Yuuri sees her hands twitch, her arms move to reach for him before she remembers what just happened. Before she remembers who he is now, and what rules there are regarding propriety. She shares a look with Hiroko, and Yuuri closes his eyes in dread. He knows what comes next, knows that when they bow it’s going to become all too real, but he forces himself to unglue his eyes just the same, allowing his body to take on the expected air of authority. Regardless of how he feels, he has to at least look like he’s keeping it together, like he’s in charge.
(He is.)
Standing straight, he gives a nod as the attendants and doctor who weren’t in the room when his father died all prostrate themselves deeply, holding the position for a second. Looking back at his family, swallowing his grief and his anxiety and the sheer terror of being left to rule a country at the age of twenty-three, he allows his eyes meet his sister’s, and then his mother’s, before they, too, bow. It’s a short but obvious lowering of the head and shoulders, a clear sign of deference to their new sovereign.
Thankfully, it’s not long before his mother straightens, dismissing non-essential staff. She links her arm with Yuuri’s, while Mari goes to his other side and takes his hand, and they walk the short distance to the Queen’s Sitting Room. The doors are opened for them, and then closed, and Yuuri feels himself guided to a nearby couch. His mother calls for tea while Mari sits next to him, sinking into the plush cushions as she holds his hand.
Hiroko takes a seat on his other side, sitting so she’s facing him and leaning against the arm of the sofa before she pulls him towards her. Mari leans against him as well, wrapping her arms around him, and the tears start running down his face as he sinks into the warmth of a touch he’s been desperate for since he was eight years old. Sobs wrack his body as his family cries with him, as his mother runs her fingers through his hair whispering comfort, speaking softly about how much she loves him, how much she’s missed him, how proud she is of him. Unable to do anything but cry into her shoulder, he listens to her words, her voice more comforting than ever now that there’s no electronic distortion. He’s missed them both so much, so incredibly much in the years he’s been gone, and he knows they’ve missed him too.
Tea is brought, the attendant setting the pot and cups on the table before backing out of the room. Mari pours as Hiroko rubs Yuuri’s back in soothing circles. Crying slowed to the occasional hiccup, he sits up slowly. When he goes to rub his eyes, Mari grabs his hands gently.
“Aren’t you wearing contacts, Yuuri?” she asks, voice soft. He nods. How he forgot is a mystery, but the reminder is appreciated nonetheless. She looks at him, her own eyes red and wet as she dabs his cheeks with a tissue.
“I'm not five,” he mutters without conviction, but he makes no move to stop her. He’s missed her too much. She hesitates briefly, but continues when he presses his cheek into her hand. Smiling, she kisses him on the opposite cheek when she’s done.
“Have some tea, Yuuri-kun,” Hiroko says kindly. “You too, Mari-chan.”
“Kaa-san,” Yuuri says, “can I go get Vitya?”
Glancing at the clock, Hiroko sighs. “I’m afraid we have meetings to go to, planning to do. We’d been anticipating having a few more days to discuss everything and get your wardrobe commissioned, but with circumstances being how they are, much of the planning will need to be done tonight and tomorrow.”
Nodding, Yuuri takes his teacup and takes a sip. It’s a jasmine green, hot and soothing, and he adds just a bit of honey to sweeten it. “Do I need to change?” He looks at Hiroko. She probably doesn’t care that he’s in jeans and a t-shirt, but the officials they’re meeting with likely will, and she nods.
“I’ll go find you something of your father’s,” she says softly. “He was about your size when he was younger.”
“Kaa-san?” Yuuri asks.
“Hm?”
“Can you… can you ask for coffee? Please? Sugar and cream to go with?”
“Pastries, too,” Mari says. “Yuuri likely hasn’t eaten since he got on the plane.”
Yuuri considers glaring at her, but she’s right and she knows it. Hiroko smiles. “Of course. Anything else?”
Looking up, Yuuri nods. “Umm, I… Someone needs to take food to Vitya, he hasn’t eaten either. Something hearty. Soup, maybe, or stew? He likes stew. Can we get him stew? And some rolls, too.”
Nodding, Hiroko looks at him fondly. “I’ll have them take him some stew and rolls.”
“I’ll send for him when I can. Have them tell him that too, please.”
“I’ll make sure they do,” she says, before vanishing out the door.
