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Yuuri Katsuki doesn't often drive. It's something he leaves to other people, like cooking, and torture, and cutting hair. But there are exceptions. And as is the rule with exceptions, it involves Victor Nikiforov.
—
"You're an idiot, Yuuri," Minako had said, "You're being an idiot."
"It's not safe here," Yuuri had said, very carefully loading a barely conscious Victor onto a wheelchair, "Too public. I'll call you if anything happens."
"I will not pick up." They both know she will.
"Later, Minako."
"Fuck you."
—
It's scenic. All green rolling mountains and tall firs, looking bluish in the early morning sun. The temperature's a comfortable nine degrees, and quickly climbing, but he knows it'll plunge at night. The cottage is fully stocked, though small, or so he'd been told. A dark wooden hunting lodge with large fireplaces and windows. The air will do Victor good.
"Wouldn't it, baby?" He says, brushing a few stray curls from his forehead. Victor snores.
He's bundled into jumpers and coats, over the thick bandages on his torso. All his angles are gone. He look soft. Young. Vulnerable. No tattoo or muscle or scar in sight. Yuuri steals glances. Something aches in his chest at the sight, something he'd long thought dead. That, and something way more familiar. Cold fury. Its not anger, no. Anger's messy. Anger makes you fuck up. Vengeance has to be patient, and planned, and properly executed.
They pull up at a snow globe house with a gravel driveway and a cozy porch. Yuuri rolls Victor out, and in. He's blasted in the face with warmth. It's excellently insulated. The doorless shelves are stocked with food in the kitchen side of the open plan, and books in the living room. There's a circle of overstuffed leather couches and rocking chairs, and a massive marble fireplace. There's a door leading off to the bedroom. On the wall, there's a stuffed head of a bear, teeth bared.
It's perfect.
He's supposed to keep Victor's head elevated, so blood doesn't fill his lungs. Yuuri finds the softest leather chair, and props him on it, taking off his coat and draping him with shawls. The fireplace takes a bit of time. YouTube tutorials might be involved. That's what you get, with a Tokyo childhood.
—
“Pretty.”
Yuuri looks up from where he’s chopping the vegetables. “You’re up again.” He's been drifting in and out of consciousness. The sun's high, now. But Victor's nose and fingers were chilly, so he kept the fire going. It's crackling a few feet from him.
“Where’m I?” Victor murmurs, eyes slowly taking in the warm-toned cabin. His eyes are blurry. He can make out pale skin and dark hair and various shades of brown, everywhere.
“Serbian wilderness. You were shot,” Yuuri says, finishing up his carrot. There’s a rustle of fabric. “Oh, no you don’t.” He stalks over, and kneels beside him. “Don’t move.”
“P-r-etty,” Victor says, reaching out, “Are you a doctor? You’re like a TV doctor. Sexy.”
“I’m not a doctor,” Yuuri says, letting him touch his face, “You work for me.”
“Oh. Am I a doctor?”
“You’re a sniper.” He's so fucking cute.
“Oh. Guns. Yeah,” Victor looks over the kitchen counter, “Are you a cook?”
“I’m many things.”
“Are you gay?”
“No.” Yuuri’s face cracks into a smile. With the warm glow of the fire and the long frizzy curls and the lost eyes.. Victor looks almost innocent. He pouts and turns away, moping.
“Not straight either.” It's hard to hold back the giggles.
He perks up. “Are you single?”
“Nope.”
“Dump him.”
“I don’t know,” Yuuri says, reaching out to touch his face, “He’s very attractive. And dangerous.”
“I’ll treat you better,” Victor’s blinking now, very slowly. Yuuri pulls up the blankets up to his chin.
“Go to sleep, Victor.” He does, very quickly, insisting he isn’t tired.
—
Victor stirs again. Yuuri brings a pot of soup to him, and slowly spoons in some of the vegetable and chicken.
"Wow."
"Open for me."
He does. Another spoonful.
"Good boy."
"Marry me," Victor slurs, reaching out to hold his hand. His knuckles his the bowl. A bit of soup jumps out. "Sorry."
"It's okay."
"Marry me. We should get married. I'll be your," He inhales, "~Husbaaaaand." Yuuri breaks out into giggles.
"Finish the soup and I'll think about it."
"Okay," he says, "husband. Who made it?"
"Me."
Victor's mouth breaks into a huge, heart shaped smile, "Really! For me!"
"Yup. All for you."
"You're so sweeeeeet."
"Open again."
—
He goes in and out of consciousness, and Yuuri spoons in chicken soup whenever he can. At nine pm, he drags the rocking chair into the bedroom, and gets to work into the bedroom fireplace. It is then, that he realises something. There's not enough wood. Only half a dozen logs more. He can bring inside the half burnt ones from the living room, which would bring his tally to nine. Well. Nine and half. It's enough for the night. It had to be.
At midnight, he sinks into the blankets, and does not dream.
Yuuri wakes, slowly. It's dark. He blinkes. He fumbles for his glasses, and the darkness has edges. Yuuri whips out his phone: 3:15. It's not supposed to be this dark, he thinks, and looks around. The fireplace only has smouldering embers. Fuck. Yuuri reaches for Victor and finds his hand marble cool, and shaking. “Fuck, fuck,” he says, rubbing his hand and standing up, pushing a finger under his nose. Still breathing. Thank god. His heart stops trying to break his ribs.
“Victor,” He shakes him, “Victor. Wake up.”
“C-cold,” He stutters, and Yuuri pulls him to his chest, “’m cold.”
“I know,” he says, pressing his face into his hair. His arms tighten around his shoulders, “I know.”
They’re out of wood.
—
It’s afternoon, when Victor stirs in his arms, his eyes clear and movements sure. He's propped up against the headboard in a small mountain of pillows. Yuuri peels away, to smile at him. His eyes have shadows, and there's a mild headache developing behind them.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“I feel like shit,” Victor says, pressing his hands into his eye sockets. Yuuri strokes his upper arms. It'll be time to change his bandages soon. The room's warm, but it's not the heavy heat of a fire. He had stopped feeding the fire around eleven, and it’s sputtering. He feels Victor’s neck crane, to stare at it.
“Yuuri.”
“Mm?”
A pause. “Yuuri, that doesn't look like firewood.”
“It's not.”
“You’re insane.” Yuuri smiles into his side.
“You were cold,” He says, and leans up for a kiss. He winces, “Our mouths taste like ass.” Three feet away, another hundred dollar bill goes up in flames. There are empty bags in the living room.