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The king’s men arrive at dawn.
Yuuri always knew they would, eventually. It was only a matter of time, now that only so many eligible young men are left in the village. He’s just glad Takeshi has been passed over this round, for Yuuko’s sake at least.
As Yuuri gathers what meager possessions he can, his mother hands him his satchel, her warm smile washed out by her unshed tears. His father claps him on the back and wishes him luck, grip lingering on Yuuri’s shoulder for longer than necessary.
Only Mari vocalizes her displeasure. “You don’t have to do this, little brother,” she says around a heady puff of tobacco smoke. “We can distract them while you slip out the back.”
Yuuri’s vision swims. He knows his family wouldn’t hesitate to protect him if asked. He also knows the cost of such blatant treason. “It’s okay, Mari.” He gives her a small smile. “Maybe the curse will be broken soon.”
Neither of them mentions the curse has been in place for almost thirty years now. It’s unlikely Yuuri will be around to see it end.
Once he says his final goodbyes to his family, he goes to the carriage awaiting him, flanked by a score of the king’s soldiers. Some of them watch him with open pity in their eyes. To them, he’s little more than a dead man walking.
As the procession pulls away from the only life Yuuri’s ever known, a messenger sitting inside the carriage reads aloud from a scroll. “Yuuri Katsuki, you have hereby been selected to serve as personal manservant to His Royal Highness, Prince Victor Yakovlevich Nikiforov. From this day forth, the entirety of your previous responsibilities or obligations is now considered null and void by order of the crown.”
Yuuri flinches. He has no responsibilities or obligations, not anymore. He’s a disgraced dancer, unfit for work in the fields or the army. No wonder he was picked. “I understand.”
“You are to remain in the prince’s service at all times, day and night,” the messenger continues. “You will attend to his every need, including but not limited to serving his meals, drawing his bath, and preparing his clothes. Upon your death, your family will receive a handsome stipend for your services.”
They’re not even bothering to sugarcoat the truth. It’s not a question of if Yuuri will die, but when. A waiting game until he slips like the countless others before him and some other unlucky sap takes his place.
The messenger clears his throat. “Do you have any questions?”
Of course Yuuri has plenty, mostly surrounding the prince he’s heard about only in hushed conversation. But he supposes he’ll find answers soon enough. “No.”
Outside the carriage window, the castle looms larger in the distance, drawing Yuuri closer to his fate. Whether he’s ready or not.
***
The minute Yuuri sets foot in the citadel, he’s whisked away to the servants’ quarters. He’s stripped of the robes from his family’s inn and forced into a staunchly pressed uniform, the golden Nikiforov family crest embroidered on the chest.
“The prince is an early riser, so you’ll have to be up before dawn to get his breakfast from the kitchens,” a cherry servant girl named Mila tells him. “He takes lunch around noon, and then dinner at dusk before his evening bath.”
The bewilderment must be evident on Yuuri’s face because she then laughs and repeatedly thumps her hand against his back. “Don’t worry, that part’s easy once you get used to it,” she says. “More people struggle with remembering not to look. But if it’s any consolation, I heard it’s quick and painless when it happens.”
“Oh.” Yuuri swallows. “That’s…that’s good to know, I guess.”
The way to the prince’s chambers leads him to the northeast tower and up a winding spiral staircase. He ducks his head as he passes by the other servants and castle guards who openly stare and point.
“Wonder how long this one is going to last,” one of them mutters. And honestly, Yuuri wishes he knew too.
Soon he finds himself in front of a massive reinforced door, more fitting for a prisoner’s cell. His eyes catch on the slot in the middle of the door, which he assumes is to pass items back and forth with minimal human contact.
Somehow, it seems...lonely.
No going back now. Yuuri raps his knuckles against the solid wood. “Excuse me, your highness?” He hates the tremble in his voice and clears his throat before trying again. “I’m your new manservant.”