Mari smiles at Yuuri, reaching her hand forward to brush his hair out of his face. “You’ve gotten so big,” she says softly. Looking down at himself, Yuuri tries to see things from her point of view. When he’d left, he was eight years old. Almost four feet tall and weighing in at roughly fifty pounds, there wasn’t much to him back then. Going from that to seeing him now, almost six feet in height and with considerably more muscle must be a shock. As much as he’d missed in his family’s lives, they’d missed a lot of his.
“Maybe you’ve just shrunk,” he replies, sipping his tea. An attendant brings coffee and pastries on a tray, placing it on the table next to the teapot, and he quickly exchanges his teacup for a mug of rich, warm coffee. Adding sugar and cream, he takes a sip and sighs happily.
“I didn’t realize you loved coffee so much,” Mari says.
“Mmmm,” Yuuri responds, “I did work at a café.”
“You what?”
He’d never told them where he worked. He’s not even sure he’d ever been allowed to tell them he’d gotten a job at all. Looking at her sheepishly, he smiles. “I uh, found a job at this café in Detroit called The Daily Grind,” he says. “I worked there for a few years. It was great, I learned how to make all different kinds of coffee and tea and… and that’s where I met Vitya.” Smiling, he takes another drink. The coffee is warm, almost too hot, but the taste is more comforting than he’d thought it would be.
“You actually got a job? Like, work-work?”
Yuuri nods. “I wanted to see what it was like. To see how normal people lived.” Taking another sip he frowns, adds more coffee and sugar, and stirs.
“On top of getting your degree?”
He looks over. “Plenty of people do it. I’ve met people who had kids and went to school and worked full-time. I worked part-time and had like, two classes. The rest of the time I was just at home or the rink, but I really did enjoy my job. It was interesting! I met all sorts of people, honestly, and I have a few ideas about how we could improve things here, for people of lower incomes.”
Giving him a pensive look, Mari sips her tea. “Be careful, Yuuri,” she says. “You know what happened with Ojii-sama when he tried to change things too quickly.” They’d always suspected his grandfather’s death wasn’t entirely natural, and it’s a sobering reminder.
“Mari, I spent a decade and a half living in the United States because someone thought dad was moving too fast. I’m well aware of the care I need to take.” Especially since they’d never figured out who exactly was behind the attack that resulted in him going into hiding. He drains his cup and pours another, adding sugar and cream again. He grabs a croissant while he’s at it, taking a tentative bite. It’s dry in his mouth, though the flavor is good, and he knows much of the problem is his nerves rather than the quality of the food.
Hiroko comes back shortly, black pants and a blue and silver shirt draped over one arm, socks and a pair of split-toed boots in her other hand. She lays the clothes out on an armchair for Yuuri to put on when he’s ready. He sighs. It doesn’t take long to gel his hair in the bathroom like he does— did — for work, wearing only his jeans. Tradition demands a topknot for the monarch, but his hair’s too short to do anything but stick out every which way when he pulls it back. He doesn’t particularly want long hair, now that he thinks about it, but for now he’ll keep letting it grow.
He first pulls on his dark grey undershirt, fitted sleeves soft against his arms as he wraps it around his chest, tying it closed. Over that, the blue kimono-style shirt, bell sleeves and the left flap embroidered with delicate silver. The coloring reminds him of Viktor. Probably alone in whatever bedroom he’s been taken to. Probably scared, or angry, or disappointed, or booking his next flight back to Detroit because Yuuri’s apparently the kind of boyfriend who would lie to him, even if it wasn’t by choice. He takes a deep breath. It wouldn’t do to have an anxiety attack minutes before he meets with the cabinet for the first time.
Three months of fighting the security team to get clearance to tell Viktor who he was and they still couldn’t get their shit together well enough to give him permission to say anything before the trip. Even after they landed, even when Yuuri knew they’d be going straight to the palace and Viktor finding out was an inevitability, he was still warned off of saying anything, told that the Guard would be watching his every move. He exchanges his jeans for the looser traditional pants vaguely reminiscent of Japanese hakama, tying the belt closed before putting split-toed socks on over the bottoms. His boots, leather jika tabi, go over those, and finally he’s deemed ‘acceptably dressed’ as far as the cabinet is concerned.
Checking his hair in the mirror one last time and making sure the cold washcloth he’d used to reduce swelling in his eyes did its job, he folds his jeans and t-shirt, laying them over his arm. One last glance at the mirror leaves him taken aback. The difference in his appearance is striking. The clothing isn’t as comfortable as he remembers it being, years of jeans and t-shirts and hoodies having drastically altered his idea of “comfortable,” but it’s familiar. It feels like home, in a way, as strange as it is in the moment.
Yuuri exits the bathroom to see Hiroko and Mari sitting on the couch together. They smile when they see him, and he does his best to return it. Standing, Hiroko looks him over once. Eyes glistening, she takes his hands in hers, before pulling him into a hug. It’s a long moment before her arms loosen.
“You’ve grown up so much, Yuuri-kun,” she says, sadness coloring her voice. She reaches up, cupping his cheek in her hand, rubbing it with her thumb. Visibly restraining tears, she gives him another appraising look before letting out a sigh. “The cabinet should be here soon. Would you like to sit here while we wait, or should we head to the conference room?”
“Here is fine,” Yuuri responds quietly. They spend a few quiet minutes together, Yuuri’s mind racing as he tries to process everything that’s gone on, and all too soon a cabinet aide is there to summon them to the series of meetings he doesn’t want to go to, isn’t sure he can face. Nodding grimly, he stands, taking the opportunity to hug his mother and sister one last time before they’re in front of the cabinet.
The walk to the conference room is short, and each seat around the table has in front of it a folder. To the side, an attendant waits next to a cart with coffee on it, ready to serve once the meeting gets underway. As Yuuri enters, the cabinet members stand in unison. After telling the attendant his coffee preferences, he walks to the tall leather chair at the end of the table, embroidered with his family crest at the head. When he turns to the room, the cabinet members bow, holding it for a second before straightening up while Mari and Hiroko take their places at his sides. Hiroko gently nudges his foot with her own, and he sits quickly, remembering no one else can be seated before he is.
There’s a stifled snort, and whispering behind hands. His first cabinet meeting since he arrived and they’re already laughing at him, already seeing him as a joke. An excellent start to his reign. He takes a deep breath. Minako-sensei hasn’t spent the majority of her time training him for nothing. It’s time to prove that.
“Esteemed members of the cabinet,” he starts, voice ringing clearly through the room despite dark creeping in at the edges of his vision, “I regret that our first meeting is held under the shadow of the recent passing of my father. I wish to express my most sincere gratitude for your understanding as I get accustomed not only to my position as king, but to being back at court after such a regrettably long absence. Despite the circumstances, I ardently hope that we will be able to come together, improve upon my father’s work, and bring Akitsushima into a new, prosperous age.” Heart pounding a rhythm on his ribs, he meets each person’s gaze as he scans his eyes across the room, and knows he’s made his point.
I’m back. I’m educated. I’m ready.
And I’m not going to take your shit.
Mari nods at him, when he looks at her, a hint of a smile playing at her lips. He’s doing well, apparently. Now if only he could feel like it.
The meeting is mostly introductory, each member explaining who they are and what they do. He knows much of this, Minako’s been incredibly thorough, but he listens just the same, making sure to ask pointed questions about their recent work. It’s clear they expected him to flounder, to need to catch up, but he’s spent more time than ever recently under Minako’s tutelage and he’s reaping the benefits now. Quickly, their tone becomes slightly less condescending, they start talking to him like he actually knows what he’s doing, and he makes absolutely sure they have no reason to think him incapable.
Once he’s done with the cabinet and they’ve left, there’s a brief lull in activity. The room is silent as he leans towards Mari, whispering in her ear, “I'm gonna grab more coffee, ok?”
She frowns. “Yuuri, just ask for it,” she says, with a glance at the attendant in the corner. He sighs and lifts his hand, calling the attendant to him.
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“More coffee, please, if you would,” he says.
With a slight bow, they take his mug, bringing it back promptly, full and hot.
“Thank you.” When he takes a sip, he sighs happily. It’s perfect, definitely highly-caffeinated, and likely not good for his nerves but they can’t get much worse than they already are so he doesn’t hesitate to take another sip.
The clock chimes midnight as the event planners for the funeral enter. Much of what they say blurs together, names and places, the process, the procedures. Yuuri knows all this. Minako had sat him down and discussed how he wanted to address the fact that he was becoming king sooner rather than later. They’d agreed practice was essential, that he ought to learn what would be expected of him at the funeral, what would be expected at the coronation. He’d had it drilled into his head enough that he’d be more than capable of doing it in his sleep, if it came to that. Which is why he doesn’t feel bad when he realizes it’s been almost an hour of him replying automatically to everything the planners have been telling him.