Something shuffles behind the door, followed by a murmur that sounds like “another one?” A few seconds later, the same male voice brightly chirps, “It’s okay, I don’t need anything right now!”
Desperate self-preservation screams at Yuuri to accept the gracious offer and run. Yet his feet remain rooted in place. “Um,” he says instead. “Actually, can I come in?”
A gasp, audible even through the door, rings out, and Yuuri has to strain to hear when the voice speaks again. “You want to come in here?”
He nods before he remembers he can’t be seen. “If it’s okay. If you don’t want me to, I can leave—”
“Wait!” Blue flashes in his peripheral vision as a cashmere scarf is shoved through the slot. “Wrap that tightly around your eyes first.”
He takes the scarf and does as he’s told. He’s not too fond of walking blind, but it’s better than the alternative. “Okay, I’m ready.”
The door creaks open. Instinctively he puts his hands out in front of him, afraid he’s going to fall the moment he steps forward. Instead, he runs into something solid. Warm.
“My, that’s pretty forward of you,” the voice huffs, amused. “Grabbing your prince the first chance you get.”
The sound Yuuri emits isn’t remotely human. He jumps back and shakes his hands frantically, bobbing his head up and down. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay, I don’t mind.” The man Yuuri assumes is the exalted Prince Victor chuckles. “Most people are too scared to even talk to me, let alone touch me. It just proves you really can’t see me.” He hums and then adds, “Though, I guess the fact you’re still standing does too.”
Blood pounds dizzyingly between Yuuri’s ears. “…Right.”
“Here, come sit down so we can talk.” Slender fingers circle Yuuri’s wrist and guide him to sink into a plush velvet chair. “Why don’t you start by telling me your name?”
Yuuri fidgets, unsure what to do with his hands. “It’s Yuuri.”
“Yuuri,” Victor repeats, drawing out the u. “Please, tell me more about yourself.”
“There’s not much to tell.” Polite conversation has never been Yuuri’s strong suit. Especially now, given the situation. “I’m nobody important, not like you.”
When Victor chuckles again, it’s brittle; hollow. “Yes, well,” he says. “I’m sure you’ve heard plenty about me already.”
It’s true. Everyone in the kingdom has heard about the cursed prince. What part is exaggerated truth and what is pure fabrication, no one knows for certain. But, Yuuri realizes, all the rumors are centered around the curse. Not the man itself.
“What’s your favorite food?” he blurts out. The question hangs heavy in the air, too much for his poor nerves to take. “Ah, I mean, that’s something I don’t know about you!” He scrambles to add. “Mine’s katsudon. Maybe I can make it for you?”
The room goes quiet. No doubt he’s committed some grave sin by suggesting the sole Crown Prince of Piter should eat peasant food. But then those fingers from before intertwine with Yuuri’s own and squeeze tight.
“Thank you, Yuuri,” Victor murmurs. “I’d like that very much.”
***
Yuuri locates the castle kitchens that very evening. He prepares the prince’s food as best he can, all while ignoring the cook-staff placing bets on him in the corner.
As it turns out, Victor loves katsudon. If his exclamation of “delicious!” wasn’t convincing enough, the frantic scrape of his utensils against the bowl seals the deal. “Wow, you made this?”
After blindly locating his own bowl, Yuuri forces himself to take a bite. Homesickness wells up inside him, and he’s glad the scarf shields his stinging eyes. “Yeah. It’s not as good as my mother’s though…”
He trails off, yet Victor seems to understand. “I’m sorry,” he says. His bowl clinks against the table as he sets it down to grab Yuuri’s hand. “I know this wasn’t your choice, and… Well, you’re welcome to have your family visit whenever you’d like.”
Yuuri thinks about it and then shakes his head. He doesn’t want his parents present to see his body carted down the tower. “No, it’s okay,” he says. “What about your father—I mean, His Majesty?”
“Ah, it’s complicated.” Victor’s voice is deceptively nonchalant. “I know his methods must seem cruel to you. But he does it to ensure I receive proper care because he can’t risk doing it himself.”