Pulling himself back into the conversation, he manages to answer their questions for him, ask the few that he has, and they move on to the coronation. With each sentence, each word his stomach sinks closer to the floor, the gaping hole in his chest being wrenched open little by little, and it’s all he can do by the end to not snap at them. To not run, not cry, not let himself appear as anything less than the monarch he is.
Even monarchs should be permitted to cry and it's not fair. Not fair that Yuuri's world has been upended, that he's lost his father, lost what freedom he had, and has to rule at twenty-three. It's not fair that he has to pretend that he's fine with it, that it's not tearing him up inside.
It's not fair that the world has to— wants to— pretend he's fooling them.
~*~
Two a.m. brings with it a location shift. Mari guides him down the halls silently to meet with the consultants for his wardrobe, and his heart plummets as they walk into his dad’s office. The King’s Office. His. Taking a seat at the tall leather chair behind the desk, he runs his hands along the cherrywood, the smooth, intricate metalwork inlaid around the edges and on the faces of the drawers. The drawers have been emptied, for the most part, of anything aside from generic office supplies, but when he opens the shallow drawer in front of him tears again start prickling in the corners of his eyes.
Laying in the corner, next to the pad of paper embellished with the family crest and his new pens lying nestled in the plush black velvet of their cases, is a dusty crushed-velvet bag he remembers with vivid clarity. Pulling it out with shaking hands, he tries to swallow the sob that crawls from his throat anyway as he clutches it to his chest. He can feel the hard candies inside, his favorites as a child because they were the ones his father would give Mari and him when they came in to visit.
It’s candy he hasn’t properly tasted in fifteen years, because it never tasted quite right without his father’s loving, yet tired smile. He’d still cried when Minako had brought him some from Sachima the one time she’d visited after his high school graduation. On the bag had been written, in sharpie, “We’re so proud of you,” though there were no identifying signatures. It had been a small bag, but Yuuri had made it last for years, savoring each piece as a sort of reward when he was feeling proud of himself, or a source of comfort during the worst of the homesickness.
Small hands cover his, and he feels his mother’s lips on his forehead. He doesn’t remember her hands being this small, somehow it feels like they should almost dwarf his, and it’s another jarring reminder of just how long he’s been gone. How much growing he’s done away from his family. “Fall apart later, Yuuri-kun,” she says gently. He can hear the tears under the surface, the barely-there hitch in her throat. She squeezes his hands again. “Fall apart later. For now, you need to be strong.”
Nodding, he swallows his sadness, swallows his grief in the same way he’s been doing it the past few months and his stomach threatens revolt. It’s impossible to remember a time nausea hasn’t been a constant presence, waiting for the wrong taste, the wrong texture, the wrong sort of inhale, to send him sprinting into the bathroom. Phichit had taken to making soups for dinner. It’s all he could keep down. Here, though, he can’t afford to keep sprinting into the bathroom, can’t afford to take the time every few hours to sit in front of the the toilet, hoping he can somehow avoid emptying his stomach.
Fall apart later. He forces his breathing under control, holds the bag in his trembling hands as he takes in the detail of it, the embroidered gold on the rich green velvet, the golden pull-cording that works as a closure. Tempted to reach inside, he sighs instead. Barely holding it together as it is, he needs to avoid anything that could push him over the edge, and he’s not sure he could handle seeing the candy, much less tasting it. Running his fingers over it once more, he pushes it back into the drawer, back to where it’s been since he was a child. Where it will stay.
He barely has time to blow his nose and deposit the tissue before the wardrobe consultants come in. With them they have binders of designs, swatches of fabric, for everything from his everyday court wear to his pajamas to formal event outfits. The most important outfits, the ones they discuss first, are those for the funeral and coronation. The ceremonial wear in which he will be reintroduced to his people and the rest of the world, in which he will take the mantle of king, and giving off the right impression is critical. They examine and discuss designs, various cuts and features of each style from the more traditional types that resemble the clothing’s Japanese origins, to more slim-cut designs made for everyday comfort. He won’t get anything too modern, especially not for more formal occasions, but he chooses newer cuts just the same.
They run through fabrics for his undershirts, long-sleeved and snug against his body and arms to go under the bell sleeves of the kimono-style overshirts. He runs his fingers over different swatches, first for the thicker sleeves he’ll want in winter, some designed with samples of thumb holes to go under gloves, then to the thinner, slightly looser fabrics for spring. Summer and fall will be designed much later, especially as he’s getting a new wardrobe made, not just updates to an existing one. It’s fortunate that Minako had measured him before he’d left, so they had pattern design down on his arrival. He’s given an estimate of how long it’ll take for him to get his full wardrobe, and is content to let them take in some of his father’s shirts and pants as an emergency measure. At least he’ll have things to wear.
The tailor leaves. A woman comes to discuss protocols, how he’s expected to act at court, but she cuts herself off, swallowing when he fixes her with a steely glare and reminds her that he’s been under Minako’s tutelage for the last seven years. Unless, of course, she doesn’t think that’s good enough. Naturally, he delivers the messages in the style of the court. Thinly-veiled warnings under a sweet veneer of geniality. She understands, at that point, merely standing and bowing her way out of the room.
He looks at the clock. It’s four. He can barely keep his eyes open, but asks an attendant to take his messenger bag to Mari’s rooms, where they’ll be going after seeing their mother to her own. The walk is quiet, Yuuri offering his arm to Hiroko and smiling as she takes it happily before they set off. She bids them goodnight, giving them each a kiss and a hug (and Yuuri lets her hold onto him tightly, almost disbelievingly, for a few minutes straight, because it’s never going to be enough for the time he spent without her.) She closes the door only once he and Mari have rounded the corner, smiling and waving when Yuuri turns back to lift his hand.
The walk is quiet, and only vaguely familiar, but it’s short. Mari’s sitting room is much as he remembers it, though a glance into her bedroom tells him she’s still not shy about decorating. Posters adorn her walls, pop and movie stars alike, and figurines and memorabilia stand proudly on her shelves. Pictures of them as children, too, with one of his favorites perched on her desk. His bag is set neatly on her couch, and when he can’t find his glasses case he pulls out his contact solution, dipping into her bathroom to refresh the contacts he’s wearing. His glasses must have fallen out in the limo, as haphazardly as he’d shoved the case back in, but they’re likely to be in his room now. His dad’s room. The prospect of sleeping in there chills him, memories from earlier flashing incessantly through his mind, images floating unbidden from the recesses, and he makes a mental note to have his room rearranged. He unties his belt, pulling off his overshirt in order to avoid wrinkling it. Belt retied and shoes removed, he walks back into the sitting room.
His boots are placed neatly by the door, his shirt draped over the back of a chair. Mari is seated on the couch, and as she pats the spot next to her, he moves numbly in her direction. He sits with his legs pulled up, draped over Mari’s like they belong there. His back is a few feet from the end of the couch. Settling into her embrace, he feels calm. Warm, but cold at the same time. it’s a temporary reprieve from the chaos, and he knows it full well, but he doesn’t have the energy to dread what tomorrow may bring. He rubs Mari’s sides with his hands, feeling hers on his back through his hair. She seems so small. Last time she’d held him like this, he fit neatly in her arms, legs dangling above the floor as she squeezed his stomach and promised to play with him every day when he came home.
He’d outgrown playing long before he’d even thought he might, one day, come back home.
They shift so he’s laying down, legs still on her lap as she rubs circles in his calves. They’re swollen from being upright for so long, tingling heat spreading through his feet and ankles, and having them elevated feels nice. Gripping a small piece of the sleeve of her thick jinbei in his hand, he finds himself dozing off, too exhausted to cry again. She keeps rubbing his ankles and he feels so warm, so heavy, and shortly after his eyes come to a close, his hand loses its grip on her sleeve, coming to rest on his stomach. The last thing he registers in his sleepy haze is his sister gently lifting and lowering his feet, resting them on a pillow before the warmth of a blanket covers him.
~*~
Sitting up with a start, Yuuri blinks his eyes in the early morning sun. It takes a second to re-orient himself, confusion about his surroundings abruptly eased when he registers the room as Mari’s. It’s only been a couple of hours since he dozed off, but there’s a crick in his neck and his arm is numb against his side of the couch. Setting his feet gently on the carpet, he rubs his hands vigorously up and down his face and over crusty, gel-laden hair. It’s still mostly holding its shape, it seems, but it’ll have to be redone before lunch. It’s a quarter to six going by his watch, and after refreshing his contacts again and running a cool washcloth across his face in Mari’s bathroom, he goes to find her.