No further explanation is needed. The late queen was the curse’s first victim after all.
Silence settles between them before Victor coughs. “Hold still,” he instructs gently. “There’s some rice on your face.”
Heat pools in Yuuri’s cheeks at the swipe of Victor’s thumb against his skin. He jumps up, hissing when he bangs his knees on the table. “Sorry, I'll be right back with your dessert!”
Somehow he manages to stumble out of Victor’s room without another word, his heart racing at what happened.
***
Weeks pass. The other castle residents stop expressing shock over Yuuri being still alive, eventually.
The manservant position is easier than Yuuri expected. For the most part, Victor is rather self-sufficient, accustomed to being alone. He relies more on Yuuri for conversation, eager to know about the outside world. His enthusiasm must be contagious because during a discussion about arts and theater, Yuuri admits he was a lead danseur for the local troupe.
“Ah, I wish I could’ve seen it!” The wistful longing in Victor’s sigh is impossible to miss. “Reading about it just isn’t the same.”
“I…” Yuuri hesitates. He swore he’d never perform in front of an audience again. Yet with Victor, it feels different, somehow. “I could dance for you. I mean, I’m kind of rusty now, but—”
“Really?” Victor seizes him by the shoulders. “You’d do that for me?”
Shoving his last failed performance to the back of his mind, Yuuri nods. “Yeah.”
It’s awkward, not being able to see his stage area. At least by now he’s memorized the layout of Victor’s room enough so he no longer runs into anything. He has no music, but he’s never needed any before.
He assumes the starting position and then begins.
His muscles protest from lack of use, and he’s a good five pounds heavier than his ideal weight. Yet his body proves it hasn’t forgotten the movements ingrained into his soul. He’s panting when he finishes, sweat beading on his forehead, but he can’t keep the smile off his face.
Then Victor rushes forward and almost knocks him off his feet. “Yuuri, that was amazing!”
The adrenaline still coursing through Yuuri’s veins assumes control of his actions. “Dance with me.” He grabs for Victor’s hands and slots their bodies together. “Follow my lead.”
He steps on Victor’s foot once, Victor on his twice, and Yuuri swears Minako is scolding his form miles away from here. It doesn’t stop him from dancing away with Victor for the rest of the night.
***
“You know, they used to guess what I look like.”
Yuuri freezes in the middle of washing Victor’s hair, the long wet strands as fine as spun silk. “Who?”
“The others.” Victor lounges back, splashing against the sides of the bathtub. “Servants. Tutors. Potential suitors when I became of age.”
The mention of suitors twists in Yuuri’s gut. Neighboring kingdoms soon stopped sending their children after they failed to return home, future alliances be damned. “What did they say?”
“Oh, the usual! Different things they expected had to be beautiful about me.” Yuuri feels Victor shrug. “It was fun at first, almost like a game. But then, they were too tempted to see if they were right. So I stopped.”
Seconds tick by. The steady plip-plip-plip of dripping water echoes through the room.
“…I think you must have a nice smile,” Yuuri admits softly. “I can hear it in your voice sometimes, whenever you’re happy.”
Victor’s hair tugs away from his grasp. Yuuri chases after it and instead meets warm, damp skin stretched across a firm jaw.
Oh. Sparks shoot up his spine as he traces the swell of Victor’s lips, the dip of his Cupid’s bow, the curve of his smile. Oh.
“Well, Yuuri?” The whispered syllables reverberate against the pads of Yuuri’s fingertips. “What do you think now?”
So many possible answers churn through his head, most of them embarrassingly obscene.
He prays the gods will please, please forgive him for this transgression. Then he tilts Victor’s chin up before leaning forward to close the distance between them. “I‘ll show you.”
***
Yuuri jolts awake, awash in a sheen of cold sweat. He blinks a few times before he realizes what woke him up.
The scarf is missing.