It doesn’t take long, as she’s dozing on her bed, blankets around her thighs. Her hair is mussed, her eyes still swollen and red. Her thick jinbei is tied messily around her body, clear evidence of her exhaustion. She looks comfortable, though, as Yuuri pulls the blanket back over her. He smiles fondly, before padding back into the sitting room to look for his shirt. He’s admiring the silver embroidery on the sleeve when the image of Viktor’s shocked expression flashes through his mind, causing his heart to drum quickly in his chest.
He quickly pulls on the shirt, wrapping it tightly around his body before untying and re-tying his pants so it’s tucked in. Hastily writing a note to his sister explaining his absence, he then sets it on the table next to her door only to find one for him.
“Don’t forget we’re meeting with the head of the Guard at 8:30 to discuss security (Sitting room down the hall from your office). See you then. –M”
He smiles again, tucking the note into his pocket. He walks through the halls as he sets an alarm on his phone, grabbing a passing attendant to ask which bedroom Viktor’s been given. It takes three people for him to get the right answer, each more nervous than the last, but he finally ends up in front of what he’s been assured is the right door.
In front of his childhood bedroom. He sighs.
Running his hands down the front of his shirt he takes several very long, very deep breaths. Viktor’s probably asleep. Or he’s been awake all night, upset. It wouldn’t be unexpected, he’s been thrown into a world completely foreign to him, and Yuuri doubts anyone has bothered to explain the situation. “It’s not like you bothered to, either,” says a cold voice in the back of his head. It’s right.
It’s his fault Viktor’s alone and scared and he probably hates him now, or at the very least wants to leave at the first opportunity. Why deal with all of trouble that comes with Yuuri? He runs the question through his mind again and again, anxiety shooting down every answer he comes up with that resembles a positive. Viktor loves him. It’s impossible to think otherwise, but… Viktor’s been locked in a room the entire night. It doesn’t matter that Yuuri was busy, it doesn’t matter that he didn’t have time, that there were truly pressing issues that needed to be discussed, he should have done something, found some way to come back here and if he can’t manage to even do that, how is he going to juggle ruling the country with giving Viktor the attention and time he deserves? He turns away from the door. It’s too much. Last night was too much, this is too much, and how is he supposed to face Viktor now that he probably hates Yuuri for lying? His hands clench at his sides. He raises one fist, holding it an inch away from the door, before backing away slowly and turning to leave.
Three feet down the corridor, he mentally smacks himself in the head. Viktor doesn’t deserve to be kept in the dark, and of all of the people in the palace, Yuuri is the most familiar with him. If he doesn’t tell him, one of the attendants is going to have to, and they won’t be kind about it. Even if they would, though, Viktor deserves to hear everything from Yuuri. It’s the least he can do after the months he’s spent keeping him in the dark.
Deep breath in.
Deep breath out.
You can do this.
Yuuri walks back to the door and knocks quickly before he can change his mind. The next few seconds stretch into eternity, and the faint sound of voices coming closer fills the hall. The last thing he wants to do is end up swept back up in something or another, and before he registers his fist moving, he’s knocked again, harder and more urgent. There’s shuffling, then an agonizing pause, before the door handle clicks and it swings open. Yuuri squeezes through the gap as soon as he’s able, pushing it closed quickly behind him.
It’s just a flimsy barrier between himself and the rest of the world, but it’s enough. He doesn’t allow himself to relax, but finds his hands moving on their own, fingers threading through and around each other, rubbing against his palms and offering some sort of relief to his overwhelming nerves. Viktor looks tired, hair mussed and eyes shadowed by dark circles. A patterned imprint is fading on his cheek, and Yuuri realizes with a start that he must have slept on the couch. Viktor’s still wearing his clothes from the flight, though they’re rumpled and his shirt hangs unevenly. Yuuri looks up, shaking slightly, as Viktor takes a step closer, arms out and welcoming. His brows are furrowed with concern, exhaustion evident in the circles under his eyes and the set of his shoulders, and Yuuri’s heart breaks again as he allows himself to be wrapped in Viktor’s embrace.
It feels safe, it feels comfortable. He feels more at home in Viktor’s arms than he has at all in his childhood residence so far. At that thought, everything he’s been holding inside for the last 16 hours comes crashing back into him, and he clings to Viktor as his world crumbles.