It must’ve fallen off sometime during the night; nothing short of a miracle has prevented it from slipping up until this point. Yuuri hadn’t registered its absence at first in the muted darkness of the room, so accustomed to his view being a simple smudge of bluish-black. But now the early morning sun begins to filter in through a nearby window and shatter the illusion.
Immediately he clamps a hand over his eyes before it’s too late. As far as he can tell, Victor remains curled up beside him, unaware, somehow even clingier in his sleep.
Too close. Much too close. It has been easy to forget the outside world when it’s just the two of them together, isolated from everything and everyone else. It had been easy to pretend before cruel reality came crashing back into focus.
They were fortunate enough this time, but it serves as a reminder their luck can run out at any given moment. Just the prospect alone hurts more than Yuuri could’ve ever imagined. And after choking back a sob, he understands why: while his life had been forfeited to Victor from the beginning, he never expected to give his heart and soul as well.
Despite Yuuri’s best efforts to stifle his tears, Victor shifts next to him, his voice a drowsy purr. “Mm…Yuuri?”
Maybe it’s best to nip it in the bud now, to lessen the blow before the wound has a chance to get any deeper.
More than anything, Yuuri is tired of being afraid. More than anything, he’s determined to succeed where countless others have failed. More than anything, he wants to see the man he loves.
(More than anything, he hopes Victor will forgive him. Someday.)
“Sorry,” Yuuri whispers. He then drops his hand from his face and opens his eyes.
***
Mila was wrong. It’s not painless.
Every staggered gulp of air Yuuri chokes down scorches the inside of his heaving lungs. Rapid panic courses through his bloodstream, cascading from his fingers to his toes. Noise, harsh and jumbled, encompasses him from all angles and blares a pulsating beat in between his eardrums. Inky blackness surrounds his vision, shrinking it tighter and tighter, until—
Nothing.
***
Something warm drips onto Yuuri’s face. He can sense each and every individual droplet as they hit his skin and roll down his cheeks to pool at the hollow of his throat.
These tears don’t belong to him. Yet he’s the one responsible all the same.
His immediate concern is Victor, with his tendency to put others before himself and an almost infectious zeal for the life he’s never fully experienced. Victor, who never deserved to be hidden away in a cramped, secluded tower, devoid of human contact. Victor, who once again will be left alone until he’s assigned a new servant. Someone who isn’t Yuuri.
The prospect hurts more than dying ever could.
Except, while Yuuri can’t be completely certain, he swears he’s still very much alive. He struggles against his eyelids’ ironclad grip until he eventually manages to snap them open and they begin to sting in reaction to the sudden light.
The crying stops. “…Yuuri?”
Yuuri knows the trembling fingers interlaced with his own. Not from the shine of immaculate clipped and buffed fingernails, but how firmly, yet gently they grasp his hands. He knows the halo of hair cascading down over him, not from its hue of a full moon in a cold, clear winter’s sky, but from the snarls and curls he has combed through by hand after every night’s sleep. And even if he didn’t recognize the plump, pink lips he’s traced repeatedly, both with soft caresses and stolen kisses, he could never not know this voice.
Beautiful, he thinks, taking in a blotchy damp face and glacier blue eyes rimmed swollen red from crying. He must also say this aloud because a delicate blush crosses the bridge of Victor’s—
Wait.
“Victor?” Yuuri blinks, stark realization setting in. “Victor, I can see you.”
“You—” Victor breathes out. He raises a hand to his watery smile, and fresh tears spring forth to his eyes. “You can see me,” he echoes. “Not a prince, a responsibility, a challenge, or even a damn curse.” He cradles Yuuri’s face before pressing their foreheads together. It’s a motion he’ll repeat on their wedding day, then at their coronation as King and King-Consort respectively, and throughout the years as they guide the kingdom into an era of peace and prosperity. Never once will it lose an ounce of the weight it carries now. “Yuuri, you can see me.”